USA Today Bestselling Author of Medieval Romance

CHAPTER ONE

 

England, Spring of 1348

 

He hated the waiting. It made him feel like a vulture circling an animal drawing its last breath. But that was what he did—waited for his brother to die so the promise made would be fulfilled.

 

Heaving a sigh of disgust, Liam turned and strode back toward the opposite end of the great hall. For a quarter hour, he had time and again paced this stretch, scattering rushes until he had worn a path down to the flooring. He did so twice more—past the hearth and stairwell, past trestle tables and benches stacked against the wall, past the dais upon which the lord’s high seat awaited him.

 

He halted. Patience, he silently counseled. What are a few hours compared to years?

 

By the morrow, Maynard would take the death pall and all would be as it should have been from the beginning. Liam, first born of Montgomery Fawke, would attain his rightful place as lord of Ashlingford. A baron at last.

 

He closed his eyes. Though he had shouldered responsibility for the demesne all these years, the title had belonged to his young half brother. But it was Liam who oversaw the immense barony, supervised the accounts, met the people’s needs, and managed to keep Maynard in funds enough to satisfy his excesses.

 

All would be different now. Never again would Liam’s destiny be controlled by another.

 

“William.”

 

Liam turned to the man who refused to call his nephew by the name given him by his Irish mother. A man who was of the Holy Church, yet had likely known more women than his nephew.

 

Ivo stood at the base of the stairs, his priest’s vestments creased from hours of prayer for his dying nephew, gaze as accusing as when he had arrived at Ashlingford this noon. “It gnaws at you,” he snarled.

 

Liam stared.

 

“All this waiting,” Ivo said, though no explanation was necessary.

 

Anger flared. Not that Liam was unaccustomed to such baiting. There had never been affection between uncle and nephew, Ivo having long ago made known his hatred of the one he claimed was misbegotten. For the priest, there had only ever been Maynard.

 

Liam narrowed his lids. “What is it you want?”

 

“I come from Maynard.”

 

When Ivo left that hanging, Liam said, “He is dead?”

 

As if his were a secret that might move the world, Ivo’s eyes lit. “Patience, my son. ’Twill happen soon enough.”

 

“What have you come for?”

 

“The baron refuses confession and the taking of the Last Sacrament until he has spoken with you. He would have you attend him at once.”

 

Maynard having earlier denied his brother entrance to his death chamber, Liam’s suspicions mounted. What more was there to discuss? What provisions not already made? Certes, it was something pleasing to Ivo, meaning all was not as it should be. “I shall follow.”

 

His uncle lifted his robes and ascended the steps.

 

When the stairway stood empty, Liam lowered his head and prayed all would be over soon. Then he took the stairs two at a time to the landing, strode the corridor, and entered the chamber.

 

“Come,” Maynard rasped.

 

As Liam advanced, he looked to the woman of middling years who sat beside his brother’s bed. Pressing a bunched kerchief to her eyes, the still handsome Emma wept.

 

She had been with Maynard since his birth. As his wet nurse and later his nursemaid, she had known him better than his own mother—and loved him more. But in spite of her loyalty to the son who was noble on both sides of him, she had always been kind to Liam.

 

He halted alongside Ivo and considered his brother’s pitifully battered body atop the bedclothes. Though it was Liam who had carried Maynard up to the keep and laid him on his bed, the physician had ordered everyone from the chamber. Thus, Liam had not seen what injuries lay beneath his brother’s tunic, but there had been little doubt they would be the death of him.

 

Maynard’s collarbone jutted at a peculiar angle, and where the left side of his lower ribs ought to be, there was a depression, the bones having broken inward. If it was not these injuries draining his life, then the bruises covering his abdomen would make an end of him. He drowned in the blood of torn innards.

 

“I am dying,” he slurred, possibly from the great amount of alcohol he had earlier imbibed, possibly from the stalking of death. Or both. “But you know that, Brother.”

