A Wild Winter

Book 2: Seasons of Scotland

by Sophia Nye

Synopsis

Can love overcome the past to forge a new future?

Aidan MacMaster has never felt at home in his Highland clan. Always on the lookout for excuses to leave his family in search of adventure, Aidan gets more than he bargained for when he agrees to go off in search of a missing woman.

Gemma FitzRoy, illegitimate daughter of King Henry and a Welsh princess, finds herself standing face to face with her worst nightmare: an arranged marriage to a monster of a man. After an unpleasant encounter with her would-be betrothed, Gemma takes off into the wilderness in search of a new future.

Swept away together on a journey of discovery and intrigue, Gemma and Aidan must decide between the pasts they left behind and the future they imagine together. Will one wild winter together free them from the past or freeze their hearts forever?

Release date: February 10, 2021

Print pages: 240

Sample

Prologue

Summer 1134

MacMaster Keep, Scotland

Bluebells and heather filled the Highland fields when the ships came. Their honeyed scent wafted on the warm summer breeze. The sweeping countryside around MacMaster Keep was a blanket of purples and blues, dazzling to behold.

Then the ships pulled ashore.

The clash of hardened steel rang out across the glen. The smell of sweat and blood overpowered the wildflowers of summer, now trampled underfoot. Behind the combined forces of Clans MacMaster and Drummond, MacMaster Keep’s fortifications yet held. For now.

The English, led by the notoriously belligerent Thorold de Beaumont, had landed their ships in the Moray Firth less than an hour past. Laird Branduff MacMaster, expecting an attack, had already summoned his kin from Clan Drummond. After sending a request for aid to their neighboring kinsmen in Clan Calder, Branduff led his men to defend their keep.

Thus far, ‘twas not going well.

De Beaumont’s forces advanced, pushing the Highlanders back yet again. Heavy infantry, nearly twice as numerous as the defending Highland warriors, took their advantage.

In the midst of battle, Aidan MacMaster, Laird Branduff’s son, realized that the poor positioning of the clans could cost them everything. He needed to bring the Highlanders back toward the center to defend properly.

Aidan dealt a deadly blow to the Englishman before him with his claidheamh-mòr, his great sword. Looking about the field of battle, he wondered why his father had not yet recalled the men. The command could no longer wait, so Aidan issued it himself. “We must fall back!” he shouted, making his way toward the timber palisade behind him.

He heard his order echo through the ranks of Highlanders. Slowly, his warriors worked through the web of English soldiers, approaching the palisade gate. Like bees to a flower, the English pursued the Highlanders in their retreat.

Donnan, Aidan’s cousin, rushed past, a frown on his face and a gash on his leg. ‘Twas the young lad’s first battle. Hopefully it wouldn’t be his last as well. As Aidan stood defending the palisade, he counted nearly fifty of their men as they fell back to him, including his twin brother, Alec, and his uncle Alistair.

He took a final, agonizing look over the glen. After sending one more Englishman to the grave, Aidan secured the palisade gates. No more Highlanders remained alive, save those who had run past him to safety.

Aidan’s father, Laird MacMaster, had not been among them.

“Where’s Branduff?” Alistair’s gruff brogue confirmed Aidan’s fears.

Donnan stepped forward. “I saw him fall,” he announced. “He charged de Beaumont on foot, the madman.”

“He should’ve known better than to attack a man on horseback,” Alistair growled angrily.

Aidan had many notions of what his father ought to have done. But ‘twas not the time to discuss it. He turned to his twin, Alec. “What say you, laird? What do we do?”

Alec swallowed hard. “Ronan will come,” he declared, “I know it. When he does, we’ll charge.”

Alistair snorted derisively. “Clan Calder won’t answer yer call. Not while Laird Murdoch leads them.”

“Aye,” Alec agreed, “Murdoch won’t. But if Ronan hears the message, he’ll see the call answered.”

