The usual fine print: This story is strictly fanfic and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held

by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross Copyrights.

All "genre-type" fanfic aside, this is mostly straight drama (with a minor detour or two), and was

written solely to please the author. (Yes, I admit it--selfish as it may be, I wrote this one for

me!!). Of course I'd still be interested in your comments, so email me at [email protected]. I

swore I'd never write a sequel in Covington Cross, but this is it--part II of The King's Decree.

Ignore any glaring historical errors and try to enjoy!

Midwinter Reckoning

Cathryn Mortenz-Teal ("Kate")

Late morning frost lingered on the windowpane, plaiting the narrow panels with jagged crystalline

blossoms. Lady Gwendolyn Grey pressed her fingertips to the cold glass and gazed over the

barren landscape surrounding Covington Cross. From her vantage point high in the castle she

could easily see the adjoining hillsides--each rounded crest mottled with snow. Further to the east

lay the jutting line of Tiner Forest, cutting a black swath through the white-speckled ground.

Softly, Gwendolyn exhaled. The warmth of her breath against the frigid glass induced a halo of

steam which she idly severed with her finger. In the four short months of her marriage, she and

her husband had endured separation, but none quite so long as this.

Richard had been gone for nearly two weeks--an eternity that left her aching for his return.

Worse was the knowledge he would be detained yet another week visiting Sir Thomas's lower

holdings. Despite his older brother Armus's return to castle life, Richard still actively managed his

father's estates. While Gwendolyn admired both his skill and dedication, she found his bent for

responsibility oft times difficult to bear. Mostly because his departures left her increasingly lonely.

Perhaps it was simply the overwhelming size of Covington Cross, with its long corridors and vast

chambers. Though her father's ancestral home was far from small, Torsun-Narr seemed somehow

diminutive by comparison. Coupled with the expansive size of her husband's home was the

marked absence of his father and eldest brother. Both Sir Thomas and Armus had been

summoned to London to attend the King for an extended stay at court. Scheduled to return two

days ago, Sir Thomas had sent a courier informing the household, protocol dictated he and Armus

remain yet a fortnight.

With only Cedric, Eleanor, and the friar for company, Gwendolyn felt oddly isolated. Briefly she

considered visiting her father at Torsun-Narr. Since marrying Richard she'd seen him only once,

when she'd taken a carriage to his hilltop castle. The reunion had been strained and awkward,

marked by undercurrents of hostility. He'd declined to see Richard after the wedding and had

steadfastly refused all invitations to visit Covington Cross. She had known that marrying the son

of her father's enemy would bring both obstacles and grief, but hadn't envisioned such a complete

disassociation from Baron John Mullens.

Turning sideways and propping her shoulder against the window, Gwendolyn pressed her temple

to the glass. The bleached hue of sunlight was such that she could see the faintest wisp of

reflection in the narrow pane--a glimpse of her own raven hair; streaks of gold surrounding her

face like liquid strands of precious metal. Quite suddenly she became aware of movement on the

hillside. Jerking upright she watched as a dark shape eclipsed the snow-covered grounds. As the

rider drew nearer, venturing into the outer courtyard, Gwendolyn felt her heart leap with joy.

There was no mistaking the way Richard sat a horse.

Bolting for the staircase, Gwendolyn clambered down the rickety steps. The stairs to the tower

were winding and steep, cut into the stone turret in wraparound fashion. It occurred to

Gwendolyn that she was hardly behaving in a ladylike manner, but she'd never been one to

embrace the constraints of proper society. Her Aunt Edrea would likely chastise her severely for

showing the barest hint of emotion, let alone a display of passion.

Gwendolyn grinned wickedly as she raced down the steps, folds of her skirt clutched in one hand

to keep from tripping. If she had any say in the matter, she'd keep Richard occupied well into the

night, proper society be damned! Hampered by the heavy folds of her gown, Gwendolyn

somehow managed to traverse the remaining three levels of the castle. By the time she reached

the main floor, she silently cursed the restrictive fit of the dress--designed, she was certain to

make her feel like a suckling trussed for a pig roast. In her Aunt Edrea's society, women were

meant to be decorative.

Biting back an impulsive giggle, Gwendolyn rounded the rear corner of the Great Hall just as

Richard entered from the opposite side. Distracted, he failed to notice her as he absently

fingercombed his hair. His boots struck echoes from the stone floor as he strode across the room.

Lounging by the hearth, one of Sir Thomas's hunting dogs raised its head only long enough to

identify the disturbance.

"Richard!" Gwendolyn shrieked his name, then laughing, threw herself into his arms. Startled

only momentarily, he caught her about the waist, lifting her off the floor and turning in a half

circle. As her feet touched the ground, Richard's mouth closed over hers, parting her lips in a

welcoming kiss. Held tightly in his arms, she could feel the chill touch of winter still clinging to

his flesh. The cold press of his green leather jerkin against her breasts sent a delightful tingling

racing down her spine. She could smell the feral redolence of woodsmoke and wet winter grasses

clinging to his long hair. "Dear Lord, I've missed you," she whispered breathlessly, when he

broke the kiss.

Richard traced a gloved finger over her upturned chin. "I've dreamt of nothing but this moment,"

he assured. A dimple bloomed in his cheek as he grinned crookedly. "And one or two others

spent in the privacy of our bed."

"Where I would willingly keep you, My Lord." Fastening her hands behind his neck, Gwendolyn

laid her head upon his shoulder. "I don't know what fortune has brought you home a week early,

but I praise its maker nonetheless." Her grip tightened possessively. "Richard, you won't leave

again, will you--at least not for some time?"

Distressed by the imploring tone of her voice, Richard pressed his lips to her temple. "Not for

some time," he vowed. "If circumstance dictates otherwise, I promise to take you with me."

Tilting his head, he gazed playfully into her eyes. "Will that suffice, Lady Gwen, dearest wife?"

The combination of subtle frivolity and impish charm was enough to hold Gwendolyn prisoner in

his arms. Her lips curled in a slow smile as mischievous light kindled her dark blue eyes. "That

depends." Lifting one hand, she touched his mouth gently--two slender fingers tracing over the

curve of his lips. "I think I should need some private convincing. And I don't mean

conversation."

Grinning brashly, he gripped her chin and kissed her, the touch of his lips long and lingering.

When he drew back he was still smiling. "You're a seductive shrew, Gwen. Women are supposed

to be demure and skittish. Didn't your Aunt Edrea teach you anything?"

"Yes--to avoid handsome men with impossibly glib tongues."

Richard chuckled. "Too late. You've already married me." Bracing one arm behind her

shoulders, he bent and swept the other under her knees. In one swift motion he lifted her in his

arms.

"Richard Bartholomew Quentin Grey!" With her hands twined about his neck, Gwendolyn

squirmed. The effort was more for show then any true desire to be separated from her husband.

Truth be told, she was quite content with his extravagant attention. "Put me down!"

"Not if you continue to use that atrocious name." Striding from the hall, Richard carried his wife

to the stairs. Behind them, alerted by the shrill pitch of Gwendolyn's voice, the dog came to its

feet. Curious over the ruckus, it loped beside Richard, barking for attention.

Despite herself, Gwendolyn giggled. "Shoo, you besotted beast."

"Gwen, is that any way to talk to your husband?" As he spoke, Richard placed his boot on the

bottom step. Still slick from snow, the sole slipped on the rolled edge, sending them both

tumbling to the floor. Twisting at the last moment, Richard absorbed the brunt of impact on his

side, shielding Gwendolyn with his body. Startled, the dog leaped backward then began a

frenzied, yapping dance as the couple burst into spontaneous laughter.

"Oh, heavens." Gripping Richard by the collar, Gwendolyn bent her head to his. "You are a

clumsy elegant oaf."

With a theatrical groan, Richard lodged a hand in the small of his back. "I think I've injured

myself, and that's paradoxical, you know."

"Much like you my gallant knight, and I'd warrant that bruise is more to your vanity than your

body." Bracing her hands against his shoulders, Gwendolyn pushed backward and clambered

unsteadily to her feet. Pushing the hair from her eyes, she stared down at her husband who was

still sprawled over the steps. "Of course--" Her full lips curled beguilingly. "--I'd have to examine

you thoroughly to be certain."

Before Richard could say a word, Cedric appeared breathlessly in the Great Hall, two

chamberlains trailing behind. The youngest Grey looked as though he'd run a fair distance,

summoned no doubt by the dog's continual baying. Sensing the others, the animal desisted its

caterwauling and trotted to their side. Snuffling Cedric's boots it ringed the dark-haired man then

retreated to the hearth where it lay down, bored with the entire affair.

Gwendolyn bit her lip to keep from laughing. Glancing from Cedric to Richard and back to

Cedric again, she laced her hands over her stomach. With genteel poise she raised her chin, acting

as though there was nothing unusual with having Richard sprawled at her feet. "Look Cedric,"

she announced evenly. "Your brother's come home."

+++++

Richard was uncomfortable occupying his father's chair. With Sir Thomas and Armus still in

London, he was left in charge of both Covington Cross and all Grey interests. Even so, it felt odd

to be sitting in Sir Thomas's high-backed chair, positioned at the head of the dinner table.

Gwendolyn sat to his left with Eleanor, Cedric to his right. Occasionally his wife cast a sideways

glance in his direction, her blue eyes veiled by a lush curtain of lashes. He had no doubt she

recalled the lazy afternoon hours they'd spent twined in each other's arms, oblivious to all but each

other. That brief time together made Richard realize how desperately he'd missed her when he

was gone.

" . . . so they're going to be detained a fortnight," Cedric was saying, jarring him back to the

present. "Father sent a courier earlier in the week. Apparently the Queen is insisting on

Midwinter Court, and many of the nobles haven't arrived yet."

"It's father's poor luck that he attended early," Eleanor inserted with a smile. Spearing a piece of

venison from her plate, she raised her fork to her lips. "I can just see Armus fending off all those

fashionable ladies."

Gwendolyn giggled. "While discussing things like embroidery patterns and the latest dance steps.

I'm sure he'll find the conversation riveting."

"I warrant he'll barely be able to tear himself away," Eleanor agreed. The two women exchanged

a glance then burst into laughter.

With a half-hearted scowl, Cedric looked at Richard. His brother appeared fairly amused, an

appreciative twinkle in his eye as he watched his wife. Cedric puffed out his cheeks and exhaled

noisily. "As uneventful as it's been here, I'd trade places with Armus for a farthing. Have a care,

you two," he added with a nod of his head for Eleanor and Gwendolyn. "There are some men

would forsake power for the opportunity to discuss dance steps."

Once again Eleanor and Gwendolyn exchanged a glance. The latter propped her elbow on the

table, resting her chin on the back of her hand. Smiling craftily, she studied her brother-in-law.

"Cedric, dearest--dance is power in a woman's hands. Uther Pendragon went to war when he saw

Igrayne of Cornwall dance." Her eyes slewed sideways, touching speculatively on her husband.

The corners of her lips twitched further in a thoroughly bewitching smile. "What of that, My

Lord? Would you fight a war for my hand?"

Richard's gaze was direct, but there was mischief in his eyes. "That depends on whether or not

you have Igrayne's talent for dance."

Cedric snorted. "Whatever her skill, I'd wager it's more interesting than embroidery."

Richard smiled sharply and kicked him beneath the table. Cedric's laughter was broken by the

arrival of a servant in the room, who sketched a hasty bow and announced the arrival of Lady

Elizabeth Leland. Surprised by the unexpected visit, Richard nonetheless instructed she be

escorted to the Great Hall. Moments later, Sir Thomas's consort appeared looking

uncharacteristically frazzled.

Rising, Richard took her hand in courtly fashion and motioned to the table. "Lady Elizabeth,

please join us."

Though she'd left her cloak with the servant, Elizabeth had yet to banish the possessive touch of

cold winter air from her bones. With a quick shake of her head, she moved before the hearth,

extending her hands to the flames. "That's kind of you, Richard, but I need to see your father."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Richard returned evenly. "He's still in London."

"Oh!" The gasp of dismay that slipped from her lips was as uncharacteristic as Lady Elizabeth's

nervousness. Chagrined by her slip, the dark-haired woman glanced away. "That's unfortunate. I

had a favor to beg of him."

Richard exchanged a glance with his brother who appeared as puzzled as he was. Eleanor

frowned slightly, then pointedly returned her attention to her dinner plate. With a sharp glance for

her sister-in-law, Gwendolyn nudged her elbow. "What?" Eleanor hissed.

Choosing to overlook his sister's usual animosity for their guest, Richard stepped to Elizabeth's

side. "Perhaps I could be of service?" he suggested.

Elizabeth rounded on him surprised. A wild spark of hope entered her eyes but was quickly

squelched. Sadly, she shook her head. "I don't think that's possible."

Distressed by her obvious anxiety, Richard leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Lady Elizabeth,

would you speak with me in private about whatever is troubling you?"

No, I--" Elizabeth hesitated, then pressed her lips together. Reluctantly, she nodded. "Very well."

With a nod to the others that he would return, Richard escorted his father's mistress to the solar.

Once there he turned on her expectantly. "You said you wished to beg a favor of my father."

"Yes . . ." Elizabeth agreed hesitantly. Striding past him, she twined her hands together,

obviously struggling to explain her behavior. "It's actually very silly." Frowning, Elizabeth

turned. "Richard, your father was expected back from London days ago. What detains him?"

Richard smiled briefly. "The Queen. She's holding Midwinter Court and wishes him to remain a

fortnight." Though he had expected her to smile at the image of Thomas paying court with a

group of long-winded noblemen, her frown only deepened. Growing increasingly concerned,

Richard strode forward and gripped her shoulders. She wasn't quite as tall as Gwendolyn and

when he gazed down at her, she was forced to raise her head. "Lady Elizabeth, my father cares

about you a great deal. If you're in some sort of trouble, you must be straightforward and tell

me."

Elizabeth closed her eyes. Richard could feel the tension in her slender frame, shattering her

normally self-reliant poise. Beyond the walls of the castle the wind moaned across the heath,

inciting slumbering ghosts of winter to gleeful mischief. The powdery lace of new snow frosted

the window glass as swollen clouds emptied their bellies on the earth below. Elizabeth drew an

uneven breath. Reluctantly she met Richard's eyes. "I've received an invitation I fear I can't

refuse." When Richard only stared at her blankly, Elizabeth plowed ahead. "My late husband's

cousin, Sir Lionel Rothrock holds a Midwinter Feast each year. Each year he invites me, and each

year I decline the courtesy. This year he has sent a carriage with servants to fetch me, presumably

so I can't refuse."

"And this is so terrible?" Richard ventured, uncertain where the quandary lie.

Elizabeth turned away. "You don't understand," she said with difficulty. "Lionel . . . has a

fondness for me that exceeds that of a kinsmen. I've put him off successfully in the past, but each

time I see him his advances grow bolder. I've declined his invitation for the last two years, but

I've run out of excuses for refusing."

"And you wanted my father to . . . escort you to this gala?" Richard guessed, "Thus having a

protector--so to speak--against Lionel?"

"I told you it was silly," Elizabeth said with a tight smile. "If the man weren't so . . . forceful . . .

I'd venture his lair on my own."

Richard chuckled. Striding forward, he took her hand. "And when does Cousin Lionel expect

you there?"

"He's instructed his servants to fetch me forth in two days. With Thomas gone--"

"I'll go in his place," Richard interjected. When he saw her look of disbelief, he rolled his

shoulders. "Certainly no one will mistake us for romantic partners, but that doesn't prevent me

from protecting you against the man's advances."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Richard, I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Why not?"

Wetting her lips, Elizabeth took a step backward. Absently, she dusted her hands against her

sleeves as though attempting to ward off a chill. "John Mullens will be there. He and Lionel are

the best of friends."

Richard's smile was tight. "Now I have a sense of your cousin's character," he said with more

bitterness than he intended. Sighing, Richard dropped into the nearest chair. He had planned for

Gwendolyn to accompany him when he'd offered to go with Lady Elizabeth, but the presence of

her father made that situation awkward. Richard knew he'd likely only stoke the Baron's ire if he

arrived with Gwendolyn on his arm. "The Baron and I need to arrive at an understanding,"

Richard told Elizabeth. "Perhaps it's just as well he'll be in attendance."

"And Gwendolyn?" Elizabeth ventured. "Richard, I do not wish to part you from your wife."

Richard looked distinctly uncomfortable. He swallowed hard. "My wife will understand," he

vowed.

+++++

"I don't understand why I can't go with you," Gwendolyn protested hotly. Stalking toward the

bed, she shrugged out of her robe and threw it angrily on the feather mattress. Clothed in a

long-sleeved sleeping gown, she gathered the folds of the rose-colored material in one hand and

plopped in unbecoming fashion on the bed. Her hair was unbound, spilling forward over her face,

creating a tangled veil not unlike the snarled curls of her childhood. If she weren't so angry,

Richard may have been tempted to laugh. "You promised if you left again you'd take me with

you."

"Gwendolyn, I didn't expect--"

"--that's the problem, Richard. You never expect! You just react without thinking." Snatching a

hairbrush from the bedside table, she waved it in his direction. "Lady Elizabeth arrives in a

quandary so you gallantly volunteer to assist her, never once considering the effect on your wife."

Angrily, Gwendolyn raked the brush through her long hair, using short, savage strokes.

Perturbed, Richard strode forward. "That's not true, Gwen. I told you I had planned to take you

with me, it's just--"

"What?" she snapped. "My father? Don't you think that's all the more reason I *should* attend?

If we're ever going to make peace with the man--"

"Gwendolyn, I don't want to argue about this," Richard said flatly, his own volatile anger taking

hold.

"No," she agreed, "You'd rather just lie to me, promising one thing then doing another!"

"That's enough!" Catching her arm, Richard pulled her roughly to her feet. For a moment they

glared at one another, neither willing to yield, until Richard grudgingly recalled he'd only just

returned and they were shortly wed. Exhaling tiredly, he wrapped his arms around her. Though

she made no move to withdraw, Gwendolyn's back was rigid in his embrace. Richard bowed his

face to her hair. "You're right," he relented. "I did promise. It's just--I--Gwendolyn, this is

difficult, you understand? It's because of our marriage that I ask you to remain. If your father

weren't in attendance I wouldn't hesitate for you to accompany me."

Unconvinced, Gwendolyn raised her eyes. "You will not surmount my father's dislike of you so

easily, Richard."

"I don't expect it to be easy," he returned quickly, "But nor do I think it's prudent to add salt to an

already festering wound."

Stiffly Gwendolyn pulled free of her husband's embrace. Turning her back, she drew her arms

close, hugging them to her chest. "I fear his dislike of you transcends our marriage." Glancing

over her shoulder, Gwendolyn met her husband's eyes. "Richard, it's no secret my father has

always held fierce animosity for you, but I fear that rancor has nothing to do with your father, or

Henry's death."

"Then what?" Richard asked, taking a step forward. Though the Baron had always looked on

him with snide contempt, the last few years had given way to blatant hostility. Though Eleanor

had been the one to loose the arrow killing Henry of Gault, Richard sometimes felt that Mullens

hated him most of all.

Gwendolyn glanced at her hands as though uncomfortable. The unreasonable anger had left her

face, replaced by an unsettling emotion Richard couldn't identify. "To understand what I'm going

to tell you, you must envision another John Mullens," Gwendolyn said softly. "A man who loved

his wife, Charlotte Canter, beyond life itself. A man who would have sacrificed his soul, if only to

claim her heart."

Unable to place the Baron he knew in the same context as the man she described, Richard

remained silent. Wetting her lips, Gwendolyn continued:

"Shortly after they were wed, my mother betrayed my father by having an affair with a man she

wouldn't name. A child was born of that union--my half-brother Simon Canter. A child my father

hated with more passion than he'd once loved my mother. It was my mother's betrayal which

created the John Mullens you know today."

Richard rolled his shoulders. Though the news was unexpected, he didn't see a connection.

"What does that have to do with me? With us?"

Her expression remorseful, Gwendolyn sat on the edge of the bed. "Simon has blonde-hair and

blue-eyes. I've not seen him since he was nineteen, but his features are much like yours. He is tall

and slender and elegant of face. I fear each time my father looks at you, he sees Simon staring

back."

Richard gave a short snort. "Gwen, that's preposterous. I'm almost twenty-two, and I find it

difficult to believe I could look so similar to this half-brother of yours, when our coloring isn't

even remotely similar." Folding his arms across his chest, Richard cocked his head to the side.

"How old is he now?"

"Thirty," Gwendolyn supplied. "But that doesn't matter. My father remembers him as a

nineteen-year-old, and you're close enough in age and appearance to resurrect those memories.

So you see it doesn't matter whether I go to this gala or not--his animosity has to do with Simon,

not with us."

Richard exhaled loudly. Somehow the conversation had looped right back to the topic he'd hoped

to avoid. Striding to the bed, he sat beside her. "That may very well be, but I still think it's best if

you give me this opportunity alone with him." Richard's voice was earnest, his gaze steady.

Reaching forward, he took her hand. "Please, Gwendolyn--I have two days remaining before I

depart. I don't wish to spend them arguing."

Gwendolyn pressed her lips together. "Nor I," she returned sharply and snatched her hand free.

"Which is why I suggest you sleep elsewhere this evening, My Lord."

Richard's expression grew dark. "You're being unreasonable," he returned shortly.

"I'm very good at it," she countered. Then just as quickly: "I don't see why Cedric can't go. He

doesn't have a wife to consider, though I'd wager he'd be far more considerate of her if he did."

