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PROLOGUE

England, 1152

“Gilbert!” Heedless of the brigands ransacking her dowry wagons, Lizanne Balmaine pulled free of her maid and rushed past the torn and blood-strewn bodies scattered over the ground. The old woman called to her, but Lizanne ignored her desperate pleas.

Dropping to her knees beside her brother, she reached to him. Though his face was shuttered, she could not—would not!—believe he was gone from her. She shook him. “Pray, open your eyes!”

His head lolled.

Whimpering, she forced her gaze down his body. His hauberk lay open, its fine mesh brilliant with the blood seeping through its links. And his leg…

God help his leg.

With trembling fingers, she tried to seam the flesh back together, but his blood only coursed faster and made the bile in her belly surge. Swallowing convulsively, she raised her hands and stared at the wet crimson covering her palms.

Dear Lord, he cannot be—

She was wrenched upright, hauled back against a coarsely clothed chest, and lifted off her feet.

“Nay!” She reached for Gilbert but grasped only air.

The one who held her chuckled. Feeling the wicked sound move his chest, she knew he would do things to her she had only heard whispered about. And could not have more quickly thanked God when she was shoved into the arms of her old maid. However, as she knelt in the dirt, clinging to Hattie and weeping with a twisted mix of grief and relief, the villains began a boisterous argument over who would have her first.

Lord, I can bear it. I shall bear it. Just do not let Gilbert be gone from me.

It was Hattie’s trembling, so savage it shook her brittle frame, that pulled Lizanne from the heavens and dropped her back to earth. Amid the sudden hush, she lifted her face from her maid’s bosom and peered past the old woman’s shoulder at muddy boots.

“Nay, milady.” Hattie tried to press her mistress’s head down. “Be still.”

Lizanne pushed aside the hands that had delivered her from her mother’s womb five and ten years ago. With daring she had not known she possessed, she lifted her gaze up the lean, muscled body that stood over her. The man was uncommonly tall—nearly as tall as Gilbert and every bit as broad.

Hatred, more intense than any she had known, suffused her and set her own limbs to quaking. Here was the one who had dealt the final blow to her brother.

Making no attempt to keep loathing from her face, she slid her gaze from a generous mouth, up over a long, straight nose, to glittering eyes as dark as his hair was light.

Aye, that hair. Not quite flaxen, not quite white, it fell about a deeply tanned and angular face. As she stared at him, she could not help but question God’s wisdom, for He had wielded no foresight in bestowing such a handsome face on this spawn of the Devil. Doubtless, many women were rendered agape by the sight of him. But not she. There was nothing captivating—

That was not true. The streak of blood matting a length of his hair was fascinating. Gilbert’s blade had done that.

“God’s teeth, what delights have we here?” he said in the coarse English of a commoner. As his men guffawed, a slow grin spread his lips and revealed straight but discolored teeth. He reached down and lifted a lock of her black hair. “Aye,” he murmured, pulling his fingers through the heavy strands. “Yer a beauty, lass—a fine prize.”

His eyes met hers, their fathomless depths charging her with fear she did not wish to feel. Hate was so much more comforting.

Hattie clutched her young charge nearer. “Take that which ye came fer and leave the child be,” she said.

Laughter rumbled from the man, and the other brigands answered with more of the same.

Finally, he sobered. “Aye, hag, I’ll take what I came fer.” He drew back an arm and landed a fist to the old woman’s temple.

With a gasp, Hattie loosened her hold and toppled backward.

Lizanne screamed, reached to her, but hardly had she touched her maid’s rough woolen tunic than she was hauled to her feet and forced to face that evil visage.

Grinning, the man dipped his gaze to the neckline of her gown and ran a hand down her chest.

“Do not!” She struck out at him.

He pinned her arms and dragged her near. “Ye will bend to me, my beauty.” He lowered his head toward her untried lips.

The brigands’ laughter paining her ears, Lizanne jerked her chin aside and strained away from the hands that roamed her.

Dear God, I shall die! Pray, let me die!

As tears fell to her cheeks, she felt other hands touch and pinch her flesh.

“She is mine,” the man growled, then swept her into his arms and shouldered his way through the throng.

