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C olin sat on a very hard chair at the edge of the great hall and watched the goings-on. ’Twas a certainty he had no intention of participating in all that capering about, the swishing of skirts, and the extending of the leg in ridiculous bows. It was simply beneath his dignity.

That aside, he had no trouble watching Aliénore at it.

He had to admit that she danced rather well, and it was pleasing to gaze on her and watch as she smiled and laughed with pleasure.

It was less than pleasing to think she might be smiling and laughing with someone else, but Colin had his reputation to maintain.

Let the other lads make themselves into cavorting arses.

He would remain safely planted upon his chair.

Besides, such a firm and steady seat gave him ample time to watch his future wife and admire her skill.

He sat back, sipped his ale, and gave thought to the events of the day.

It had passed rather pleasantly, all things considered.

He’d begun his day with brisk exercise in the lists, finally having managed to lure several of Aliénore’s brothers there.

Instilling in Francois the proper amount of respect for his skill had taken no longer than he had anticipated.

After that, he’d immediately embarked on the task he’d set himself the night before, that of repairing what damage he’d done the day before, damn his own foolish tongue.

He still cringed, very slightly and most unwillingly, every time he thought of his mindless words to Aliénore in the stable the day before.

Of course he would have a care with her feelings.

By the saints, hadn’t he bent himself into unrecognizable shapes to please her ever since he’d discovered she was a girl?

And even more so after he’d discovered just what girl she was?

It wasn’t in his nature to cause others grief—without good reason, of course.

He couldn’t even say that Aliénore had caused him all that much grief.

Aye, she’d wounded his feelings at first when she’d fled, but he could hardly hold that against her.

He wanted to believe that if she’d truly known him, she wouldn’t have run.

She certainly didn’t seem all that opposed to him of late.

He remembered quite vividly the look on her face the night before, when he’d been recounting his more exciting escapades. Why, she’d looked at him almost fondly.

And if that weren’t enough to give him hope, he didn’t know what was.

All of which had left him that morning returning from the lists, determined to see her properly wooed.

Now, if he’d just had a bloody idea of how to go about it.

He’d seen her well fed. Her gear he’d taken care of the day before.

He’d made sure she had another restful night in her father’s chamber.

Then, having done all the things he would have wanted done for himself, he’d found himself sitting next to her in the great hall, completely empty of any useful ideas.

Her father, of all people, had come to his rescue.

The man had procured minstrels from heaven only knew where, lads who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of lays, ballads, and sundry other farces to put forth for a body’s enjoyment.

It had taken all Colin’s considerable powers of self-control to sit and listen with anything but a scowl on his face.

Aliénore had seemed to enjoy it, though, so he’d done his best not to ruin her pleasure in the entertainment.

And each time she’d looked at him, he’d produced a look that said it had been all his idea from the first and wasn’t her sire clever to know what Colin had been thinking.

Unfortunately, the morning had proceeded well into the afternoon and the afternoon had produced tuneful melodies just made for dancing. Colin had drawn the line there. He would watch, aye, but he would not dance.

All of which left him where he was, sitting quite happily on the edge of the goings-on, watching his bride.

She was wearing a gown, something he’d never expected to see her in.

He supposed she had to don one eventually.

It was, he had to admit, quite fetching.

He watched the deep green material swirl about her as she spun.

Her face was alight with laughter and he felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.

He wondered, weakly, what he would have done had this been the first way he’d ever seen her presented.

He contemplated that for several moments, until he realized that Aliénore was skipping his way. She came to a skidding halt in front of him and smiled down at him happily.

“Will you dance, my lord?”

The question caught him so off guard that he could only gape at her. Of course he didn’t want to dance. Hadn’t he made that abundantly clear with his scowls alone?

But then he found both his hands taken by slighter, less callused ones, and his form pulled straight off its comfortable perch by one who shouldn’t have had the strength to do the like.

His person was then dragged into the middle of the hall before his feet could find their wits to dig into the rushes as they most assuredly would have done at any other time.

“But—” he attempted.