 

Liam returned his gaze to Maynard’s face. The skin was washed of color, the golden hair on his brow tarnished. Though he knew better than to feel compassion for this one with whom he had shared only a father, his emotions lurched. “This I know.”

 

With what seemed effort, Maynard smiled. “I thought it would be me burying you. That I would outlive you.”

 

He had lived as if there was no end to life. “Then you would not have had to keep your vow to me.”

 

“Ah, Liam, you know me well. Will you—?” Maynard’s face contorted, and he moaned.

 

The physician hastened forward, but the dying man waved him away, drew a wheezing breath, and asked, “Will you take a wife now, Liam?”

 

“I will.” Though he had intended to wed before this time, the affairs of the barony were always too pressing. Too, there existed the possibility Maynard would go back on his word—that he would marry and produce an heir as he had vowed he would not. Now, albeit unintentionally, he would keep his side of their bargain. In exchange for Liam’s years of managing the barony, which had abundantly financed Maynard’s ventures, Ashlingford would be Liam’s. Of course, there was still the matter of Ivo’s secret.

 

“Will she be Irish?” Maynard asked, causing the priest to snort.

 

So now it was Maynard’s turn to bait the one he also believed was misbegotten. Although it would have served Liam better all these years to turn his back on his mother’s people—to adopt William, the English form of the name his mother had given him, and refuse association with the Irish—he had not. Nevertheless, it was true the woman he married would be of the English side of him. Ashlingford needed a lady of that blood.

 

“I will marry English.”

 

Another snort. “At least in that Maynard may rest in peace.”

 

Fists longing for Ivo’s gut, Liam fought to keep his hands at his sides.

 

“Good.” Maynard grunted. “Thin the Irish out of your line.” Though he had learned to keep his loathing to himself, in death he proved daring.

 

Subduing the temper many thought was foretold by the red of his hair, and which he had long ago brought near enough under control to earn his spurs and make his father proud, Liam said, “I am pleased you approve.”

 

His brother’s lids started to lower, but he dragged them back up. “How is your head?”

 

Liam needed no reminder of the blow dealt him across the back of the skull when  Maynard had come to steal from the barony’s coffers last eve. Upon regaining consciousness, explosive pain had temporarily blinded him. And still the swelling throbbed. “I will live.”

 

A smile twitched at Maynard’s mouth, and he beckoned. “Come closer. I have something to tell you.”

 

Though Ivo turned his face away, Liam saw the priest was also inclined toward a smile, and that he rubbed his crucifix as he often did to curb impatience. Here was the secret whose revelation he awaited.

 

Liam leaned near.

 

“Closer,” Maynard hissed, breath fouled by the scent of alcohol and blood.

 

Liam turned his ear to his brother’s mouth.

 

“I have won, you whoreson. ’Tis not you who will gain Ashlingford, but my son.”

 

As the words knelled through Liam, he slowly straightened. “The barony is more rightfully mine than any of the misbegotten sons you have sown. Do you name one heir, I vow to petition the king. And this time he will not deny me.”

 

Maynard gave a phlegm-laden laugh. “You think I speak of those common, dirty whelps?”

 

Liam felt something drop out of him. His soul? “Of whom do you speak?”

 

His brother sighed long, closed his eyes. “I do enjoy this. One of the few pleasures left to me.”

 

“Tell me, Maynard!”

 

“Liam!” Emma cried. “Your brother is dying, and you—”

 

“Sooner he will die if he does not give answer!”

 

Maynard raised his lids. “I have a legitimate son.”

 

Liam knew it was the truth the moment it was spoken, but the question sprang from him. “Legitimate?”

 

Maynard laughed again, but only for a moment. When his coughing subsided, his pallid face was flecked with blood. “Six years of your life for naught, Brother. And I thank you for every one of them.”

 

Fury poured into Liam’s fists, gripped his heart, burned his belly. Every hour of every day of every month for six long years—all for naught. And he wanted blood for every one of them. But as his mind readied his body for attack, the first lesson he had aspired to learn during his knighthood training resounded through him.