“Why aren’t they battering the door?” Donnan asked, interrupting their debate.

Aidan wondered the same himself. “Likely they had to return to their ships to get the ram, or fell a tree as we speak,” he answered sourly.

It rankled that a group of ill-prepared Englishmen could wreak such havoc on his clan. If his father, God rest his soul, had been more judicious in his war-making, they might have fared better this day.

“They’ve come!” Alec’s cry rejuvenated the weary warriors.

Aidan peered between the timber posts of the palisade to see Ronan leading a cavalry charge into the English ranks. “To Ronan!” Aidan shouted.

Together he and Alec unbarred the palisade and charged what was now the rear of the English lines.

Ronan and Clan Calder cut down the front lines, spreading through the Englishmen like veins of silver in stone. Clan MacMaster and Clan Drummond surprised de Beaumont’s forces when they emerged from the palisade, clamoring for blood. ‘Twas mere minutes before the battle had turned. With a scowl upon his wretched face, de Beaumont led his men back to their ships.

Aidan looked to Alec. Relief was etched on his features as his brother watched the English retreat. Victory was theirs.

But ‘twas a hollow victory at best. Their father and, as they later discovered, their eldest cousin, had died in the battle. Many families had lost a man or two. The clan’s strength had all but disappeared. And, worst of all, everyone knew de Beaumont would be back.

The men stood together, watching the ships pull away from the rocky shore. Yet not a one felt the better for it.

“He’ll return,” Alec said, putting voice to Aidan’s own thoughts.

Aidan sighed. He saw no way out of the feud their father had begun with de Beaumont. The English lord had men, wealth, and ambition. He wouldn’t stop until he saw Clan MacMaster destroyed, and ‘twas the truth he wasn’t far from accomplishing his nefarious goal.

“It won’t be long,” Aidan added, weaving his way through the bodies in the glen as he walked back toward the keep. “He wages many small battles. The next one is already coming.”

Alec nodded agreement. “We’ll begin planning on the morrow. But today,” he announced, turning to Ronan, “we have guests to honor. We would not be standing here victorious without you.”

Ronan acknowledged his statement, but his looked remained grim. “We will always answer your call,” he replied, “I only wish we’d been here sooner.”

A commotion in the keep drew the warriors’ attention. Isobel, Aidan and Alec’s young sister, ran through the palisades, waving her hands like a madwoman. As one, the men ran towards her. ‘Twasn’t long before they could make out her shouts.

“The MacCready! He’s reiving our cattle!” She gestured wildly toward the back of the keep, where a portion of the herd grazed.

“God’s bones!” Alec swore, starting toward the keep at a run.

The rest of the men followed, to find that Isobel’s alarm was well-founded. ‘Twas just like the bastard MacCreadys, to go reiving while their neighbors were in the midst of battle.

“Was anyone hurt?” Aidan asked Isobel while Alec called for their horses.

She shook her head emphatically, but her eyes told Aidan a different story. Worry filled her face. Her lips were rolled tight.

“Tell me,” he demanded gruffly. He hadn’t time for games.

Isobel leaned closer, looking to Alec at the stables before answering. “I can’t find Gillian,” she whispered.

Aidan grimaced. Alec’s wife was missing. He wouldn’t take the news well.

“Don’t tell a soul,” he ordered softly.

Isobel nodded, her eyes far too serious for so young a lass. “What will you do?”

“I’ll find her.” Aidan mounted his destrier, flying over the glen with what remained of their battered clan.

 

Aidan watched his twin pace the tiny solar, brooding. Two weeks ago, Alec’s wife Gillian disappeared while the clan was embroiled in battle. Aidan had looked for her among the dead that day. He’d searched the nearby woods, glens, lochs, and villages. He’d even snuck onto MacCready lands, in case she’d been taken hostage. But neither sight nor word of Gillian appeared.

She was well and truly gone.