Angry now, Richard stood. Gazing down at her helped him gain a measure of discipline over his

erratic emotions. With effort he contained the brittle edge in his voice. "Cedric is needed here, and

my father would expect me to address this. With Armus gone I am the eldest son. It's my

responsibility."

Gwendolyn's eyes flashed gem-fire. "It's always your responsibility, Richard. The simple truth is

you don't know how to relinquish control. You believe no one else can accomplish the same task

as readily or as effectively as you."

"That's not true."

As though dismissing a servant, Gwendolyn turned away and began brushing her hair. "There are

plenty of bedchambers in this castle, Richard. If you wish to remain here, I'll have the servants

ready another for my needs."

"You'll do no such thing!" His voice cracked with authority, causing Gwendolyn to pause

momentarily.

Her hesitation was brief--just a flicker as she digested the command in his tone. Once again she

stroked her hair, gliding the brush slowly and smoothly through the gold-tipped black tresses.

She'd known Richard since childhood, and while his temper was volatile, she knew he'd never

raise a hand against her. With perfect poise, she kept her back turned. "I do not think it's wise

we share a bed tonight, My Lord."

"Damn it, Gwendolyn, stop 'My Lording' me!" Infuriated, he snatched her arm and pulled her to

her feet. Only belatedly did he realize his grip was hard, likely bruising her flesh. As quickly as

the black rage surfaced, it washed away, sweeping from his body in an ill-gotten tide. With an

almost inaudible groan, Richard bowed his head. "Do what you will, Woman, but you'll stay here

when I depart. That's final."

Turning on his heel he strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Though the

afternoon had been blissful wrapped in his wife's arms, Richard spent a lonely night in Sir

Thomas's bedchamber. The servants would gossip of course, and his brother and sister would

likely learn of the conflict, but none of it was relevant. All that mattered was the wretched state

of his loneliness, separated from his wife of four short months. Tossing restlessly, he envisioned

her in their bed, only a short distance down the hall. Another man would demand her

subservience and force himself on her, intent on satisfying his own needs.

Rather than succumb to such crass behavior, Richard swallowed his pride and spent the night

alone.

+++++

The jostling sway of the carriage was almost rhythmic in its monotony. Broken only by a few

occasional ruts in the road, the rickety wheels traversed the snow-laden grounds with

single-mindedness. Lady Elizabeth Leland glanced through the side window, watching as the

winter-draped landscape rolled past. Though the snow was not deep, frigid temperatures kept it

clinging to the smooth grasslands of the heath. Here and there, dark veins scored the undulating

hills where persistent light melted the surface dust, revealing clumps of mud and grass beneath.

Alabaster lace clung to the brittle limbs of barren trees, invoking contrasting webs on the rag-tag

edge of Tiner Forest. Further east, pockets of mist hung disembodied, scant feet above the

ground.

Drawing her cloak closer for warmth, Elizabeth looked at her companion who sat opposite.

Richard gazed steadily out the window, his expression bleak. He'd been reserved most of the

morning, greeting her cordially when they'd departed, then falling into morose silence. With a

woman's gift for intuition, Elizabeth guessed his separation from Gwendolyn had not gone as

smoothly as planned. "You're awfully quiet, Richard," she observed casually.

"Hmm?" He started as though awakening from a daydream. A nervous smile flitted over his lips.

"Sorry--I wasn't listening."

"I said you're awfully quiet," Elizabeth repeated.

Richard shrugged. Though the roll of his shoulders was casual, Elizabeth saw tension etched in

his face. It never failed to amaze her how complex his personality proved--one moment

unrestrained emotion, the next carefully guarded reserve. Raising a black-gloved hand, he laced it

through his long hair, sweeping the scattered bangs from his brow. A habitual nervous gesture, it

told her more about his present state of mind then all his carefully chosen words strung together.

"Please pardon my lack of attention, Lady Elizabeth. I didn't mean to appear rude."

Chuckling softly, Elizabeth arranged the folds of a thick travelling blanket on her lap. She could

feel the influx of heat from large hearth-warmed stones, tucked within and bundled at her feet. "I

didn't mean to imply that you were--just that you appear distracted. I hope this favor has not

caused you undo distress, Richard."

Distinctly uncomfortable now, he shifted on the padded seat. A short tug on his burgundy jerkin

drew the stiff leather tightly across his chest. Beneath the garment, the softer fabric of an ebony

tunic crinkled with his movement. "It doesn't matter," he said shortly. "I would not allow you to

attend unescorted whatever the circumstance."

Elizabeth frowned, bothered by the clipped tone of his voice. His staggering self-confidence often

made her overlook the fact he was only twenty-one. The Richard who addressed her now could

easily slide into arrogance with little coaxing. "Don't be so predisposed to obstinacy, Richard. It's

ill-becoming in a husband."

He glanced at her sharply. "What does that mean?"

Elizabeth took her time replying, adjusting the long braid of her black hair before surrendering her

attention. "I trust your leave from Gwendolyn did not go as smoothly as you would have liked."

Richard glowered. "Are you gossiping with servants now, Lady Elizabeth?"

Unperturbed, Elizabeth held his gaze. "I remember what it's like to be newly wed and separated,"

she returned coolly. "It doesn't take a loose tongue to decipher what's troubling you."

Turning his head, Richard glanced out the window. She could see the constricted line of his

mouth, tiny white creases etched at the corners of his lips. Viewed in profile, the tousled waves

of his hair lent a certain autocratic elegance to his features, easily rekindling the impression of

arrogance. "It's a long ride to the inn," he mumbled, "I'd rather pass it in silence."

Tempted to press him further, Elizabeth relented when she decided he didn't spar nearly as well as

his father. Locating her travel bag, she withdrew an embroidery hoop. Long hours whittled away

as she spent the time redefining a cluster of wildflowers and looping vines. When the carriage

halted shortly after midday for a basket lunch, Richard offered his hand and helped her step

outside. While the servants prepared the meal, he wandered into the surrounding trees, his dark

burgundy cloak eventually disappearing among the dense cluster of charcoal trunks.

Elizabeth glanced at the whitewashed sky, noting the mass of full-bodied clouds gathering on the

horizon. It would likely snow before the day was out, impeding travel time. With any luck they'd

reach the inn before weather and darkness combined to make the journey treacherous.

Nibbling on a piece of honey-laced cake, Elizabeth watched the trees where Richard had

disappeared. He was well skilled to fend off trouble, but still she worried over his absence. In the

years that she and Sir Thomas had grown close, she'd grown close to his children as well. There

was no doubting Eleanor was the most difficult of all, but that was almost expected in a

woman-to-woman meeting of the minds. Eleanor guarded her mother's position in her heart with

jealous animosity. Richard's enmity however, grew from an innate refusal to acknowledge

situations he couldn't resolve on his own. More than any of Sir Thomas's children, Richard

stubbornly refused the aide of others.

When he returned a short time later, he spoke briefly about the impending snow and its effect on

their travel time. Though the servants had set up a chair for Lady Elizabeth, Richard sat on the

roll-down carriage steps, bracing his knees apart to steady the rope supports. He ate quickly and

silently, ushering the others through the repast with his marked refusal to dawdle. When the

carriage departed, he fell into silence again, and Elizabeth took to watching the countryside.

She was uncertain when the veil of sleep claimed her eyes; remembered only the rhythmic jostling

sway of the wheels which eventually lulled her to slumber. Sometime later she was awakened by

a touch on her shoulder.

"Lady Elizabeth?"

Blinking, she looked up into Richard's green eyes. His face was wrapped in bands of shadow, the

jeweled glint of his irises abnormally bright in a muted filtering of moonlight. Blackest night

clustered behind him, informing her they'd reached their destination. Sitting upright she pushed

aside the blanket he'd earlier draped over her. "Are we at the inn?" she asked distractedly.

Richard nodded. Before he could speak, a servant opened the carriage door, peering anxiously

inside. "M'Lord, there be a slight problem."

Sitting forward, his attention on Elizabeth, Richard half-turned. "Well?" he prompted.

The man wet his lips nervously, his thick-lidded gaze skittering between Elizabeth and Richard.

"It's jest that M'Lord Rothrock expected only the Lady. 'E reserved a room fer the mistress, but

there ain't t'nother to be had. I've already spoke to the innkeeper."

"Don't concern yourself with it," Richard said shortly. "Take Lady Elizabeth's bags to her room."

"Aye, M'Lord." With a quick bob of his head, the servant disappeared.

Elizabeth glanced expectantly at her escort. "What of you, Richard?"

He shrugged. "There's always the common room or the stable. Come--let's get you inside where

it's warm." Before she could protest further, he gathered her slim fingers in his and helped her

from the carriage.

The inn was small, but inviting. The flickering glow of a roaring fire infused the common room

with welcoming light. Overhead, straw rushes on the timbered roof provided additional insulation

and warmth. Richard could smell the tantalizing aroma of baking bread and simmering stew--

likely venison or mutton--the latter creating a rumble in his belly. The cold lunch they'd shared

was hours past and he was ready to banish his somberness with a hearty meal, complimented by a

tankard or three of ale.

Half a dozen tables were scattered around the hearth, most occupied by farmers and serfs.

Curious eyes turned toward Richard and Elizabeth as they stepped indoors. Bracing his arm

across the small of her back, Richard escorted his father's mistress to an unoccupied bench, then

glanced about for the innkeeper.

Almost immediately, a short balding man appeared at his elbow. Hastily wiping his brow with the

back of a thick arm, the man gave a quick dip of his head. "What be yer pleasure, M'Lord?"

"Lord Rothrock reserved a room with you," Richard explained evenly. "It's for this lady. Kindly

show us which one so she may retire." As he spoke Richard became aware of a courtly-attired

man seated by himself in a far corner of the room. Fair-haired with strikingly chiseled features, he

looked the part of young nobleman. Richard could feel the man's eyes on him, yet more

disturbingly he could sense the same calculating gaze sidling over Elizabeth. Somewhat

protectively, Richard looped his arm over her shoulders. "The room," he reminded the innkeeper.

Bobbing his head, the shorter man wet his lips nervously. "Aye, M'Lord." From the darting look

he sent Lady Elizabeth, it was clear he thought she was Richard's lover.

Richard felt his face flame red. Before he could snap a belligerent reply, Elizabeth gripped his

arm. With a quick warning glance to silence him, she turned her attention on the innkeeper. "My

escort is a bit cross tonight. Perhaps you could serve him dinner after you show me my room."

"Of course, M'Lady." Hobbling down a short hallway, the innkeeper beckoned them to follow.

Lady Elizabeth's room was the first off the common area, not large by any means, but clean

nonetheless. Her travel bags had already been stacked neatly by the door, deposited by the

servants. As the innkeeper moved to withdraw, Richard passed him a few coins with instructions

to bring Lady Elizabeth's meal to her room.

After he'd departed, Elizabeth unfastened her cloak and laid it on the bed. Extra blankets and

pillows had been stacked on the edge of the mattress for added comfort. "Richard, there's no

reason you can't use this spare bedding and sleep on the floor. It would be more comfortable than

the common room, and certainly warmer than the stable."

"And give that fool innkeeper credence? The man already thinks we're sleeping together."

Recovering her bags, Richard moved them to the bed where she'd have easier access to them.

"Besides--I've slept outdoors on countless occasions, winter included."

"Perhaps," Elizabeth agreed stubbornly, "But it isn't necessary. I've already inconvenienced you

with this trip. And as far as that silly proprietor goes, he'll wag his tongue regardless of what we

do. You may as well be comfortable for the slight."

Richard frowned.

"I'll likely be asleep by the time you return anyway," she persisted. "Don't be foolish, Richard.

I'm old enough to be your mother, and even if I weren't--" her lips quirked in a arch smile, "--

you're a trifle too arrogant for my taste."

Involuntarily, Richard grinned. "Very well," he agreed. "Just don't tell my father." Turning

toward the door, he paused then glanced over his shoulder. "Lady Elizabeth?"

She had moved away and was looking inside her travel bag. "Yes?"

Richard wet his lips. "You were right about Gwendolyn. She hasn't spoken to me for two days,

and . . ." his eyes dipped self-consciously. " . . . we've slept apart. I wish I could find a way to

heal the rift between us. She thinks I've broken my word, and in a way, I suppose I have."

"This is my fault," Elizabeth said, coming to his side. Taking his hands, she looked up into his

eyes. It was easy to see how a younger woman could become lost there--ensnared by the comely

lines of his face; the striking green depths of his irises. "Give your wife time," Elizabeth said

sincerely. "She's been uprooted from her home, thrust into a life that is alien to all she's known.

To make matters worse, you are frequently gone on your father's business. Now that you are

wed, perhaps you should consider a less active role in the management of Sir Thomas's estates--at

least until you and Gwendolyn have had time to adjust."

Richard smiled tightly. "She says I don't know how to relinquish control."

Elizabeth cocked her head. "I've known you a long time, Richard. I'd say that's a perceptive

observation."

His smile thinned to a frown. Before he could reply, a rap on the door intervened. Richard drew

open the barrier, finding a serving wench on the threshold, a platter of food balanced in her arms.

Beckoning her within, he watched as she curtsied to Lady Elizabeth. "Enjoy your dinner,"

Richard told the dark-haired woman and withdrew.

As she set the platter on a nearby table, the serving wench cast a sidelong glance at the door.

"Oh, M'Lady, he's terribly 'andsum. Surely t'ain't a sin like some folk are sayin'."

Confused, Elizabeth studied the girl. "I beg your pardon?"

"To 'ave a lover so young," the girl explained awkwardly. "We all seen 'ow he fussed over you in

the common area. Made me 'n the other servin' girl weak in the knees, it did, a courtly knight like

that."

Though she might have been offended, Elizabeth supressed a giggle. The idea of she and Richard

as lovers was absurd. Briefly, she wondered if Gwendolyn and Thomas would find the situation

as humorous as she did. "Sir Richard is merely a friend acting as my escort," she explained.

Judging from the girl's expression, Elizabeth's denial had only increased the belief she and Richard

were romantically involved. Realizing further contradiction was fruitless, Elizabeth abandoned

the topic and sat down to her meal.

+++++

Richard was on his fourth tankard of ale when the blonde-haired Noble approached him. Many of

the farmers had already departed, with others taking residence at the inn. The crowd in the

common area had thinned considerably leaving Richard, the young nobleman and three serfs to

linger among the tables. Judging from the conversation ensuing beside him, the serfs had ingested

more than their fair share of mead and were presently arguing over the correct method of shoeing

a horse. " . . . no, no, no!" the big-boned one was saying. "Ye got it all wrong, Doyle. T'aint like

that at all . . ." The words faded away into a slurred mish-mash which was too muted to

understand.

Shoving his plate aside, Richard leaned back in his stool, bracing his shoulders against the wall.

The combination of warm firelight, full belly and ale left him feeling sated and sleepy. He was just

considering retiring to the mound of bedding Lady Elizabeth had graciously offered, when he

heard the scrape of boot heels against the plank floor. Glancing up, he saw the blonde-haired man

hovering at the edge of the table.

"I'm Lord Selby Markem," the other introduced himself.

His tongue loosened by the ale, Richard's innate arrogance slipped through. "You're flattering

yourself if you think that means something to me."

Unflustered, the other appraised him coolly. "A cordial introduction would have been my guess,

but I see I've misjudged you for a gentleman."

Richard grinned lazily. Another time he might have taken offense, but the slight buzzing in his

head warned he wasn't in any shape to engage in conflict. Drowning his sorrows over Gwendolyn

in full-bodied ale had distinct disadvantages. Bored, he yawned. "I'm too tired to fence with you,

Markem. Was there something you wanted?"

Though it was obvious the older man took affront, he contained his temper with relative ease.

Pulling out a stool, he sat at the table. Realizing the other had no intention of departing, Richard

blinked, studying him briefly. Up close Markem appeared somewhere in his early thirties, his

chiseled features sharply planed and offset by light blue eyes. Any number of women would have

found Markem devastatingly handsome. Richard thought him irritating. "Won't you join me?" he

asked sarcastically.

"I was more interested in your Mistress," Markem returned bluntly.

For a moment Richard thought he'd heard incorrectly. When he didn't immediately reply, the

other continued:

"She's a vision to be certain, and surely needs more entertainment than you can provide. I'd pay

handsomely for an introduction."

"Damnation!" Richard's mouth twisted at the full impact of the other's words. With a savage

thrust of his arm, he flung his ale in Markem's face. Just as quickly he tossed the tankard aside

and unsheathed his sword. The blade cracked across the table splitting the surface wood with a

resounding echo. Startled into silence, the serfs, innkeeper and serving wenches gaped

openmouthed at the two men occupying the corner table.

Richard was out of his seat, the tip of his blade pressed against Markem's breastbone. "And you

have the audacity to inquire if I'm a gentleman?" he spat acidly, green eyes flashing brimstone. "I'd

gut you for the slander, but Lady Elizabeth would call me on a quarrelsome temper." Drawing

back, Richard lowered his sword. "Take your insinuations elsewhere Markem, before I forget my

manners and lob off your head."

His comely face contorting with rage, Markem stood. Turning on his heel, he strode from the

common area and disappeared down the hallway. Realizing he had more reasons to remain

indoors then before, Richard followed, hesitating at Elizabeth's doorway before knocking softly

then slipping inside.

+++++

Elizabeth glanced at the young man sprawled amid the tangle of blankets. Richard had dragged

the extra bedding to a corner of the room, then discarded his sword, cloak and jerkin in a pile on

the floor. His boots and outer belt had been dropped further away as though he had removed

those items first, then shed additional clothing as he walked toward the bedding. His tunic was

rumpled and partially unlaced, exposing the smooth skin of his chest. Supine on his back, he lay

with one arm tossed above his head, the other draped over his stomach.

"Richard." Bending over him, Elizabeth supressed a smile. His brown curls created a riotous fan

against the pillow, each tousled end tipped with red or gold where morning sunlight kindled the

highlights in his hair. "Richard," Elizabeth said again, louder this time, giving his shoulder a short

shake.

He came awake with a grunt, instinctively reaching for the sword near his side. Elizabeth smiled.

"Do restrain yourself from slaying me. I'm told the breakfast here isn't that appalling."

Exhaling noisily, Richard flopped back against the bedding. A groan slipped from his lips as he

dragged a hand across his face. "God, my head hurts."

"Hmm." Elizabeth arched a brow. "It serves you right if the smell of ale clinging to your clothing

has anything to do with it. Do wake up, Richard. If we leave shortly we should reach Lionel's

castle by nightfall."

Groaning, he rolled onto his side. "Very well." Convinced women were irritatingly, perpetually

cheerful in the morning, Richard dragged himself into the waking world. Having already attended

to her personal needs, Elizabeth moved to depart. "Lady Elizabeth--" Shoving the blankets aside,

Richard stood. "I'd rather you didn't go anywhere without me."

"And why is that?" The sight of him in stocking feet with unkempt hair and rumpled tunic,

standing amid the discarded bedding was oddly comical. Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from

laughing aloud.

Unaware she found his state of disarray so amusing, Richard pulled his tunic over his head.

"There's a loathsome guttersnipe lodging here who'd like to become better acquainted with you."

Turning, he sloshed water into a nearby washbowl. "We had a . . . disagreement . . . last night,

and I'd rather you didn't go wandering alone."

"Richard you weren't involved in a fight, were you?" Elizabeth queried sharply, stalking to his

side. But he was already bent over the washbowl, dousing his face and neck with water. Pressing

her lips together, Elizabeth stared at his back. She'd seen him grow up, and thus was well

acquainted with the limits of his reckless temper. "Richard--"

"I was the perfect gentleman," he inserted quickly. Claiming a folded cloth from the washstand,

he toweled it over his face and neck. His lips curled in the wide impish grin she knew so well.

"After I threatened his life."

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "I should have brought Cedric," she mumbled.

Later, her back turned, she patiently waited for him to change clothes. By now the servants

would have eaten and the horses would be harnessed. When he took her arm announcing he was

ready to depart, she glanced aside. The overly confident knight she knew so well had replaced the

scruffy-looking waif of moments before. Rich hues of navy, jet and walnut blended in his leather

jerkin, offsetting his beige tunic and black breeches. Elizabeth felt almost docile by comparison,

attired in a flowing gown of cranberry and cream.

Taking her arm, Richard stepped from the room and nearly collided with Selby Markem who was

exiting the hall.

The older man stopped short, a skewing glance raking over Elizabeth before shifting to Richard.

"T'were I you, I'd be a trifle more discreet about my sleeping arrangements," he commented

snidely. When he turned away Richard lunged forward, but Elizabeth snagged his arm.

"Leave it be, Richard. We'll be departing shortly and won't see him again. We both know your

intentions are honorable. You've nothing to prove."

Though not entirely convinced, Richard reluctantly conceded. Escorting Lady Elizabeth to the

common area, he motioned the serving wench to bring breakfast. When the meal was finished,

they departed, glad to put the inn and its gossipy inhabitants behind them.

A fresh blanket of snow had fallen overnight, slowing travel considerably. The carriage moved

cumbersomely over the obstructed roadway, sloughing through occasional drifts and skirting

downed tree limbs. A concealed rut in the ground caused a delay when the rear wheel became

embedded and would not roll free without additional leverage. Disembarking, Richard knelt

beside it, applying his knife to a thin underlayer of ice, chipping away at the fringe. Once cleared,

he moved to the head of the carriage, forcibly pulling on the horses' reins, while the servants

packed leaves and twigs beneath the wheel's smooth rim.

