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M artin needed an intelligent wife. That was his one request during his brief audience with the Duchess of Normandy when he’d paid her a visit in the fall.

He went seeking an arranged marriage. Though he was still grieving the loss of his father, he knew his duty to his people as a newly-minted baron.

It had not escaped his notice that he was the only Cinque Ports baron that lacked a bride, and he knew the Duke of Normandy needed loyalty from the ports if he was to succeed in his bid to become king of England.

Thanks to his father’s efforts, Martin had strong ties with the other barons, and they were sickened at the civil war that had reigned since King Stephen had taken the throne.

Martin was their representative, testing the waters to see how the prospective king might view the ports.

Which was why he was currently dressed in his finest cotte, breaking his fast in the great hall of Ferdinand de Martillac, the new earl of Bamburgh, attempting to tamp down his nerves about meeting his bride.

What would she think of him? He wasn’t some handsome paragon.

He was the sort of man women looked at and decided they wanted to be friends with—middling height, middling looks, middling social standing.

As the daughter of an earl, she’d probably be disappointed to find herself marrying a baron.

Fortunately, he had more wit than the average man.

If she could look past the surface, perhaps he could win her over.

The morning meal was an informal affair with members of the earl’s household and some of his higher-ranking soldiers wandering in and out at their leisure.

The hall’s rough stone walls were unadorned, the family having just taken possession of the castle the previous month.

But despite its spare décor, the space still had a rugged grandeur.

It was at least twice the size of his great hall back in Winchelsea.

Martin sat at the head table beside the earl, forcing himself to pick at the food before him to stay calm. There was no going back now. Lady Eleanor’s letter had been delivered, and the wheels were turning. He would be a married man by sunset, whether he was ready or not.

He’d even shaved off his moustache for the occasion. His upper lip felt naked without it, but he knew his bride wouldn’t appreciate such an unfashionable affectation. He wasn’t what most women would consider a prize in terms of looks, and he didn’t want to make it worse.

“I hear you have been quite successful with shipping investments,” Lord Ferdinand said, taking a bite of fresh-baked bread with a slice of hard cheese on top, a few crumbs falling down the front of his heavy wool surcotte.

“I have been very fortunate, my lord, and I take an active interest in my investments. Like my father, I take to sea as often as I can manage. I know every port from Ribe in the north to Malta in the south, and I’ve journeyed as far as Venice in my travels.

But since my father’s passing, I have been unable to travel much.

Pressing matters at home in Winchelsea have prevented me.

That is one of several reasons I asked Lady Eleanor to find me a wife.

I need someone who can manage my interests on land when I take to sea. ”

Lord Ferdinand washed down his bread with a swig of ale.

“If you manage to win Isabella over, which I assure you will not be an easy task, I think you’ll find her quite capable of managing in your absence.

Perhaps a little bit too capable. Don’t let her get too comfortable, or she’ll try to start managing you as well. Believe me. I speak from experience.”

Good. Martin liked a woman who could hold her own. “Your daughter manages here?”

His lordship waved his hand dismissively.

“Not Isabella. My wife. But the two of them are far too alike—peas in a pod, as they say.” He took another drink.

“I’m the earl. You’d think this household would answer to me, but everyone knows who truly holds the power.

God, how I wish I were back on campaign with the Duke of Normandy.

Unfortunately, His Grace wants me here. Says he needs an ally in the north.

So I’m stuck in this drafty castle with my loving wife, dancing like a marionette to her tune, God help me.

Watch yourself, or you’ll go the same way. Mark my words.”

Martin bit back a smile. This all sounded very promising. He wasn’t afraid of a little challenge. On the contrary, he relished the thought. Other men might fear such a wife, but Martin had learned a great deal from his parents’ happy marriage. “Thank you for the advice, my lord. I will be wary.”

And he would. But he liked a woman with a mind of her own.

How could he not with a mother like his?

Lady Aveline was his father’s partner, his equal, guiding Winchelsea with firm conviction while he sailed far and wide, establishing trade partnerships that had turned around the town’s fortunes.