He’d never much cared for his brother’s new wife. They had been handfasted for a year, and were due to be married before the clan this month. In all that time, his suspicions had grown instead of subsiding. She’d bewitched Alec. There was no better word for it. Aidan watched as Alec lost all sense of himself in his devotion to Gillian.

Aidan couldn’t guess as to Gillian’s motives, but he knew she was pretending at love with Alec. Everything about her reverberated with insincerity. If he never saw her tightly wound brown hair again, he’d consider it a blessing.

His brother, ‘twould appear, felt differently.

“I’m going after Gillian,” Alec declared finally.

“You know you can’t,” Aidan gently reminded him. “You’re the laird. You cannot abandon the people to search for a wayward wife.”

“I wouldn’t be leaving them without a laird.”

Aidan shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Aidan, don’t make me beg,” the ache in his brother’s voice nearly broke Aidan’s heart. “You need only be laird until I return.”

Though it pained him to see his brother in such misery, Aidan could never do what his brother asked. “I am not laird,” Aidan said. “You are.”

“And I will be again.”

Aidan’s patience waned. “Alec,” he grumbled, “I’m not going to take your place as laird. You know how I feel about such things.”

“Aye,” Alec countered, “I do. I know that for some inexplicable reason you refuse to take your place in our clan. Until I return, you are Laird MacMaster. I’ll leave in the morn.”

Aidan knew when he’d lost an argument with Alec. ‘Twasn’t a regular occurrence, and he knew his twin felt strongly on the matter. Without another word, he stormed from the room.

But he’d sooner be dead than be laird.

Alec’s sharp assessment of Aidan’s discontent was not unfounded. More often than not, Aidan complained at the endless politicking and clan feuding. He despised his father’s warmongering. He’d die happy if he never saw another English soldier on Highland soil. He tired of watching his kinsmen, his family, drop one by one for petty squabbles.

And there was no way he’d be the man responsible for handling all of it.

Not only was Alec the better man for the job, he loved the complex challenges of lairdship. He belonged with the clan; his home was on MacMaster soil. Alec had always been a laird.

Aidan, though he loved his family deeply, knew he did not belong. Happiness eluded him.

With the exception of one winter day, when he was a young lad. He’d gone after a kitten that’d wandered off into the forest. While he was calling the poor wee thing, a deep Highland fog settled about the woods. He lost his way.

It took him hours to find his way home. Yet he never felt fear. The truth was that he relished the quiet hours of that journey. He found the wee kitten, who didn’t seem all that happy at his rescue, and together they wandered through the wilds.

That was the day Aidan realized he might live on MacMaster lands, but ‘twas not his home. And every day since, he’d been looking for excuses to wander once more.

So shortly after supper that very night, he left. He couldn’t become laird. He’d surely do more harm that good, to both himself and the clan.

He couldn’t ease his brother’s pain.

He couldn’t spend the rest of his days wondering what would happen if he went out on his own. But he could find Gillian.

 

 

Chapter One

March 15, 1136

Cardigan Castle, Wales

Rays of light from the rising sun streamed through the open window, breaking across her stepfather’s silver-coated chainmail. Gemma swallowed hard. He looked every inch a knight—tall, strong, and brave.

Her younger brother, Robert, helped to lift the heavy hauberk over his father’s head. It unfurled to his knees with a weighty shiver. Rob had not yet donned his own armor. He wore only his padded gambeson as he assisted his father.

Gemma felt a weight as heavy as that glinting silver armor settle upon her shoulders. Four castles had already fallen. The Welsh rebels cut a swathe of blood across the Marches. Her family was next, fires and screams already spreading in the surrounding countryside as the army approached Cardigan Castle.

Though Stephen was not her father by blood, he was the only father she needed. She watched him take his helmet from Rob and lower it over his own head. After his last battle, Gemma had painted it in red and gold chevrons, in honor of the late lord of Cardigan Castle.

