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Catherine had borne the brunt of his anger for “killing” their mother in childbirth. She was not supposed to have lived, and even Phillipa couldn’t shield her younger sister from the truth. He despised her the most, the “cause,” or so he claimed, of their mother’s death.

Phillipa tried again, this time careful not to reveal her knowledge of “affairs of men,” as Father often liked to say. “Can you tell me something of him?”

Annoyed she’d interrupted him as he listened to the lilting notes fill the hall, her father stroked his grey beard, likely contemplating if he would answer her.

“His cousin is Sir Blase Waryn.”

That was all he needed to tell her. She’d wondered at the surname and nearly asked if he was related to the famed tourney knight. Phillipa had never seen him but at court the man was already something of a legend despite his young age. She knew precisely three things about him. That he was apparently even more handsome than his father had been. His family had ties to Clan Kerr, some of whom supposedly fought with William Wallace. And the son had won more tournaments at his age than even the father. Sir Neill Waryn’s reputation as the greatest tourney knight to ever live having reached her ears even as a child.

“I’d not realized Sir Blase had ties to Kenshire.”

Her father’s sharp look told Phillipa she said too much. And so she pressed her lips together, waiting for him to respond. He did, finally, many moments later.

“They’ve grown too powerful,” he said.

For the king’s liking.

He did not need to say the words. Her father did nothing except to please the king. Phillipa was expected to understand her father without being told. And she did.

“You wish me to report anything amiss to you?” she ventured.

For the briefest of moments, her father’s keen eyes softened. Not so much that he appeared fatherly. Or kind. Or impressed. But just a twinkling of. . . something. Perhaps she’d pleased him with the question, though it was difficult to discern.

“Aye,” he said. “Though it is not just me who wishes it.” Turning back toward the musicians, he dismissed her. All that was needed to be said had been, apparently.

The king wishes me to spy on my husband.

So Lord Waryn was being forced to marry her by the king, she guessed. Why else would he willingly take a bride such as she? A woman whose father was one of King Edward’s closest friends and advisors. Especially if the rumors about his family were true.

Or perhaps ’twas simply a consequence of being intermarried with Clan Kerr and living so close to the border. Often such men, and women, were not trusted simply due to their proximity to the Scots. But other times—more often, in fact—their loyalties did waver, their king and country secondary to their own best interests. Phillipa hoped she was not marrying such a man. One who could so easily disregard his own country.

Of course, her wishes mattered little. She could wish to marry a handsome and honorable man all she wanted. It was never to be her choice. Instead, it seemed, she would be bound forever to this borderer. Her own role in England’s devolving relationship with the Scots who terrorized her countrymen would not be greater than she ever could have imagined.

She did not wish to begin a marriage this way, but Phillipa had no choice. Perhaps she could prove to her father she wasn’t completely worthless. She just had to sacrifice. . . herself.

Chapter Three

Palace of Westminster

“Keep your mouth closed, Holt.”

Haydn knew it was directives like that which his younger brother resented. Made him act like the strutting stud he believed himself to be. On a mission to prove to the world, or at least to prove to his older brother and his parents, specifically their father, that he was worthy of their admiration, Holt was equal parts bold and careless.

He could just as easily save the day as turn it disastrous.

But Haydn had little patience for his brother’s feelings at the moment. They were about to be presented to the king of England. The one man who could ruin everything their parents had worked so hard to build.

“No promises, brother.” Holt side-eyed him; the perpetual smile that usually amused Haydn now served only to annoy him.

“Don’t make me regret agreeing to this.”

Holt’s smile broadened.

Unlike Hugh, who accepted Haydn’s decision to come south alone with only a handful of retainers by his side, their youngest brother, three years Haydn’s junior, rode into the courtyard at Kenshire like some esteemed tourney knight ready to take on the champion. Attempting to dissuade him would have been useless.

Besides, if he were to have any sword arm by his side, it would be Holt’s. Lightning quick, he was a force to be reckoned with. And Haydn should know.

It was Holt who had saved their sister’s life.