Richard's breath plumed in the air, coaxed by the same icy wind that lashed the scattered curls at

his neck. Beneath the stiff leather of his black gloves his fingers grew cold and unresponsive as

minute slipped into lengthening minute and still the wheel would not budge. Irritated, he tugged

free his cloak and stalked to the rear of the carriage, where he rammed it beneath the wheel.

"Now!" he ordered the servants. As they pulled the horses, he added his own strength to the

wheel, gripping the rim and forcing it forward. When it came free with an unexpected lurch, he

stumbled, carried by the momentum, and dropped to his knees. Cursing softly, he slapped snow

from his breeches then vigorously shook it from his rumpled cloak.

"I hope you have another," Elizabeth said aside when he returned to the carriage. The wind had

heightened the color in his cheeks, imbuing his green eyes with an edge like cut glass. Tossing a

blanket to him, Elizabeth watched with quiet amusement as he shook clinging snowflakes from his

long hair. Damp from the powdery lace still drifting from the heavens, his hair had lost its natural

curl and hung lankly against his face.

Absently, Richard scraped the bangs from his eyes. "Next time your cousin has a gala, suggest he

hold it during the summer."

"My husband's cousin," Elizabeth corrected, but she smiled nonetheless. "I hope you're better

disposed when you meet Lionel. I'd hate for him to gain the wrong impression of you."

Puzzled, Richard raised his head.

Elizabeth's lips curled enchantingly. "He might mistake you for a quarrelsome man given to

arrogance." Tilting her head, she smiled disarmingly. "And that would be a dreadful mistake, for

we all know there's nothing hidden about your vanity."

Richard's grin was barbed. "You are too kind, Lady Elizabeth."

Laughing, she reached across the carriage and gripped his wrist. "And you are much too staid.

Pray soften your demeanor before we reach Lothdoren Castle. There will be plenty of stiff-lipped

protocol from all the Nobles twittering around Lionel. I don't need uppercrust superiority from

my escort."

Before Richard could answer, one of Rothrock's servants appeared at the door. Glancing

hesitantly inside, he passed Richard his knife. "You dropped this, My Lord."

"Thank you." Accepting the blade, Richard returned it to his belt sheath.

When the servant had departed and the carriage started moving again, Elizabeth nodded to his

knife. "That's a rather striking weapon," she commented mildly.

Richard's eyes dipped to the blade sheathed against his hip. The hilt was intricately designed,

cross-braided with gold wire, inset with slivers of emerald and smoked topaz. Beneath the

filigree-encrusted scabbard, the thick blade was mirror-white. "A gift from Gwendolyn," Richard

replied stiffly, his mood soured by thoughts of his wife.

Abruptly sullen he glanced out the window. Briefly he wondered how Gwendolyn fared, and

whether or not she gave him any thought, as day slipped into day and the length of their

separation grew. Sensing his mood, Elizabeth fell silent. Swaying side-to-side, the carriage

continued its trek toward Lothdoren Castle, the remainder of the journey proving uneventful.

By the time they arrived at Lord Rothrock's estate night unfolded against the sky, chasing tepid

sunlight from the heavens and supplanting it with billowing cords of black. Richard and Elizabeth

were escorted indoors where bright firelight and rug-warmed floors made the night seem harsher

still. After a brief delay, Lionel Rothrock greeted them in the solar.

A tall, bearded man with black hair, he looked much like John Mullens from a distance. At first

glance, Richard experienced an unexpected twinge of anxiety. Though he knew his father-in-law

would be in attendance at the castle, he hadn't expected to encounter him so soon. Disquiet gave

way to relief as the man approached and Richard realized he was not the Baron.

"Dearest Elizabeth." Ignoring Richard, Rothrock claimed Elizabeth's hand. His smile was toothy,

his gaze much too encompassing--flitting over her body with sly appraisal. Bowing, he kissed her

fingers. "I'm grateful you've come to my humble festivities at long last."

Annoyed by his fawning, Richard cleared his throat.

Rothrock's eyes slewed to the side and Elizabeth smiled politely. "Lionel, may I introduce my

escort--Sir Richard Grey."

Straightening to his full height, Rothrock stared flatly. The solicitous flattery left his eyes,

replaced by brittle disdain. "I didn't realize you were bringing a guest," he said aside to Elizabeth.

Lips quirking in a pointed smile, he inclined his head. "You increase our number to unlucky

thirteen, Richard. Hopefully your presence will not prove ill-fated."

Before Richard could speak, Elizabeth touched his arm, slipping her hand companionably into the

crook of his elbow. "Have all the other guests arrived then, Lionel?" she asked brightly.

Though his mouth tightened at the familiarity she showed Richard, Lionel kept his tone cordial.

"You are the last, my dear. Lord Markem arrived just hours before."

"Selby Markem?" Richard asked, disbelieving.

Rothrock's gaze was dismissive and sharp. "You know him then?"

Scowling, Richard laid his hand over Elizabeth's fingers. "Of a sort. We met recently." A

sideways glance at Lady Leland informed him she wearied of the conversation. Richard could feel

her tension, generated no doubt, from the way Rothrock kept looking at her when he thought

himself unobserved. "Perhaps you could have a servant show Lady Elizabeth her chambers?" he

suggested. "We've been traveling since morning. I'm sure she'd like to rest."

"Of course," Rothrock agreed solicitously, but there was annoyance in his eyes that Richard was

bold enough to direct him. Summoning a servant, Sir Lionel instructed that Elizabeth and Richard

be shown separate quarters.

Once he knew Lady Elizabeth needs were addressed, Richard followed the chamberlain to his

rooms. As the servant unburdened his travel bag, he stepped to the window, glancing over the

shadow-draped courtyard below. "I didn't see any of the other guests," he observed.

"There's a late dinner in the Great Hall, My Lord. You'll find a few of Lord Rothrock's guests

gathered there, though I understand Lady Cort has taken to her rooms with a headache, and Sir

Tobias is an early sleeper."

Richard inclined his head. This was a different servant than the two who had escorted he and

Lady Elizabeth via carriage. There was a manner of courtly decorum about the silver-haired

chamberlain, and Richard didn't doubt he ran the castle as effectively and regally as a palace.

"Sir Tobias?" Richard asked.

"Sir Tobias Farrel," the older man elaborated. Frowning at the soiled, rumpled ball of Richard's

cloak, he draped it over his arm, silently decreeing it warranted proper laundering. "Sir Tobias

has been a friend of Lord Rothrock for many years. I've never known him to miss a Midwinter

Gathering."

"And Lady Cort?" Richard persisted.

"Lady Helena is a widow. Sir Tobias' is the half brother of her dead husband. Though her estates

are further north, they always journey together." Pausing, he glanced at Richard, a slight frown

on his lips. "There's nothing untoward between them, understand."

Richard cocked a brow, uncertain why the information was volunteered.

Though he tried to mask the disapproval in his eyes, the chamberlain's gaze flicked over Richard

before shifting back to his task. Placing Richard's clothing in the wardrobe closet, he kept his

back carefully turned. "It was good of you to escort Lady Elizabeth, especially since the journey

required a stay overnight." Though his tone was neutral, a sliver of implication lingered in the

words.

Annoyed, Richard pressed his lips together. "Yes. My wife thought so too."

Startled, the servant raised his head. "My Lord?"

"I suggest you remember your place," Richard said sharply. "I've crossed blades with men for

less."

Swallowing hard, the chamberlain bowed hastily and retreated from the room. Smiling tightly,

Richard unbuckled his sword belt, depositing the weapon, along with the knife Gwendolyn had

given him on a low table. Though there was an overabundance of cutting observations at

Lothdoren castle, Richard reasoned he could consume a simple dinner without engaging in

swordplay. Proceeding downstairs, he followed a series of short doorways to the outer chamber

of the Great Hall. Before he could enter, a familiar voice drew him up short.

"I knew there was a reason I declined dinner. The sight of you would induce regurgitation with

little effort."

Like a flash of lightning in the summer sky, Richard felt a quicksilver bolt of anger ricochet

through his body. Tamping down his instinctive antagonism, he swallowed his pride and turned.

For Gwendolyn's sake he had vowed to make peace with this man. "Baron Mullens," he greeted

evenly.

His father-in-law stood just inside the arched entrance of the chamber, his shoulder propped

casually against the wall. As though happening on something distinctly repugnant, his gaze

flicked over Richard and his lips stretched in grim satisfaction. "So now you're playing gallant--

acting as escort to Lady Elizabeth." Chuckling, Mullens pushed away from the wall and strode

casually toward the center of the room. "Interesting thing, Richard. Lord Markem arrived a few

hours before you with some very prickly gossip about a young, short-tempered knight and the

Mistress of Leland Castle."

"You've lost what little intelligence you had if you believed him," Richard snapped acidly.

Immediately he berated himself for the slip. There was something about Mullens that inflamed his

natural belligerence. Exhaling raggedly, he tried to dispel his anger. "Gwendolyn is well, but

regrets she doesn't see you very often. You've not been to Covington Cross since our wedding."

"And you find that surprising? Don't martyr yourself with restraint, boy--if it weren't for King

Edward's decree, I'd have you on the dueling field."

Too weary for subtlety, Richard abandoned his efforts of politeness. "Then you'll pardon my

bluntness, Baron Mullens--for a man so tangled in hate he doesn't know the difference between

past and present, you're amazingly transparent. Gwendolyn thinks you snub us because of me--"

"She's right--"

"--and my resemblance to Simon Canter."

Though he hadn't truly believed the story Gwendolyn told him, Richard realized he'd struck a

nerve. The look on Mullens' face was one of appalled shock. Recovering quickly, the Baron

lurched forward, his expression changing from distress to blatant outrage. "Listen to me, you

conniving little dervish." Bunching his fingers tightly in Richard's jerkin, he yanked the younger

man forward. "--whatever she's told you, it's tripe. Repeat a word of that drivel and you'll rue the

day your tongue grew so bold."

Angrily, Richard stiff-armed him aside. "Keep your hands off me."

"When you keep yours off my daughter," Mullens returned just as sharply.

"She's my wife. She shares my bed willingly enough."

Mullens sneered. "On orders from the King, you conceited popinjay."

Though the insult was nothing new, Richard's lips thinned in a dangerous line. He'd hoped to

make peace with this man for Gwendolyn's sake, but something inside abruptly snapped, causing a

mercurial burst of rage. Incensed, Richard jabbed his finger against Mullens' chest. "Do not

judge all marriages by your own miserable failing, Baron Mullens. Perhaps if you'd been man

enough to satisfy your wife, she needn't have looked elsewhere."

The moment he'd uttered the words, Richard knew he'd gone too far. The black rapture of

unreasonable rage contorted Mullens' face. Before Richard could recoil, he drove his fist across

the younger man's jaw, viciously snapping his head to the side. "Damn your tongue, you

whey-faced bastard--"

Unprepared for the blow, Richard staggered backward. He could taste blood in his mouth. With

a savage glance, he dragged the back of one hand across his lips, mopping up the sticky residue.

"Bastard, is it?" Seething, he glanced a blow off Mullens cheek, them grappled him back against

the wall. The sound of pounding feet echoed hollowly in his ears, followed by the insistent

pressure of hands on his shoulders.

"Here, here--let him go," a voice commanded bluntly. Abruptly, Richard became aware of others

in the room. A blonde-haired man and an older gentleman struggled to pull him from Mullens.

The blonde wrenched on his arms, while the older man locked a vise-grip around his neck.

Coming to his senses, Richard released his hold and quickly stepped backward, his chest heaving.

Immediately the older man released him, though the younger kept his arms restrained.

"Damn you, boy," Mullens spat. "I'll take your head off one of these days."

"Not before I disembowel you."

"Here, enough of that." The man holding Richard gave him a rough shake. Snarling under his

breath, Mullens shoved past them and stalked from the room.

Richard took stock of his intercessors. The older was of medium height, powerfully built, with

silver-gray hair and a square-jawed face. His lips were thick, slightly protruding; his coppery

complexion like granules of rough sand. By contrast the younger man was tall and slender, with

short dark blonde hair, a precisely trimmed beard and navy-blue eyes. At one time he may have

been considered strikingly handsome, but misfortune had since scored the left side of his face with

a series of deep, jagged scars. Purplish lines criss-crossed his cheek and nose, fading to a lighter

smattering of web-like strings around his eye and brow. At first glance, the disfigurement was

ghastly.

"From the Crusades," the younger man explained when he caught Richard staring. "A gift from

our Saracen friends." Smiling to show he wasn't offended, he offered his hand. "I'm Sir Lucian

Carrister, and this--" he inclined his head to the older man, "--is Lord Exton of Summerford Hall."

Flushing, Richard shook the pro-offered hand, then did the same with Lord Exton. "Richard Grey

of Covington Cross," he introduced himself. Chagrined by his earlier behavior, he glanced back

to Carrister. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to appear rude."

Amused, Carrister chuckled. "Why do I get the feeling you're not referring to Baron Mullens?"

Richard wet his lips. "The Baron and I have an understanding that surpasses modest threats.

When I'm rude to him he deserves it. You, on the other hand--"

Carrister waived aside his concern. "I've lived with this disfigurement for the last four years, Sir

Richard. Staring is the least of it."

Still uncomfortable, Richard shifted awkwardly. Exton saved him from further embarrassment by

suggesting the Great Hall was better suited to discussion. A large room, dwarfing even the

chamber at Covington Cross, Lothdoren's Hall was presently draped with fresh winter greens,

holly berries and garlands of ribbon-laced pinecones. Though there was no mistress at Lothdoren,

someone had invested painstaking effort to ensure the surroundings were as visual as they were

inviting.

As promised, the servants had prepared a late dinner for any Noble inclined to partake of an

evening repast. Platters of cold mutton and foul complimented bowls of fruit, wafers and cheeses.

A tantalizing variety of rolled pastries and breads occupied sugar-trimmed baskets, and trays lined

with dried rosemary. In the hall, Richard was introduced to Lady Exton and Lord Evan

Tarrington. The former, like her husband, was silver-haired and squat; the latter long-limbed with

a hatchet-shaped face and mud-colored eyes. Though he bore the title of Lord, he was unusually

young, not much older than Armus.

"I believe I know your father," Lord Tarrington intoned when Richard had taken a seat at the

table. "Sir Thomas Grey and I have had occasion to share business dealings." Managing a smile,

he inclined his head. "An honorable man."

"Thank you." Though Tarrington's smile was solicitous, Richard had the feeling he swam among

piranhas. Even Lady Exton, who demurely toyed with a piece of fruit, regarded him like a

specimen for dissection.

"You arrived late, I take it?" she inquired, arching a delicately shaped brow.

Richard swallowed a mouthful of wine. Claiming a piece of gamebird, he tried to appear

indifferent. "Yes. We experienced a minor delay when our carriage foundered due to weather."

Exton chewed around a mouthful of bread. "We?"

"I am came with Lady Elizabeth Leland," Richard said evenly.

Tarrington blew air through his teeth. "Lord Rothrock's . . ." hesitating, he groped for the

appropriate word, " . . . *cousin*?" The emphasis couldn't have been any baser.

Richard blanched. Recovering quickly, he moved as though to rise from his seat. Sensing the irate

surge of his unstable temper, Carrister--seated beside him--placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"I believe Lord Rothrock is the cousin of Lady Leland's deceased husband," he told Tarrington

neutrally.

Lady Exton's smile was acidic. "Which one--husband, I mean? She's buried three."

Richard decided he wanted to strangle her.

Maintaining a hold on Richard's arm, Lucian Carrister leaned toward Lady Exton, then pitched his

voice low as though sharing a confidence. "I wouldn't say such things around Lady Leland if I

were you. I understand she has a temper."

"Hmph!" Raising her chin, Lady Exton looked down the long hook of her nose. "Much like this

young man, if Selby Markem is to be believed." Coal-black eyes shifted to Richard, decadent

color somehow obscene for the white powder and excessive rouge contrasting her face. "A man

with a vile streak of rage and an even baser craving for . . . *mature* . . . women."

"You'd do well not to listen to gossip, Lady Exton," Richard snapped. He could barely contain

himself now, and knew that sooner or later his tongue would get the best of him. "It's rarely

anything but fanciful boasts and lies."

"Indeed," the white-haired matron returned. Rising, she motioned to her husband. "Come,

Warren--present company and conversation lacks for sufficient breeding."

Richard rolled his eyes as the two left the room. A moment later, Tarrington followed.

"Exton really isn't a bad sort," Carrister told him when they were alone. "Granted his wife

warrants improvement, but I fought beside him in the Crusades and vouch he's honorable." A grin

touched his lips making the scars on his face appear deeper still. "A bit hen-pecked, as most

married men are, but honorable nonetheless."

"I wouldn't stand for such a woman as wife," Richard retorted, chewing around a mouthful of

pheasant.

Claiming his wine goblet, Carrister chuckled. "You're young yet, my friend. You've no idea who

you'd stand for a wife."

"That's not true." Richard cast him a sideways glance. "I've been married four months, and I can

tell you my wife is no shrew." Pausing, he considered, a fond smile touching his lips as he

thought of Gwen in one of her defiant moods. "Well . . . most of the time anyway."

Though Carrister grinned there was a measure of surprise in his eyes. "I wouldn't have thought

you wed, as young as you are. Childhood sweetheart?"

Richard laughed. "Childhood thorn is more like. She's Baron Mullens daughter."

"Mullens?" There was true shock in Carrister's voice now. Drawing back, he looked at Richard

anew. "You're a study in revelation, my friend. So the man you were set on disemboweling just

moments ago, is actually your father-in-law."

Richard reached for more wine. Though the meal was good, drink was better. Coupled with

Lucian Carrister's friendliness, he could feel it loosening his tongue. Perhaps it was nothing more

than the repeated barbs thrown his way lately, but Carrister's companionship was inherently

welcome. "I don't make a habit of discussing it," Richard admitted, "but, yes, he's my

father-in-law." Releasing a tired sigh, he laced a hand through his long hair, raking the bangs

straight back from his brow. "Enough about me. How do you know Lord Rothrock?" he asked

evenly.

Carrister shrugged. "Mostly through Lord Exton. We met over the summer, when Exton and I

were traveling together. Admittedly, I don't know many of the guests in attendance, though I had

met Selby Markem before."

"Lucky you," Richard chuckled.

It set a bond of sorts and the two finished the night, picking through cold pheasant and cheese,

accompanied by diminishing flagons of wine. Richard couldn't recall when he finally went to bed,

but his sleep grew troubled almost immediately with dreams of his absent wife. Somewhere near

dawn he awoke in a cold sweat, heart pounding, mouth dry, unable to recall what plagued him.

"A nightmare," he whispered aloud, but the images were like mist, slipping through his fingers,

insubstantial and fleeting.

Lady Elizabeth joined him for breakfast in the solar, where he met the last of the guests, Baron

and Lady Wicklow, Lady Helena Cort and her escort, Sir Tobias Farrel. The Wicklows were

congenial; Lady Cort sophisticated and elegant; Sir Tobias overly talkative while somehow

endearing.

"A better group then those I encountered last night," Richard whispered aside to Lady Elizabeth,

who sat next to him at a small table. Morning sunlight streamed through a trio of narrow

windows, bathing the table in a golden haze. The infusion of color heightened the amused

glimmer in Lady Elizabeth's eyes. Smiling warmly, she squeezed Richard's hand.

"Lady Wicklow is Lady Exton's sister," she supplied with marked humor. Richard's bewildered

expression brought laughter to her lips. Tilting her head, she continued: "As different as night

and day, and with no more stomach for one another than a swan for a crow." Pausing, Elizabeth

frowned. "Sometimes I think Lionel arranges these galas simply as a means to instigate strife

among his guests."

Richard shrugged nonchalantly, using a short-bladed knife to trim a wedge of bread from the heel

on his plate. "Lord Tarrington seemed friendly enough with the Extons. I take it not everyone

has a grievance, although it doesn't require a great stretch of the imagination to envision Rothrock

in the role of agitator."

Picking delicately at a piece of lavender-laced pastry, Elizabeth paused. Small bits of sugarcoated

crust flaked off in her hand. Absently, she dusted her fingers together, sending a tiny shower of

crumbs to her plate. "Tarrington plays both sides of the fence," she informed him. "He's young

and well-titled, but unsated in his quest for power. Rumor has linked him with both Adina

Wicklow and Helena Cort as mistresses. If he fawns over Beatrice Exton, it's only because he

believes the association might gain him something."

Richard balked. "Certainly not the bedchamber, I hope." His mouth twisted in a grimace of

distaste as he thought of the stuffy white-faced matron who'd snubbed him the previous eve.

"She's old enough to be his . . . *ancestor*."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Richard, must everything come down to what happens in bed? The

Extons are titled and wealthy. Remaining in their favor ranks Tarrington high in the eyes of his

peers."

"And Lady Wicklow?" Richard used the edge of his knife to pass a piece of salted pork to his

mouth. "If she's Tarrington's Mistress, I would think Beatrice Exton would snub him more

dramatically then she did me."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Who can say? Maybe she uses Tarrington as a lackey--sending him to her

sister's arms, where Adina might reveal secrets in the heat of passion. Beatrice Exton is no fool,

Richard. If she allows Tarrington at her table, he's likely a lap dog."

Amused, Richard chuckled softly. "And women accuse men of being heartless."

"We are simply gifted at strategy," Elizabeth supplied. Lowering her voice, she leaned closer.

"There is Lady Cort, as well, who is rumored to be enraptured of Sir Tobias Farrel."