Her stepfather was the constable of the castle. When the lord of the castle was out, the responsibility of managing the property and the nearby village fell to Stephen. He was a great leader of the people, as loved and respected as any Norman lord might hope.

And yet, Gemma’s heart skipped a beat each time she thought of the battle waiting on their doorstep. Something felt wrong. A sense of foreboding sunk deep into her bones, and try as she might she couldn’t shake it.

Her stepfather placed a hand on Rob’s shoulder, smiling beneath his helm.

“Go check on your mother,” he ordered gently.

Rob walked over to Gemma, stopping to kiss her forehead on his way out.

“Nothing to fear,” he assured her, “I’ll keep you safe.”

Gemma smiled up at him. She was two years his elder and somehow he towered over her like a great oak. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she searched for the right words.

“I want to believe that,” she said, “but something feels wrong.”

Rob took her hands in his, squeezing them. “Even if the castle falls, I’ve made certain you’ll be safe,” he whispered. “Two horses are tied fifty paces deep in the woods east of the lower bailey. If you should have need of them, do not hesitate. Run, and then ride.”

“The other is for mother?” Gemma asked.

Rob snorted. “If you can convince her to take it.” He hugged her before disappearing from his father’s chamber.

“Gemma, have you a moment?” her stepfather asked, as though it were any ordinary day.

She walked over to stand next to him in front of the window. The garrison and the lord’s tenant army donned armor and gathered weapons in the courtyard below. The ramparts teemed with life. Farmers and herdsmen hurried their families into the safety of the castle walls.

“If things should go poorly today, I want you to go to Oxford. The king will be there for court in a few weeks’ time. Robert will be needed here, and Maurice and William have their own lands awaiting their return. You will attend the court on behalf of this family. You will tell King Stephen of the events you witness this day.”

Gemma felt the blood drain from her face. “But I am not even a true heir,” she pointed out. “And if I stay I can help with the wounded.”

“I have always loved you as my own,” Stephen said, smiling, “And your true father, God rest him, had far more standing than I. The king knows you are his cousin, and that I trust you to represent this family.” As an afterthought, he added, “And your mother will do well enough seeing to the injured without you risking yourself.”

Gemma felt tears threatening, and turned away. She understood the importance of his words. “Of course I will do as you ask,” she replied in the strongest voice she could. “I won’t let you down.”

Stephen took hold of her shoulders, pulling her back to face him. “Your father, a great king of England, would be proud of the woman you have become. You have his strength of character and your mother’s fiery spirit. I am lucky he put you in my charge.”

“Why are you saying all this?” Gemma asked, unable to mask the despair in her voice. He had never said such things before, never spoken so openly or affectionately.

“The Welsh army has not yet been defeated. Indeed, they’ve hardly been slowed. I want to tell you that we will win the day and keep the people safe. But I fear that is a promise I cannot in good conscience make,” Stephen answered. “I don’t want to leave any words unsaid.”

Gemma lifted a hand to his face. The wrinkles on his cheeks felt like the bark of an ancient tree. His beard was a pool of silver to match his armor. His eyes held a sadness that echoed within her own heart. “I love you, father,” she whispered.

“Aye, daughter. I love you.” He hugged her as best he could fully armored, before sending her off to make sure her brother had sorted things with their mother.

Nesta ferch Rhys, last princess of the Welsh kingdom of Deheubarth, was notoriously strong-willed. She had not lived the life of luxury Gemma had imagined of a princess. Instead, she had been enslaved, imprisoned, forced into marriage, abducted, raped, and then forced to marry yet again. A lifetime of fire had only hardened her resolve to find happiness for her children.

Gemma understood precisely why Stephen was sending her and Rob to check on their mother. Her stepfather knew as well as any of them that Nesta wouldn’t leave the castle if it were burning to the ground around her. He hoped that her two youngest children might convince her otherwise.

Preparing to argue staunchly against her mother, Gemma rapped her knuckles on the door to Nesta’s chamber. When no one answered, she slowly opened the creaky wooden door, only to find it empty. Where on earth was her mother?

