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M artin grinned as he reviewed his plan for the evening one last time.

His campaign to pierce her defenses would begin even before they sat down to dine.

It was clear that Isabella doted on her sister, and winning over Adelaide would go far toward softening her heart.

While he’d been at Bamburgh Castle, he’d assigned his men the task of making friends with the servants and learning as much as they could about what the sisters liked.

He held a tray in his hand as he knocked on the cabin door.

Given the state of Adelaide’s stomach, he’d kept her meal simple—a bowl of hearty chicken broth, an apple, and a small dish of honeyed walnuts, which he happened to know Adelaide adored.

There was a sprig of holly with bright red berries to decorate.

But the real pièce de resistance was the scroll that lay on the side of the tray.

He could hardly wait to see her open it.

When he knocked, Isabella opened the door, eyeing the tray with suspicion. “What is that?” she asked pointing her chin at the tray.

“Dinner for Adelaide,” he answered. “Will you let me in?”

Isabella looked him up and down as if examining him for weapons, then grumbled as she opened the door.

“Oh dear,” said Adelaide, as he carried over the tray. “Thank you for your kindness, but I don’t think I could eat a thing.”

Narrowing her eyes and giving him a withering look, Isabella took the tray and turned to her sister. “You must try, sweeting,” she said in the softest, kindest voice he’d ever heard her use. “You must keep your strength up.”

Adelaide bit her lip. “Perhaps I could stomach a few of those honeyed walnuts. Those are my favorite. How did you know?”

Martin leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “A lucky guess.”

Straightening and turning abruptly, Isabella pinned him with a glare. “I know what you’re up to and it won’t work.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” He met her gaze with a smoldering one of his own. Oh, it was working. It was definitely working. And she didn’t like it one bit. Good. He liked her riled up and feisty.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Adelaide asked, unfurling the scroll. And then she gasped. “Oh my goodness, you brought me music! And not just any music, a pastorela by Cercamon! Where did you get this?”

He shrugged casually. “It’s just something I picked up in Narbonne last year.

” More like something he’d hunted down over the course of multiple visits, spanning years.

This was his favorite troubadour verse, and he simply had to hold the notes in his hand.

He’d made a copy for himself, of course, but he was giving her the original.

The man that sold it to him claimed it had been penned by the great Cercamon himself.

“This is too much,” Adelaide said, clutching the parchment to her chest. “Did you know Cercamon is my favorite troubadour?”

He was starting to really like Adelaide. It was a shame he had to send her off to Lady Eleanor. Her company was delightful, and she certainly had a mellowing effect on her sister.

“I knew you were from Bordeaux and played the lute. I thought you might appreciate a little something from your homeland to distract you while you’re feeling unwell.

” Her wide eyes gleamed with appreciation, and he knew he’d hit his mark.

She would be an ally in his campaign to win Isabella, and even his warrior queen of a wife couldn’t stand for long against a united front.

“Might I escort you to dinner?” he asked Isabella, holding out his arm.

Isabella pursed her lips and stalked toward him, then grasped his arm with fearsome strength.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he said with a little bow to Adelaide before he opened the door for Isabella.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Isabella turned on him. “I won’t let you use Adelaide as a pawn in your game.”

“All I have done is offer her dinner and distraction. Any gracious host would have done as much.” Never mind that he had put more thought into this evening’s meal than he had about any other repast in his life. But it was worth it. She was worth it.

Isabella dug in her nails. “I’m watching you.”

“Can’t keep your eyes off me, eh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’d much rather flatter you. Come,” he said, leading her to the hold where he’d set up an intimate grotto.

Guiding her through the door, he was rather proud of the effect he’d achieved.

Pine boughs hung from the rafters as if they were under an enormous tree, their fresh scent mingling with the rich and decadent meal set on the table in the center.

Panels of dark fabric hung down the sides of the space, covering the bulkheads, creating an intimate, velvety darkness.

A metal lantern with tiny stars pierced through its sides hung above the table, creating the illusion of a starry night’s sky as specks of light twinkled against the black.

A single candle in a Venetian glass bowl provided a warm glow in the center of the table.

Her swift intake of breath was all the reward he needed for his efforts. She might deny it up and down, and almost certainly would, but she was impressed. He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat, eyes wide, taking in every detail.

With a smile of satisfaction, he sat down across from her and poured them each some wine, a special vintage made in her native Bordeaux.

Then he began carving up roasted venison, serving the most choice cuts onto her plate and dolloping pepper sauce over them.

The cook at Bamburgh had been with the family since Isabella’s childhood and claimed it was her favorite meal.

Baldwin had really outdone himself replicating the recipe.

They didn’t usually have fresh meat on board, but one advantage of the frigid weather was that such delicacies could be stored without spoiling, at least for a little while.

He would have to switch to fish before the end of their journey, but he would ply her with succulent roasts while he could.

Isabella licked her lips, even as her gaze turned wary. “Let’s get this over with. I would like to return to my sister.”

“As you wish, my queen. To your health,” he said raising a glass and taking a sip. Mmm. This was an excellent vintage. He would have to make a point to order more.

“To a swift journey,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “The sooner we can get off your little boat, the better.”

His smile faltered. It was one thing for her to insult him, but The Wind Song ? “This ship is as fine a vessel as any that sails the seven seas.”

She shrugged. “It’s adequate for a short journey, I suppose.”

He shouldn’t let her get to him. She was trying to goad him into biting back, and he couldn’t allow her to win, but he couldn’t help the twinge of irritation that her words provoked.

“Then it’s fortunate we don’t have far to go. But I’ve sailed to Venice and back in this ship. She is the finest in my fleet.” He was glad none of his crew could hear them. They didn’t take slights to The Wind Song lightly.

