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Hers To Command
Margaret Moore
Knight-errant Sir Henry is capable of impressive prowess on the battlefield…and in bed! Finding Lady Mathilde waiting in his chamber, Sir Henry is irresistibly drawn to her intelligence. Steadfast and determined, Mathilde is a proud woman and as complex as her secrets… Henry agrees to help save her lands, but as invaders close in, Mathilde must dare to trust not only her deepest desires, but the man willing to fight for all he is worth to prove his honour…‘Ms Moore is a master of the medieval time period. ’ – Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Praise for Margaret Moore
“Ms Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”
—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe
“This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”
—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr
“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“Ms Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armour.”
—Rendezvous
“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.”
—Under the Covers
“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.”
—romancereaderatheart.com
“If you’re looking for a fix for your medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of award-winning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!” —aromancereview.com
“You seem to be a most unusualnobleman.”
“As you seem to be a most unusual lady.”
Even he could not have said whether he meant that for a compliment or not, but it was true. “I’m impressed with your concern for your sister,” he added as he strolled towards her, and that, at least, was the truth.
Lady Mathilde backed away as if she were afraid. Of him? That was ridiculous – he had given her every reason to believe he would be the opposite of dangerous to her.
The woman before him flushed, but didn’t look away. Her mouth was half parted, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She swayed forward a bit – enough to encourage him to think she was feeling the same pull of desire and curiosity.
Responding to that urge, he put his hands on her shoulders and started to draw her closer…
Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheikh”. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.
Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com
Hers To Command
Margaret Moore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With thanks to everyone who has offered support and encouragement during my writing career, and the readers who buy my books. I couldn’t do it without you!
PROLOGUE
London, Michaelmas, 1243
SIR ROALD DE SAYRES’S nostrils flared with disgust as he stepped over the refuse in the alley in Cloth Fair between the slaughtering yards of Smithfields and the bulk of St. Bartholemew’s Church. Aware of the sword he wore on his left, he firmly clasped the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt on his right and scanned the alley for the man he was to meet.
“Sir Roald!” a coarse Yorkshire-accented voice called out in a harsh whisper. The bulky shape of a big, brawny man stepped into the alley from a shadowed doorway. He wore breeches, tunic and cloak, patched and none too clean.
Roald peered at the figure in the dim light, trying to get a good look at his face. “Martin?”
“Aye, sir,” the man replied with a nod of his shaggy head.
Roald relaxed a little, but he didn’t take his hand from his dagger. “You told no one you were planning to meet me here?”
“No, sir,” the former garrison commander of his uncle’s castle answered.
“And you told no one in Ecclesford you were going to London?”
“Not daft, am I?” Martin replied with a hoarse laugh.
Not daft, but not clever, either, Roald thought as he regarded the traitorous fool. “It’s as you promised? The garrison—?”
“Will be like lambs to the slaughter. Taught ’em next to nowt, and their weapons are older’n my mother. Paid for the worst, told Lord Gaston—who wouldn’t know a decent sword from a pike—they was the best.”
And pocketed the difference in price, no doubt.
“Them that are left won’t know how to mount a proper defense, neither,” Martin bragged, the big brute clearly not caring a ha’penny about the fate of his former comrades-in-arms. “They’ll be running ’round like chickens if you march on ’em.”
“And his daughters? Prostrate with grief, I assume?”
Chuckling like the fool he was, Martin nodded. “They was weepin’ and wailin’ when I left. They think that father of theirs was a saint or summat.” Martin grinned again, the corner of his wide, ugly mouth lifting. “Told ’em I wouldn’t take orders from no women—and I wouldn’t, neither, especially that Lady Mathilde.”
Roald didn’t care what excuse the man gave for leaving his cousins’employ as long as it didn’t involve him. “You told no one you were meeting me tonight?”
“No, my lord.”
Pleased his alliance with this traitorous oaf was still a secret, Roald reached into his finely woven woolen tunic and produced a leather pouch. He had no immediate financial needs, thanks to the moneylenders who were only too happy to help him when they learned he was the heir of Lord Gaston of Ecclesford and soon to be in possession of one of the most prosperous estates in Kent.