"Her deceased husband's half brother," Richard inserted quickly.

Drawing back, Elizabeth glanced at him sharply. "How did you know?"

Richard smiled. "One night in this castle, My Lady, and it's damn near impossible not to know

everyone else's business. You're lucky my father didn't come--his sense of humor is not as

tolerant as mine."

"I'll remember that," Elizabeth said dryly.

Richard glanced back to his plate, working his knife through the butt of salted pork. "If Lady

Cort is infatuated with her brother-in-law, what's she doing as Tarrington's Mistress?"

"These are just rumors, Richard," Elizabeth cautioned. "I'm only telling you, because you'll be

conversing with these people for the next few days, and I'd hate for you to say something

indiscreet."

Richard snorted. "Indiscreet--wth this group? I don't believe that's possible."

Smiling, Elizabeth watched as the sunlight played on his long hair, threading the curling tresses

with a myriad of highlights. It suddenly occurred to her that she enjoyed this time with Richard--

not just now, but over the last few days as well. She felt somehow closer to him for their shared

association, even if the remaining guests made the gala a burden to endure. Watching him work

his knife, she realized belatedly it was not the one Gwendolyn had given him. "Where is your

knife, Richard? The one from your wife?"

Uncomfortable, he paused. "I left it in my chambers," he muttered. Exhaling, he glanced aside,

green eyes touched with gold in the prismatic glint of the sun. Briefly, he considered telling her of

last night's encounter with John Mullens--she would likely hear of it anyway. The knife reminded

him of Gwendolyn, and that reminded him of his failure. He'd come to make peace with the man,

and instead he'd only incited him to further wrath. Deciding to avoid the subject altogether, he

steered Lady Elizabeth back on the track of their original conversation. "What of Lucian

Carrister? Do you know anything of him?"

Realizing she'd just been manipulated, but respecting his privacy, Elizabeth appeared thoughtful.

Idly, she fingered the pewter foot of her wine goblet. "I know very little--just that he fought in

the Crusades. Lionel mentioned him in his invitation, but it was a minor reference. I did hear one

of the servants remark he's reputed to have holdings near Derry."

Surprised, Richard forgot his reluctance over Mullens. "Derry? Gwendolyn's aunt resides there.

I wonder if he knows her."

"Is that good or bad?"

Richard smiled tightly. "Definitely bad. Edrea is as sour as they come." Pausing, he chewed on a

piece of bread. "With the possible exception of Lady Exton."

Feigning disapproval, Elizabeth shook her head. "You are truly wicked, Richard Grey." She

kissed him on the cheek. "But I happen to agree with you. Let's hope our stay passes quickly."

+++++

It did not pass quickly enough for Richard. Frowning, he kept an arrow knocked to the bow

Rothrock had supplied as he trudged through the snow-draped woods, Sir Tobias Farrel at his

side. Richard's breath plumed in the air, prompted by a cold wind that whistled beneath his collar

and rattled the limbs of stark, leaf-stripped trees overhead. In the distance he could hear the

muted baying of hounds as the dogs pursued their quarry deeper into the woods. Though Richard

generally enjoyed hunting, flushing a hart from a dense thicket on a cold, winter day did not rank

as his favorite pastime. Worse, the man at his side seemed intent on providing a thorough

discourse on every one of Rothrock's tainted guests. He was beginning to regret the fact he'd let

Selby Markem goad him into the hunting party.

"Lord Rothrock doesn't *require* his guests to participate," Markem had told him, as the other

Nobles prepared to depart, "But it provides the opportunity to become better acquainted while

enjoying sport." His glance grew measuring. "Of course, if you haven't the skill or good

graces--"

"I've plenty of both," Richard had snapped, though the latter was in dangerously short supply.

Now hours later, he trudged through the woods listening to Farrel's continuing dialogue.

" . . . and Markem owes a bundle of money to Lionel Rothrock," Tobias was saying, his breath

growing short with the effort of speech. Though he was young, just past thirty, excessive weight

punished him with the marked slowness of an aged man. Unconsciously, Richard slowed his

pace. Farrel puffed out his cheeks, stopping to draw a jagged breath. "Gambling debts, I'm told,

though Markem is like to decree it differently."

Halting, Richard glanced over his shoulder. The color on Farrel's face was high, almost pink.

Contrasted against his curling blonde hair he looked almost cherubic, his blue eyes set like stones

amid womanly soft skin. On a thinner man, his ivory complexion might have appeared ethereal,

but added pounds made his flesh seem pasty. "Have you known Markem long?" Richard asked,

mainly as a means to distract himself from the cold.

"Barely a year." Snuffling, Tobias rifled a finger beneath his nose. "I'm told he was friends with

the Extons, who provided his introduction to Rothrock. He's gambled with Tarrington to be sure

and hunted with Lucian Carrister."

"What of Carrister?" Richard asked. "I'm informed he has estates near Derry."

"Bridgeport, I was told." With a grunt of effort, Farrel started walking again. Richard fell in

comfortably at his side, matching his long-legged stride to the other's shorter pace. "He's dined

with my sister-in-law--that would be Lady Cort--and was a regular in London when the Wicklows

were there. Rumor says he's a highly respected Crusader awarded his lands by the King. Those

scars on his face didn't come cheaply."

"And he met Lord Rothrock through the Extons?" Richard persisted. Overhead the sky grayed

with a rag-tag infusion of snow-bloated clouds. Already powdery flakes drifted from the heavens,

melting in the long strands of Richard's hair. The sting of wind against his face made him tilt his

chin close to his chest as he turned to glance at Farrel.

"So they say," the heavier man agreed. Scrunching his lips together, he looked disapprovingly at

the sky. "Damn unsightly day to be flushing hart. Hopefully Lionel will come to his senses and

call this cursed hunt off before we all catch our death of cold."

"He's a difficult man, isn't he?" Richard asked. "--Lionel, I mean."

Tobias snorted. "You'd have me speak ill of my host, boy? The man's a saint. Unless you happen

to be Selby Markem who owes him debt money, or Lord Exton who would receive greater tithes

of grain from the village were it not for Rothrock's estate, or even Evan Tarrington who views

him a rival for Lady Cort's hand."

Richard canted his head to the side. "I thought your sister-in-law's affection was otherwise

engaged."

"With me?" Tobias chuckled. "You're listening to gossip, Sir Richard. Look at me. Am I the

kind of man unattached women fawn over?" Sadly, he shook his head. "No, it's knights like you

who draw a Lady's eyes--young, comely and tall. I might have been considered handsome at one

time, but that was before this." Lowering his hands, he gripped his ample waist, shaking his

stomach so his flesh jiggled beneath his tunic. "If I pine for Helena, I do it in private."

Uncomfortable with the other's low opinion of his worth, Richard wet his lips. Faltering, he

attempted to steer clear of the awkward conversation. "But I thought Lord Rothrock was

enamored of . . ." His voice trailed into silence as he struggled to voice the unspeakable.

"Your companion for this gala?" Tobias ventured, doing him the courtesy of avoiding her name.

Richard nodded.

"There's no doubt he fancies her--greatly, I would propose--but that doesn't stop him from

looking elsewhere as well."

Richard pressed his lips together. "A man worth emulating," he said scathingly. " 'Tis no wonder

he and John Mullens are friends."

"Ho!" The loud cry broke from the distance, drawing Richard and Farrel to an immediate halt.

Glancing toward the horizon, Richard glimpsed Lord Exton at the edge of the tree line. The older

man waved his arm in the air then cupped both hands around his mouth. "Sir Carrister's felled the

hart. Come lads, lend a hand. We'll dine on fresh meat tonight!"

Richard smiled sharply, acknowledging with a wave. "I do hope he's referring to the venison," he

muttered to Farrel.

+++++

Richard took Lady Elizabeth's hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. "You look exquisite,"

he said staring down on her. "If your goal is to dissuade Rothrock's attentions, I don't think

you're dressed appropriately."

Pleased by his flattery, Elizabeth raised her chin. "So you'd have me dress like a dairy maid? I

wouldn't give Lionel the satisfaction of forcing me to such trouble."

Feeling oddly protective of her, Richard leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead.

When he drew back he was smiling. "My dear Lady Elizabeth, even in rags you would not look

like a dairy maid." Closing his fingers over hers, he considered her gown--royal blue, trimmed

with embroidered appliques of lavender and plum, the waist cinched tightly and belted by a soft

violet sash. Flowing loosely to her hips, her long hair was held back from her shoulders, pinned

by gem-encrusted combs. An amethyst medallion encircled the slender column of her neck,

exposed by the plunging cut of her gown.

By contrast Richard felt underdressed in a long-sleeved, mud-colored jerkin and white tunic--

boots and breeches hued to match the outer garment. Open to the waist with cut-away sleeves,

the leather jerkin bore bands of charcoal piping around the wrist guards, belt, and outer edge.

"You are somewhat appealing yourself," Elizabeth reciprocated. The compliment was by no

means lacking. While she had always considered him handsome, it wasn't until now that she

realized Richard was striking in more ways than one. His appearance transcended the comeliness

of his features, encompassing both his flawless poise and an unmistakable air of utter confidence.

He winked mischievously. "Then let's see if we can't inspire some gossip." His smile was

infectious--the dazzling grin that had likely reduced countless maidens to simpering fools over the

years. Only slightly less affected, Elizabeth allowed him to escort her to the Great Hall, where

Lionel Rothrock and his guests gathered for dinner. As they drew near, Richard stiffened, hearing

the low rumble of Baron Mullens' voice.

Sensing his misgiving, Elizabeth tugged his sleeve. "If you really wish to speak with him

privately, he strolls the southern battlement every night after evening prayer. It's his habit

whenever he visits Lothdoren."

"I'll keep that in mind," Richard said tightly, but never broke his stride. In the Great Hall Lionel

Rothrock greeted him and Lady Elizabeth. Once again, Richard was struck by the similarity of

appearance between the Master of Lothdoren and John Mullens. The resemblance was

distressingly uncanny.

"Dearest Elizabeth." Rothrock claimed her fingers, lingering theatrically over the kiss he

bestowed on her hand. "Your beauty outshines the very stars in the heavens and graces my home

with unequaled loveliness."

Though Richard frowned, Elizabeth's expression remained neutral. "Why, Lord Rothrock, you

confer too high an adoration, and will surely offend your other guests. There are many here more

comely than I."

"Yes," John Mullens agreed, appearing suddenly at her shoulder. His lips twisted

contemptuously. "Like that vanity-puffed peacock at your side."

Determined not to raise his voice, Richard kept his expression neutral. "I'd return the compliment

Baron Mullens, but I lack words to express my true sentiment."

Realizing Richard initiated a dangerous game of subtlety likely to escalate into something ugly,

Elizabeth intervened. "This is all very charming, but I'd like to sit down. Would you escort me to

the table please, Richard?" It irritated her that while he wished to make peace with his

father-in-law, he stubbornly persisted in provoking him.

"Allow me," Lionel insisted, claiming her hand. Before protest could be made, he led her into the

throng of guests. Though his smile was elegant and genteel, the glint in his eyes was

unmistakably smug.

Scowling, Richard moved to Mullens' side. Lowering his voice, he strove for patience. "I'd like to

speak with you at length, Baron Mullens. For Gwendolyn's sake--"

"My daughter made her choice," Mullens interrupted sharply, his words like double-edged knives.

"Now she must live with it."

As he moved away, Baron Wicklow appeared at Richard's shoulder. "You seem disturbed, young

man. I hope John Mullens isn't showing his fangs again."

Surprised by the older man's appearance, Richard gave a short jerk. Recovering quickly, he

offered a fleeting smile. "We have history between us. I'm afraid it hasn't yet healed."

"Ah." Wicklow nodded his head in sage agreement. "The infamous Grey/Mullens feud." Placing

his hand on Richard's shoulder he steered him into the crowd. "There's enough undercurrents in

this room to kindle a fire, my lad. Yours isn't the only family with history."

Surprised that Wicklow would tell tales on others, Richard remained silent. A tall man, with

autocratic bearing and immaculately trimmed auburn hair, Wicklow appeared a few years younger

than Sir Thomas. Though Richard knew his name, and that he was highly respected in the shire,

he knew little else about him. Claiming a goblet of wine from a passing servant, Richard studied

his companion with keen interest.

Chuckling softly, Wicklow motioned to the other guests. A few milled around the dinner table,

idly picking at platters of wafers and cheese. Lucian Carrister conversed with Evan Tarrington

and Lady Exton, while Helena Cort demurely fended off the persistent advances of Selby

Markem. As Richard watched, Sir Tobias Farrel went to his sister-in-law's aide.

"They're all rather pitiful, wouldn't you say?" Wicklow asked softly, almost sadly. "Is this what

Nobility has come to--this charade of false civility, underscored by malicious loathing?"

Taken aback, Richard balked. "That's a rather jaded observation, My Lord."

"From a man who's witnessed far too much injustice disguised as gentility." With a sudden start,

Wicklow uttered a short laugh. "My, but I am rather bleak company, aren't I? Tell me, Sir

Richard--what do you think of our host?"

Richard's eyes swept across the room to Rothrock. Though he'd escorted Elizabeth to the table

as she'd requested, he hovered at her side. There was something about his elegant fa‡ade that

made Richard's stomach turn--as though the gracious fawning masked a lecherous beast within.

Though he really didn't care to partake in the sniping rampant at Lothdoren, Richard reacted

instinctively. "I think he's an utterly repellant creature," he said bluntly.

With a laugh, Wicklow clapped him on the back. "No one will ever fault you for lack of honesty,"

he returned. "Come my young friend--let's get something to eat."

The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully, though Richard made it a point to claim Lady

Elizabeth's hand and keep her at his side throughout the night. The hour grew late when the

guests finally retired, bemoaning an excess of food and wine. Richard escorted Lady Elizabeth to

her bedchamber where he paused outside the door. Already most of the wall torches had been

dimmed, veiling the corridor in soft curtains of velvety shadow. "Was Rothrock untoward with

you tonight, My Lady?" Richard asked.

Elizabeth appeared vaguely amused. "Only annoying," she replied, "--veiling innuendo in courtly

words. It was nothing I couldn't handle, Richard, though I think your presence has collared his

baser advances." Smiling, she slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him. "I couldn't ask

for a braver protector." Raising both hands, she gripped his face and kissed him on the cheek.

"Or a more handsome one. Goodnight, Richard."

As she moved into her room Richard turned and departed, grinning foolishly. When he'd

disappeared down the hallway, a silhouette materialized from the alcove at the end of the

corridor. Pausing, the man replayed the scene he'd just witnessed. Though the shadows in the

corridor had hindered his vision, and he hadn't been close enough to hear words, it seemed

apparent there was something of a passionate nature between Lady Elizabeth and her young

escort.

Disturbed, the man went in search of Lionel Rothrock.

+++++

The next day Richard declined the hunt, opting to pass the hours in Rothrock's practice yard

instead. Though the air was bitterly cold, Richard stripped to his undertunic and expelled his

frustrations on a series of blunt wooden targets. As he worked the sword, wielding it with

dangerous precision and strength, his hair grew saturated with sweat. Despite the frigid

temperatures, his tunic clung to his body, pinioned there with thin rivulets of perspiration.

Engrossed in the workout, he never heard the crunch of snow behind him. Something struck him

across the back, sending the air from his lungs in a harsh rush, tossing him unceremoniously

forward. Unable to maintain his balance, Richard stumbled, then rolled quickly to the side,

prepared to defend himself.

A quarterstaff clutched in his hands, Lionel Rothrock stared down on him. His features twisted in

contempt as his lips drew back from his teeth in a wolfish snarl. "If you know what's good for

you boy, you'll stay away from Lady Elizabeth."

"Are you threatening me?" Enraged, Richard rose to his feet. Rothrock turned away, never

pausing as he strode confidently from the yard.

"You've been warned, pup," he called. "If you've any sense, you'll take my advice and leave

Lothdoren."

Seething, Richard ground his teeth together, reminding himself a display of temper would do no

good.

+++++

"You seem out of sorts tonight," Lucian Carrister remarked at Richard's side. Dressed elegantly

in a rich brocade tunic with belted sash and tapered sleeves, the Crusader was obviously most

comfortable in courtly attire. His dark blonde hair was immaculately groomed; his short beard

trimmed in the latest fashion. Viewed in profile, Richard realized Carrister was a striking man--

one who would likely melt the heart of any woman. The illusion shattered however, when he

turned, revealing ghastly facial scars.

Smoothing the sleeves of his simple white tunic, Richard gave a distracted shrug. "Admittedly,

I'm not much for social events--at least not ones where the conversation is as steeped in strategy

as a battlefield." His mouth twisted in a tight smile. "The stay merely grows tiresome."

Carrister nodded. "I thought as much." With a companionable hand, he led Richard to the dinner

table. Like the previous eve, countless platters covered the stout wooden surface--ranging from

mutton, venison and pheasant to a myriad assortment of pastries, breads, cheeses, nuts and dried

fruits. Richard glanced at it all without appetite. "I fear I miss my wife," he muttered not

realizing he'd spoken aloud.

Carrister glanced at him askance. Richard was dressed simply tonight--attired in ebony breeches

and boots with a sleeveless black jerkin and white undershirt. Briefly Carrister wondered if his

understated mode of dress wasn't an insult to his host, who came lavishly attended in navy

brocade. Presently Rothrock was focused on Lady Elizabeth, who despite a strained smile,

remained pleasant beneath his continued attentions.

"The gala will end in a few more days," Lucian told Richard. "What harm to depart early?"

Pained by thoughts of Gwendolyn, Richard raised his head. There were musicians in attendance

tonight, the soft melody of lyre and harp floating gently through the room. Briefly, he recalled a

night a few short months ago when he'd danced with Gwendolyn beneath the moon. He'd

hummed softly as accompaniment, smiling down at her, until they'd moved beyond the proper

steps of dance, creating their own harmony with body and touch. Quite suddenly he ached for his

wife with such intensity it brought a crippling pang to his heart. Richard drew a ragged breath. "I

shouldn't have left her," he whispered. "I should have brought her with me."

Carrister motioned him to a bench and they sat down. "Why didn't you?"

Richard frowned. "Because I thought if she wasn't here I might be able to make peace with her

father."

Glancing across the room, Carrister oriented on John Mullens. "The Baron dislikes you that

much?"

"You have no idea," Richard countered. Before he could say another word, Lady Elizabeth's

sharp cry brought his head up with a jerk. A quick scan of the room revealed she was no where in

sight. Again the cry came. Stomach clutching with dread, Richard pushed from his seat and

darted into the adjoining chamber. There, Elizabeth struggled in the embrace of Rothrock, who

held her pinned against the wall. Enraged Richard caught him by the shoulder and spun him

about. "Get your hands off her, you worm-ridden bastard!" Driving his fist into Rothrock's face,

he propelled the startled Lord backward. Incensed, Richard struck again, following his blow with

an uppercut to the older man's jaw. When he grappled the Master of Lothdoren to the floor,

Carrister and Wicklow appeared, wrenching him roughly backward.

"Enough!" Wicklow commanded harshly.

Staggering to his feet, Rothrock dragged a hand across his bloody mouth. Hell-fire burned in his

dark eyes--the whites glazed and veined with an alcoholic haze. Lurching forward he snagged

Richard by the tunic. "You'll pay for this, you insolent brat."

"You're drunk!" Richard spat. Shrugging from Wicklow's and Carrister's grip, he raised his arms,

breaking Rothrock's hold on his clothing. "Stay away from Elizabeth or you'll find yourself on the

short-end of my sword."

"I want you out of my castle!" Rothrock snarled.

"Lionel, calm down," Wicklow said sharply.

But Rothrock was beyond reasoning. Stepping forward, he leveled a squat finger in Richard's

face. "By morning, cur--I want you gone!"

Catching his hand, Richard snapped his arm to the side. "With pleasure, you black-hearted

ratsbane." Only then, when Wicklow stalked from the room, did Richard become aware of the

crowd behind him. Alerted by the noise, the guests arrived in time to witness the heated

exchange. Annoyed, Richard pressed his together. He extended his hand to Lady Elizabeth.

Recovering her poise, Elizabeth moved to his side and allowed him to escort her from the room.

"I'm sorry," she said much later when they stood in her chambers. "I should have realized Lionel

would try something foolish, intoxicated as he was. He said he wanted to discuss affairs

pertaining to my late husband, Malcom. That's the only reason I allowed him to escort me from

the room."

"It's all right," Richard reassured. Seated on the edge of her bed, he sat with his legs braced apart,

hands clasped between his knees. The hour had grown late, inching past evening prayer,

effectively quelling the festivities in the Great Hall below. With a frustrated sigh, Richard laced a

hand through his hair. "If nothing else, it gives us an excuse to take leave of this god-forsaken

group of cutthroats. Personally, the morning won't come quickly enough for me."

Elizabeth chuckled. "You don't like Lionel's guests much, do you, Richard?"

He frowned. "I don't like Lionel."

Moving to the bed, Elizabeth sat at his side. "You're out of sorts, but it isn't entirely over what's

happened tonight, is it?" Uncomfortable with the query, Richard shifted. His expression grew

guarded and evasive. Sensing his reluctance, Elizabeth laid one hand over his wrist guard. "I

know you miss Gwendolyn, Richard. There's nothing wrong with admitting that."

"You don't understand," he said more sharply than he intended. "I refused to allow her to

accompany me solely because I wanted to rectify things with her father."

"There's still time," Elizabeth countered.

"There's no time," Richard said flatly. Shrugging aside her hand, he stood. "Pardon me, Elizabeth,

I'm going to bed."