 

Allow not wrath to command your actions, nor your words. Sir Owen of the Wulfriths had gripped Liam’s rage-flushed face to hold the youth’s gaze to his. Hear me, boy. Be worthy of your name.

 

Liam Fawke, son and heir of Montgomery Fawke.

 

He dug his fingers into his palms, told himself that though Maynard and Ivo once more conspired to deny him what had ever been his, the letting of blood was not the answer—at least, not in the absence of a blade raised against him.

 

He breathed deep. How could this have happened? There had been no reading of the banns to announce Maynard’s marriage.

 

He grabbed hold of that hope. Church law decreed that a marriage between a man and woman from different parishes be publicly announced in both. Thus, Maynard’s marriage might be declared void and his son illegitimate—unless he had purchased a special license to allow him to wed without announcing it beforehand.

 

Liam momentarily closed his eyes. That was what Maynard had done, and the substantial amount required to buy the dispensation had been doled out by the one he had outwitted.

 

Liam turned to Ivo. “You knew of this?”

 

The color creeping into the priest’s cheeks said otherwise. Though Ivo prided himself on being indispensable to Maynard, his nephew had not enlisted him to work the deception—worse, had not confided in him.

 

“It surprises you I did it on own.” Maynard chuckled. “I am not the fool you believe me to be. Nor am I without kindness. I give you my blessing to remain at Ashlingford and serve my son as you have served me.”

 

Dark emotions surging anew, tempting a hand to the dagger at his side, Liam said, “Where is the gold you stole from me last eve?”

 

“Stole? From you? As the Baron of Ashlingford, I took naught that was not already mine.”

 

“Where is it?”

 

Maynard exaggerated a frown, patted a hand across his waist. “Fancy that…gone.”

 

And Ivo knew where it was.

 

Certain that if he did not leave, Maynard would be in danger of losing his life all the sooner, Liam strode toward the door.

 

“My heir’s name is Oliver. He will be three years old at summer’s end.”

 

Liam looked over his shoulder. “Your wife?”

 

“Lady Joslyn of—” Once more, Maynard succumbed to coughing, at the end of which he croaked, “Lady Joslyn of Rosemoor.”

 

Far to the south, explaining how word of his nuptials had not reached Ashlingford. As Maynard had not wished it to.

 

Liam stepped into the corridor.

 

“Do you not wish to watch me die?” his brother called.

 

“Already you are dead to me,” Liam cast over his shoulder and continued toward the stairs.

 

“Filthy, misbegotten Irish—” A groan stole Maynard’s words and became a high-pitched wail.

 

Liam tried not to care that his brother was in the throes of death, but he faltered.

 

Standing before the stairs, he bowed his head. He would not think on the one for whom he had once felt great affection. He would not dwell on the boy who had revered him. Only the Maynard of this day would he remember—Maynard the deceiver.

 

With the sound of that one’s whimpers and cries and resounding off the stone walls, Liam descended the steps to the great hall. Upon reaching the doors to the inner bailey, he felt a silent beckoning and halted, breathed deep, and looked to the elaborately carved high seat reserved for the lord of Ashlingford. Long it had awaited him. And longer it must wait.

 

Betrayed and betrayed again, he strode out of the keep into a sunless spring afternoon whose chill wind bit. As he gazed beyond the castle walls to land that should be his, he became aware of the gathering at the base of the steps.

 

“The baron is dead,” he said, certain that if Maynard’s life was not yet severed, it would be momentarily.

 

The voices rose to a din, but not because the castle folk suffered great loss over the death of their lord. They were surprised. From an early age, Liam had often had to prove himself to his father’s people because of his Irish blood, but it was to him they had grown loyal, him they regarded as their lord, not the philandering Baron of Ashlingford.

 

Assuring himself his bid for the barony was not done, determined he would not easily hand it over to the child Maynard had made to steal it from him, he called for his men and descended the steps. As he strode the path that opened before him, he was besieged by questioning eyes, but he ignored them. Soon enough they would learn of Maynard’s deathbed disclosure.