Breath coming in great, choking gulps, Lizanne gripped his tunic as he carried her past those terrible, leering faces.

They had only just cleared the gathering when her captor lurched and dropped to one knee. Keeping hold of her, he shook his head as if to clear it, and she saw blood still flowed from his head wound. It was no mild injury as she had first thought, and it occurred to her God might not have abandoned Gilbert and her after all—that the miscreant might simply drop dead.

However, neither the Lord, nor her captor, seemed of a mind to oblige.

Amid mocking laughter, the man surged to his feet and swung around to face the others. “Do ye laugh again, I’ll see the lot of ye gutted,” he snarled, then strode from the camp toward the moonlit wood.

“When ye finish with ‘er, Darth,” one called, “I’d like a taste meself.”

As his words were met with more jeering, Lizanne silently repeated Darth until she found a niche for the name in the turbulence of her mind. Then, with fear and trembling, she turned her thoughts to her desperate circumstances that were about to become more desperate.

She did not doubt he intended to steal her virtue that was to have been the privilege of her husband, Philip. He would defile her. But was that all? Might her fate be the same as her beloved brother’s?

Do not just let it happen! You are more than this!

She did not know if it was her brother’s voice or her own she heard, but she acted on it, bucking and letting her hands fly. When her nails raked her assailant’s rough, unshaven face, he dropped her to her feet and repaid her with a slap so heavy she nearly fell over.

Covering her stinging cheek with one hand, she looked up at the devil in moonlight. He stood so rigid, face nearly deformed by anger, that she knew his slap would not be retribution enough.

Lizanne took a step back and glanced left and right. The castle of her betrothed lay less than five leagues to the west. If she ran and hid in the wood until the sun rose to guide her…

She turned to flee. An instant later, she found the needled ground at her back, and looming over her was the man called Darth.

His lips fell to her throat, and she squeezed her eyes closed and tried to go deep inside herself.

’Tis but my body, she told herself once, twice, three times, desperately willing her soul to rise above her.

But it was his weight that rose from her.

Merciful Lord! she called praise to the heavens. However, when she lifted her lids, she saw it was no angel come to her rescue. The man had pushed up onto his knees to remove his tunic. She started to look away, but her gaze was drawn to a long, jagged scar that slashed across his lower abdomen.

“Fight it, and ‘twill go worse fer ye,” he growled, only to shake his head and press a hand to it.

Realizing he still suffered from his injury, Lizanne threw herself to the side but got no further.

He thrust her onto her back and, gripping her throat, lifted her face toward his. “Listen well! I prefer not to spoil yer beauty, but I will. Do ye understand, wench?”

She understood, but it did not stop her from prying at fingers that denied her air. What did still her was the pain that lanced across his brow.

Do something!

She swung a clumsily bunched fist upward and, to her amazement, connected with his head wound. However, there was no moment to rejoice, for a blinding pain shot through her hand and wrist.

When the man slumped atop her, she only distantly noticed his weight as she sucked in precious air and whimpered over the shards of light dancing against the backs of her eyelids.

Why did it hurt so? What was this pain that made it feel as if she had laid her hand upon a fire?

As the lights began to recede, she opened her eyes and focused on the pale head upon her shoulder. Except for the shifting of hair by the meandering breeze, there was no movement about the man.

Was it possible? Had she, who had never struck another being, knocked the man unconscious?

Question not, Lizanne! Run!

Biting her lip, drawing blood as she tried to distract herself from the pain in her hand, she twisted beneath the man and used her forearm to push him off. As he rolled onto his back, he groaned.

Run! Now!

Holding her hand to her chest, she stumbled to her feet and looked one last time at her assailant. Had she a weapon—and the courage—she would put an end to him.

Skirts gripped high, she plunged into the wood. Deeper and deeper she went, oblivious to the sharp rocks and pine needles that tore at her feet, the branches that tangled her hair and scratched her face.

How far or how long she ran, she did not know. Only when she tumbled into a narrow ditch, lungs raw from exertion, did she notice light had begun to seep into the sky above the wood.

Panting, she squeezed her eyes closed and listened for the sounds of pursuit. All she picked out were the innocent noises of an awakening wood—the buzzing of insects, the twittering of birds, the gurgle of water.