Realizing anger made him careless, she overlooked the informality of his address. Stalking from

the room, Richard headed for his chambers. He was almost there, when he realized she was right-

-he had one last chance to rectify matters with the Baron, ensuring his separation from

Gwendolyn wasn't for naught. Richard headed for the southern battlement where Mullens

traditionally took late night walks. He had almost reached the stone rampart when he

encountered the older man rounding the corner, headed in the same direction.

Pausing by a short staircase, Richard waited for Mullens to join him. "I'm leaving in the morning,"

he announced as the other drew abreast.

The dark-haired man brushed past him. "How fortunate for the rest of us."

"Damn you!" As he started up the steps, Richard caught his arm, pulling him to a halt. "The least

you can do is hear me out. For your daughter's sake, you might attempt speaking to me with

something other than disdain in your heart. Whether you like it or not we are bound together

through Gwendolyn. What will you do when she gives me children, Baron Mullens? Will you

snub them too?"

"Children of your issue will deserve no less than rebuff." Wrenching free, Mullens continued up

the staircase.

Richard remained on the landing, glaring up at him, chest heaving with constrained rage. "As you

rebuffed Simon Canter?" he challenged.

Mullens stopped and turned. In the fickle light of sputtering wall torches, his face appeared

sallow, mottled with the black smoke of caressing shadow. "You will not mention that name in

my presence, or I will not be accountable for my actions."

"You never are," Richard snapped, striding up the staircase. "And yet you held your wife

accountable for hers. So accountable in fact, that twenty-one years later you can't look on my

face without seeing her bastard son. Am I so like him, Baron Mullens? Did he frustrate and taunt

you, challenge you at every step--or didn't you allow him the familiarity of becoming that close?"

"Why would I? He was nothing to me except a living reminder of her infidelity. I drove him from

Torsun-Narr--"

"As you eventually drove her--"

"I'll snap your neck, you demon-spawned cockscomb." Enraged, Mullens lurched forward.

Richard sidestepped nimbly, bracing his back against the wooden railing. Before either man could

move there came a loud thud from above, followed by the frenzied pounding of feet. Exchanging

a quick glance, Mullens and Richard bolted for the door, pushing shoulder-to-shoulder onto the

battlement.

"There--" Richard said pointing to a form fleeing in the darkness.

"No," Mullens returned in a grim voice. Extending his arm he indicated the outer wall where deep

shadow hugged the flagstone base. "There," he said quietly, and Richard followed his gaze.

A dark shape lay bundled against the stone. Alarmed, Richard bent by the man, recognizing the

inert form of Lionel Rothrock. The Lord of Lothdoren lay at an awkward angle, a deep gash

scored across his chalky throat. Ghastly strings of blood flowed from the wound, dribbling onto

his navy tunic like some macabre collar decoration. Head twisted to the side, mouth gaping wide,

his eyes were frozen in a bloated, horrific stare.

Stunned, Richard felt for a pulse, ignoring the hot flow of blood against his fingertips. Though he

grasped the cooling flesh in desperation, no glimmer of life remained. With a ragged sigh, he sat

back on his haunches. Something jutted against his boot and he glanced downward, sucking in his

breath as he spied a bloodstained knife on the cobblestones. Its markings were blatantly familiar,

inducing a tight flutter of uncertainty in his stomach. Swallowing hard, Richard retrieved the

blade.

"Lord in heaven, what is this?" Baron Wicklow appeared from the doorway, Lord Exton at his

shoulder. Crouched by the body, bloody knife in hand, Richard glanced from Mullens to the two

older men. "Dear God, boy, what have you done?" Wicklow cried appalled.

"You don't understand." Rising to his feet, Richard motioned down the battlement. "We saw a

man fleeing."

Exton's eyes were on the knife. "I don't recognize that blade."

"I do," Mullens said smoothly. "It belongs to Richard. My daughter gave it to him as a wedding

gift."

"There was someone else here," Richard insisted angryily. "Baron Mullens and I were on the

staircase when we heard a commotion."

"Is that true, Baron?" Wicklow asked. Others had arrived now--Carrister, Markem, Farrel and

Tarrington, each appearing dazed and disbelieving at the sight before them.

Mullens looked squarely at Richard. "I was alone," he said without emotion, "Intending to take a

walk as I normally do. When I arrived, Richard Grey was already here and Lord Rothrock was

dead."

"Liar!" Incensed, Richard flung himself at Mullens. The knife slipped from his fingers clattering

loudly against the flagstone. Though he managed to lock his hands around Mullens' throat,

someone struck him from behind, and the world spun away in a suffocating black web.

+++++

Richard awoke to the unpleasant sensation of moldy straw against his cheek. The ground beneath

him was hard and utterly unyielding, pressing against his side with a bitter infusion of cold.

Groaning softly, Richard wedged his hands under his body and pushed to a sitting position.

Sinking gratefully against a stone wall, he closed his eyes, waiting for the ache in his head to

recede.

Blinking, he oriented on his surroundings, noting the desolate lines which readily identified the

stark confines of a dungeon. The floor was filthy, covered with moldy straw and other

decomposing material. At one time the rotting mass in the corner had likely scurried across the

room, scavenging crusts of bread from the cell's previous occupant. Reduced now to a gelatinous

puddle of diseased flesh and waxy body fluid, it would likely become fodder for some larger

rodent intent on filling its body with sweet decay.

Mouth twisting at the wretched scent of tainted air, Richard dispelled a breath. Above his head a

barred window leaked pale crystals of winter sun onto the colorless slab floor. Realizing the night

had waned before the dawn, Richard struggled groggily to his feet. He immediately became

aware of two things--the razor-sharp flare of pain in the back of his skull, and the heavy tug of

manacles about his wrists.

Swearing softly, he turned his head, lifting a tentative touch to the tender spot on his skull. He

could feel the crust of dried blood beneath his fingertips; a similar tackiness in the blood-stiffened

strands of his hair. A short length of chain rattled with his movement, reminding him he'd been

incarcerated for a crime he didn't commit. Striding to the doorway, he griped the squat bars of a

grated window, craning his neck to see beyond the obstruction. "Guard!"

Though Richard's voice carried down the corridor no one answered his summons. He hailed the

non-existent sentry twice more before realizing the effort was futile. If a jailer lingered at the

opposite end of the corridor, he'd obviously been instructed not to respond. Turning back to the

cell, Richard crossed to a thin, straw-filled mattress and sat down. With a frustrated sigh, he drew

his legs up, crossing his feet at the ankles, linking his hands around his knees. Though he was

uncertain of the time, he was fairly sure the hour was still early.

The day lengthened and grew and still no one came to visit his prison. As the hours multiplied,

bloated with the passing of time, Richard's level of frustration gradually increased. Incensed at

the confinement, he paced throughout the cell, pointedly ignoring the jangling echo of chains

dangling from his wrists. It wasn't until late afternoon that a key creaked in the lock and the

ponderous door swung inward, admitting visitors.

"Richard!"

Lady Elizabeth's exclamation seemed overly loud after hours of suffocating silence. Thankful for

her presence, Richard embraced her awkwardly, hampered by the restriction of the chains. Raising

his head, he glanced over her shoulder, noting that Lucian Carrister followed her into the cell.

The door swung shut behind the blonde-haired man, sealing Richard and his visitors within the

bleak walls. "I was beginning to think no one would come," he commented as evenly as he could.

Placing her hands on his shoulders, Elizabeth pushed up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

"Are you hurt?" she asked worriedly, noting the dark stain on the collar of his white tunic.

A smattering of blood had seeped from his scalp, soiling the linen where his hair brushed against

the fabric.

Absently, Richard threaded a hand through his hair. Dried blood flaked off beneath his fingertips,

waffling into the stale air. "I'm fine," he assured Elizabeth. "Just angry." His gaze shifted

sideways to Carrister. "Lucian, why am I being detained?"

Raising both hands, the older man spread his palms in helpless frustration. "Richard, I'm afraid

the evidence against you is damaging. Even you must see that. You were found bent over

Rothrock's body only hours after arguing with him. To make matters worse, your knife appears

to be the murder weapon."

"A knife I haven't had in my possession since arriving at Lothdoren," Richard snapped. "Anyone

could have taken it from my room."

"Unfortunately, there's other matters to take into account." Stepping forward, Carrister looped

his arm around Richard's shoulder and carefully guided him away from Lady Elizabeth. "Baron

Wicklow has appointed himself overseer until the Sheriff can be summoned. A page has already

been sent, but snow continues to obstruct the roadways. There's no telling how long it may take."

"And in the interim, I'm to remain here?" Richard demanded hotly. "Like a criminal awaiting

execution."

"I think you're overreacting." Tightening his grip on Richard's shoulder, Carrister leaned closer

and lowered his voice. "Selby Markem's repeated the incident that occurred at the inn, Richard.

He said you threatened to kill him for making a comment about Lady Elizabeth that may have

been construed improperly."

"May have been?" Richard spat acidly. "Damn it, man, there was no may involved."

"Don't you see that only incriminates you further?" Carrister persisted. "Wicklow and the others

perceive you as a jealous lover, exacting vengeance on Rothrock for his treatment of your

mistress."

"That's ludicrous!" Patience frayed to the breaking point, Richard pushed away from Carrister

and strode briskly to the opposite wall. Like a caged beast, he spun on his heel, confronting his

accuser. "There is nothing between Lady Elizabeth and I other than the mutual fondness of close

friends." With an agitated gesture he motioned toward Elizabeth. "Bloody hell, she's my father's

consort. The very idea that she and I could be romantically involved--"

"Wicklow saw you in the corridor not a day past," Carrister interrupted. "Whatever took place

between you--however innocent the exchange--he viewed it differently. He's even admitted to

telling Rothrock, in hopes of warning the man away from Elizabeth. Apparently he thought he

was doing you a favor."

"God's teeth!" Turning away, Richard braced a hand against the wall. With effort, he struggled

to get his emotions under control. Behind him he heard the soft swish of Lady Elizabeth's gown

as she strode across the floor.

"Richard, I've sent a courier to Covington Cross with news of what's transpired. Hopefully

Cedric will get word to your father in London."

Richard nodded, maintaining his composure with effort. The news would likely devastate

Gwendolyn, but he didn't see any way of sparing her the ugliness. "You should return as well," he

said distractedly.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Elizabeth replied. "Baron Wicklow has decreed no one leave the

castle until the matter of Lord Rothrock's murder is resolved. He only allowed the courier to

depart because the man was visiting his family in the village the day of the murder."

Exhaling loudly, Richard slumped against the wall. In short order his emotions ran the gamut

from frustration and anger to bitter defeat. Realizing he was helpless to prove his innocence as

long as he remained in the cell, he frowned sourly, contemplating his limited options. Sunlight

sketched hazy diamonds at the toes of his black boots, accentuating a long scuff on the outside

edge. With a vague sense of detachment he realized he must have acquired the scrape in his

scuffle with Rothrock. Vividly he recalled snagging the Lord of Lothdoren by his tunic--a navy

blue garment, which surely would have appeared black beneath the nighttime sky on the southern

battlement. With thoughtful deliberation, Richard drew his thumb and index finger over his

bottom lip. "Lady Elizabeth, perhaps I could speak with Sir Lucian alone?" he ventured, casting

an expectant glance in her direction.

Though the request obviously puzzled her, Elizabeth complied. Taking his hands, she smiled

briefly, the effort obviously forced. "I'll visit again as soon as I have news."

Richard nodded. "A dungeon is no place for a lady," he instructed. Once she'd hailed the guard

and departed, Richard turned to Carrister.

The older man watched him attentively, blue eyes narrowed beneath a scattered fringe of dark

blonde hair. "You think I can help?" he asked cautiously. In the sun-streaked light of the

chamber, the scars on his face appeared abnormally harsh and mottled with contorting shadow.

Richard's gaze was direct. "Lucian, I didn't kill Lionel Rothrock."

"So you say, but I don't know you very well, Richard."

"You know me well enough to judge my character. It's not difficult to do, even on short

acquaintance." Agitated Richard strode forward, the wrist chain rattling loudly with his

movement. "Think about it--almost everyone here had a reason to hate Rothrock. Markem was

in debt to him, Exton stands to gain greater rank now that he's gone and even Tarrington viewed

him as a rival."

Carrister shrugged. "You're right of course. Markem in particular has been extremely vocal

about pinning the blame on you."

"It's rather convenient for him with Rothrock out of the way," Richard continued. Raising a hand,

he tapped a finger against his lips, silently reasoning the impasse through. "As I recall, he's been

very vocal from the moment he arrived at Lothdoren, making sure everyone knew about the

incident between us at the inn. The only one who failed to mention it to me was Lord Rothrock

himself and that may well have been by design."

Puzzled, Carrister glanced at him askance. "I don't follow."

"Simply this--" Eager to explain, Richard stepped to his side. "Perhaps Lord Markem recognized

Lady Elizabeth at the inn, and played the entire scenario to his advantage. It's common

knowledge Rothrock pined for Elizabeth's attentions. What better way to plot a murder then to

create the illusion of a jealous lover?"

"You're suggesting Markem deliberately provoked you, then relayed your anger to the other

guests--so he would have a scapegoat when he killed Rothrock?" At Richard's nod, Carrister

exhaled loudly. "Richard, as much as I'd like to believe you innocent, such reasoning requires

more than a plausible stretch of the imagination."

"There's no stretch involved," Richard retorted, insistent now. It was easy to believe Markem was

the likely candidate to wield a grudge to the point of murder. If what Tobias Farel had told him

was true and Markem really did owe a sizeable amount of money to the Lord of Lothdoren,

Lionel's death would instantly free him of the obligation. Markem would also have noticed his

knife at the inn, and could have easily made a search of his chambers to procure the blade.

"Suppose I believe you?" Lucian ventured. "What would you have me do?"

Richard paused. The easy path of logic was to brand Markem the murderer. Arranged properly,

circumstance pointed to the puffed-up lord as perpetrator of the deed. Which implied Markem

had more to gain from Rothrock's death than Exton or Tarrington or someone else Richard hadn't

even considered. And then there was Mullens--he'd lied about Richard's involvement in the

murder, but to what end? Perhaps it had been his intention to frame Richard for Rothrock's death

all along, and Richard's unexpected presence on the battlement had made it that much easier.

Richard didn't doubt Mullens would murder a friend to gain the advantage on an enemy.

Absently he bit down on his lip. Once again he thought of Lionel's navy blue tunic twisted in his

hand . . . of how utterly dark it had looked on the battlement--hued like ebony in the sputtering

rim of weak torchlight. In the gloaming--their appearance so strikingly similar--Rothrock might

easily have been mistaken for Mullens, clothed as he was. And that put a whole new slant on the

murder. One that Richard hadn't considered before--perhaps John Mullens was truly the intended

target.

Frowning, he glanced aside at Carrister. "I can't prove anything right now, Lucian. Would you

send John Mullens to me?"

+++++

Mullens smile was thin--the silken sneer of a man who readily enjoyed the misfortune of others.

"Those chains become you quite nicely, Richard." Striding confidently into the cell, he folded his

arms across his chest and braced his feet apart as though preparing for confrontation. Dark eyes

flicked over the younger man who was beginning to show the strained signs of confinement.

With effort, Richard kept his expression neutral. The torturous advance of slow-creeping hours

had dwindled into blackest night before Mullens had been inclined to make his appearance. While

alone, Richard had replayed every conceivable nuance of Rothrock's murder in his mind, silently

categorizing all potential suspects. The toil and frustration of imprisonment had gouged shadows

beneath his eyes; tight lines at the corners of his mouth. His clothing was rumpled; the

sleeves of his white tunic streaked with the repugnant filth of walls and floors. The habitual

agitation of nervously filtering his hand through his hair left the long tresses disheveled--curling

bangs pushed straight back from his brow, exposing the high plane of his forehead. The ghost

impression of a chain was visible on his breeches, where the dusty links had rested briefly against

his thigh. "Why did you lie?" Richard challenged.

Mullens shrugged as though the matter bore little thought. "With the history between us, how

can you ask something so utterly foolish?"

"So you would send me to the gallows?" Richard snapped, striding forward. "Simply from spite?

What about Gwen? Have you considered what your silence would do to her? Whatever the

multitude of lies you wish to believe, your daughter loves me, Baron Mullens. You can't change

that."

Scowling, Mullens squared his shoulders. He was a big man--slightly taller than Richard, broad

through the chest. Height, and the somber hue of his customary black clothing, made him appear

imposing. Richard knew the sinister aura of his presence was something he routinely used to

advantage with others. Unfazed, he jabbed a finger against the older man's shoulder. "You're so

set on seeing me hanged, you've overlooked the most important detail in Rothrock's death."

"And that is?" Mullens asked condescendingly.

Biding his time, Richard stepped backward. However contemptuously Mullens voiced the query,

veiled interest lay in his dark eyes. Crossing to the far corner, Richard propped his shoulder

against the grimy wall. He could feel the bite of coarse stone through the thin fabric of his tunic;

smell the rancid scent of decay, stirred awake beneath his dust-covered boots. Folding his arms

across his chest, he titled his head, shifting a sidelong glance to his father-in-law. "Surely you've

noticed the striking resemblance you bear Lord Rothrock."

"What of it?" Mullens persisted.

Richard wet his lips. He could feel the heavy weight of the wrist chain dangling against his

stomach and abdomen. Beneath the cumbersome manacles and the intervening leather of his wrist

guards, his skin grew chafed. "It's common knowledge you visit the southern battlement each

night after evening prayer."

"Go on." Clearly interested now, Mullens took a step forward.

Richard could see the glint of shrewd light in his eyes and knew he'd already analyzed the scenario

in his head. "It's very possible that in the dark, dressed as he was, Rothrock could have been

mistaken for you. It's very possible the murderer killed the wrong man."

Mullens was silent. Eyes dropping to the floor, he hesitated a moment then turned away. Richard

could tell by the set of his shoulders that he realized how plausible the solution was. In truth,

Lionel Rothrock had any number of enemies gathered for his Midwinter Festival, but in truth, only

one man should have been on the battlement that night. "The feud between our families is long

standing, Baron Mullens, and you've made it no secret how you feel about me. If someone

wished to murder you, what better candidate to blame, then the son-in-law you despise?"

Disturbed, Mullens scraped a hand through his beard. "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully. "But that

doesn't explain what Rothrock was doing there."

"Perhaps he was looking for you. It's no secret he and I quarreled. He may have simply wanted

to commiserate with someone who despised me as greatly as he did." Richard's lips thinned in a

sharp smile. "I'm more curious about what you were doing there. You don't strike me as a man

who enjoys contemplative walks."

Mullens uttered at short laugh. "I have a pensive side," he returned dryly.

Richard frowned. "Scoff if you will, but if I'm right, the murderer is isn't likely to rest until he

claims the real target." Striding across the cell, Richard confronted Mullens face-to-face. Lifting

his chin definitely, he met the other man's stony gaze. "I wouldn't want you to die before clearing

me of Rothrock's murder." The corner of his mouth twitched in a cocky grin as determination

gave way to insolence. "I'd remind you I'm your son-in-law but somehow I fear that would go

against me."

Mullens' expression was sour. Irritably he turned away, silently contemplating what Richard

proposed. Taking slow strides, he paced to the opposite end of the cell where he pursed his lips

in deliberate thought. Richard shifted slightly, causing the chain to disrupt the stillness. Glancing

over his shoulder, Mullens came to a decision. "If I believe you, and if I provide you with an

alibi--"

"You mean the truth," Richard interrupted.

"An alibi," Mullens continued as though he hadn't heard. "There's only one man at Lothdoren

motivated enough to attempt an assault on my life. That said, I fail to believe the gut-pasted

craven has the courage."

"Who?" Richard challenged.

But Mullens merely grinned. Wordlessly he strode for the door, beckoning to the guard outside.

Richard watched as the ponderous barrier yawned inward, permitting a glimpse of sallow

torchlight and clustering shadow beyond. A draft of cool air permeated the cell, momentarily

displacing the fetid reek of decay. With a backward glance the Baron departed, leaving Richard

alone in the bleak prison. Cursing softly, he retreated to the moldy mattress and sank dejectedly

onto the ratty material.

It was cold in the cell. His sleeveless jerkin was meant for the hearth-warmed rooms upstairs, not

the frigid confines of a dungeon. Dusting his hands against the thin sleeves of his tunic, Richard

attempted to concentrate on something other than his growing list of discomforts. Immediately

his thoughts turned to Gwendolyn.

Resting his head against the wall, Richard closed his eyes. He could well recall the last blissful

afternoon they'd spent together, before anger had turned his wife's heart to implacable stone.

He could almost feel the hungry touch of her lips on his, the lush warmth of her bare flesh

pressed to his body. With a soft groan, Richard dropped his head into his hands.

As usual, he'd made a mess of things.

+++++

"Richard." Lucian Carrister gripped the younger man by the shoulder and shook him gently.

Groaning against the invasion of weak morning light and the insistent hand that dragged him from

the blissful cocoon of sleep, Richard blinked groggily. It took him a moment to orient on the

other's face--a moment to define substance from shadow; the waking world from the scattered

ghosts of the Nether realm. Fighting the cramps in his arms and legs, Richard pushed to a sitting

position. "You look damn cheerful this morning," he muttered moodily. Stifling a yawn, he

raised his hand and rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

Lucian grinned brashly, squatting back on his haunches. The deep scars on his face made the

smile seem almost cadaverous, and for a split-second Richard felt revulsion. Carrister never

noticed. "Good news, my friend--Baron Wicklow says you can join the privileged upstairs."