“I promise you’ll emerge unscathed, my lord,” she said, with a winsome smile. “Put yourself into my hands and let me see to you for a change.”

“Ah,” he managed in a garbled tone.

“This could quite possibly constitute a full month’s worth of wooing,” she offered.

“Damn,” he said.

She only laughed.

Well, he supposed it wasn’t much different than a highly exhausting bit of swordplay.

His feet, he found, weren’t unequal to the task of moving about in a pattern.

He was certainly adept at avoiding collisions with other dancers, given his hours of practice dodging flashing blades.

And he was, he had to admit modestly, almost perfect at not treading upon his lady as they moved about through the patterns she seemed to know as if she’d been born with them burned into her flesh.

Now, if he could just dance to something besides tales of love and wooing.

“Can they play nothing else?” he complained. “Nothing of substance?”

“Should we dance to tales of bloodshed?” she asked pleasantly.

“It would be a damned sight more inspiring than this,” he grumbled.

She only squeezed his hands. “My lord, you’ve quite a gift for this. Who would have thought it?”

“Who, indeed?” he muttered.

“You are generous to humor me thusly.”

“Aye, I am,” he agreed. “But we’ll stop when you feel the need of it,” he said, vowing that he would dance until he dropped before he would admit that ’twas a most taxing activity. “I, of course, could caper about far into the night.”

She laughed at him.

He scowled at her, but only received a grin in return. And that expression of such undisguised affection was almost his undoing. He stumbled, but righted himself quickly enough.

“Bone in the rushes,” he said, kicking a bit of the muck aside. “Your sire should see to it.”

“I’ll tell him next chance I have,” she said.

“You do that.” And don’t smile at me thusly again, he pleaded silently. He was bound to fall on his face otherwise, and then where would he be?

Quite potentially rescued by the elfin creature before him whose sweet, dancing green eyes looked at him with affection.

By the saints, what had he done to deserve her?

Nothing came to mind.

What did come to mind, however, after a goodly amount of time spent humoring her, was a large cup of ale he might quaff with enthusiasm. He looked at Aliénore closely, hoping to see some sign that she might be tiring.

Damn her, where did the woman come by such stamina?

He coughed pointedly, but received only a raised eyebrow in return.

“Weary, my lord?”

“Of course not,” he rasped. “Hoarse from shouting out my pleasure over this activity.”

She laughed and pulled him across the hall. “Then drink you should have. I wouldn’t want you feeling faint.”

“Mock me if you like,” he said. “And see what it earns you.”

“A respite from dancing would be sufficient,” she said, sitting him down and pouring him drink. She sat down in the chair next to him. “Thank you for the rescue, my lord.”

He frowned at her, but accepted the cup just the same. He drank, watching her over the rim. She had seemingly lost all interest in the dance and was currently focusing all her attentions on his own poor self.

“Looking for defects?” he asked gruffly.

“Admiring your manly features,” she replied.

He obviously should have ingested more of Berengaria’s beauty herbs whilst he’d had the chance. It might have made Aliénore’s task less onerous.

“And wondering what else could possibly equal the pleasure of dancing with you.”

Well, it was likely past time when he could lure her out to the lists.

More dancing? He considered, then put aside that thought.

He’d succeeded at it earlier, but that might have been a happy bit of luck.

But what else was there? He couldn’t sing.

He couldn’t play the lute. He certainly had no gift for rhyme.

He looked at Aliénore and wondered if he might dredge up a compliment or two. Could that go wrong?

“You look, um, quite a bit like a girl,” he said, quickly reaching for his ale and imbibing a hefty amount.

She ran her hand over her hair and looked powerfully uncomfortable.

Damnation, but this wasn’t the way to please her.

“You seem a bit less adept at those steps,” he nodded toward the floor, “than those other fools. There’s something to be said for you. Shows you haven’t wasted your entire life on frivolous prancing about.”

She blinked. “Well,” she began slowly, “thank you.”

He cast about for something else to say, but found absolutely nothing. He’d already trotted out his most impressive tales of battle the night before, so there was no further potential there. He’d already seen to her gear. He’d already bested her sire’s garrison.

