“Aye, my lord, ’twas a fright to me, my lord, whenst I came upon the bloodied, ravaged body of Verna of Langumont. Her’s not breathing or moving and sure as I stand, the wench is dead. And my lady Maris,” his eyes grew round, “’twas nawt sign of her’n but for her cloak, ’round the bend from mine own home.”

“Gustave, send for the guards of last eve,” Merle roared in French to the hovering seneschal.

“My lord, what is it?” cried Allegra, standing with a horror-stricken look on her face. Victor and Michael d’Arcy had stopped eating as well.

“Know you where Maris is this morn?” asked Merle fiercely of his meal companions. “Have ye seen her yet this morrow?”

They each in turn shook their heads. Allegra’s eyes had grown wide and her face pale as the snow beyond.

The guards from the watch of the night before rushed into the hall, startled out of their sleep, half dressed and with mussed hair.

“My lord,” bowed the captain of the night watch. “What is amiss?”

“Did my daughter leave in the company of her maidservant during your watch?” Merle fired the question before the man rose from his bow.

“Aye, my lord, she said on as she were called to the side of Ernest of the hillock,” explained the captain. “He was gravely injured.” His eyes swiveled to Ernest and realization washed over his face. He looked back at his lord, “She is gone missing?”

“Aye,” said Merle. Then, his voice rising in supplication, he bellowed, “Has no one seen my daughter?”

Silence greeted him.

“Á Langumont!” he cried, standing and nearly toppling the large table in his haste. “We must search while the trail of her abductors is fresh! Á moi!”

“My lord husband,” Allegra’s voice wavered, barely heard above the roar of men calling to arms. “My lord!”

“I shall return her to you safely, fear not,” Merle told his wife, worry creasing his face even as he gave orders to his men.

“But my lord, I—I believe I may know whence she has been taken.” Allegra plucked at the sleeve of his tunic. “’Tis my—my brother—my half brother, Bon de Savrille.”

She was hardly able to choke out the words. Merle froze and turned, giving her his full attention as she stammered a wary description of his visit, including his threat to have Maris to wive.

Maris regained consciousness as she was carried up a long staircase.

Having never swooned before, she felt a momentary pang of shame that she’d succumbed to such a feminine weakness…and then dismissed the misbegotten feeling immediately in light of her predicament.

Strangely, her blind fear had ebbed with her faint, and now she was able to think more calmly.

The buffoon who carried her none too gently up the stairs misjudged a corner, and one of her hands—still ice cold—slammed into the heavy stone wall. She could not hold back a moan of pain, but, mercifully, no one was behind to notice that her eyes had flown open at the shock. She determined to feign unconsciousness long enough to gain her bearings and make some sense of her situation. Assess the situation, her father told his pages and squires during their long training in the art of war, before developing a strategy.

It was, however, more difficult than she’d anticipated to fake an extended faint…especially when she was dumped unceremoniously onto a bed of some sort. Through slitted eyes, she recognized that the clumsy oaf who’d carried her jerkily up the stairs was none other than her intended husband—at the least, it was his intention that he be her husband.

“Agnes!” he bellowed suddenly, and Maris nearly jumped at the loud noise.

Then there was a rustling sound, followed by a voice, squeaky with fear. “Aye, my lord.”

“See to my betrothed,” ordered Bon in a rough voice. “She is weak after her long journey. I would that she were bathed and dressed and prepared to sup with me at the evening meal.” There was a short silence, then, “And see to it that she is cared for as befits her station. Do you not forget she is to be my wife.”

Maris held her breath as she felt his presence near her face. A large hand took hers and raised it to dry lips and a brush of prickly moustache. “Until later, my lady,” he murmured. She felt the air stir as he whirled and left the room, bellowing for hot tubs of water for her bath.

She was to be his wife. Maris held back a shudder at the thought. Not bloody likely!

She listened carefully, eyes still closed, as Agnes bustled about the room. She heard calm, efficient orders were given to the servants who brought sloshing buckets of water, along with linens and other rustling items, into the chamber.

As she lay in repose, listening, her mind whirled, uncontained.

The biggest shock of all was no longer her abduction—for Bon de Savrille’s purpose was clear—but that Dirick de Arlande was here. In the home of her captor.

The pit of her stomach—mostly empty, for the fare on her unexpected journey had been little more than hard bread and old cheese—twisted in fear and anger. Had he merely wooed her, and her father, too, in order to plot her kidnapping for Bon de Savrille?