“A handful of fishing vessels and rowboats does not make a fleet.”

He twitched, squeezing his hand into a fist beneath the table.

Take a deep breath, Martin. Let it pass.

She carved off a piece of meat, staring him down in challenge. Piercing it with her eating dagger, she popped the bite into her mouth, and for a moment her expression changed to pure bliss.

Baldwin had done well indeed, though Martin found himself wishing that he, rather than his cook, had been the first to make her make that particular face. “You like the venison?”

She immediately schooled her expression back into stony disdain. “It’s dry.”

“If you say so.” He took a bite himself, and truly, Baldwin had outdone himself. “And my fleet is made up of two knarrs, four hulks, and five cogs like this one.” He should have left her insult unanswered, but it bothered him like a hangnail. He couldn’t leave it alone.

“And I’m supposed to be impressed by that?”

He shrugged. “It’s larger than average.”

“Perhaps for a little baron from a small town.”

“I assure you,” he said, grinning, “there’s nothing little about me, as you’ll find out when you finally surrender to my seduction.”

She choked on her wine. Swallowing it down with difficulty, she answered, “Then I’ll live in eternal ignorance because I will never surrender.” Ha. He was back on solid footing. He’d rocked her.

“We shall see.” He winked at her, and she bristled beautifully—all haughty outrage and imperious disdain.

A blush swept down from her cheeks to the tempting swell of her breasts.

An answering burst of heat settled in his groin.

Oh, the things he would do to her when he won this war!

But these were barely the first skirmishes.

He couldn’t afford to get ahead of himself.

“I’m told you like to weave.” It was time for him to retreat, draw her out. He had stoked her fury enough for one evening.

“I do,” she answered stiffly between bites.

It seemed his wife had a healthy appetite, no matter what she might have said about the food.

His eyes were inexorably drawn to the sight of her full and luscious lips closing around the succulent venison at the tip of her eating dagger.

She had no idea what she was doing to him just by sitting there and eating.

He turned his attention to his own food, shoving away the mental pictures that were starting to play through his mind unbidden. “What do you weave?” he asked, hardly daring to look up.

“Tapestries, mostly,” she said between bites. “It’s very dull. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it.”

“I do. Tell me.” He leaned in and offered an inviting smile. “And have some of these roasted carrots in butter and sage. They’re delicious,” he said, spooning some onto her plate. Another favorite dish of hers.

She took a tentative bite then let out a barely audible, “ Mmm .”

The look on her face was playing havoc with his self-control. What sweet torture it was to sit so close and yet be unable to touch her! But he had to keep his head. He was playing a long game, and it wouldn’t do for him to get ahead of himself and scare her off.

“You like the carrots, then?”

“They’re…acceptable.”

He chuckled. “High praise. Don’t worry. I won’t let it go to Baldwin’s head. But you were telling me about tapestries.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged.

“I like to keep my hands busy. The rhythm of it soothes me, helps me organize my thoughts. It requires just enough of my attention that it forces me to shut out the noise of the outside world. Weaving takes me out of myself and turns my endless nervous energy into something beautiful.”

He smiled gently at her. “That’s how I feel about playing the citole.

There’s something meditative and engrossing about plucking the strings in just the right way to make a lovely tune.

My art is more ephemeral than yours, but we both like to create beauty with our hands. Something we have in common.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “So we do, I suppose. Not that it means anything.”

But it did mean something. To her too, if his guess was correct. He’d worn her down from insults to mere wariness. It was progress.

“Would you mind if I play for you while you finish your meal?” he asked, reaching for his instrument.

“Do as you wish. I don’t care,” she answered, glancing up at him for a moment and then quickly averting her gaze. But in that fleeting glance he saw cautious hope. She wanted connection, needed it, if only she would let her defenses down long enough to let him in.

Isabella needed a friend in this world, he thought to himself as he began to strum a haunting tune he’d learned in Poitou.

She was so busy trying to defend and protect Adelaide but who would defend and protect her?

He would be at her service if only she would let him in.

And someday she would, provided he bided his time and kept up a sustained campaign to slip behind her battlements and reach the loving heart that he knew beat within.

He glanced at her finishing her meal as he played away. Her beauty truly took his breath away, but it was her strength, intelligence, and loyalty that moved him. Could he truly win someone so magnificent? He talked a good game, but beneath his confident veneer, uncertainty pricked him.

He could very well lose this bet, and she would be lost to him forever, a prospect he could barely bring himself to contemplate.

If that was truly what she wanted in the end, he would let her go, not because he didn’t care but because he cared more than he should.

There had been too much misery in her life, and he owed her the chance at happiness, even if it cost him his own.

But he planned to fight for her love with every weapon in his arsenal.

As he strummed the last notes of the song, their gazes met, and the wordless longing he saw in her eyes shook him to the core.

He didn’t move, terrified to break the moment.

But she ended it with a blink. Immediately, her defenses were back up, and she refused to meet his gaze. “I should get back to my sister.”

He bit back his disappointment. He could happily have played for her all night long.

“Of course, my lady,” he said, setting his citole aside. “Let me escort you back to your cabin.”

They traversed the short distance in silence, and he stopped at the door with a bow. “I bid you good night.” Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed them softly with his lips.

He was delighted to hear a little gasp escape her. He’d made progress tonight, however miniscule. As far as he was concerned the evening had been a success.

“Good night, my lord.” She turned and entered the cabin swiftly without looking at him.

As he stared at the closed door after it closed, he couldn’t help worrying that his heart might be in very grave danger indeed.