As always, it wasn’t just the thought of his new wealth and power that warmed him. How he’d make that shrew Mathilde grovel before he sent her off to a convent for the rest of her life. As for Giselle…his loins tightened at the memory of her ethereal beauty. He’d marry her off to the highest bidder, but not right away. Oh, no, not right away.
Martin cleared his throat, clearly anxious for his reward.
Roald held out the pouch, mentally assessing the man’s strengths and weaknesses. A trained fighter Martin might be, but all men had their vulnerabilities. Big men were slow, and stupid men were the most easily defeated of all.
Grabbing the leather bag, the soldier eagerly emptied it into his calloused palm, the coins gleaming in the moonlight. With a slow deliberation that set Roald’s teeth on edge, the lummox began to count them as he returned them, one by one, to the pouch.
“Do you think I’d try to cheat you, Martin?”
Martin glanced up, frowning. His gaze faltered, and he swept the coins, half of which were below their proper weight and value, back into the pouch. “No, my lord.”
Roald fingered the jeweled hilt of the dagger in his belt. “What will you do now that you’re quite rich?”
Martin grinned. “Enjoy some sport, then get meself a wife. Maybe buy an inn.”
“I could always use a trained fighter,” Roald proposed.
Martin shook his head. “Beggin’your pardon, my lord, but I’m done with that. Not gettin’any younger, nor any faster. Time to take what I’ve earned and settle down.”
“Like a horse put out to pasture, eh?”
Martin frowned as if the comparison displeased him, but he nodded nonetheless. “Aye, you could say that.”
“Well, it’s a pity, but of course, if that’s what you’d prefer,” Roald said amiably. “I give you good night, then, Martin. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you, you mustn’t hesitate to come to me and ask.”
With a bow and another grin, the soldier tugged his forelock and started to pass the French nobleman, heading for the end of the alley.
He never made it. With the speed of an adder, Roald grabbed him by the neck from behind and shoved his pretty silver dagger up under the man’s ribs.
His eyes wide and wild, gasping for breath, Martin flailed like a landed fish as he tried to free himself. Unfortunately for him, while Roald was not as big or muscular, he was strong. And determined. Still holding the bigger man around the neck with his arm, he pulled out the dagger and shoved it in again.
Weak, the blood pouring from his side, Martin sank to the fetid ground, falling with a thud when Roald finally released his hold.
Out of breath and with a look of disgust, Roald pulled his dagger free and wiped it on the man’s no doubt flea-infested tunic. “Should have worn mail, you stupid ox,” he muttered as he grabbed the pouch. Twenty marks—or even a portion of that—was still worth holding on to. His greedy little whore of a mistress had been demanding a present from the new lord of Ecclesford. He would give her a ring or some such bauble, and he trusted she’d be suitably grateful. After all, there was no need to go rushing off to his estate. Mathilde and Giselle would be too upset by their father’s death to do anything but mourn for days yet.
As for Martin, when his body was found, people would assume he was just another fool who came to London and got himself murdered.
They’d be right.
CHAPTER ONE
THE FOX AND HOUND in the county of Kent lay ten miles from the castle of Ecclesford along the road to London. It was a small but comfortable inn, with a walled yard, a taproom frequented by the local farmers and food slightly better than one usually found in such places. Inside the building was the aforementioned taproom, redolent of damp rushes, ale and cheap English wine, smoke from the large hearth and roasted beef. A little natural light shone in through the wooden shutters, now closed to keep out the cool, moist morning air of late September.
Five days after Roald de Sayres killed the former garrison commander of Ecclesford Castle, two women went up the rickety steps leading to the chambers where guests could lodge for the night. One of the women, beautiful and blond, trembled with every step that brought them closer to the rooms where the guests slept. The other who led the way appeared full of confident conviction as she marched briskly upward, oblivious to the creaking of the stairs and motes of dust swirling around them. Nothing was going to dissuade Lady Mathilde from her quest, not even her own rapidly beating heart.
“Mathilde, this is madness!” the lovely Lady Giselle hissed as she grabbed hold of her sister’s light gray woolen cloak and nearly pulled the white linen veil from her head.
Grabbing at her veil to hold it in place, Mathilde turned toward her anxious sister. In truth, she knew what they were doing was outrageous, but she was not about to lose this opportunity. The innkeeper’s son, who knew of their troubles and their need, had come to them the day before and told them of the young nobleman who’d arrived alone at the Fox and Hound—a merry, handsome Norman knight with a very thin purse.