And he’d already bloody taken his pride in hand and tramped about to music in the midst of her father’s hall, merely to please her.

He considered a bit longer, then with a sinking heart realized there was aught yet he hadn’t tried. He girded up his loins, took a deep, strengthening breath, and looked at her.

“What think you,” he began, chewing a bit on his words, “of the sleeves they are showing at court this year?”

She looked at him and her jaw slid down. “Sleeves?”

“Aye. I understand they’re bound to be different than they were last year.”

And that was, in truth, the complete totality of what he knew of women’s fashion.

It was different each year, which always necessitated a new bit of stitching.

That much he had learned from Gillian herself.

Never mind that she found the thought ridiculous.

Perhaps Aliénore was more interested in those kinds of things than Gillian was.

The saints preserve him.

“Have you lost your wits?” she asked in astonishment.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“How would I know anything of sleeve lengths? I know how long they have to be to keep me from losing my blade in them. Am I to know more than that? And when is it you think I’ve been to court to observe these things? Some night when you were deep into your snores?”

“I do not snore.”

“You most certainly do, and that isn’t the point. I’ve no idea what my sleeves should look like, nor do I care!”

By the saints, the wench was irritated. He looked at her, then made a decision.

“I have,” he said, rising to his feet, “had enough of this.”

She looked up at him. “Enough of what?”

“Enough of this business,” he said. “I’ve danced, I’ve refrained from belching at the table, and I’ve forborne any intense harm I wanted to do to your brother Francois.

Surely that is enough wooing for the moment.

” He looked about him for the appropriate marrying authority, but found no one fitting that description. “Where’s the priest?”

“Are we wedding now?” she asked, rising as well.

“As quickly as might be. I’ll woo you later.

I’ll spend the rest of my bloody life bloody wooing you.

I cannot bear the strain of this another moment.

Give me a pitched battle with odds that should fair guarantee my death.

’Twould be far less strain than this trying to guess how it is I’m supposed to please you! ”

He realized then that he was shouting. He shut his mouth with a snap and looked down at her, fully expecting to see her recoiling in horror.

She was, to his surprise, merely looking at him serenely.

“As you will, my lord.”

He took her by the hand, then turned again to see if there might not be some man of the cloth lurking about in a darkened comer, indulging himself in a bit of fortifying drink.

He saw nothing but her sire, who was looking quite horrified, and her brothers, who were looking equally terrified.

Colin swept them all with a formidable scowl.

“I’ve done my best,” he grumbled. “Now, where’s the bloody priest?”

Lord Denis raised a shaking arm and pointed toward the door. “Shall I fetch him?” he asked weakly. “Or do you care to go to the chapel?”

“I won’t deny your daughter a proper wedding,” Colin said. “We’ll repair to the chapel.”

“As you will,” Lord Denis said. He looked less than enthusiastic about the thought.

Colin scowled at him. “I’m not going to make her life a misery.”

Denis smiled faintly. “I never said you would, did I?” He reached out and put his hand on Colin’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t let her wed with you if I thought that.”

Colin wondered how the man possibly thought he could stop the like, but he saw quite suddenly a glint of steel in those watery eyes. Aye, perhaps the man would have it in him to discourage Colin from escorting Aliénore to the altar.

Colin nodded in appreciation of Lord Denis’s fierceness, then turned back to Aliénore. “My lady?”

“My lord?”

“Your last chance to bolt is before you.”

She clasped his hand in both her own. They were, to his continued amazement, very soft hands considering the tortures he’d put them through. And they were willing hands, as far as he could tell.

“Colin, I’m not going to bolt.”

He wondered if he should sit down briefly to digest that, then promised himself a goodly bit of marveling over it when he next had the luxury of deep thought. For now, he would wed the woman before she had second thoughts about her bold declaration.

“Are you going to bolt?” she asked.

He looked down at her in surprise. “What? Why would you think that?”

“Well ...”

He scowled down at her and read the words womanly hesitation very clearly in her smile. He grunted, clutched her hand, and pulled her across the hall. That was the last bit of hesitation she would have from him.