 

In the outer bailey, a half dozen men on his heels, Liam shouted for horses and provisions and headed for the smithy.

 

“Sir Liam! What commotion is this?”

 

He turned to the knight who guided his destrier into the bailey.

 

Sir John grinned, swung out of the saddle with the lightness of one who carried less weight on his bones than many a warrior, and tossed the reins to his squire.

 

Liam had forgotten that the vassal and keeper of the lesser castle of Duns was expected this day to discuss his accounts. Accounts that no longer mattered.

 

Liam sent his men to the smithy with orders to sharpen their weapons, then strode to where John picked off his gloves.

 

“Surely you are not leaving, Sir Liam. We have business to discuss and—” A frown grooved the face he turned up to Liam. “Something is amiss?”

 

“Maynard is dead.”

 

He jerked back. “God’s eyes, Liam! How?”

 

“He rode his horse into a ravine last eve.”

 

“But he was a capable rider.”

 

Liam raised an eyebrow.

 

“Drunk again.” The knight snorted and shook his head, as disgusted with the Baron of Ashlingford in death as he had been with him in life. “’Twas you who found him in the ravine?”

 

“Nay, he climbed out and walked the distance himself.”

 

“Did he linger long?”

 

Liam turned aside the memory of his brother broken on his bed. “Long enough.”

 

John drew a breath that raised broadly muscled shoulders one would not expect on a man so short and narrow of hip. “Ah, he gave you a time of it.” He returned his attention to the removal of his gloves. “But ’tis done with. Thus, henceforth I must needs address you as my lord.”

 

There was only one whom Liam trusted as much as this knight—his steward, Sir Hugh—but he once more refused himself the expression of his anger. “Ashlingford is not mine. Not yet.”

 

The knight stilled. “How can that be?”

 

“Maynard has left behind a legitimate son.”

 

“Impossible. He cannot have wed without your knowledge. The banns—”

 

“May have been read at Rosemoor, where he wed, or not at all.”

 

John cursed beneath his breath. “A special license, then. Even so, we all know of his arrangement with you. He—”

 

“I ride south within the hour. Do you ride with me?”

 

“Of course, but what do you intend?”

 

“To take back what is mine.”

 

 

 

“William!”

 

Liam dragged on the reins, and the dozen men chosen to accompany him turned with him to face the interloper.

 

Just as the horse Ivo rode was too fine for a priest, the sword at his hip was misplaced. But it was all that Ivo was. Aged forty and nine, the once-handsome man lived life with God on his lips, warring on his mind, and greed in his heart—of the Church in name only.

 

“Have you not someone to bury?” Liam asked.

 

Ivo guided his destrier to the end of the drawbridge. The whites of his eyes and tip of his nose red with weeping, he said, “I do, but as your journey will not wait, neither will mine.”

 

“Go, then.”

 

Ivo’s smile was a twisted thing. “Ah, but I go with you.”

 

Then he would not first seek the coins Maynard had hidden? Since it was a considerable sum, it could only mean it was hidden well enough it could wait. “I do not require your priest’s services.”

 

The jewels of his crucifix catching light, Ivo said, “I do not offer them.”

 

Almighty, Liam silently beseeched, I am near to letting flood all I hold inside. Pray, calm this storm.

 

However, it was as much the unease of his men, who feared the letting of holy blood, that pulled him back. Reminding himself he was still lord to these men, even if only because of their loyalty to him, Liam said, “You are not needed.”

 

“’Tis to Rosemoor you go?”

 

“It is.”

 

“Then I shall ensure Maynard’s heir reaches Ashlingford alive.”

 

As if Liam would resort to murder! “You think he will not?” he growled.

 

“Many are the unfortunate accidents that befall children during travel.” Ivo lifted his palms heavenward. “I would but ensure none befall Oliver.”

 

“As I will not be traveling with him, your worries are unfounded. I go to Rosemoor to verify the child’s existence and the validity of Maynard’s marriage.”

