“The lady Elizabeth died, for they were betrayed and assaulted upon the road. But her maid took the child and reached the abbey. Once there, the abbess saw them both defended. It was said that the girl took her vows young and meant to live her days serving God. She would be of an age with me, and none have seen her since she was a child.”
“And none will see her soon, if she remains in the abbey,” Bartholomew mused. “So, you would suggest that she had changed her thinking?”
“She might have been stolen by a wicked knight,” Anna replied and felt Bartholomew’s chuckle beneath her hands.
“Aye, she might have,” he agreed, then twisted the tale. “But she was rescued from such dire peril by our company, it is clear.”
“Nay, she was snatched from the villain’s clutches by the knight, Bartholomew de Châmont-sur-Maine, a valiant crusader if ever there had been one, and a warrior much concerned with justice,” Fergus suggested, even as Anna sputtered in protest.
Bartholomew lifted a fist to his chest. “Do not tell me that she lost her heart to him?”
Fergus nodded sagely. “Smitten with but a glance. She cast aside her vows and begged him to wed her. I witnessed it all.”
“Nay!” Anna protested, but heard laughter in her own tone. “You two steal the tale.”
“Only to create a finer one,” Bartholomew said. “I would not be cast as a rapacious villain.”
“No knight of merit could endure such an assault upon his nature,” Fergus agreed so solemnly that Anna wanted to believe him.
“Must I have begged him to wed me, though? It is not like me to make such an entreaty.”
“Aye, I can believe as much.” Fergus shook a finger at her. “But such is the power of love. It turns us all into fools, desperate for the favor of our beloved.”
“So speaks a man who has lost his heart,” Anna guessed, and Fergus winked at her, unashamed of his state. He had brought many gifts for his betrothed and she admired that he was unafraid for others to know his affection.
“Although I should like to see Anna beg for my mercy,” Bartholomew said, once again teasing her. “Would you oblige me, my lady wife?”
“I will not!”
“But then,” Fergus dropped his voice low. “Perhaps the maiden only so entreated the knight because she saw that in his eyes that he had lost his heart to her.”
Bartholomew gave a snort.
“A knight must have a heart to lose it,” Anna replied. “And I am skeptical that it is thus. It seems a dubbing does destroy all compassion in a man.”
She felt the shock ripple through the company and realized belatedly that in speaking her thoughts aloud, she had insulted them all.
“We must show Anna that she has not seen the true merit of our kind,” Fergus said quietly.
“Indeed, we must,” Bartholomew said, and Anna could discern no playfulness in his tone. His hand closed over hers for a moment and gave her fingers a squeeze.
She did not know how to account for the influence of this fleeting touch upon her pulse.
“I must protest this scheme,” huffed one of the Templars. “We cannot perpetuate such a falsehood.”
“Not even to ensure that the lady’s welfare is defended?” asked Fergus.
“Or the property regained that we hold in trust?” Duncan asked.
What had been in his saddlebag?
“Or the lady’s brother saved from what cannot be a good fate?” Bartholomew added.
The pair of knights looked uncomfortable with the situation, but reluctantly ceded that there was merit in the plan. Anna assumed that they would neither aid in the ruse nor reveal it, and supposed it was the best to be hoped for.
After a few moments, Duncan cleared his throat. “And so, you shall be Anna of Whitby?” he asked.
“Anna de Beaumonte,” Anna replied. “That was her name.”
