She had been wronged, in her view, and there was no way to change her circumstance save to deliver to Royce a son and heir. She had tried to conceive, she truly had. She allowed him to do what he desired to her, as disgusting as it might be. She was certain that a little more masculine company would be vastly encouraging, but after that regrettable incident in Winchester on their wedding night, Royce was disinclined to trust her.
He had vowed that she would not leave Haynesdale until she bore him a son, for then the boy would undoubtedly be of his blood.
She doubted that he had imagined it would take so long.
Perhaps she should fight him again on this night. It did arouse them both when they argued before mating. Marie pursed her lips, considering.
And then she straightened. There was a party on the road headed toward the gates of the keep.
Strangers.
Guests.
Knights!
God in Heaven, there were even two Templars in the party. What a feast!
She had to intervene before Royce dispatched them from the gates.
“Agnes! Emma!” Marie spun from the window and called again for her maids. She tipped open her trunk and began strewing garments across the floor. Royce could not keep her captive if there were guests. Nay, she must greet them as Lady of Haynesdale and he would not dare to rebuke her before strangers.
And perhaps one of them would plant the seed that Royce apparently could not sow. At this point in time, Marie was prepared to do any deed to return to the pleasures of the king’s court and abandon this festering backwater. Let Royce remain here, in the place he valued more than aught else, let him rot here with their son, and she would dance in palaces again.
The gold kirtle. She cast it across the bed, eyeing the shimmer of the silk with approval. Aye, she would look like the prize she had once been in this garb.
Marie smiled. If Royce were so overcome with desire at the sight of her in all her finery that he felt compelled to visit her bed this night, that deed might well disguise the contribution of a guest to her lord husband’s quest for an heir.
*
Anna would never have expected to enter Haynesdale willingly. But here she was, riding beneath its portcullis as she endeavored to look accustomed to such affluence and perhaps a little bored. It was a better choice than revealing that she was terrified. She was glad to have Bartholomew’s solid strength ahead of her and welcomed the feel of his mail under her fingers.
She hoped by every saint that the baron did not guess the truth.
She had to find Percy quickly. But where? The keep was enormous. There could be more than one dungeon in this place.
Despite her impatience to achieve their goal and depart, noblemen, it seemed, did naught with speed. Bartholomew dismounted, then lifted her down to the ground, his fellows dismounting as well. She chafed to hasten ahead but Bartholomew’s movements were leisurely. He smiled down at her, as if they were a loving couple, and pressed a kiss to her hand. “Patience, my lady,” he murmured and Anna exhaled in an attempt to calm herself.
She doubted her success, for Bartholomew’s eyes danced with humor.
She touched her fingertips to her crossbow, slung from his saddle, in an apparently absent gesture. She saw from his slight smile that he understood.
“Timothy, if we are to be entertained here, I would have you ensure that Zephyr is brushed down. Please bring our bags and the bow to us when you are done.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Bartholomew ran his fingertips over the crossbow. “You know that I cannot bear to let any prize from my sight, be it weapon or wife.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Anna glared at him. Bartholomew smiled.
The squires kept custody of the reins, after the knights dismounted, and Anna noted that no one stepped forward to escort the steeds to the stables. They stood together in the middle of the bailey, horses behind them, the baron’s men keeping to the perimeter. Leila remained behind Anna with her head bowed.
“Such a breach of hospitality,” muttered one of the Templars. “Are we to be treated like vagabonds instead of guests?”
Anna tugged her hood over her brow, just in case any soul looked too closely. In the forest, it had been easy to trust in the protection offered by a change of garb, but now that she stood within the bailey of Haynesdale, she was terrified that she would be recognized.
There was a sudden fanfare, then Sir Royce himself appeared in the portal to the hall. He was much older than Bartholomew and not as tall. His hair was white, though he looked virile and hale. There was the patch over his one eye, but despite that—or perhaps because of it—he was a striking man. He was garbed richly and stood with confidence, a trim man who had earned his way with his blade.