 

“And then?”

 

“You are too learned to ask such a question, Uncle.”

 

“You will go to London to petition the king for the barony?”

 

Leaving Ivo’s question unanswered, Liam said, “Stay and bury your beloved nephew. No harm will come to the child.”

 

“Let us be certain, hmm?” Ivo urged his horse off the drawbridge.

 

Though tempted to overpower him and lock him in one of the gatehouse cells, Liam knew he would have to answer to the Church. Thus, the devil would join them.

 

“We ride!” Liam shouted and spurred his destrier ahead of the others.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

“Do not touch.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It has thorns.” She fingered the base of the spine. “See?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“If you catch your finger on it, ’twill hurt.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because…” Joslyn sighed. “Ah, Oliver, I have told you before.”

 

“Tell me ‘gain.”

 

She tapped his dirt-smudged nose with a gloved finger. “I will not, little man. Now along with you.”

 

He groaned and headed back across the garden.

 

“Take your bucket!”

 

He scooped it up and toted it back to the corner of the walled garden he had earlier abandoned, a patch of earth ravaged by numerous holes and heaps of dirt. Heaving a sigh clearly intended for his mother’s ears, he plopped down and set about dirtying those rare, clean inches of himself.

 

Joslyn smiled. From the top of his golden head to the small toes he curled into the soil, he was hers, every dear and dirty bit of him.

 

She turned back to the rosebush she had been transplanting when he had come to her with his endless questions. As she began to pack the roots, she became aware of something whose sound not only traveled on the air, but could be felt through the earth beneath her knees.

 

Horses. But why at such speed when it was not permitted within the village walls? Though none would speak against their lord making such a ride, never had her father done so—even when he was full up in his cups. Had something happened to warrant the urgency, something that returned him from London though he was not expected home until the morrow?

 

Joslyn pushed to her feet.

 

“Mama?” Oliver had also risen.

 

“’Tis naught. Remain here.”

 

“I come, too.”

 

“Nay, I will return in a moment.”

 

“But I want—”

 

“Stay, Oliver.”

 

His lower lip jutted, but he stayed alongside his bucket.

 

Hoping he would not disobey, which he did fairly often since he had turned two years of age, Joslyn passed through the gate and walked to the front of the manor house.

 

Shading her eyes, she scanned the village, but all she saw were her neighbors leaving their homes to witness the cause of the din—as did the manor servants coming behind Joslyn.

 

Concluding the riders must be her father and his men bearing bad tidings, since others of such great number would have been turned away at the village gates, Joslyn lifted her skirts and stepped onto the green that well evidenced yesterday’s rainfall. She was a quarter of the way across when the riders appeared. Out of the village they came, turning onto the road leading to the manor.

 

She faltered. They were distant, but she could see it was not her father at the fore. Instead, the sun shone on one who sat taller in the saddle than was possible for Humphrey Reynard, one whose head was crowned with hair of red.

 

“Dear Lord, he has come!” She ran, desperate to reach Oliver and get him inside before it was too late.

How I wish this once he had disobeyed me and followed! she silently cried. There being no entrance into the manor from the garden, she would have to retrieve her son and retrace her steps.

 

As she neared the great house, the servants called to her, but there was no time to attend to their words.

 

She lunged past the gate. “Oliver!”

 

He was where she had left him, eyes wide. “Mama?”

 

She gathered him up and hastened back to the gate. But when she stepped from the garden, she saw the red-headed rider had broken from the others and was headed across the green toward her. He had seen her, surely guessed who fled him.

 

Joslyn measured the distance from the manor door to the one whose hair proclaimed he was Liam Fawke. She could not make it. What, then? She would not simply stand here and allow this man to do what he intended, but neither could she scale the high back wall.

 

“Who that?” Oliver asked of the one thundering toward them.

 

She pivoted back into the garden and ran to a portion of the wall in need of repair. If she and Oliver could squeeze through the hole, the wood beyond the village wall would provide refuge.