Raising his hand, he dangled a key before Richard's eyes. "Those manacles couldn't have been too

comfortable as bedmates. What say we leave them in this stinking rathole where they belong?"

With a grateful sigh, Richard extended his arms. Carrister inserted the key, and the heavy iron

bands fell away with a loud click. Almost immediately Richard felt the ping of returning

circulation, coupled with the strange weightlessness of sudden freedom. Shivering, he rubbed at

his bruised wrists. "Did Mullens come forward?" he asked.

Lucian shrugged. "I didn't get the particulars. Come on--you're freezing. Let's get you out of

here. I've already instructed the servants to have a hot bath waiting."

As Lucian helped him to his feet, Richard grinned appreciatively. "Have I mentioned I value you

more highly than gold?"

Carrister chuckled. "If you didn't, I'd leave you for the guard. He said you were the prettiest

morsel he'd seen in a long time, and he was smiling indolently as he said it."

"Bastard," Richard retorted with an arch grin. He kept his arm looped around the older man's

shoulder as Carrister led him to the door. The stiffness in his legs spread through the rest of his

body, making him wince with the effort of movement. Eventually, rigidity induced by the frigid

air of the cell bowed before the liquid heat of loosening muscle. By the time they'd reached the

upper staircase, Richard was walking on his own.

Once in his chambers Richard stripped, sinking gratefully into the large tub positioned before a

roaring hearth. Carrister collected his scattered clothes from the floor and dropped them by the

door for the servants. "My advice would be to burn them. It will take more than lye and

perfumed oils to the eradicate the stench of decay."

"You may be right." Resting his head against the rim of the tub, Richard glanced at his

benefactor. "I don't suppose you requested some food for me?"

"You're dreadfully predictable, Richard. It's already on the way."

With a tired grin, Richard closed his eyes. He could hear the crackle and hiss of shifting logs in

the stone hearth; smell the familiar redolence of woodsmoke. His left arm rested on the rim of the

tub, small beads of water dropping from his fingertips. The steady drip against the larger pool of

still liquid created a comforting cadence that would have lulled him to sleep, were it not for the

tread of Carrister's boots near his head. Startled from a lethargic haze, Richard opened his eyes.

Crouched at his side, Lucian gripped the edge of the tub. "No time for sleep, Richard Grey.

Wicklow wants to see you in the solar."

Richard wet his lips. "Did you tell him what I said--about Markem?"

"Only in passing."

With a distinct sigh of relief, Richard relaxed. He could feel the steam from the tub engulfing his

face, weaving exaggerated curls in the ragged strands of his tousled hair. "I may have been

wrong," he admitted. "I'm no longer sure Rothrock was even the intended victim."

Lucian balked. "I think spending two days in a dungeon has rattled your brains." Before he could

say anything further, a knock at the door interrupted their discourse. A servant appeared bearing

a tray laden with breakfast food. As Carrister directed the woman where to deposit the platter,

Richard felt his mouth water with the glut of tempting aromas. The bath was suddenly secondary

to satisfying his craving for food.

Carrister grinned, noting the direction of his eyes. Halting at the door, he hesitated with his hand

on the latch. "I'll leave you to eat and dress in private. I'd be remiss however, if I failed to

mention Lady Elizabeth wishes to see you as soon as you're able." The hint of a smile flitted

across his lips. "She's quite the treasure, Richard. If you weren't married and you did favor older

women, there'd be no need to look further."

Richard chuckled. "You're debauched, Carrister, and my father might have something to say

about that." Grinning, he watched the other leave. Somehow the aches and discomfort of the last

two days mattered little when measured against present circumstance. If John Mullens really had

come forward and told the truth, it meant his father-in-law had taken the initial steps to healing

the rift between them.

Content, Richard closed his eyes.

Gwendolyn would be pleased.

+++++

Though Richard took his time bathing and eating, he didn't keep Baron Wicklow waiting overly

long. As angry as he was about his imprisonment, he was also eager to discover if John Mullens

had indeed spoken on his behalf. In retrospect, he knew Wicklow had acted sensibly,

incarcerating the most likely suspect for Rothrock's death. Though it galled Richard he hadn't

been granted a chance to speak in his own defense, he grudgingly admitted there'd been wisdom in

Wicklow's decision.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Richard paid careful attention to his wrist guards, cautiously lacing

the stiff leather over his chafed skin. He wore a heavier jerkin--hued with earthy shades of moss,

russet and bark--chosen for its enveloping warmth after the prolonged cold of the dungeon.

Though he wasn't normally effected by extremes in temperature, buried dampness lingered in his

bones. Standing, he reached for his sword and buckled it about his waist. Since arriving in

Lothdoren, it was the first he felt compelled to wear the blade.

"You look . . refreshed," Baron Wicklow said later, when Richard joined him in the solar. The

word fell from his tongue with difficulty, making Richard realize the nobleman was remorseful for

the two days Richard had spent in confinement. Standing before the hearth, Wicklow motioned

to a nearby chair. "Please be seated, Sir Richard."

Though the use of his title indicated Wicklow wished to be formal, Richard sensed he would

speak cordially about what had transpired. Opting to stand, Richard shook his head. "I'm fine,

My Lord." He paused only briefly before coming directly to the point. "My release would seem

to indicate there's been a change in circumstance. Did Baron Mullens recant his tale about my

involvement with Rothrock?"

Clasping his hands behind his back, Wicklow stepped away from the hearth. The flame of a squat

candle sputtered with his movement--stirred to gyrations before succumbing to attentive stability.

"Baron Mullens did indicate he was mistaken about your whereabouts the night of the murder, but

his revelation is not what freed you."

"Oh?" Curious, Richard cocked a brow.

"There was another witness," Wicklow explained. "Someone who was on the battlement just

before you and the Baron arrived. That individual actually saw someone fleeing. And no--" he

said quickly with a curt shake of his head, "I'm not at liberty to say who the person is."

Disturbed, Richard frowned. If someone had been on the battlement why had they waited two

days before coming forth with their story? Two miserable days, he'd spent in the rat-infested

cold- cube Rothrock called a dungeon. "Did the witness see the person who fled?" Richard

persisted, fervently wishing an end to the wretched affair. Yet even as he voiced the question, he

knew Lucian would have told him had someone been apprehended.

Confirming the thought, Wicklow shook his head. "Not clearly. Unfortunately, I'm unable to

discuss details further. Matters must remain as they are until the sheriff arrives. I simply wanted

you to know you're no longer under immediate suspicion, and to express my regret for any

discomfort the situation may have caused."

"Immediate?" With an unbelieving shake of his head, Richard straightened his shoulders.

Frustration kept him from commenting on Wicklow's clumsy apology. Briefly he considered

sharing his suspicions that the murderer may have really intended Mullens as his target. The Lord

of Torsun-Narr himself had indicated there was someone at Lothdoren who wanted him dead. As

quickly as the thoughts surfaced, Richard shuffled them aside. Wicklow wasn't apt to take

anything he said seriously. Confinement to the dungeon had merely been replaced by confinement

to the castle. "Do you have any objection if I take some fresh air?" Richard queried a trifle too

sharply. With effort he controlled an instinctive impulse for belligerence. Wicklow, after all, was

only acting as befitted his station.

The auburn-haired man inclined his head. "I trust you are honorable enough to remain for the

sheriff's proceedings. We'll speak again."

Richard's mouth tugged downward in a severe scrawl. "Of that, Baron Wicklow, I'm fairly

certain."

+++++

Though he knew he should have visited Lady Elizabeth to put her mind at ease, Richard left the

clustering walls of Lothdoren and strode briskly to the stable. Despite the coiling caress of an icy

draft, he found the outdoors preferable to the oppressive confines of the castle. Perhaps it was

only his brief imprisonment which made him yearn for open space. The sky unfolded overhead--

expansive and blue, riddled with the tattered lace of low-lying clouds. Snow cloaked the heath,

obscuring rolling hillocks beneath a veil of silver-white. Drenched in the fawning kiss of sunlight,

the countryside glimmered with opalescent brilliance. Yet despite that glittering touch there

remained an unnatural brittleness to the surroundings that reminded Richard of a glass prism. The

taut stretch of his nerves whispered the fragile environment must soon shatter.

"I see you've been released from your cell," a voice said lazily. "Pity."

Richard had just reached the entrance of the stable. Glancing aside, he noted Selby Markem

standing beneath the thatched overhang, one arm resting casually against the dividing wood of an

open stall. There was something antagonistically superior in his stance, but Richard chose to

overlook the veiled challenge. Striding past the blonde-haired man, he moved to his horse,

pausing to check its supply of feed. Markem followed, his expression now clearly combative. "I

was addressing you," he said sharply.

Richard didn't bother turning. "And I was ignoring you."

"You're damn cocky for someone likely to lose their head for murder."

Annoyed by the other's persistence, Richard glanced over his shoulder. "Haven't you heard? My

father-in-law is an alibi, and there was a witness to Rothrock's death."

"Witness?" The color drained from Markem's face with such alacrity Richard was left

momentarily unbalanced. Though Markem was high on his list of suspects, he hadn't expected

such a blatant reaction.

Placing his hands on his hips he stepped forward, squarely confronting the other. "You seem

inordinately distressed, Markem. Surely you've nothing to fear from a witness."

Regaining his composure, Markem raised his chin. His expression was unmistakably haughty as

he glanced down his finely-boned nose. "It isn't what you think, you cocky little guttersnipe. I

simply hoped the matter would remain unresolved until my debt was cleared."

"Oh, yes, your debt." Richard folded his arms across his chest. "You've been so bloody quick to

pin this murder on me, you've forgotten how incriminating it makes you appear. A man in danger

of losing his fortune is a man motivated by desperation--a man likely to do anything."

Stepping backward, Markem drew his sword. "I will not stand for accusation."

Easily given to hostility after the unjust confinement he'd suffered, Richard smiled thinly and

unsheathed his blade. Every nerve in his body was strung to heightened awareness, ready for the

invigorating clash of metal on metal. Flexing his fingers on the hilt, he rotated the sword with

showy, flawless ease. "And I will stand for nothing less."

Paling slightly, Markem swallowed hard. His blue eyes followed the deft path of the blade before

returning to Richard's face. Though it obviously galled him to do so, he relaxed his stance.

"Perhaps I was rash."

Richard pressed his lips together. He was angry and he wanted to fight. Since arriving at

Lothdoren he'd withstood the sniping quips of the nobles; John Mullens' condescending insults;

Rothrock's stagy manipulations, and most recently, unwarranted confinement. There was simply

no way Markem was going to escape without some sort of payment for the accusations he'd cast

on Richard and Lady Elizabeth. Tapping his sword lightly against the other's breastbone, Richard

grinned wickedly. "You, my friend, are going to pay for that haste."

"That's enough, Richard."

Startled, Richard glanced aside just as Lucian Carrister stepped beneath the overhang. The older

man's expression was tight, his glance undeniably stern. "There will be no skirmishes today. Put

your blade away, young man."

Frustrated, Richard exhaled loudly. "Lucian, you don't understand."

"I understand your quarrelsome temper is likely to put you back into the dungeon, if you're not

careful." With a terse nod of his head to Markem, Lucian indicated the exit. "Lord Markem, I

suggest you leave--and quickly."

Flustered, the blonde-haired noble did as he was told, hastily exiting the stable. Irritated, Richard

sheathed his sword, driving the blade against the scabbard with a resounding clack. His breath

plumed in the air with the agitated flutter of his breath. "I don't need a guardian angel. Or a

protector."

Lucian chuckled softly. "Yes, I can see that." Striding forward he gripped Richard by the

shoulders. "But you do need someone to rein in that ungodly willfulness of yours from time to

time. It's a wonder your wife Gwendolyn has any measure of poise left." Before Richard could

comment, Carrister planted a hand in the middle of his back and pushed him firmly from the

stable. Smiling, he kept pace at his side. "Come indoors, Richard. Lady Elizabeth is beside

herself worrying. She sent me to fetch you."

Richard sighed with tired resignation. "Very well." He didn't bother to comment Lothdoren was

about as inviting as a bat-infested cave at sundown. He was fairly certain Lucian Carrister felt the

same way.

+++++

The passing of Lothdoren's Lord and Master was increasingly evident as Richard strode from

room to room. All decorative touches for Rothrock's midwinter gala had been removed, replaced

by black shrouds and wreaths of mourning. The servants scurried about, barely whispering, their

faces pinched and sullen. Some embraced a mere fa‡ade of grief, while others were truly morose.

Rothrock himself was laid in a wooden casket. The wound on his neck had been covered with a

richly embroidered scarf, his bloodstained clothing replaced by immaculate silks. The cold air of

the chapel, coupled with an excess of perfumed oils, kept his body from growing pungent until

burial could take place later in the week.

Richard visited with Lady Elizabeth as promised, then spent the remainder of the day idly roaming

the long corridors. His mind drifted continually to Gwendolyn as he pined for his missing wife.

Only belatedly did he realize he'd never mentioned her name to Carrister. Perhaps Lucian had

overhead John Mullens reference his daughter, and assumed she must be his wife. Admittedly,

were it not for his newfound friend and Lady Elizabeth, he'd likely let his mercurial temper get the

best of him, ensuring a return to the dungeon. He had little patience for imperious behavior, and

Lothdoren positively bristled with it.

When evening settled, Richard wandered to the Great Hall. Though excessive feasts no longer

took place, the servants prepared a passable meal for those wishing to partake. This night, the

room was mostly empty, occupied only by Lord and Lady Exton and Tobias Farrel. The Extons

sat apart from the heavy-set man, seemingly occupied in their own closed world. With graceful

ease, Richard slid into the seat across from Farrel. "Good Eventide, Sir Tobias."

Intent on his meal, the other glanced up with a jerk. Pausing, a thick slab of cheese raised to his

lips, Farrel flushed guiltily. "Sir Richard. Pardon my indulgence. Good Eventide." His lips

stretched in a fleshly grin. "Won't you join me?"

Richard motioned for a servant to fill his wine goblet. Scanning the table, he concentrated on

maneuvering a piece of roasted venison onto his plate. "I don't see your sister-in-law, Lady Cort,"

he commented casually.

Tobias rolled his shoulders. "Headache," he returned shortly.

"I seem to recall her being indisposed with a headache the night I arrived," Richard observed.

Confiscating a table knife, he carved a heel of bread from the round loaf at his elbow. "She's not

ill is she?"

Tobias snorted in a most ungentlemanly manner. "Not unless you consider sickness of the heart."

"I beg your pardon?"

With a contrite shake of his head, Tobias smiled ruefully. "I fear my tongue is bitter this night, Sir

Richard. As difficult as it is, I've come to accept the painful truth my sister-in-law will never care

for me in the manner I desire. Rothrock's death has opened my eyes. I fear like him, I shall die

lonely, with barely a soul to weep at my grave."

Richard stared, uncertain how to respond. Sensing his discomfort, Tobias returned to his meal.

He smiled robustly. "You needn't look so grim, my young friend. There is always food to fill the

void in my heart."

Distressed by the bleak observation, Richard shifted awkwardly. "I hardly think that qualifies.

Lady Cort is not the only woman in the world--"

"The only one that matters," Tobias interrupted shortly. With a sigh, he sat back from the table,

bracing his forearms against the stout wood. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not discuss

this." Distracted, he glanced to the side. Almost immediately a change came over his face,

molding the fleshy, cherubic lines into something clearly malevolent. Surprised by the unlikely

transformation in a man he'd pegged as harmless, Richard followed his gaze.

John Mullens had just entered the room.

"Excuse me," Tobias said, rising stiffly from the table. "I've lost my appetite."

Chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, Richard watched him depart. Mullens had said there was

only one man at Lothdoren with reason enough to wish him dead. Surely, he hadn't meant Tobias

Farrel--the most improbable candidate for murderer in the group.

Mullens caught his stare and sauntered in his direction. Sliding into a seat on the bench, he folded

his hands on the table, the perfect picture of conceit. "You look remarkably improved since I last

saw you. Regretfully I couldn't keep you imprisoned longer. A witness appeared and countered

my story."

"You're too kind." Determined not to argue, Richard chewed on a piece of venison. "Do you

know who the witness was?" he asked evenly.

Mullens motioned to a servant for wine. "Wicklow isn't saying. Odds are it's some kitchen maid

or stable groom too skittish to proclaim their involvement boldly. The whole affair grows

tiresome. Rothrock needs to be interred before his stench pollutes the chapel."

Richard scowled. It was sometimes difficult perceiving Gwendolyn as the daughter of this vile

man. Even worse was the realization she loved him dearly, despite his horrendous faults. As

Richard watched, Mullens filled a plate with food. It was inconceivable the Baron intended to sit

with him as he dined. Taken slightly aback, Richard chose to overlook his latest comment in

hopes of finding neutral ground. He hadn't forgotten Rothrock was one of the few people

Mullens had called friend. What atrocities must the man say about enemies? "Have you given

any further thought to what I suggested?"

"The foolish notion I should be dead instead of Lionel?" Mullens glanced at Richard from

beneath the heavy line of his black brows. A discourteous chuckle slipped from his lips.

"Difficult as it is to believe, Rothrock had more enemies than I." A nod of his head indicated the

couple at the end of the table. "Take the noble Lord Exton and his harpy-shrew wife. Exton's

always been jealous of Rothrock's achievements and his position in the shire. He stands to be

elevated considerably with Lionel out of the way. The King will likely grant him a portion of

Rothrock's lands, since there's no heir."

Startled, Richard glanced sharply at his father-in-law. "I hadn't realized he stood to gain so

profitably."

Mullens's mouth thinned. "There's quite a few things you don't realize. Perhaps it's best if you

leave it that way."

Standing, the Baron retrieved his plate and carried it to the opposite end of the table. He sat with

the Extons--seemingly an old friend, not a rival who had just spewed poison about them.

Richard finished his dinner in silence, contemplating the myriad complexities he'd just witnessed.

Later he returned to the southern battlement where Rothrock had been killed. All trace of the

murder had been removed. Even the stones had been washed by the servants, eradicating the dark

stains which once marred their surface.

Richard examined the area thoroughly--uncertain what he was looking for, finding nothing.

Discouraged he retreated indoors, pausing to visit Lady Elizabeth in her chambers before

withdrawing to his own. The interior of his room was dark, thick shadow broken only by the

flames in the hearth. Moving to the dresser, Richard lit two candles sending a ring of soft light

skittering into the room. A rustle of clothing drew him sharply about, hand dropping instinctively

to his sword.

"Forgive me for startling you. I've been waiting to speak with you."

Speechless, Richard watched as Helena Cort moved into the light. A tall woman of inordinate

grace, she seemed an unlikely match for her swag-bellied brother-in-law. Eyes the color of winter

wheat regarded Richard from a thin, heart-shaped face. A soft dusting of white-blonde hair fell to

her shoulders, where it was swept into a loose braid.

"Lady Helena," Richard greeted, recovering his poise, "Your brother-in-law said you weren't

feeling well."

She smiled sadly, tightly. "It's hardly that." Taking her hand Richard led her to a chair, where she

sat rigidly, her body strung with obvious tension. "I feel I owe you an explanation," she said

warily. "It was my silence which caused you those unwelcome days in the dungeon."

Richard balked. "You're the witness Baron Wicklow spoke of?"

Hesitantly, Helena nodded. "I should have come forward immediately, but feared the

recrimination."

"I don't understand."

Helena's eyes dropped to her lap. Clearly uncomfortable, she twisted a lace handkerchief between

her fingers. Richard watched as she pleated the ivory fabric--folding it absently, then brushing it

smooth. "If I'd said I was on the battlement, the question would have arisen as to why I was

there. I'd told Tobias I was retiring early."

Folding his arms over his chest, Richard digested the information. There'd been two other people

on the battlement that night--Rothrock and Mullens--but only one who'd been expected. With

abrupt insight, he understood the scathing glance Tobias Farrel had cast the Lord of Torsun-Narr.

"You were meeting John Mullens," he said firmly.

Eyes averted, Helena nodded. When she spoke her voice was thin, flushed with intricate layers of

guilt. "I told Tobias I wished to retire early--just as I've told him a lie of one sort or another since

arriving. I didn't intend to be cruel. I simply didn't wish to hurt his feelings."

"He knows of your involvement with Mullens," Richard informed her.

"Now--but he wasn't certain then." With a heartfelt sigh, Helena raised her eyes. "Do you

understand why I kept my silence?"

Richard sat across from her, his poise causal. "There's nothing untoward in your relationship with

John Mullens, Lady Cort. You are currently unattached and he has long been a widower. The

only impropriety may have been the manner of your meetings. It's crueler to allow Tobias to

think he stands a chance of winning your favor."

Abandoning her anxiety, Helena tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve. "There is no fear of that

any longer. Although I asked Lord Wicklow to keep my identity confidential, I felt it necessary to

share the truth with Tobias. I'm certain he harbored suspicions long before now. My involvement

with Baron Mullens began when Tobias engaged him in a business deal this past summer."

Though Richard thought the affair likely to end in heartache for Helena, he kept the opinion

private. At present, there was only one matter which truly concerned him. Wetting his lips, he sat

forward on the edge of his chair. "Lady Helena, did you actually see the murderer?"

A short shake of her head left Richard scowling. "When I arrived on the battlement, Lord

Rothrock was already dead. There was a man bending over him with a knife in his hand."