If she hadn’t lost most of her vision after the same fever that took his father, Martin would have happily left her in charge for years to come.

She was the one who had advised him to seek out the duchess and ask for a bride after his father passed.

Constant civil war had taken too much of a toll, and she believed Henry could bring peace as king.

“I’m headed out for a ride,” Lord Ferdinand said, rising from his place. “Care to join me? The weather is godawful, but I can’t stay cooped up in this place another minute.”

Martin glanced at the tall, narrow windows of the hall. Snow swirled down in the whistling wind. “No, thank you, my lord. I must write a letter to Lady Eleanor to let her know I have arrived according to plan.”

“As you wish.” The earl turned, clapping twice. A servant hurried over. “Malcolm, bring parchment, a quill, and ink for our guest.”

Malcolm bowed and hurried off to find the necessary implements.

“I shall see you at the chapel at noon, Lord Martin. Enjoy your last few hours as a free man.”

With that, the earl swept out of the room.

Martin finished his breakfast, feeling considerably better after that conversation. What would his bride be like? How would he win her over?

He wasn’t tall and handsome like his little brother, Lance. But what he lacked in looks, he’d always made up for with cleverness and wicked humor. It wasn’t easy wooing women with Lance around, but he’d had some occasional success. He knew how to weave words to great effect.

Lady Eleanor had warned him that Isabella had a sharp wit.

Nothing would please him more than to win a woman who knew how to stand her ground.

Like the Roman dictator, Fabius, he would goad her to engage with him and retreat to leave her wanting more.

It had worked for him before, and he hoped it would work here.

One way or another, he would win her over. He had a great deal of affection to give and would do his best to be a good husband to his bride. She might never love him the way his mother loved his father, but he could offer her a good life.

His thoughts were interrupted by the return of Malcolm with the writing implements he’d requested. He turned his attention to the task at hand and was halfway through composing a missive when an arrestingly beautiful young woman entered the hall and fixed her piercing gaze on him.

The woman’s dark eyes threatened to bore a hole in him as she strode toward him in a blue velvet gown that hugged the curves of her statuesque figure.

Her dark hair was pinned up beneath some sort of headdress.

He was no expert in women’s fashions, but he thought the regal attire suited her perfectly.

She stopped by his side without saying a word, merely taking in every detail with a haughty, disapproving glare. By God, she was magnificent! Was it possible this vision in blue was his bride?

“My lady,” he said, standing and pulling out her chair for her, noticing as he did, that she was several inches taller than he.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Martin. I’m the Baron of Winchelsea.

I arrived last night and don’t know anyone here besides the earl.

Would I be correct in assuming you are one of his daughters? ”

She sat down and unsheathed her eating dagger, keeping it in her grasp rather than laying it on the table.

“I know who you are and why you are here. I wanted to speak with you before this travesty of a wedding takes place,” she said in a low voice, then glanced around to check that no one overheard.

So it was to be war. He stifled a smile. “I take it you are Lady Isabella?”

“Yes,” she said, looking him up and down with a threatening squeeze of her knife. “There’s been a terrible mistake. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

Her frosty expression might have put another man off, but it lit a flame within him. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Lady Eleanor must have been thinking of Isabella of Dover. It’s not the first time the two of us have been confused.”

Martin nodded gravely. “Do you mean the baroness Isabella who is married to my friend Herbert?”

Isabella pursed her lips until they turned white. “I see you know the family.”

“Quite well, and Herbert was in excellent health when I saw him last month. His wife was certainly not a widow seeking a second marriage. Are you going to bring up Isabella of Boggy Bottom next? I hear she is quite a catch.”

“Are you mocking me, my lord?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“I would never mock my bride-to-be.” He held her gaze steadily, enjoying the way her irritation made her flush pink. Why did he find headstrong women so irresistible?

“You wouldn’t want to marry me. I would make your life miserable.”

“Is that so?” he asked, thoughtfully. “And here I’d heard such wonderful things about you. Why, your father was just telling me how delightful you are.”