 

She set her son on his feet, dropped to all fours, and shoved aside the fallen stones. But there was only time to clear enough to allow the little boy to pass through.

 

“Listen to me, Oliver. There is a bad man coming. You must hide.”

 

“Bad man?”

 

“Do you remember—”

 

“The red knight?”

 

She pulled him near and lifted his chin. “Aye, the red knight. Do you remember the old oak by the stream, the one with the large hollow in its trunk?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“I want you to crawl through here”—she nodded at the breach in the wall—“and run as fast as you can to the postern gate.” Unless someone had closed it this past hour, it would be open. “Go into the wood and hide in the oak.”

 

“But there is bugs in it. You said I could not—”

 

“This is different. You must hide there so the bad man cannot find you. Do you understand?”

 

At his nod, she kissed his brow. “I will come for you shortly.” She pushed him toward the hole.

 

Oliver dropped to his knees. “Will he hurt you, Mama?”

 

She forced a smile. “He will not. Now make haste.”

 

Once his bottom disappeared and she heard the beat of his feet over the ground, she straightened, retrieved the rake she had earlier discarded, and hurried back across the garden. Pressing herself against the wall alongside the gate, she raised her weapon.

 

She expected Liam Fawke to propel his mount into the garden as recklessly as he had over the green, but he reined in before the open gate, his destrier’s heavy breathing and the shadow the animal and its rider threw the only proof of their presence.

 

Here was no unseasoned knight. Certes, he suspected what he could not see. And that was good, for the longer he stayed without, the more time Oliver had to reach the wood.

 

The horse bolted into the garden.

 

Joslyn swung at the man’s back and landed a blow to the air that nearly spun the rake out of her hands. Fingers splintered on the wooden handle, she raised her crude weapon again as the knight wheeled his horse around.

 

What a sight! She had known him only by the hair of which Maynard had spoken—the Irish of him. From that, and her husband’s tales of this cruel, treacherous man, she had envisioned a far different person.

 

The misbegotten brother Maynard had described had been neither so tall nor broad-shouldered. He had been older and had not possessed a handsome face beneath hair she had imagined long and unkempt, rather than groomed—cut short above the ears but longer in back where it curled over his collar. He looked more the nobleman than the knave of Maynard’s tales. Still, he was dangerous.

 

Liam stared at the woman. From her flight across the manor green, he had guessed she was Lady Joslyn and that she ran to hide her son. But this could not be the woman whom Maynard had wed and made a child upon. The creature wielding a rake would have held little appeal for his brother.

 

From the crooked veil atop her head that revealed strands of blackest hair, to the hem of her drab skirts, she was streaked with dirt. If she was of the manor, it was in the capacity of a servant, and she had run out of fear.

 

“He is dead,” she said.

 

Frowning, he searched her amber eyes.

 

She tilted her smudged chin higher and, in a voice at odds with her appearance, said, “He told me you would come. That you would try to murder my child and me. Is that what you intend, Liam Fawke?”

 

It was Lady Joslyn. Perhaps cleaned up, Maynard’s wife would be presentable, but there seemed little about her to attract a man. Who even knew what figure she possessed beneath those soiled, ungirded garments?

 

“Is it?” she pressed.

 

Ignoring the question reaped from Maynard’s warning that if Liam came he would be the bearer of death, he asked, “Where is the boy?”

 

“What are your intentions?”

 

She stalled. Allowing her time he could afford, he said, “To claim what is mine.”

 

“Ashlingford.”

 

He inclined his head.

 

“Then I am correct in believing Maynard is dead?”

 

“You are.”

 

She lowered her lids, but when she lifted them, he glimpsed no grieving in her eyes.

 

Unfeeling, then. The same as Maynard. “You do not seem saddened, my lady,” he said and nearly laughed at bestowing the title on one who could not look less the noblewoman. “But then, when one weds but for gain, ’tis to be expected.” 

 

Her eyes flashed. “As you do not know me, your attempt to gauge my character offends.”