Remembering, she closed her eyes. "I was startled and cried aloud. The sound drew his

attention, though I don't believe he saw me for I was concealed behind a wall. Fortunately he

heard the door, and that's when you and John arrived."

"Did you see his face?" Richard asked.

She shook her head.

"Lady Helena--could it have been your brother-in-law?" Though he hated asking the question,

Richard knew a jealous lover was capable of extremes. It was entirely possible Farrel had gone in

search of Mullens and in the dark mistakenly killed Rothrock.

"No." Helena was firm. "Tobias is heavily built and this man was slender--tall like you."

Mentally Richard ran the list of guests in his head--Markem, Carrister, Tarrington, Wicklow--all

were of his height or similar. Only Farrel and Exton were shorter, solidly built with added

pounds.

"There is one thing," Helena said cautiously. "I should have given this to Baron Wicklow, but I

didn't think he'd take it seriously." Unabashedly, she slipped a finger into the deep neckline of her

bodice and withdrew a short gold chain. Extending her hand, she offered it to Richard.

Rising from the chair, Richard accepted the trinket. The metal was heated in his palm, warmed by

close contact with her flesh. The chain was braided, held together by a pin-and-circle clasp.

Obviously a woman's bracelet, it was further embellished by an oval medallion. Richard studied

the surface, noting the finely detailed relief of a prancing unicorn. "I heard it drop when he ran

past me," Lady Cort explained. "I think it was probably looped on his belt or concealed in his

jerkin."

"Are you sure it was a man?" Richard asked, recalling his sister often dressed in breeches and

tunic. Though improbable, it wasn't an entirely foolish notion a woman could have committed the

crime.

Helena shook her head firmly. "I'm positive--and I don't think a woman would have had the

strength to kill Lionel Rothrock, even if he was caught unaware."

Reluctantly Richard nodded. His eyes dropped to the bracelet. "Have you seen this item of

jewelry before? Perhaps on Lady Exton or Lady Wicklow?" Frowning, he tried to place the

image. Something about it was disturbingly familiar.

Once again, Helena shook her head. "I did fear it might be Lady Wicklow's--which was another

reason I didn't reveal it to her husband. I do not wish to keep it in my possession, My Lord. May

I leave it with you?"

"Of course." Richard extended his hand and helped her to her feet. The gesture signaled an end

to the conversation for both of them.

Pausing by the door, Helena glanced over her shoulder. "I am sorry my silence caused you such

discomfort."

Richard smiled gently. "It is forgotten, Lady."

After she'd departed, his eyes dropped immediately to the medallion. Tracing his thumb over the

surface, he tried to remember where he'd seen the crest before. Familiarity tugged at his mind, the

answer just beyond his reach. Frustrated, he scraped a hand through his hair, lacing the long curls

to agitated life.

Beyond the door, a sudden commotion erupted in the hallway. Alarmed, Richard crossed to the

dresser and slipped the medallion into the top drawer. Behind him, the door to his chamber swept

open.

"There you are, little brother." Armus Grey stood on the threshold, a broad smile on his face.

"I've brought you a present--"

Richard's eyes shifted from his brother to the woman standing hesitantly at his side. For the

briefest moment he experienced an unreasonable surge of anger. Yet as quickly as the emotion

surfaced, it was quelled beneath the sharper pain of separation.

"Gwendolyn," he breathed, and offered his hand.

+++++

Richard didn't even hear the door close as Armus left the room. His only conscious thought was

for the woman in his arms; the delicious feel of her body pressed to his. He held her tightly,

inhaling her scent--the rosewater she'd used in her morning bath; the lingering touch of winter

wind in her hair. Burying his face against her neck, he tried to eradicate the ugliness of the last

few days.

"I thought you would be furious with me for disobeying you," Gwendolyn whispered.

"I should be," Richard chided softly, then kissed her, not caring how she came to be there. She

responded willingly to the warm touch of his lips, melting so thoroughly into his embrace he was

momentarily overcome by her nearness. With effort he restrained himself. Tracing one finger

over the bow of her mouth, he smiled down on his wife. "How did you coerce Armus into

bringing you here through three days of wretched weather?"

"I didn't." Gwendolyn twined her fingers into the long curls resting against his collar. "Your

father is still in London, but Armus was able to take leave early. When he'd returned to

Covington Cross and discovered where you'd gone, he volunteered to bring me."

"And of course, you made no mention it was my desire for you remain where you were."

Gwendolyn lowered her eyes. "You do not appear overly displeased with my conduct."

"No." Removing her cloak, Richard tossed it on the bed. She was attired in traveling clothes--a

heavy maroon gown, and wine-red gloves. Tugging the gloves from her thin hands, Richard raised

her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips gently. "I've been lonely, Gwendolyn," he admitted.

She drew a breath--sharp and tremulous, betraying the fluttering beat of her heart. "We met a

courier at the inn. He was on his way to Covington Cross with a message from Lady Elizabeth."

Richard paused. "About Rothrock's murder?"

Gwendolyn nodded, her expression troubled. When she spoke, her voice caught in her throat.

"Richard, I thought you were in prison."

"I'm sorry, love." Richard kissed her temple. "It was a misunderstanding."

"Yes, I know. We saw Lady Elizabeth below, shortly after we arrived and she explained

everything. It's just--" Unable to finish, Gwendolyn shook her head. "Richard, if I'd come with

you from the start, my father never would have lied. It pains me to think what may have

happened if the witness hadn't come forward."

"Your father would have told the truth eventually," Richard assured, not wishing to cause her

distress. Though in truth he wasn't so certain, Gwendolyn needn't know that. "He probably

wanted me to feel his yoke for a while."

"He is not a vindictive man," Gwendolyn said firmly.

"Of course not." Again Richard kissed her, lingering this time as his mouth parted hers. Her lips

were soft and yielding, inviting him to explore the velvet lining of her mouth. Though gentle at

first the probe of his tongue grew insistent, questing deeper as he molded her supple body to his.

Surrendering completely, Gwendolyn made a soft sound in the back of her throat. She could feel

the scrape of his leather jerkin pressing against her breasts, the rough fabric coaxing her nipples to

pert peaks. Richard reached for the simple clasp in her hair and tugged it free, spilling the long

ebony tresses in a satin cascade over her back and shoulders. His lips trailed across her mouth

and cheek; the delicate fringe of her eyelashes. Gwendolyn tilted her head, eager for the heated

touch of his lips on her throat. She felt the gentle sweep of his hand as his fingers slipped within

the bodice of her gown, gently molding her breast.

"You will corrupt me, Sir," she whispered near his ear.

Grinning wickedly, he guided her hand between his legs. "I fear the damage is already done." He

closed his eyes, shuddering as she touched him. Enjoying the heady sensation as much as he, she

kissed him boldly and intensified the caress. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Richard

scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. "As I recall you once struck me for kissing

you."

"You were impertinent," Gwendolyn returned impishly as he unlaced her bodice. Lying on her

back, black hair fanned out behind her, she looked both enchantress and seraph. Richard bent

over her, snarled hair falling forward against his face. Raising her hand, Gwendolyn brushed the

ragged curls from his eyes. Her expression altered, abruptly serious. "I loved you even then, did

you know that? I think I've always loved you, Richard."

He kissed her deeply, moved by the words in a manner he hadn't thought possible. Here in

Lothdoren, surrounded by the cruel manipulations of its venomous guests, Gwendolyn had

restored a measure of faith in goodness. Held in his wife's arms, Richard was able to forget the

spiteful schemes and social-climbing actions of the nobles.

If only briefly.

+++++

"It seems I owe this Lucian Carrister a debt of gratitude," Gwendolyn observed later. Lying in

bed, nestled beneath a pair of fur-trimmed blankets, she rested her head on Richard's chest. The

heat of his bare skin next to hers created a lethargic bliss after the long carriage ride. Coupled

with the delicious hours they'd exhausted in lovemaking, Gwendolyn felt the inviting haze of sleep

grow dangerously nearer. Tracing one finger over Richard's chest, she tilted her head to stare up

at him. "It seems he's managed the inconsistencies of your temper in a very short time."

"He isn't all light," Richard said thoughtfully, thinking of the scars on Carrister's face. "I sense

there's a dark side to him, just as in every man, but he's become a good friend. And I would have

likely done something foolish where Markem was concerned had Lucian not intervened."

"I should like to meet him tomorrow," Gwendolyn announced.

"As you command, Lady Gwen." Richard smiled crookedly--thin grin blooming into the dazzling

smile she knew so well. It was impossible to resist him when he smiled like that--the full upward

curve of his lips crinkling his eyes at the corners; sinking dimples deep into his cheeks. Though he

was almost twenty-two, the smile made him seem like a boy intent on mischief.

Rolling onto her stomach she traced a finger over his lips. "My Lord, I have other commands for

this evening. Shall I instruct you on those as well?"

Pushing the blanket from her shoulders, Richard molded his hands against her bare flesh. "As you

wish, My Lady."

+++++

"Well Brother, you've managed to immerse yourself in the thick of things as usual," Armus

commented, reaching for a goblet of cider. Seated at one of the smaller tables in the solar, the

siblings shared breakfast with Lady Elizabeth, hours after most of the other nobles had dined.

Armus had overslept and Richard and Gwendolyn had been in no hurry to depart their chambers.

"That's not fair, Armus," Lady Elizabeth reprimanded gently. "Richard has behaved admirably

through this whole wretched ordeal. If anyone is to blame, it's me for allowing Lionel to

manipulate me into attending."

"You can hardly be held accountable for his actions," Richard countered. Sighing, he propped an

elbow on the table. Word had arrived earlier that although the roadways grew passable, the

sheriff was detained in the eastern half of the shire, overseeing a judicial matter for the king. As

the days continued to lapse, Richard began to think he would never be free of Lothdoren.

"Where's Gwendolyn?" Armus asked, shattering his reverie.

"With her father. I thought it better if she had some time with him alone." Richard glanced

half-heartedly at his plate, idly picking through pieces of honey-laced bread and fruit. Streamers

of sunlight bounced off the metal studs on his wrist guard, sending reflected rays dancing across

the table. "He tends to grow belligerent when we sees us together."

"It's a difficult marriage," Elizabeth volunteered.

"Only because of Mullens," Richard countered. Disheartened, he abandoned his breakfast.

"There is no obstacle between Gwendolyn and I, except those imposed by her father."

Armus chewed around a mouthful of bread. "He really does seem to have a marked dislike for

you, Richard. Moreso then the rest of us. Any idea why?"

"Aside from the fact I'm married to his daughter?" Richard glance was pointed, his words

underscored with bitterness. Briefly he fell silent, thinking of Simon Canter and Charlotte

Mullens' infidelity. "I haven't a clue." Shuffling aside the ghosts, he attempted to concentrate on

the tangible. "Have you met Lucian Carrister, Armus?"

"The Crusader? Yes, I met him last night. We had quite an anjoyable conversation until I

mentioned I came with Gwendolyn, at which point he grew agitated and left."

Puzzled, Richard frowned. "Why would that bother him?"

Armus rolled his shoulders, soft wheat-blonde hair rippling with the movement. "Your guess is as

good as mine. He did seem to have an innate fondness for you, Brother. Perhaps he sees

Gwendolyn as a rival for your time."

Richard dismissed the notion with a curt wave of his hand. "That's plain silliness. In any event I

want Gwen to meet him. He's one of the few people at Lothdoren who've left a favorable

impression on me."

Elizabeth smiled sharply. "Not an easy thing to do."

When Lady Exton and Lord Tarrignton appeared a short time later, looking smugly down their

noses, it confirmed the air of conceit prevalent at Lothdoren. Though Richard scowled and Lady

Elizabeth looked slightly annoyed, Armus merely chuckled.

"It's better than London," he announced gamely.

+++++

Richard allowed Gwendolyn the time she needed with her father. Though the other nobles

wandered throughout Lothdoren, Richard had a difficult time locating Lucian Carrister. It wasn't

until late afternoon that he stumbled across the Crusader in the armory.

"Lucian." Richard smiled warmly as he stepped into the room. "I've been looking all over for

you. Are you avoiding me?"

Preoccupied, the blonde-haired man shook his head. "Why would I do that, Richard? I merely

have things on my mind--Rothrock's murder; Wicklow playing God and keeping us all caged in

this ghastly excuse for a castle; the constant sniping and underhanded manipulations of the others.

'Tis no place to bring a lady, I can assure you that."

Bewildered, Richard felt his smile falter. In their short acquaintance, he'd never heard Carrister

speak so bitterly. "You mean Gwendolyn--my wife?"

"It's exactly who I mean," Carrister snapped. Striding forward, he halted before Richard, his

expression baleful. "How could you let her come here?"

"Damnation, man, what's wrong with you--do you think I sent her an engraved invitation?"

Shaking his head incredulously, Richard uttered a short laugh. "Where's your head, Lucian?

Gwendolyn came of her own initiative, and I'd be pleased if you'd meet her."

Appearing suddenly flustered, Carrister turned away. "Of course." Clasping his hands behind his

back he strode to the window. Pausing, he considered the vast snow-drenched landscape

unfurling from the castle walls. "Dinner perhaps?" he suggested.

Richard nodded, bewildered by the inexplicable change in his attitude. "We'll see you this

evening," he promised and withdrew from the room.

As Gwendolyn spent most of the day with her father and Lucian continued to avoid him, Richard

remained with Armus. Together with his brother, he examined the southern battlement yet again,

but even detail-oriented Armus failed to unearth anything of interest. Later in the day they took

part in a supervised hunt in which Baron Wicklow participated, thus ensuring none of the nobles

left the grounds. By the time Richard returned to his chambers, Gwendolyn had finished with her

father and was preparing for dinner.

"Did you have an enjoyable visit?" Richard asked, closing the door behind him.

Gwendolyn glanced up from the bureau where she sat, quietly brushing her hair. The ghost of a

smile flickered over her lips, inducing sudden warmth in her dark blue eyes. "Richard!" Rising

she went to his embrace, eager for a welcoming kiss. Wrapping her arms about his neck she

pushed on tiptoe, brushing her lips hungrily against his.

Richard smiled down on her. "I take it this means the visit went well?"

"Very well. My father was pleased to see me, if a bit annoyed by the circumstances here at

Lothdoren. He doesn't feel it's appropriate for me to be here."

Though Richard agreed, he decided it was wiser if he remained silent. As for Baron Mullens

exasperation at his daughter's presence, Richard imagined it was two-fold. While he surely didn't

want her exposed to the ugliness of Rothrock's murder, he also probably wanted to keep his affair

with Helena Cort private. Avoiding the subject altogether, Richard hooked a strand of raven hair

and curled it behind her ear. In the glow of the hearth, the highlights around her face gleamed like

burnished gold. "Lucian Carrister has agreed to dine with us this evening."

"How wonderful. I should like to meet this friend of yours." Moving away, Gwendolyn stepped

to the dresser where she discarded her brush and opened the top drawer. "Perhaps I should wear

something special--that violet gown with the gold and silver lace." As she spoke, Gwendolyn

sifted through the items in the drawer, pushing aside Richard's neck scarves and her own silken

leggings. "I have the perfect set of earrings Father gave me for Christmas two ye--" She stopped

suddenly, words cut abruptly short as though strangled in her throat.

Alarmed, Richard stepped to her side. "Gwendolyn, what is it?" He stood just behind her, one

hand on her shoulder, head bent in concern. Her eyes were riveted on the drawer and the object

clutched in her hand. Richard followed her glance, surprised when he saw the bracelet Helena

Cort had given him dangling from her slim fingers. "Gwen," he persisted. "Gwen, what's

wrong?"

"Where did you get this?" she hissed.

"From Lady Cort," Richard supplied briefly, unwilling to go into details about the murder.

Revelations about Helena's involvement would likely result in the unintentional exposure of her

affair with Mullens. "She found it on the battlement."

Gwendolyn turned, her eyes wide. "The battlement where Lord Rothrock was killed?"

Warily, Richard nodded. He didn't like the way she was looking at the medallion. "Gwendolyn,

tell me what's wrong."

"This was my mother's," she replied swiftly. And in the shocked incredulity of those words,

Richard suddenly recalled where he had seen the crest before. Once as a child he'd come upon

Charlotte Canter on the banks of the Korleigh in Tiner Forest. She'd been weeping--a sight that

had frightened Richard for reasons he couldn't name. As she turned from the river a lace

handkerchief had fallen from her hand--a handkerchief bearing a unicorn crest.

Richard took the medallion from Gwendolyn's fingers, turning her about to face him. "Is this the

Crest of Canter?" he asked firmly.

"No." Eyes bright with unshed tears, Gwendolyn shook her head. "The bracelet belonged to my

mother, but it was not her family's crest. Someone gave it to her--someone she trusted. Oh

Richard, how could Lady Cort possibly have found it at Lothdoren?"

Richard bit his lip. There was no reason for Helena Cort to lie, yet the fact the bracelet had

belonged to Charlotte Canter left the blonde-haired Noblewoman open to suspicion. Had she

truly found it on the battlement, or was this yet another implausibility in an already impossible

murder? Closing his fingers over the medallion, Richard kissed his wife gently on the forehead.

"I don't know, love--but I promise we won't leave without the answer."

+++++

Lucian Carrister did not show for dinner. John Mullens and Lady Wicklow were also missing

from the bickering group of nobles who gathered in the Great Hall. The strain of remaining at

Lothdoren was beginning to take its toll, evidenced by the barbed quips which grew blatantly

ugly. Insults and innuendo were no longer veiled in clever disguise, but spoken with utter

disregard for social protocol. Richard had to admit Mullens was right--Lothdoren was no place

for Gwendolyn. When it grew apparent Lucian Carrister had no intention of showing, Richard

suggested Lady Elizabeth and Gwendolyn retire to Elizabeth's chambers and dine in private.

Though initially moved to protest, Gwendolyn reluctantly agreed when she noted the set mask of

Richard's face.

"I'll escort you," Armus volunteered, helping Lady Elizabeth from her seat. Richard did the same

for Gwendolyn.

His wife hesitated with her hand on his arm. "Aren't you coming?"

"In a moment," he returned. "There's something I need to do first."

As Armus and the others left the room, Richard stalked from the hall in search of Lucian

Carrister. Blinded by unreasonable rage, he failed to look where he was headed and collided with

Lady Wicklow in the outer chamber. "Oh--I'm sorry--" Mortified, Richard steadied the demure

woman with a hand to her shoulder. Though a heightened flush stained her cheeks, she appeared

otherwise composed. Unlike the other nobles who thrived on condescending sneers and

social-climbing schemes, Richard had always thought Adina Wicklow a woman of poise and

refinement. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Lady Wicklow--I wasn't looking where I was going."

"That's quite all right, Sir Richard." Adina Wicklow offered a polite smile, but her manner was

unusually strained. With her husband acting as interim Lord of Lothdoren, Richard imagined

she'd endured more than a fair share of pressure over the last few days. It showed in the ring of

shadow beneath her nut-brown eyes. Absently she fingered an oval brooch pinned to her

high-necked gown. "I was just headed to the Great Hall to join my husband for dinner."

Following the movement of her hand, Richard sucked in his breath. The brooch was intricately

detailed, bordered with gold filigree. But it was the crest painstakingly etched in the center which

drew Richard's attention--the rendering of a prancing unicorn. "That's an unusual brooch," he

commented carefully.

Unaware she'd been fingering the trinket, Lady Wicklow dropped her hand to her side. She

laughed self-consciously. "Not entirely, I'm afraid. It's the Crest of the House of Wicklow."

"Is it?" Richard voiced the words with only mild interest. Inwardly his stomach clenched.

Wicklow couldn't have possibly been the man he'd seen running on the rampart, for he'd appeared

in the doorway immediately after Richard had discovered Rothrock. Was it possible Wicklow

could have had access to a secret passage and doubled back that quickly? If so, surely Helena

Cort would have seen him. Even more troubling, what had Wicklow--if Wicklow it had been--

been doing with a bracelet that once belonged to Gwendolyn's mother?

"I'm sorry, young man," Adina Wicklow said kindly. "You'll pardon if I don't stay longer. I

promised my husband I'd be down an hour ago."

"Of course." Richard inclined his head as she stepped past him. Reaching inside his tunic, he

retrieved the medallion he'd taken from Gwendolyn. Thoughtfully he rubbed his thumb over the

surface. Gwendolyn had said someone Charlotte trusted had given her the medallion--just as they

must have given her the handkerchief. Trinkets from a lover or just a friend, Richard wondered?

Sliding the medallion back inside his tunic, Richard strode from the room. Though he was loathed

to admit it, it seemed entirely possible Baron Brian Wicklow was the father of Charlotte Canter's

illegitimate son.

+++++

The outside air was frigid, coaxed to near glacial proportions by the piercing sting of an

unyielding wind. Ducking his head, Richard held the collar of his cloak clasped tightly to his

throat. Surrounded by the night's swaddling pall, he trudged through the snow-covered ground

toward the stable. His boots sank into wet drifts halfway up his calves, making the trek difficult.

Persistence and the track of another man's footprints in the snow kept him to the path. The

watchful eye of the moon sketched contorted shadows on the ground, coaxed from the tangled

branches of a nearby tree.

Beckoned by the warm glow of torchlight, Richard stepped within the stable. Lucian Carrister

was just exiting, trailing his horse by the reins. Disturbed that his friend was departing in so

secretive a manner, Richard felt himself grow immediately defensive. "Why are you leaving?"

Carrister balked, surprised by his presence. It took him only a moment to recover. "You're a

bright lad--you figure it out."