Would they come? She raked her fingers through the hair falling about her face and shoulders, prayed she had outdistanced them.

Knowing she should continue on, she tried to stand, but her legs would not hold her. She would have to stay awhile. For fear her clothing would reveal her amid the greenery, she burrowed deeply into the undergrowth and promised herself she would not sleep. But her body had other plans.

With her last presence of mind, she dug her uninjured hand into the loose soil beneath her, unearthed a rock, and clasped it to her chest lest she find herself in need of a weapon.

As fatigue dragged her under, images of the night past tumbled through her mind, the worst being her brother’s ravaged body. “Ah, Gilbert,” she whispered, “’twill not go unavenged. This I vow.”

CHAPTER ONE

England, 1156

By degree, Ranulf Wardieu became cognizant of his surroundings. A fetid, musty odor assaulted his senses first, the taste of it on his indrawn breath making his throat constrict.

Lord, I thirst!

Swallowing hard against the parched tissues of his mouth, he lifted his chin and put his head back against cold, weeping stones. Where his head settled, he felt an aching throb, but before he could ponder the cause, he became aware of lowered voices.

He opened his eyes and peered into the dimly lit room. Though it was too dark to be certain, his wakening senses told him he was in a cell. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he watched indistinct shadows move in and out of the light cast by a single torch.

’Tis but a dream, he told himself. Still, he leaned forward to catch the conversation, and it was the rattle of chains on either side of him that brought him fully awake.

Though his senses screamed with shock and outrage and his mind protested the pain in his outstretched arms and the numbing chill throughout his body, the warrior in him forced him to stillness.

Unfortunately, the protesting chains had already alerted his shadowy companions that he had regained consciousness, for the voices had gone silent and the flickering torch was the only movement to be seen.

His own face in shadow, Ranulf peered at the dark figures through narrowed lids. Why did they not show themselves? Who were they?

Then they were moving again, speaking again—though not loud enough for their words to have form. Would they draw near?

A door was thrown open on the far side of the room, the light that shone through transforming the figures into three men who filed out.

Dear God, I truly am in a cell!

The last of the men pulled the door closed behind him, returning the cell to its state of near-darkness.

Although Ranulf’s eyes and ears confirmed he was alone, his senses said otherwise. Someone was yet within.

Resenting the torch that cast its dim light across the floor and illuminated little save the lower half of his body, he determinedly set about assessing his situation.

He was imprisoned, stripped of tunic and boots, his only clothing undertunic and chausses. Chained upright to a wall by manacles that bit into his wrists, his arms were stretched out to the sides. Beneath him, his knees were buckled, his arms having carried the weight of his slumped body for… How long?

Though he felt the grip of manacles around his ankles, there was no tension between them. He lowered his chin and peered at the chain that ran from one ankle to the other, the excess of which lay pooled between his feet.

Grinding his teeth to keep from giving voice to the pain in his limbs, he searched for an answer to his predicament and, gradually, memories unfolded.

He had been at Langdon’s Castle. Full of wine and ale and against his better judgment, he had succumbed to the beckoning of a comely maid and followed her down a narrow corridor. She had teased him, allowing glimpses of slender calves as she danced ahead—always just out of reach.

Upon rounding a corner, he had been set upon. Though he had delivered a retaliatory blow, his assailant had struck again—this time to the back of his skull—and it had dropped him to the stone floor. He had only a moment to focus on the darkly hooded figure bending over him before darkness dragged him away.

Now, most acutely aware of the injury to his head, he moved it, and the ache trebled. Still, it did not equal the discomfort in his burning joints that tempted him to get his legs under him and take the weight off his arms.

Trembling from the effort to contain his spiraling anger, he turned his head and searched the darkened cell. The cloaked corners revealed nothing he had not seen before, but he continued to feel another presence.

He remained unmoving several minutes longer. Then, with raging resentment, he lowered the heels of his bare feet to the cold earth—and brushed something soft and warm that shrieked and scuttled away.

Straightening, he peered at the manacles overhead. Thick bands encircled raw wrists darkened with blood. As he was large-boned, they intimately tested his flesh, nearly cutting off the laborious upward flow of blood.