Mayhap she had gone to check on poor Lady Alice de Gernon, the newly widowed lady of the county of Ceredigion. Her husband had been the earl of much of what now lay in the hands of Welsh rebels. If her mother had sought out Lady Alice, Gemma would need to check the solar and the hall across the courtyard. She hurried to her own room to get a cloak.

When she opened her door, she found her mother carefully packing all of Gemma’s belongings.

“I hope you’ve packed as well,” Gemma said, closing the door behind her.

“Don’t you start with me, too,” her mother chided her. “I’ve already had to give your father and your brother an earful.”

Gemma grabbed several of her gowns and began folding them on the bed next to her mother. “You can’t stay if the keep falls, mam. We would all be heartbroken should anything happen to you.”

“Plenty has already happened to me, and I’ve lived through that,” her mother retorted sharply. “But you are young. You must get out as soon as you can, long before the castle is under siege. The last thing you need is to be tossed about like a boat in the sea of men.” She smacked the stack of clothes that sat on the bed.

“Nor do you,” Gemma pleaded. “Come with me, and we will escape together. I’ll watch from the ramparts and find you should we need to leave. We can bring Lady Alice, too.”

Her mother gently shook her head. “The mothers will stay,” she stated. “I cannot abandon my husband and my three sons as they ride to defend our home. And I cannot allow my daughter to linger amidst such danger. Besides, my kin are among the Welshmen. Mayhap I can help with any negotiations.”

“But,” Gemma began, ready to try another argument.

Her mother placed Gemma’s cloak about her shoulders, shushing her in the process. “Everything will be alright. You will leave. You will speak to King Stephen. And then you will follow your own destiny. Do not let men push you around for their own games. ‘Tis a sure path to pain. Make your own choices and defend them with your life.”

Before Gemma could utter a word, her mother had shoved the packed bag into Gemma’s shaking hands and walked out the door.

Through her bedroom window, she watched her mother cross the courtyard minutes later and enter the great hall, undoubtedly to keep Lady Alice company as they waited out the impending battle. Gemma climbed the staircase next to the gatehouse, where she had lived with her family happily these last twenty years. When she reached the top, she watched the scene unfolding before her in horror.

Her hands gripped the cold stone crenellations. A chilly spring wind whipped across the ramparts, threatening to pull her black hair from its ties. From her vantage point, Gemma could easily see the destruction in the wake of the Welsh army. Every farm they had passed was burning, the serfs fleeing toward the castle or into the surrounding countryside.

The army crept like a shadow over the rolling hills of her home. A horn sounded from the courtyard below, followed by the sound of a thousand horses and the clanging of mail hauberks. Her stepfather led the charge, right next to the Lord of Cardigan, Robert fitz Martin. Her three brothers followed behind him. Their armored horses broke the line of the Welsh army with a sickening crack.

Though the men of Cardigan Castle made a commendable dent in the lines of Welsh soldiers, ‘twas not enough. They were easily overrun and forced to fall back. A scream of anguish sounded from below, and Gemma realized that the castle itself would soon be in danger. Hundreds of serfs and villagers had fled to the keep, only to be kept at bay by the thin drawbridge between the town of Cardigan and the castle proper.

As the battling armies neared, panic set in. People pushed and shoved, and far too many hurried to get onto the bridge and into the safety of the castle walls. A creak, like tree branches straining, rose up from the bridge, followed by a thunderous crash. The bridge, and everyone on it, had fallen into the River Teifi. And still, they tried to cross.

The sinking feeling Gemma had felt intensified. They would not win.

“You need to leave while you still can,” an archer told her as he moved to take his post next to her. “And you shouldn’t be up here watching such a massacre.”

