Page 1 of The Sword and the Damsel (The De Veres #2)

Winchelsea, 1176 AD

A lais had promised she wouldn’t sneak out to meet a man again, but no one would be the wiser if she didn’t get caught. And why would she?

As a second daughter, Alais was strictly ornamental. She might as well have been a tapestry on the wall for all the attention they paid her. No one listened when she tried to speak up on topics of substance. No one cared what she thought about the running of the town or political intrigue with the local nobles. Her only purpose was to look pretty and attract men. Was it her fault if she was a little too successful for her family’s liking?

Gilbert was waiting when she arrived in the forest clearing a mile outside of Winchelsea where they agreed to meet. She took a moment to appreciate the lazy ease of his form as he strummed his lute and hummed. His half-blue, half-green cotte draped sinuously around him, and fitted, brown hose clung to his shapely legs. He had perfected the sensitive poet look with his lithe body, only delicately muscled, and the mop of chestnut curls that hung rakishly in his face. There was a dimple in his cheek that made her melt, and long, thick lashes dripped over those sinful blue eyes filled with ardor.

“Alais, I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said, putting down his lute and helping her down from her horse.

“I almost didn’t.” She glanced around cautiously. “If we’re caught—”

He put a long, tapered finger on her lips. “Shh. We won’t be caught.” He let his finger trail down and trace the neckline of her low-cut, blue dress. She could hardly breathe as warmth curled all through her. Her whole body must have been blushing.

Pulling her into his arms, he touched his lips to hers. It was like being carried away with the tide, a blissful oblivion. Alais lost track of what was around her. His kiss was overpowering, delicious. This was so much more decadent than the furtive kisses she’d stolen with previous admirers.

Was it love? Was this the grand romance she dreamed of? Her parents would consider him completely unsuitable, not that it mattered to her. She would happily sacrifice everything for the right man. But the right man would be willing to do the same for her, and somehow she suspected Gilbert wasn’t the self-sacrificing sort.

Oh well . He was good for a few stolen kisses, and then she would let him go.

They collapsed together onto the soft grass. He continued to kiss her, tantalizing her neck, then tasting the bare skin above her neckline. New sensations flooded her senses as she offered herself up, drawn in by his caresses. Gilbert loosened the ties of her dress and slid her shoulder free so that he could taste it too. Things were going too far. She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t resist the heat coursing through her.

A twig cracked nearby. She froze.

“Is something wrong, my love?” Gilbert nuzzled her neck.

Drowning once again in the bliss of his caress, she shook it off. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably some animal.”

Kissing her again, he reached down to start pulling up the skirt of her dress. He was going too far. She was about to stop him when…

“Alais?”

Oh no.

“Carenza?” Alais said, her voice oddly squeaky as she rolled away from Gilbert and tugged her dress back into decency.

Her sister, Carenza Rossignol, Countess of Winchelsea, towered above her on a majestic black horse, looking every inch a noble huntress in her leathers and blood-red gown. Carenza’s hooded peregrine falcon dug its talons into her thick leather glove, and a brace of bloody hares hung from her saddlebag. Her eyes bored into Alais.

“I didn’t know you were hunting,” Alais said faintly as she finished making herself presentable.

Gilbert started edging away, the coward. As she suspected, he wasn’t willing to fight for her when it mattered.

Carenza pinned him to the spot with an imperious glare. “You,” she said, pointing her finger at him as if it was a sword. “Don’t move.” He hunched and shrank away, as if attempting to make himself small. “Alais, get on Snow now,” she ordered without sparing her sister a glance.

Alais obeyed, mounting her beloved Snow, and looking nervously at her lover.

“Uc,” Carenza called out, never taking her eyes off Gilbert. The castle falconer appeared through the trees and rode toward them with a fearsome goshawk on his arm. “We’re going back to the castle,” she told him. “See that this man accompanies us. We have business to attend to.”

“Yes, my lady,” Uc said, bowing his head, then fixing Gilbert with a steely, hostile look.

Alais knew Uc was a soft touch. She’d had him wrapped around her finger from her earliest days, but Gilbert looked like he might pass out as the grizzled falconer narrowed his eyes and beckoned him to approach. It was disappointing, really, that he didn’t have a bit more spine. But then he was just a troubadour. What did she expect?

“Come,” Carenza ordered in a sharp voice. Alais obeyed, tearing her eyes away from Gilbert.

She hardly dared raise her head, let alone speak as they made their way back inside the city walls, past the raucous docks, and onto the worn cobblestones of Castle Street.

“Are you going to tell Mother?” Alais ventured to ask as they rode up the street past inns, taverns, and merchant stalls. The All Saints’ Day mass must have just been let out. The streets were teeming with ostentatiously humble pilgrims, some of them sporting seashells from Santiago de Compostela as if they were fine jewels.

“I should, you know.”

“But you won’t?”

Carenza took a deep breath and let it out. “It depends.”

“On what?”

I’ll grovel. I’ll spend a week in silent contemplation in the chapel. I’ll bribe you with honey cakes.

“On him,” Carenza said, looking ahead.