He opened and closed his hands until he was rewarded with a prickly warmth that spread from his aching shoulders to the tips of his fingers. With the return of feeling came a measure of strength and, eager to test it, he thrust his arms forward. The restraints held, drawing fresh blood as their clatter violated the silence.

When the noise died away, he caught the sound of movement to his left. “Show yourself!” he demanded, his voice echoing around the stone walls.

Nothing.

’Tis a game we play, then.

Straining to the right, Ranulf put all his strength into his left arm and wrenched it forward. The manacle bit more deeply, causing blood to trickle down his wrist. Where was he, and who dared chain him like an animal? With his bare hands, he would crush the miscreant!

Fury, fueled by imaginings of revenge, intensified until there was nothing to do but release it. He propelled his body forward and, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and wrists, fought the chains until his strength drained. With hoarse curses, he collapsed against the wall.

“What ails you, my lord?” a sweetly sarcastic voice cut through his stream of expletives.

He snapped his chin to the left. A darkly clad figure stood an arm’s reach away. It was impossible to make out the features of the upturned face amid the shadows of a hood, but the woman’s eyes caught the barest light and glittered coldly.

He swept back to the moment before he had lost consciousness at Langdon’s castle. It had to have been her.

“A lord, indeed,” she murmured. “I never suspected as much.”

Though size and gender could be deceiving, Ranulf did not doubt this woman was his captor. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“An old acquaintance.” She stepped nearer, rose to her toes, and boldly tested his chains.

Maddening! Close enough to smell the sweetness of her woman’s body, but he could not so much as touch her. He curled his fingers into fists.

“They hold well,” she said, and her gloved hand grazed his as she stepped back. “Best you not waste your strength so foolishly…my lord.”

Ranulf jerked the chains. “I demand to know the grounds for my imprisonment!”

She turned away.

Forcing himself to a calm he was nowhere near to feeling, Ranulf followed her progress across the cell. When she stopped before the wall sconce with its single torch, he saw she was not clothed as the lady her voice proclaimed her to be. Visible beneath the hem of her cloak were the chausses and boots of a man.

As he watched, she removed the torch and used it to light others around the cell. Soon, every corner stood out in sharp contrast to its former self, confirming the two of them were the only occupants.

Immediately, he imprinted every detail upon his mind. He was chained to the wall of the main room where guards could be stationed. To the left, beyond an iron-banded door with its grate set at eye level, was a row of individual cells. To the right, stood a corridor that stretched into nothingness, and from which he detected the sound of running water.

When he returned his attention to the woman, she faced him, and he almost laughed at her bold stance, legs spread and hands clasped behind her back. Unfortunately, he still could not make out her features, and he wondered if she had good reason to keep them hidden. After all, what kind of woman dressed as a man and tended a cell with such ease?

He felt the tug of a smile. Never had he been intimidated by a woman—not even his strong-willed mother—and this woman’s display sparked humor in him despite it being an entirely humorless situation.

Shaking off the emotion, he asked, “Am I to be told of the charges against me?”

The woman traversed the earthen floor and once more came to stand before him. The hood continued to hide her features, though he could now make out the line of a straight nose and the curve of full lips. More intriguing was a pair of keys on a thin leather thong about her neck. Surely worn to taunt him, they would fit the manacles.

“You are here, Baron Wardieu”—she pushed the hood back—“to atone for sins visited upon others.”

He narrowed his eyes on her pale, familiar face, shifted his gaze from her intensely green eyes that regarded him with loathing, to the blackest hair he had ever seen—like the starry night of a new moon.

His captor was Lady Lizanne, though he knew her only from the one time he had made inquiries after catching a glimpse of her at Lord Bernard Langdon’s castle. Shortly after his arrival, while he and his vassal, Sir Walter Fortesne, had been seated with Lord Langdon and his steward in the hall, a commotion at the opposite end had interrupted their discussion. Exhausted after two days of riding in the constant drizzle of the season, Ranulf had been annoyed at the intrusion and turned in his chair to observe the perpetrator.

There she had stood, all that unconstrained black hair about her shoulders as she berated a servant who, it seemed, had dared lay a hand to her maid. Despite the drab bliaut the lady had worn ungirded, Ranulf had been intrigued.