His looks mattered not to Mathilde, and indeed, she would have been happier had he been homely. But the knight’s nearly empty purse caused her to hope that he would be glad of the chance to earn some money, even if he had no personal interest in their just cause. The lordly brother and equally lordly friend the knight had mentioned also made her hope he might be the answer to her prayers.
“What else are we to do?” she asked her sister, likewise whispering. “Sit and wait for Roald to take Ecclesford from us? If this fellow is who he says he is, he could be exactly the sort of man we need.”
“Perhaps Roald will not dispute our father’s will,” Giselle protested, as she had every time Mathilde mentioned her plan to discourage Roald from trying to take what was not his. “He has not yet come and—”
“You know as well as I how greedy he is,” Mathilde replied. “Do you really believe he will accept losing Ecclesford? I do not. He may come today or tomorrow, demanding that we turn the estate over to him. We must do everything we can to prepare for that.”
Giselle still didn’t budge from her place on the step. “This knight may not want to help us.”
“Rafe said he was poor. We will offer to pay him. And after all, we aren’t going to be asking him to risk his life.”
“But why must we go into the bedchamber?” Giselle asked piteously, wringing her hands with dismay. “We should stay in the taproom. He will surely awaken and come downstairs soon.”
“We have been waiting for too long as it is,” Mathilde replied. “We cannot sit all day in the taproom, especially when there is much to be done at home, and did you not see the clouds gathering over the hills to the south? If we do not start for home soon, we may get caught in a storm.”
“We know nothing of this man beyond what Rafe has said,” Giselle persisted, “and he was only repeating what the Norman told him last night. Maybe the Norman was merely bragging. A man may say anything when he’s in his cups.”
Perhaps the young man had been drunk, or exaggerating or lying, and if that was so, obviously he wasn’t the man to help them. But if he wasn’t lying, Mathilde wasn’t about to let a knight related to a powerful Norman nobleman in Scotland and who was a friend to an equally powerful lord in Cornwall slip through her fingers without at least asking for his help. “If this fellow seems a liar and a rogue, we will leave him here.”
“How will we be able to tell if he’s honest or not?”
“I will know.”
“You?” Giselle exclaimed, and then she colored and looked away.
Shame flooded Mathilde’s face, because Giselle had good cause to doubt Mathilde’s wisdom when it came to young men.
“I’m sorry,” Giselle said softly, pity in her eyes even as Mathilde fought the memories that flashed through her mind.
“I once made a terrible mistake, but I have learned my lesson,” Mathilde assured her sister. Then she smiled, to show she wasn’t upset, although she was. “But since I may misjudge this man, I’m glad that you are here to help me.”
Without waiting for Giselle to say anything more lest her sister’s doubts weaken her resolve, Mathilde ducked under a thick oak beam and rapped on the door to one of the two upper chambers. Each would contain beds made of rope stretched between the frame, bearing a mattress stuffed with straw, as well as a coarse linen sheet and a blanket. Each bed would be large enough to hold at least two grown men, possibly three. There was little privacy at an inn; however, Rafe’s father had assured them the Norman was the only guest still abed.
“Maybe he’s already gone,” Giselle whispered hopefully when there was no answer to Mathilde’s knock.
“The innkeeper would have said so, or we would have seen him leave,” Mathilde replied as she knocked again, a little louder this time. She pressed her ear against the door.
“Perhaps he left in the night,” Giselle suggested.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Mathilde muttered under her breath.
“Dead!” Giselle exclaimed.
Mathilde instantly regretted her impulsive remark. “I do not believe that,” she said, lifting the latch of the rough wooden door. “More likely the man is dead drunk and if so, he will be of no use to us.”
“Oh, Mathilde!” her sister moaned as Mathilde sidled through the door, the leather hinges creaking. “Wait!”
It was too late. Mathilde had already entered the small, dusty room beneath the eaves sporting three beds, a table and a stool. Articles of clothing had been tossed on the stool beside the bed closest to the door, and an empty wine jug lay on its side on the table, near a puddle of wax that had once been a candle. The large, disheveled bed was still occupied—by a man sprawled on top of the coverings.
He was completely naked.