 

He did know her, for what more needed to be told of the lady than that she had wed Maynard? Of course, she may have had little choice. Though women could not be made to wed against their will, there were ways to convince them.

 

“I ask again, what are your intentions toward my son?”

 

Liam prodded his destrier forward.

 

She raised the rake higher. “Come no closer!”

 

He turned his mount sideways and moved his gaze down her weapon. As a mother protecting her babe, she would use it—albeit in vain. “I ride to London on the morrow to put my claim before the king. Oliver shall accompany me.”

 

“Why?”

 

He had not planned such when Ivo had questioned him, but the more he had thought on it, the more it appealed. Let the king see for himself the heir Maynard had named. Let him decide if a barony of the magnitude and importance of Ashlingford belonged in the hands of a child—rather, those who would make a puppet of him. “Where is the boy?”

 

“Where you cannot touch him.”

 

“I vow no harm will befall him.” He gestured to the rake. “Do you plan to use that?”

 

“If I must.”

 

Liam pondered what his father would have said of an armed and mounted knight facing off a bedraggled waif whose only defense was a rake. And nearly smiled. “Put it down, Lady Joslyn. You need not fear me.”

 

“You are not a stranger to me, Liam Fawke. I know the man you are.”

 

Maynard had made certain of that. “Then what makes you think a rake will prevent me from taking what I want?”

 

Her gaze moved to the thrusting sword hanging on the front of his saddle, then the long sword suspended from his hip belt, lastly the dagger.

 

“Were I the murderer Maynard led you to believe, you would not be standing.”

 

“I will not allow you to take my son.”

 

Liam was about to assure her again of the boy’s safety when he heard a child’s voice raised in protest. “But I have him already, my lady.”

 

Fear widening her eyes, she dropped the rake and ran from the garden.

 

Liam prodded his destrier forward and followed her to the rear of the manor, where John and three other knights rode toward them.

 

“Nay!” The lady lunged toward the squirming, screeching child beneath John’s arm.

 

Liam rode past her and turned his destrier into her path. “You will be trampled!”

 

She stumbled to a halt, splayed her hands at her sides, snapped them into fists. “That would fit well your plan.”

 

Knowing she would believe Maynard’s lies before she would give weight to the words of a stranger, and having no occasion to prove his brother false, he shifted his regard to John. And had his first look at the child Maynard hoped would forever deny Liam his inheritance. It hardly seemed possible, but the boy was filthier than his mother.

 

“Mama!” He stretched out his arms as if he thought she could fly into them.

 

John halted his horse before Liam’s, growled, “He bites.”

 

Lady Joslyn stepped forward. “Give him to me.”

 

At the knight’s questioning look, Liam shook his head.

 

The lady shot him an angry look. Then, as if fearful of further upsetting her son, she smiled tightly and patted the boy’s knee. “All is well, Oliver.”

 

Her touch and nearness comforted the boy enough to still his fitful movements, but he continued to reach to her.

 

“If you promise to keep your teeth to yourself, boy,” John said, “you may share my saddle with me.”

 

Oliver looked around, seemed to consider the merits of remaining beneath the man’s arm against being allowed to sit on the exquisitely worked saddle, and nodded.

 

“So this filthy little urchin is Oliver,” Liam said as John settled the child before him.

 

“I am not little!” Bright-eyed outrage replaced the boy’s fear.

 

Liam needed no more confirmation the child was Maynard’s. Cleaned, his hair would be as golden as his father’s, and visible beneath the dirt he bore the same forehead and jaw as generations of Fawkes before him. And though his amber eyes were gifted him by his mother, their shape was Maynard’s—and Liam’s.

 

Outrage slipping, Oliver pointed at Liam. “The red knight, Mama. The bad man!”

 

Liam looked to Lady Joslyn, raised an eyebrow.

 

Averting her gaze, she said, “He will not hurt you, Oliver.”

 

He narrowed his lids at Liam. “You hurt mama?”