“Lady Lizanne!” Lord Langdon had arisen so abruptly he upended his chair.

The lady had turned and looked across the hall, eyes wide with surprise.

“Apologies, my lord, I did not realize…” The moment her gaze lit upon Ranulf, her words fell away.

Swiftly, he had risen from his chair and, towering over Lord Langdon’s plump figure, smiled and dipped his chin.

Her eyes had widened further and mouth gaped as the color drained from her face.

Wondering if he should take it as a compliment, Ranulf had stared as she stepped toward him. Then, with a strangled gasp, she had pivoted and fled as if evil itself were at her heels.

Grunting, Lord Langdon had reseated himself in the chair his steward had rushed to upright and said, “My apologies for Lady Lizanne. Would that you knew what a trial she is to me.”

“Your daughter?” Ranulf had asked.

“God’s mercy, a daughter such as that?” Lord Langdon guffawed. “No worse curse could be visited upon me. Nay, she is my wife’s cousin. It will be a blessing when she returns to her brother, Baron Balmaine, on the morrow.”

“The lady is not wed, then?”

Lord Langdon’s smile had disappeared. “Take my advice, young Ranulf, and stay away from that one. She is mean-spirited.”

Ranulf’s curiosity had only increased. However, the lady had not appeared in the hall for the evening meal, and he had not seen her again. Instead, he had followed the skirts of an enticing maid straight into an ambush.

But why? Atonement for what sins? Desire? He pulled himself back to the present and said, “The Lady Lizanne.”

Her dark eyebrows rose. “My lord knows me?” she said in mock disbelief, then stepped nearer and once more rose to her toes so her face was within inches of his and he felt her warm breath.

Forcing an indifferent expression, Ranulf searched for an advantage to her being so near, but there seemed none. If he lunged forward, he would do no more than push against her.

“I do not know you,” he rasped, “but I know of thee.”

A corner of her mouth lifting, she set herself back on her heels and began peeling the gloves from her hands. “My good cousin Bernard has been wagging his tongue.” She clucked her own, then lowered her eyes over Ranulf. “I wonder…do you not remember our first meeting?”

Did her voice break, or was it only imagined?

She lifted her head and pinned him with those impossibly green eyes.

Reflecting on her improper display in Lord Langdon’s hall, he said, “Aye, and most memorable it was.”

Her head snapped back as if he had slapped her.

Despite the circumstances, Ranulf was beginning to enjoy the game. He smiled. “Tell me, are you in the habit of imprisoning men you desire?”

She blinked. “Do you not deny it, then—that first meeting?”

He was baffled by her refusal to rise to the bait. “Deny it? Why should I? ’Twas you, not I, who made a spectacle of yourself before Lord Langdon.”

Color suffused her face. “That is not the meeting I speak of!”

Ranulf lowered his own face near hers. “I recall no meeting other than our brief one in Langdon’s hall—could that be called a meeting.”

She gave a bitter laugh, then reached up, touched the fingers of her gloves to the base of his throat, and trailed them down his collarbone.

Ranulf stiffened.

“I shall never forget our first meeting,” she said. “’Twould seem, though, you have.” She caught her bottom lip between even white teeth and lowered her gaze to the chain between his bound feet.

Though a frown drew her eyebrows near, it did nothing to diminish how lovely she was—like a rose. Unfortunately, though her petals would be soft and fragrant, her nasty thorns could prove a man’s undoing. Still, he longed to be the one to strip away her prickly defenses—

Disgusted at the realization his initial attraction to this woman had not abated, he snarled, “I demand to speak to the lord of this castle.”

She continued to consider the ground at his feet. “Hmm, well, if you refer to Lord Langdon, I must disappoint you. You are no longer under his roof, Baron Wardieu. You are under mine.”

He was not surprised. “As told, I would speak to the lord of this castle.”

She sighed. “Regrettably, ‘tis not possible. It will be a sennight ere he returns. And then…”

Her gaze flew to his and, in that moment, Ranulf realized why the chain so aroused her interest.

Once more giving his arms his full weight, he thrust his legs out before him and captured her waist between his thighs, causing the length of chain between his feet to strike her shins and buckle her knees.

She cried out as her head slammed into his chest and black tresses spilled from the collar of her man’s tunic.