Many things made sense now, she thought, trying to keep her lips from twisting bitterly. His destrier was much too fine and expensive to belong to a mere mercenary knight…and his knowledge about Henry’s court had been so pat that she’d wondered how a traveling knight from France knew such detail. And Papa—and she—had taken him at his word, invited him into their home, and treated him as an honored guest all the while he plotted to snatch her for his master!

Maris swallowed, holding back tears. And he’d even kissed her, making her feel as if—

Nay. She would not think on that.

At the last, there was silence. Maris heard the door close, and the unmistakable sound of a bar sliding into place across it. She was just about to open her eyes when the barest of sounds told her that someone was still in the room.

“My lady, you may open your eyes,” came a quiet voice. “All have gone save myself. But be yourself ware, my lord has stationed a guard outside your chamber.”

Maris’s eyes snapped open in surprise. They rested on a woman, similar in age to herself, with thick honey colored hair and a long purple scar that ran from the corner of one eye to the edge of her jaw. It was old enough to be healed, but it had done so by misshapening her eyelid.

Agnes tilted her head shyly. “’Tis oft I have feigned the same faint, my lady. I knew you were aware.” She drew near the bed as Maris’s gaze traveled the chamber for the first time.

It was larger than she’d expected, and while not as luxurious as her own chamber at Langumont, the bed was fairly comfortable and there were tapestries—threadbare though they were—over the slitted windows to keep out the drafts. The fire, at least, was enthusiastic, although the rest of the chamber left little to on which to comment.

“Would you like to bathe, my lady?” asked Agnes. “The warm water will ease your hurts.”

Indeed, Maris could smell the comforting scent of rosemary wafting from the tub that had been placed before the fire. “Aye, I think that I should do that, at the least.”

She struggled up from her repose on the bed, and Agnes, though less quick than her own maid Verna, was just as efficient in pulling off her filthy, stained shift and helping her into the tub.

Verna.

The thought of her maid shot into Maris’s mind and a well of fear and anger erupted within. How dare her own maid betray her in this manner! There was no doubt that Verna had lured her from the comforts of her own bed to the waiting arms of her kidnappers. Maris felt ill. She’d been betrayed by two people she trusted.

Then Maris recalled the violent sounds of Verna’s own fate. Swallowing back a lump in her throat, she tried not to think about what those sounds had meant.

Agnes, though awkward, was gentle as she washed the tangled mass of Maris’s long hair and bathed her with a faintly scented rosemary soap. In fact, Maris felt lulled by these familiar comforts as she struggled to determine a strategy. She must have a plan, for she had no intention of wedding the coarse, greasy Bon de Savrille.

Verily, her father had noted her disappearance by now. That realization gave her some ease. If anyone could rescue her, her father could. All Maris had to do, she realized, was delay Bon’s intent—for it didn’t make sense that he’d plan to hurt his intended bride—until her father could get there. He’d besiege the keep, take it apart stone by stone, brick by brick, to get to her.

Maris drew in the first easy breath since her abduction two days ago. She must stall and delay and play along with Bon de Savrille and his game.

Agnes helped her out of the tub and to a stool that sat before the fire. Maris, wrapped in a woolen blanket, stared into the flames as the maid tugged a wooden comb through her hopelessly snarled hair.

“Yer hair is beautiful, my lady,” said Agnes, breaking the silence.

Although Maris did not feel inclined toward conversation, she responded, “Many thanks, Agnes.”

“My lord wishes for you to sup with him this eve,” Agnes told her. “Do you wish for me to say you are still ill?”

Maris was silent for a moment, considering. How she would love to remain ensconced in this chamber, away from the prying, greedy eyes of her kidnapper…yet, the start of a plan had already begun to formulate in her mind, and she needed more information to know if ’twould work.

“Nay, Agnes,” she replied after a moment. “I shall sup with Lord Bon, as he wishes. It does not seem prudent to anger him, aye?” Hoping to learn more about her captor, and as yet unsure whether Agnes would be a help or a hindrance to her, she craned her head to look back at the maid.

“Oh, aye, my lady, my lord has a brutal temper,” agreed Agnes. “An’ one ne’er knows when ’twill break.” She could not suppress a shudder. “Yet, my lady, he seems overly fond of you…in fact, I have heard stories that when he is in his cups, he sings love ballads in your honor.”