 

His childish concern softened Liam as he did not care to be softened. “Nay, Oliver, I am not the bad man she believes. I am your Uncle Liam, brother to your father.”

 

“My father?”

 

It was said with great bemusement to which Lady Joslyn exclaimed, “This is not necessary!”

 

Liam picked over Oliver’s features. “How old are you, boy?”

 

He raised a hand, uncurled one finger, another, chewed his lip, and thrust his hand forward. “One…two. See?”

 

“I see.” Liam captured his mother’s gaze. “Let us go inside.”

 

“You expect me to welcome you into my father’s home?”

 

Tolerance nearly spent, Liam leaned down from his mount so she could better hear the words he would not have fall on her son’s ears. And was surprised by her scent. Instead of the rank odors of an unclean body, she smelled of earth and roses.

 

“If you prefer, I will take Oliver up before me and continue on my way.” Not that he had any intention of doing so. He must not only verify the boy’s claim to Ashlingford—that Oliver was legitimate—but it would be foolish to have tales of abduction follow him to London.

 

Defiance tamed, the lady said, “Of course not.”

 

“Then to the manor.” Liam urged his destrier around, a moment later checked the animal’s progress to receive the two riding toward him—Sir Gregory and Ivo.

 

Insufferable priest! Two days of hard riding should have tired the man, who was twenty years older than Liam, but Ivo had kept pace. Thus, to reach the boy without his uncle’s interference, Liam had resorted to trickery. After Ivo had gained them entrance into the village in the name of the Church, Liam had set Sir Gregory on the man, and in the midst of the fray, Liam and the rest of his men had ridden on the manor.

 

Ivo dragged his horse to a cruel halt, glared at his nephew, then landed his gaze on the woman who stood alongside John’s mount. “Where is your mistress, girl?”

 

The lady stood taller. “You are mistaken, Father. I am—”

 

“Lady Joslyn Fawke,” Liam said. “Maynard’s widow.” As disbelief jumped onto Ivo’s face, Liam gestured at the boy. “Maynard’s son, Oliver.”

 

In spite of the child’s appearance, some of the harshness drained from the priest’s eyes. “Maynard’s son,” he breathed.

 

“Who are you?” Lady Joslyn asked.

 

It seemed with effort the priest pulled his gaze from the boy. “I am Maynard’s uncle, Father Ivo.”

 

The lightening of her grimly-set face evidenced Maynard had told her of his beloved uncle, and in him she saw an ally. Rightly so. Ivo would defend Oliver’s right to Ashlingford all the way to the papacy.

 

“We shall continue this inside,” Liam said and urged his destrier forward.

 

At the manor steps, he was met by hand-wringing servants and the men he had ordered to position themselves there in the event of trouble. But trouble did not come from those of the manor. It came from the villagers, who amassed on the road Liam and his men had taken. Their weapons implements such as Lady Joslyn had wielded, they came to ensure all was well at their lord’s manor.

 

Liam looked around. “Lady Joslyn, assure your people naught is amiss and instruct them to return to their homes.”

 

Contempt flared in her eyes, but a glance at John, who held her son, made it smolder. She set a hand on the boy’s leg. “The knight has a fine horse, does he not?”

 

“Bigger than A-papa’s.”

 

“Much bigger than your grandfather’s. Do you think you can watch him while I talk to the villagers? I shall not be long.”

 

A frown puckered the space between his eyes, and he looked at John. “You not a bad man?”

 

The knight smiled. “Indeed, I am not.”

 

Oliver nodded at his mother. “I watch the horse.”

 

The lady sent Liam a narrow-eyed look and started toward the road.

 

Motioning Sir Gregory forward, Liam noticed the red-rimmed cut tracing the man’s cheek. Ivo’s dagger had done that, though surely his uncle would have preferred to sink it in the young knight’s breast. “Sir Gregory, accompany Lady Joslyn.”

 

The lady halted, but though she must have longed to argue, she put her shoulders back and continued on as if she went alone.