Richard ignored the curt sting of his words. "Wicklow's decreed no one should depart until after

the Sheriff arrives. Lucian--there's still the matter of Rothrock's murder."

Scowling, the other man started forward. "An unfortunate accident."

"Accident?" Richard snagged the bridle, wrenching the horse to a halt. With only inches

separating them, he could readily see the anger in Carrister's eyes. Deeper still and more

disturbing, lingered painful remorse. "Do you know something about that night you haven't told

me?"l

Lucian laughed--a dry, brittle sound, wholly lacking for warmth. "God's teeth, Richard, you're as

utterly blind as Mullens. If you haven't figured it out by now you're slower than I thought. Your

lady wife would know in an instant, but then she has greater cause to remember me. Years can't

alter the bond we formed in childhood."

Richard grew utterly still. He felt each word cut deeper into his soul, paring away fa‡ade and

pretense until only painful truth remained--truth he adamantly wished to deny. In the flickering

glow of soft torchlight, he could almost see a younger Lucian--comely and delicate, blonde hair

near white; face clean-shaven and unmarred by feature-altering scars. It wasn't just disfigurement

that had made Simon Canter unrecognizable to his stepfather--it was the passage of bitter years,

each twisting Canter's already tainted soul to greater levels of hatred.

Richard felt his mouth go suddenly dry. "It was you on the battlement that night. You meant to

kill John Mullens."

"With your knife," Canter supplied. "I never expected to find such a perfect scapegoat at

Rothrock's gala. The very night you arrived you threatened to kill Mullens--in front of witnesses,

no less. It should have been the perfect murder."

"But you killed the wrong man."

"Yes," Canter said evenly. "And I grew unexpectedly fond of you. That complicates matters,

Richard."

"I can't let you go."

Canter grinned thinly, a ghastly sight when coupled with the deep scars on his face. "I expected

as much. You have no cause to intervene. What can you know of the hatred I feel for Mullens--a

man who's denial sent me to the Crusades? I had no other place to go, Richard. No other father.

My mother died prematurely--grown ill in a loveless marriage." Brusquely, Canter motioned to

his face. "I have Mullens to thank for this. Eight months in the festering rat-hole of a Saracen

prison. I barely escaped with my life, but the memory of torture still wakes me in a cold sweat

many nights. My hatred is justified."

"Damn it, Lucian! You would have let me hang for his death. How can you justify that?"

"A regrettable matter," the older man said sincerely. With a rueful smile he laid his hand on

Richard's shoulder. His fingers tightened, squeezing in warm companionship. "My sister chose

well, when she accepted you as husband. Under other circumstances you and I surely would have

been friends." Canter tilted his head to the side, his gaze direct. "I won't stay and wait for the

Sheriff, Richard. All you have to do is turn away."

"I can't do that," Richard said miserably. Every conceivable instinct told him to yield to Canter's

logic--to turn away and feign ignorance about the whole wretched ordeal. True, Rothrock was

dead, but what great loss did the world suffer from the passing of one vile man? Wasn't the shire

better off without a vain lord who routinely manipulated others to deceitful and injurious conduct?

Drawing a ragged breath, Richard dismissed the notion. He knew he couldn't turn his back on the

principals his father had ingrained in him since childhood--principals of right and wrong and

justice. "I can't do it, Lucian," he repeated, firmly this time.

Canter maintained his grip on Richard's shoulder. "Then you'll be forced to draw your blade on

me."

"On the brother of my wife?" It seemed to Richard every nuance of sound and movement grew

stilted--suspended in a weightless shroud. For a moment he couldn't breathe. "I can't do that

either."

The older man looked remorseful, his expression growing pained. Sadly he shook his head.

Hooking an arm around Richard's shoulder he drew him close. "You leave me little choice," he

whispered thickly. Even as the last word left his mouth, Richard felt a shattering influx of pain

below his ribs. Too stunned to respond, he could only gasp as a disgorging flow of blood sluiced

over his belt and jerkin. Canter released him and he staggered a step backward, eyes dropping in

disbelief to the hole in his side.

"God, Lucian." Pressing a hand to the wound, Richard fell back against the waist-high beam

erected as divider between two stalls. His eyes tracked to the bloody knife in his friend's hand as

a heated rush of vertigo swept over him. Light-headed, he clung to the beam for support, his

knees threatening to buckle. "How could you?"

Turning away, Canter swung up onto his horse. Wordlessly, he coaxed the steed from beneath

the overhang. Though moonlight silhouetted his form in blackest shadow, the cold glint of his

eyes was visible when he glanced back at Richard. "Because I am what Mullens made me."

Closing his eyes, Richard listened to the receding beat of the horse's hooves. The cadence was

sharp and hollow, almost melodic when coupled with the keening wail of the wind. It reminded

Richard of a funeral dirge--the winter song of the heath proclaiming the demise of once verdant

land. Grimacing Richard bent forward, cupping his hand against the wound. He could feel the

warm tackiness of blood seeping between his fingers despite the intervening leather of his glove.

Each rattling intake of breath sent a sharp pain ricocheting through his side. Groping unsteadily

the length of the beam, Richard located blanket and saddle for the nearest horse and clumsily

maneuvered them onto the steed. Twice he had to stop when pain and dizziness threatened to

render him unconscious.

Determined Lucian Carrister must stand trial for his crimes, Richard fumbled onto the horse and

headed in pursuit of the man he'd once called friend.

+++++

"Father, please!" Gwendolyn tugged on Mullens' sleeve, blue eyes imploring. Though she knew

her father could be implacable when he chose, she also knew he had an inherent soft spot for his

daughters' wishes. "It's been almost two hours. Something is wrong."

Not unkindly, Mullens removed her hand. Seated before the hearth in his chambers, he let the

roaring warmth of cascading firelight wash over him, adding to the heat of sweet wine in his belly.

"Your husband isn't a child, Gwendolyn. He's perfectly capable of fending for himself."

Almost thoughtfully, he poured himself more wine.

"But one of the servants saw him go outside and it's positively dreadful out there." Frustrated,

Gwendolyn stalked to the opposite side of the room, her gown swishing agitatedly about her

ankles. "Armus and the stable master are out looking, but there's far too much ground to cover in

the dark. Father, please go look for Richard."

Mullens frowned. "You'd have me look for someone I despise?"

Gwendolyn returned to his side, dropping to her knees by the chair. Face upturned, she looked

on him beseechingly. "For me," she pleaded.

Inwardly Mullens swore. The insertion of those two simple words in the conversation effectively

quelled any objection he might have voiced.

+++++

Between the distorting haze of pain and the merciless teeth of an unforgiving wind, Richard lost

all sense of direction. Though the cold helped clot the sluicing flow of blood from his side, it

made progress difficult. In prime condition he might have withstood the punishing onslaught of

cruel weather, but it was all he could do to remain mounted now. Hunched over the saddle, he

clung to the reins, his fingers stiffened with cold beneath his bloodstained gloves. Canter's tracks

were no longer visible, obscured by scattered snow and crumbling drifts.

Likewise, Richard lost all sense of time. As he ventured deeper among the snarled tangle of

forestland, it suddenly occurred to him he'd acted foolishly. Without proper attention the knife

wound could prove fatal if the cold didn't claim him first. He was still dressed as he'd been for

dinner, in a lightweight tunic and jerkin, much too thin for the harsher weather outdoors.

Glancing skyward he felt the cold kiss of new snow against his face. The heavens spun overhead,

strewn with the diamondine dance of crystal-white stars. In the twinkle of an eye the glittering

array of light twirled into a convoluted sphere. A rush of vertigo spiked in Richard's head and he

slumped forward, tumbling from his horse. The bite of cold snow against his shoulder made him

grunt and roll onto his back. The sky reeled maddeningly overhead, broken patches of darkness

and light glimpsed through the contorted branches of disfigured trees.

Richard struggled to rise but the movement only reopened the wound, expelling a fresh glut of

blood. Choking on a white-knuckle rush of nausea, Richard slumped into the cold embrace of

snow--oblivious to all but the darkness that gradually claimed his eyes.

+++++

"Swallow." The voice was harsh, pitched close to his ear. Complying without thought, Richard

did as he was told. Immediately warmth burned his throat, tracking a heated path to his stomach.

Though the wine tasted sour it was blissfully welcome--like a Faerie-warding cast against the

denizens of sorcerous-inspired cold. Richard stirred and tried to rise. He was aware of

snow-covered ground beneath him; enveloping warmth cushioning his back. Belatedly he realized

Simon Canter supported him against his chest. "I should have just let you die," the older man

said. "Instead I suffer an infernal pang of conscience at the last moment."

Richard pushed away from him. With effort he gained his feet, then stood swaying until he braced

a steadying hand against the gnarled trunk of a wizened oak. He wasn't certain if it was anger or

relief that he felt--only knew the complex web of emotion left him slightly off-kilter. Coupled

with the grating influx of pain in his side and the relentless cold plaguing his body, it made him

dangerously vulnerable to error. Reaching inside his jerkin he withdrew the bracelet Helena Cort

had given him. Not trusting his voice, he tossed it at Canter's feet.

The older man retrieved it, slowly straightening to his full height. Snagged in the soft glow of

celestial light, the surface seemed imbued with its own luminous radiance. Canter rubbed his

thumb over the unicorn crest. "I dropped this the night I killed Rothrock. It belonged to my

mother." Canter's lips twisted with the grief of remembrance. "She told me my father had given it

to her."

"Helena Cort found it," Richard said as evenly as he could. Wet snow had saturated his cloak and

clothing, inducing a tremor in his body. The affliction was evident in his usually precise voice,

which quavered every so slightly. "Would you have killed her too?"

Canter glanced up sharply. For a moment he looked as though he would reply, then he simply

tucked the medallion into his belt. Turning toward his horse, he gathered the reins. "Go back to

Lothdoren, Richard."

Before either could speak, the silhouette of an approaching rider drew their attention. Filtering

between the trees like an apparition at midnight, John Mullens rode into the small clearing.

Richard felt his mouth go dry.

"Well." Mullens smiled snidely, gazing down upon the other two men. His eyes flicked between

Richard and Canter, noting the latter's heavily burdened horse; his son-in-law's blood-soaked side

and awkward stance. "What have we here--one man wounded, the other prepared for a long

journey. Unless I've missed my guess, Wicklow would have something to say about this."

Canter unsheathed his sword. "Step down you ratsbane."

"Lucian, no--" Clumsily, Richard moved away from the tree.

Rather than grow angry, Mullens appeared amused. "Ratsbane, is it? And what tiresome quarrel

would I have with you, Carrister?"

"Not Carrister--*Canter*. Simon Canter."

Mullens blanched. Abruptly ill at ease he shifted in the saddle, features slack and pasty-white. In

the contouring touch of moonlight and shadow, the sudden distress made his face seem almost

skeletal. "That's impossible," he hissed.

Canter strode forward, halting beside Mullens' horse. Tilting his head back, he gazed definitely at

his stepfather. "Not so impossible when you consider what years and Saracen torture have done

to my face. Look closely, Baron, and you'll see my mother staring back at you."

"Bastard!" Raising his leg, Mullens planted his foot squarely in the other's chest and thrust

backward. Canter reeled off balance and Mullens dismounted swiftly, drawing his sword. Metal

clashed against metal as Mullens pressed the attack.

Incensed, Richard unsheathed his blade. "Stop!"

Neither combatant paid any heed as the clash of their swords reverberated through the still

woods. Possessed by hatred so diseased it had twisted his soul, Mullens wielded his weapon with

beserker rage. By contrast Canter was poised precision, striking lithely then dancing free of

reciprocating blows. To Richard, dazed and bedraggled with pain, the exchange looked like

something enacted in slow motion. When Canter struck again, Richard slid his sword into the

fray, cleanly deflecting the blow.

Enraged, Canter glanced at him with hatred in his eyes. "Stay out of this, Richard."

"I'll be damned if I will!" Even injured he managed to batter Mullens' sword aside. Catching

Lucian by the tunic, he shoved backward, thrusting him up against a tree. It took every

pain-wracked ounce of strength he possessed to hold him there. "You're so bloody set on

blaming Mullens for your misery, you've forgotten you had a father--a real father who might have

raised you outside of Torsun-Narr had he the courage to do so."

"She told me my father was dead," Lucian snapped.

Behind him, Richard heard the crunch of snow as Mullens moved closer. Turning his head only

slightly, he snarled over his shoulder: "Stay were you are, Baron." And then to Lucian: "She

told you what you needed to hear. What would you have done if she told you your real father had

no want of you either?"

"You're lying." Canter dropped his sword. Unsheathing his knife, he raised it above his head.

From the corner of his eye Richard could see the polluted blade still stained with his own blood.

"Release me," Canter warned. "Or I'll finish what I started at the stable."

Behind Richard, Mullens leaned forward thrusting cleanly with his sword. The blade cleared

Richard's side, embedding deeply into Canter's chest. Jerking spasmodically, the blonde-haired

man wrenched backward, impaled like a fish on a gaffing pole. Eyes boggling in his head, his

mouth pumped soundlessly as his hands groped futilely at the thick blade pinning him to the tree.

Mullens wrenched the weapon free and Richard--mortified by his unwilling part in the attack--

released his hold. Canter crumbled soundlessly to the ground.

For a moment Richard only stared at the lifeless heap sprawled at his boots--a belated sense of

shock pinging hollowly through his veins. There was a sound like rushing water in his ears, and

then the enormity of what had transpired eradicated every sensation but for the engulfing black

tide of rage.

"Damn you!" Whirling about, Richard swung his sword in a deadly arc, battering his

father-in-law's bloodstained blade to the ground. "Damn you to hell, you yellow-skinned

bastard!" There was no reason in his actions, just sheer volatile rage, blinding him to everything

but the gut-twisting turmoil devouring his insides.

"He would have killed you, you pig-headed fool," Mullens spat, stumbling backward.

Richard heard nothing. He struck again and again, the unerring path of his blade as precise as it

was lethal. It was all Mullens could do to fend off the blows and purchase precious seconds. If

he'd ever doubted Richard's skill with a sword, there was no longer any question. Even injured,

blood spilling from his side, Richard was a deadly opponent. Mullens held the younger man off

as long as he could, but eventually stumbled. On one knee he raised his sword perpendicular

above his head, his only defense against the deadly arc of silver in Richard's hands. One final blow

from Richard's sword sent it crashing from his numb fingers. Defenseless, Mullens sucked in a

breath, looking on the enraged visage of his son-in-law.

Richard's breath rasped in his throat. Only belatedly did his senses clear, revealing the sight of his

father-in-law kneeling in the snow. Richard's sword hovered just shy of his throat, the tempered

edge gleaming coldly silver. Chest heaving, Richard tried to get his erratic emotions under

control. Though frequently given to anger, he couldn't recall ever being so completely consumed

by rage before.

"He would have killed you," Mullens repeated flatly.

Richard lowered his blade. Though he doubted Mullens had taken Canter's life to save his, he

couldn't dispute it under the circumstances. As the unreasonable surge of anger washed away he

felt a shattering influx of weakness. Sheathing his sword he staggered away from Mullens and

dropped at Canter's side. Extending his hand he brushed his fingers over his friend's eyes, gently

sweeping them closed. Within moments, Mullens appeared at his shoulder. The naked tip of his

blade dripped beads of Canter's blood to the snow-covered ground.

"You will say nothing of who he was to my daughter," Mullens instructed coldly. Raising his

sword, he held the blade poised casually behind Richard's neck. A single stroke would have

ended the Mullens/Grey alliance . . . would have freed Gwendolyn to marry a man of the Baron's

choosing. With a little finesse, Richard's demise could easily have been blamed on Carrister. And

more importantly to the Lord of Torsun-Narr--it would have healed his wounded pride.

Mullens sheathed his sword.

Unnerved, Richard cast him a questioning glance.

"It's better Gwendolyn thinks her brother still lives somewhere distant," Mullens said flatly. His

eyes dipped to the blood dripping from Richard's side. "I promised her I'd see you safely inside,

so get on your feet. I'll send a wagon to fetch Carrister's body."

Even in death, Mullens couldn't bring himself to voice Lucian's true name, Richard thought

distastefully. He might have argued the point but exhaustion kept him mute. Grimacing, he

struggled to his feet and glanced bleakly about for his horse. He took two steps toward the

animal before crumbling to his knees in the snow.

Mullens swore loudly. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he strode brusquely to Richard's side.

Mumbling beneath his breath he hooked Richard's arm, roughly stretching it across his shoulders

as he pulled the younger man to his feet. "If it weren't for Gwendolyn I'd let you rot out here," he

spat vehemently.

Too tired to care, Richard sagged against him. "That's what I like about you, Baron--you're

utterly predictable."

+++++

"Dearest." The word was gentle and soft, drawing Richard from the blissful cocoon of sleep.

Something touched his face--a feather caress, tracking smoothly over his cheek like the petal-soft

wings of a butterfly. With a muffled groan he blinked and opened his eyes, enraptured by the

sight of his wife smiling down on him. "It's almost morning," she whispered. "How do you feel?"

Richard concentrated on the softness of the bed against his back; the enveloping warmth of the

fur-trimmed blankets effectively blocking remembered cold. Gwendolyn sat on the edge of the

bed wrapped in a robe of sapphire blue, her unbound hair spilling over her shoulders. Richard

raised his arm and she gripped his hand, twining her fingers about his. "Father brought you back,"

she volunteered, sensing his confusion. "The healer tended you and you've slept most of the

night."

Richard wet his lips. "Carrister," he said with difficulty.

Gwendolyn appeared uncomfortable if only briefly. "The stable master and Armus took a wagon

to fetch his body," she explained carefully. "Father went with them to mark the location."

"And?" Richard persisted when she lapsed into silence.

Gwendolyn glanced at their hands twined so closely together. "Carrister's body wasn't there,

Richard."

"What do you mean it wasn't there?"

Awkwardly, Gwendolyn rolled her shoulders. "It was . . . gone. Vanished, as though it'd never

been."

"But that's impossible." Agitated at the revelation, Richard struggled to rise.

Pressing her hands to his chest, Gwendolyn held him firmly in place. "The healer says you're not

to move. You'll rip open his stitching if you're not careful."

"The Devil take it!" Richard snapped. Thrusting aside the blankets, he swung his legs over the

edge of the bed. Gwendolyn hurried to the opposite side, attempting to restrain him. The moment

his legs took the full force of his weight, Richard felt an unforgiving lance of pain splinter through

his side. With a startled cry, he pressed his hand to the angry wound and slumped back into the

bed.

Sitting beside him, Gwendolyn supported him with a hand beneath his arm. "Please, Richard--you

must not be so willful."

Had it been anyone other than his wife voicing those words, Richard might have scoffed. As it

was, he felt oddly chastised for the heated rush of agitation. "I saw Carrister die," he said firmly,

trying to still the irrational rush of emotion. Was it possible he'd been so wrong? Could there

have existed some glimmer of life in the battered shell of his friend?

"Father said he tried to kill you. He said he had no choice."

Richard glanced away. He couldn't tell her the truth. In her eyes Lucian Carrister must forever

remain a murderer who had taken the life of Lionel Rothrock for undisclosed reasons. To her,

Mullens had acted heroically--saving Richard from a butchering fiend who'd beguiled him with

false friendship. And as much as Richard believed Mullens had murdered Lucian for the pleasure

it brought, a smaller part wanted to believe the Baron had truly been protecting his life.

"What of my mother's bracelet?" Gwendolyn asked when he'd remained silent too long. "Father

made no mention of it, but if Carrister truly killed Lord Rothrock, he must have had the medallion

as well."

Uncomfortably Richard wet his lips. "I do believe it was his, Gwen." Though he'd promised

Mullens not to tell Gwendolyn Carrister's true identity, it wasn't in him to blatantly lie to his wife.

He consoled himself with a half-truth. "I'm not certain how he came upon it--perhaps his path

crossed with your mother's at some point in time. I guess we'll never know for certain."

Even as he voiced the words a niggling doubt told Richard Carrister wasn't dead. He'd looked on

his friend's face--on the staring, lifeless eyes--but maybe that was what Lucian Carrister had

wanted him to see. Perhaps Carrister had freed him from involvement and guilt by feigning death

so complete, even Mullens had been fooled. It was--however deceitful--the carefully orchestrated

act of a friend.

Gwendolyn touched his arm and he jerked suddenly, coming back to his senses. Tomorrow he'd

have to face Baron Wicklow, knowing the man had turned his back on Charlotte Canter and the

illegitimate son she'd borne him so many years ago. What would Mullens do, Richard wondered,

if he knew the identity of the man who'd stolen his wife's heart? It was better the secret remained

buried. Struggling with the truth, Richard found it oddly disconcerting to realize how much

respect he'd lost for a man he'd once admired.

For Lucian he wanted to confront Wicklow. For Gwendolyn he could not.

"You're tired," his wife said, and he realized quite suddenly she was right. His bones felt weighted

with iron; his eyelids with burgeoning fatigue. Looping his arm around Gwendolyn's shoulders,

Richard pulled her close. Brushing his lips across her temple, he closed his eyes--inhaling the

wondrous fragrance of her hair; the heady perfume of her rose-dusted flesh. Slipping a finger

beneath her chin he tilted her head back, bringing her lips within inches of his own.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "I promise we'll never be parted again."

Eagerly Gwendolyn folded into his arms, welcoming the vow he anointed with a kiss. To her, it

mattered not if Lucian Carrister had lived or died. But to Richard Grey and John Mullens, the

torment would forever linger.

--End Midwinter Reckoning--