“Now,” he growled, “take those keys from ‘round your lovely neck and release me.”

She tossed her head back. “’Twill do you no good.” With the back of a hand, she wiped at the blood trickling from her nose. “You will not be allowed to leave alive.”

“Do it, else I will crush the life from your accursed body.” He tightened his legs.

She gasped and, swift as a cat, raked her nails across his face.

Ranulf held, for a scratch, no matter how deep, was nothing to one who had survived bone-deep cuts.

She strained backward, clawed and pried at his thighs, but it would take far more to escape him. And from somewhere, she produced the means to do so. He caught the flash of silver and identified it as a dagger a moment before she sank the blade into his thigh.

Ranulf’s shout of pain was followed by her release.

Propelled backward, his captor threw her hands behind her to break her fall. Still, she hit the earthen floor hard, her arms going out from under her and landing her flat on her back. Surprisingly, she almost immediately regained her feet.

Clutching her ribs, she staggered toward him. “You! I will see you in hell for this.”

He glanced at the dagger protruding from his thigh. “Am I not already in hell? Witch!”

Unexpectedly , she startled at the sight of her bloody handiwork, then spun around and ran from the cell.

Drawing deep breaths through clenched teeth, Ranulf fought the darkness that once more threatened to pull him under. Though never in his one score and seven years had he considered doing physical harm to a woman, he would not trust himself were he loosed upon Lizanne Balmaine. With one such as she, mean-spirited as Lord Langdon had warned, it would be too easy to forget women were meant to be protected rather than set upon as he now plotted.

The thick shadow that fell across the floor heralded the arrival of a large man who hesitated before stepping into the cell.

He crossed to Ranulf’s side and splayed enormous hands on his hips. “Me name’s Samuel. I be yer jailer.” His eyebrows pinched as he leaned near to look upon the injuries his mistress had scored into her prisoner’s face. “Hmm.” Lowering his great, bald head, he next inspected Ranulf’s thigh. “She got ye good, she did. Ye must have made her right angry.”

“I require a physician!”

Samuel straightened, placing himself eye-to-eye with Ranulf. “Well, now, Lady Lizanne ain’t ordered no physician. But I’ve had some experience if ye’d like me to give it a try.”

“I have no desire to lose my leg!”

The big man shrugged. “Mayhap that be what she wants. She do seem to hold a mighty grudge again’ ye.”

Ranulf calmed himself enough to ask the burning question. “Why?”

“Milady’s reasons I ain’t privy to.”

“Then do not speak to me of them!”

Samuel’s face split with a grin, showing a full set of teeth. He leaned over again and tapped the dagger’s hilt. “It ain’t such a deep wound,” he pronounced and strode across the earthen floor and out the door.

Some minutes later, he returned with a fistful of rags. With one swift movement, he pulled the dagger free and tossed it aside. Immediately, he pressed a rag to the wound to stanch the blood.

Ranulf groaned. The dagger’s removal was worse than the getting of it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gnashed his teeth as Samuel continued his clumsy ministrations.

“Now hold still!” the man commanded and made quick work of applying a tourniquet.

Drawing deep breaths, Ranulf considered his bandaged leg. “’Twill take more than that to save my leg.”

“Ungrateful, are ye?” Samuel’s lips twitched. “Well, now…” He put his head to the side. “…methinks it’ll do fine.”

At Ranulf’s thunderous expression, he said, “Don’t ye worry. After the nooning meal, I’ll have me missus come and clean it right for ye. She knows plenty ‘bout tendin’ wounds.” Another grin and he was gone, returning moments later to secure the forgotten door behind him.

Imposing though he might be, Ranulf knew this Samuel was no jailer. Perchance, an ally.

He searched his gaze across the dirt floor until he spotted the carved hilt of the dagger the man had carelessly tossed a short distance away.

Balancing on his injured leg, he twisted his other foot into the hard, packed dirt of the floor and kicked a spray of granules toward the weapon. It took time and effort, but when he was done, the dagger was no longer visible. In its place stood a loosely mounded pile of dirt.

Ranulf leaned his head back and, through a haze of pain, began plotting. He would not leave this place without Lizanne Balmaine.