Jesus’ fishes on toast. I am in so much trouble.

*

An hour later, Alais sat on her bed, knees tucked to her chest, staring at the tapestry on her wall. It depicted young ladies on their palfreys, prancing across a flowering field. They seemed to be mocking her with their carefree smiles. She knew she was in for it this time.

The door opened, and she scrambled to sit up straight. Carenza came in, sat beside her, and took her hand.

“He’s gone. He won’t be coming back. I’m sorry it had to be this way.” Carenza gave Alais’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Thank God! Carenza is feeling sympathetic.

“It’s not fair, you know. You got to marry your troubadour. Why couldn’t you let me have a little fun with mine?”

“Daniel turned out to be an earl. I’m afraid Gilbert was only a clever man with a silver tongue and no name or fortune to speak of. You are lucky I was the one who caught you.”

“I know,” Alais admitted, defeated, “but I still wish you hadn’t.”

“Of course,” Carenza said with a weary sigh. “One thing this makes clear to me is that we need to find you a husband. We can’t put it off anymore. I’ll speak to Mother about it.”

“A husband? Now?” Alais sat bolt upright and stared at Carenza. “I want to marry. You know I do, but not until I find the right man.”

“Then you’ll have to find the right man quickly. We can’t risk this happening again.”

“It won’t! I swear to you I’ll be good!”

Carenza narrowed her eyes. “No, you won’t. I know you, Alais. You’ll be kissing someone new by the end of the week, and I might not arrive in time to stop you from ruin next time. You’re eighteen years old, and it’s high time you were married.”

“Oh, don’t act so high and mighty. I remember how you ran away when you were told to wed. Besides, you’re only three years older than me. I don’t know what gives you the right to decide my future.” It really was ridiculous how condescending Carenza acted, as if having a child entitled her to mother Alais.

“You’ve been caught kissing three times in the last six months, and each time it was a different man. And today, it looked like you were planning to go a lot further than kissing.”

Only three times that you know of, sister. I’m sneakier than you give me credit for.

“Lord Peter was not my fault. He cornered me, and I couldn’t escape.” He was handsy as they come, and a sloppy kisser too.

“It certainly didn’t look like you were trying very hard.”

“I was about to stop Gilbert,” Alais said, ignoring Carenza’s snide little comment. “I wouldn’t have let him—”

“That’s not what it looked like to me.” Carenza gave her a hard look. “You’re getting married. We can’t keep doing this.”

Alais closed her eyes. This was what she’d been dreading all along—a forced choice between men who would almost certainly treat her just like her family did. She would become some boring lord’s ornament, relegated to making babies and sewing tapestries, all dreams of a grand romance crushed and all hope of having her intelligence acknowledged lost. Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she took a deep breath to stifle them.

“Take some time,” Carenza said, not unkindly. “Rest and compose yourself, and I’ll see you at dinner. The ward Helisende, Countess of Hastings, is sending to us should arrive today. You should be there with the rest of us to greet him.”

Alais groaned. “I don’t particularly want to meet anyone the countess might send. I still haven’t forgiven her for holding Mother, Iselda, and me prisoner last year. And I bet she’s still angling to get me to marry that nasty nephew she kept mentioning as a match.” The countess had been a relatively gracious captor, but Alais had never been happier to see someone than when her brother-in-law arrived to secure their release.

“I know how you feel,” Carenza said. “I’m not looking forward to this either. But we must do our best not to hold the sins of the countess against the poor child who will probably be terrified. I’m told his name is Victor. Do your best to be welcoming, will you?”

Alais sighed. “I will. You know I’d never be mean to a child.”

“I know. And thank you.”

Carenza gave Alais’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and left her alone with her thoughts. Upon her sister’s departure, Alais indulged in a good, long wallow. She’d never asked to be born a noblewoman. If she weren’t a baron’s daughter, no one would be nearly so concerned with her virtue.

This was all Gilbert’s fault. He’d definitely had no business reaching beneath her skirts. And she truly had been about to stop him, not that anyone believed her. They all believed the worst just because she liked kissing. Her own mother had called her “wanton” the last time she was caught. Not that her mother paid attention to her except when she misbehaved.

Carenza was probably right. She should marry. She strongly suspected that the pleasures of the marriage bed would do much to calm her body’s voracious appetites. But she hadn’t met anyone she liked nearly enough to marry, and she was terrified they’d force her into a match she didn’t want. The men she’d met so far were fine for kissing, at least some of them, but she had yet to meet one who truly piqued her interest. They were all so dull and shallow. None of them bothered to get to know the real her. Gilbert was the best of the lot and look what a disappointment he’d turned out to be.

She got into bed and pulled the covers over her head, giving in to the urge to cry now that she was alone. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to find a love match. Her parents promised after Carenza’s disastrous engagement to Raymond de Broase, Earl of Hawkhurst, the previous year. Wasn’t her family supposed to stand by her instead of throwing her to the wolves? Or, more likely, to a sheep? Which would be boring and above all, disappointing. A wolf would at least be interesting. Please, dear Lord, don’t make me marry a sheep.