“My lady, look at me.” It seems he is not in any undue hurry to be off. Ahand in my hair draws my head back, tipping up my chin. He’s not rough exactly, but his touch is firm. I do not resist.
“Open your eyes.”
The tone has gentled still further. I begin to think this man may not mean me harm. If he simply intended to claim me for himself by right of rank he would have no need to talk to me, much less to reassure. I hold my breath as I lift my eyelids and look at him.
He is beautiful. Beautiful and terrible at the same time as he looms above me. He is bending at the waist, leaning over me, but his full height must be approaching six feet. Vivid blue eyes meet mine, hold mine. He wears armour, a tunic of chainmail glistening over a stout leather jerkin. His head is bare. His hair is blond, just a shade or two darker than mine, and falls to his shoulders. It is flattened as though he has only recently removed his helmet. His hands are ungloved, I note, and he retains his grip on my hair, whilst his other hand cups my chin. I wince, the bruise from the punch I received still throbbing. His eyes narrow, but I do not think his anger is directed at me. He turns to issue a command to a soldier at his right hand.
“Twenty lashes. Each. Then they will be discharged without pay. See to it.”
“At once, your grace.” The man scurries away.
Your grace.A duke then. I peer at him but do not recognise the handsome visage before me. I am sure I would have never forgotten if I had encountered him in the past. My first husband was the youngest son of a duke, and my second husband a count. I have moved in reasonably exalted circles but not met this man before.
“Are you able to stand?” That smooth timbre. My stomach clenches, and so does something else, something lower.
I nod, my eyes never leaving his, but when I attempt to get up my legs will not hold me. The duke’s arm is suddenly around my waist, lending me the support I need.
“My thanks, sir. I appreciate your assistance. All of it.”
“What is your name, madam?”
“I am Lady Natalia de Chapelle, my lord.”
He frowns, as though attempting to place me. “That name is familiar to me. You are a member of the royal household?”
“I am, my lord. My husband is—was—the count de Chapelle.”
“Yes. And a witless, cowardly buffoon if I recollect correctly. Hewasyour husband, did you say?”
“I am a widow, my lord. These last six months.”
“My condolences, madam, both on your marriage and on your widowhood. Then you are one of Princess Susanna’s ladies, I assume.”
“Yes, sir.” I regard him, and hope to keep my gaze level. There will be no mercy for the royal household, but perhaps my end will be less cruel than Ihad feared a few moments ago. This duke is not to be trifled with as my assailants have discovered to their cost, but he has offered me no violence yet, nor even the threat of it, despite bearing little regard for my late husband. A swift and painless death might yet be mine.
“The royal ladies, at least those who are still here, are to assemble by the castle entrance.” He turns to another of his guards. “Erik, see to it that Lady de Chapelle reaches there safely if you will, please.”
The man nods and steps forward. Acting on instinct, I shrink back against the duke. His arm tightens around me. “You will be safe now, my lady. Go with him.”
I turn in my rescuer’s arms, and I’m oddly bereft when he releases me. “Sir, may I know your name?”
He executes a stiff, formal bow. “You may. I am Stefan, duke of Richtenholst.”
“I am indebted to you, your grace. Please, one last question if you would permit it?”
He lifts one eyebrow, and waits. I interpret that as his consent to continue.
“Why are the women of the castle to be assembled as you describe?”
Is that a hint of pity I detect in his austere visage? My stomach clenches in apprehension.
“Any of our forces who wish to select a bride from among the unmarried women of Hohenzollern will be permitted to do so. You are there to be inspected. And chosen. I suspect you will not be a widow for much longer, my lady.”
I gasp, horror-struck. A humiliating, cruel death is to be avoided, it seems, but the alternative will be little better in my view.
“No! I will not marry again. I refuse to do this. I am to enter the church.”
He tilts his head to one side and regards me with something akin to wry amusement. “I suspect not, my lady.”
