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Beti lowered the kirtle she was mending. “Your mother was much the same, my lady,” she said. “Always wanting to be outdoors, riding horses, picking wildflowers, watching the tide come in. Lady Buckley had little time for needlework.”

Catrin experienced the familiar ache that usually accompanied mention of her mother. Upon her mother’s death the year before, she’d begged her father to allow Lady Buckley’s maid to become her own, knowing that Beti would help keep her mother’s memory alive. Beti had been with her mother since before she’d married her father. She was starting to show her age and was moving more slowly, but Catrin would not exchange the comfort of her matronly wisdom for anyone younger.

“That’s it exactly,” Catrin said. “I would rather spend the afternoon riding Seren along the beach or gathering blackberries amongst the bramble bushes for cook than sit in my chamber, protecting my complexion from the sun or my hands from purple stains.” She looked down at her finger with frustration. A tiny drop of blood had appeared at its tip. “I fear no nobleman will want a wife so untamed, nor one so unskilled.”

“You are but nineteen years of age, my lady,” Beti said. “I have no doubt you will excel as a nobleman’s wife and fulfill your responsibilities well when the time comes—as did your mother.”

“You know as well as I that my father doted upon my mother and allowed her far more freedom than most women enjoy.” Catrin’s shoulders slumped. “’Tis unlikely that I will be so fortunate.”

Beti gave her a reassuring smile. “Your father will see to such matters, my lady. He—”

A knock on the door of the bedchamber startled them both. Beti let the remainder of her advice go unsaid, got to her feet, and moved stiffly across the room. Raising the latch, she pulled open the door. A castle page stood in the stairwell.

“If you please,” he began. “Lord Buckley requests an audience with Lady Catrin.”

Beti looked over her shoulder as though to check that her mistress had heard the page’s message.

Catrin rose and set her embroidery on the chair. Her father’s invitation was unusual, but it offered her the reprieve she’d been hoping for. She joined Beti at the door. “Tell Lord Buckley that I shall join him forthwith,” she said.

“Very good, my lady,” the page said with a bow. Then he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Turning to Beti, Catrin ran her hands down her blue gown in a futile attempt to brush out a few wrinkles. Her long golden hair was pulled back into a single plait, and although the hairstyle was not ornate, it was tidy.

“Will I do?”

“You are most pleasing, my lady,” Beti said.

Catrin shook her head and smiled. “I believe you would tell me that if I were dressed in rags, with my hair completely disheveled.”

Beti’s dark-brown eyes twinkled. “You’d best not keep your father waiting, my lady.”

“’Tis true.” Catrin stepped out of the bedchamber. “I should go.”

With her hand against the smooth stones of the tower, she followed the spiral staircase downward. A torch hissed and flickered on the wall below, illuminating a few of the steps and casting dancing shadows across others. She reached the next floor and walked through an arched entrance into the great hall, where a fire burned in the fireplace in the center of the room, giving welcome warmth and light to the overcast, rainy day. Straw covered the flagstones, and servants flitted between the tables and benches, already preparing for the upcoming evening meal.

Crossing the wide room, Catrin approached the door to the left of the grand chamber. The grand chamber itself was reserved for the king, but as constable of the castle, her father’s room was located within easy reach of the monarch’s, should the king ever deign to make an appearance at the castle. Hesitating only a moment, she raised her arm and knocked.

“Enter.”

Catrin turned the metal ring, lifted the latch, and stepped into the room. A tapestry curtain divided the chamber in two. Her father’s sleeping quarters took up one side, and on the other, he conducted any business affairs too private for the great hall. A large wooden table filled one corner of the room, and her father sat upon an intricately carved chair behind it.

Dropping to a curtsy, Catrin slowly raised her head to face him. His brown hair had grayed since her mother’s passing, but his stately bearing still demanded respect, and his blue eyes remained as focused as ever. “You asked to see me, my lord.”

“I did.” He picked up a scroll from the table and slid the parchment through his fingers. A portion of the wax seal dropped to the table, and a slight frown crossed his brow. “I received a missive today that will prove to be of great import to you.”

“To me, my lord?”

“Indeed.” He gave her a penetrating look. “It contains an offer of marriage.”

Catrin stood her ground, even as the floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

Her father’s look softened, and he pointed at a nearby chair. “Sit, Catrin.”

Somehow, Catrin forced her limbs to move in the correct direction, and she lowered herself onto the wooden seat without a stumble. In the three years she and her parents had lived on this isolated island off the coast of North Wales, she’d had no suitors. On occasion, an English nobleman would visit the castle, usually en route to Ireland or to deliver a message to her father from London, but she rarely had any interaction with them. They came and went with little to no disruption to her daily activities, and Catrin would be hard pressed to remember the name or face of any of them.

Truth be told, up until this very moment, the concerns she’d shared with Beti about her fitness for marriage had signified little because of the obvious lack of eligible Englishmen willing to seek out a bride living in a distant castle on Anglesey.

“Who . . . ?” She swallowed hard. “Who has offered his hand?”