“And have we a wager, Anna?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Bartholomew,” he corrected, that smile quirking his lips in a most alluring way. “We are to be wed after all, Anna.”
“Bartholomew,” she echoed, liking the sound of his name. She wriggled pointedly. “I regret that I cannot seal our wager with a shaking of hands.”
“It is of no matter,” he said easily. “I have learned well how to improvise.”
Then without waiting for her to agree, the cur bent and kissed her soundly. The other men hooted and clapped approval, and Anna was flooded with new terror. She froze, convinced that his intent was to claim her fully and feared a repeat of her past.
To her amazement, Bartholomew seemed to be aware of her reaction.
To her greater astonishment, it changed his deed. He lifted his head and broke their kiss almost immediately, but did not release her. His eyes gleamed as he surveyed her, seeking an explanation. Anna tried to kick him as a reward for his cursed confidence and his audacity.
This time, he let her fall.
And his fellows laughed.
Curse him to Hell and back again!
*
Bartholomew was not an impulsive man, but Anna’s audacity tempted him to be so. Her attitude and her assumptions irked him as little else had done in a long while, and there was a perverse pleasure to be savored in surprising her.
He also had been startled to hear her speak of the seed of Nicholas, and the ultimate return of that baron’s son. He was surprised that the tale of his father had survived, no less that his own arrival might be anticipated. Even more oddly, it survived in this place that did not look in the least bit familiar to him. Had he forgotten all he had known? What of the mill? He could see it clearly in his memory, but there was none here. How could that be?
And what of this baron who held Haynesdale now? She said he was the villain and treated those beneath his hand unfairly. Did that mean he was out of favor with the king? Bartholomew suspected not, which meant the current baron would have to die before there could be a question of making a claim. Did he have a son?
Of greater import, could this maiden help him to claim his rightful due? Would she believe any claim he made to be the son of Nicholas?
Would anyone else?
And why had a kiss so terrified her?
Anna tumbled to the ground and rolled a little, struggling furiously. Her eyes were filled with loathing when she glared at him, but Bartholomew crouched down beside her. “Reconsidered?” he asked lightly.
“You take pleasure in vexing me.”
“In truth, I do.” He admitted the truth easily, marveling in it even as he did so.
“Knave,” she repeated. “Cur, blackguard, and scoundrel.”
He smiled, untroubled by her words. “Insults will not improve your situation.”
“There is no reason for us to pretend to be wedded,” she argued, the heat of her reaction making him wonder if there was more merit in the impulsive suggestion than he had anticipated.
“There is every reason for such a feint,” he countered mildly. “What I desire is within the keep. What you desire is within the keep. The only way to release both is to enter the keep.”
“I am not a simpleton.”
“So, how would you propose we enter the keep, without arousing suspicion of our intent?”
“You go as you are, a French knight visiting one of his own kind, and I will go as a boy, perhaps as a squire.”
Bartholomew shook his head. “No one with any wits about them would fail to note that you are a woman. Your disguise, if that is what it is, works only in darkness.”
There was no question of having another woman disguised as a squire in the company. Anna would be quickly revealed, and that might prompt their host and his men to look more closely at their guests. Bartholomew would not so imperil Leila, who was garbed as one of Fergus’ squires and had answered to the name Laurent all the way from Jerusalem.