He was right. Reluctantly, Gemma hurried through the back entrance to the keep, slipping out unnoticed as provisions were made for the coming siege. She would leave, aye, and she would speak with King Stephen. But she would not simply relay news of the battle. She would convince him to send reinforcements, to come to her family’s aid. Perhaps they could hold out long enough for help to come. Satisfied that she had a plan, Gemma hurried into the forest east of the lower bailey.

The woods welcomed her, muting the horrific sounds of battle almost as soon as she entered. Confident that she was out of danger, Gemma turned to take one last look at her home.

She could just see the front lines of the battle moving toward the castle. A red and gold helmet stood out among them. Her father yet lived. Gemma watched for several long minutes, hoping to find signs that her brothers were alive as well. But she watched for too long.

A monster of a man, his golden hair braided, rode down Gemma’s stepfather. The man’s blood-red tunic matched the crimson spatters on his chainmail armor. He howled like a wolf as his spear tore through Stephen’s armor. Her stepfather, her father in all but blood, crumpled to the ground from atop his horse. The horrid man cheered before reclaiming his spear and turning toward his next victim.

Gemma’s head spun. Her heart pounded in her chest. She nearly fainted at the sight of her own father’s death. Her family truly needed her now. She couldn’t save her father, but she could do as he’d asked. She would go to King Stephen. She would demand aid for Cardigan. And she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

 

 

Chapter Two

April 1136

Beaumont Palace, Oxford

The sun stood high in the sky, signaling midday as Gemma stepped into the cobblestone courtyard of Beaumont Palace. Her father, King Henry I, had built it only three years past. Though Gemma had never seen it before, her stepfather had told her all about the splendid royal manor house her father was constructing.

She had met her father, of course. She saw him with greater frequency when she was small, less and less as the years passed. Her last meeting with him was five years ago, before his disputes in Normandy occupied most of his time. Gemma shared her coal-black hair with both her parents, but she had her father’s glittering green eyes. Even when he was acting the part of the king, his eyes always sparkled with amusement.

After her mother’s first husband died, King Henry had come to visit Nesta in order to help her young sons arrange a second marriage for her. They had been lovers many years ago, when Princess Nesta had first been captured by the English from her home in Wales. She had often remarked that in weeks filled with darkness, her tryst with the king had been her only joy. Gemma’s oldest brother Henry, named for his father, was the only one of her seven siblings to share both parents with her.

The two great wooden doors to the hall had been left open, allowing a chilly spring breeze to permeate the stifling room. Men and women wore their finest clothes – brilliant shades in every color of the rainbow brightened the dark corners of the great hall.

Gemma craned her neck, weaving politely between the members of the court in an effort to locate the king. Stephen had taken over the throne when her father had died abroad, though his tenure thus far had been rife with discontent. He was not the named successor, and many believed him a usurper instead of the true king. Gemma wondered just how many of the nobles within this very room already plotted against Stephen. It didn’t take her long to find a head of unruly golden curls beneath a jeweled crown.

Gemma picked her way through the crowd, staring at Stephen in the hopes of catching his attention. She knew better than to interrupt him, but she also knew she was not the only person here intent on speaking with the king.

Luck was with her. Stephen’s bright eyes, so like his uncle’s, caught her own. A smile upended his frown, and he excused himself to greet Gemma.

“My beautiful cousin!” He exclaimed, using the excuse of a hug to move her further away from the crowd. “What a joyous surprise! It’s been years since you were at court with your family.”

Gemma smiled at him. “‘Tis a joy to see you as well,” she replied, “and I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of congratulating you on your new position, your grace.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gemma,” Stephen waved away her formality, leaning closer to whisper to her, “You’re one of the only people in here I know isn’t trying to have me murdered. The least I can do is dispense with titles.”

Stephen had always had an easy nature about him. It would seem he had retained it even amidst the trials of kingship. Gemma wished she had time to rejoin his banter, but dinner would begin soon. She needed to tell him of her family before the opportunity was lost.

“Stephen,” she began, “I wish I were here with my family.”

He regarded her more seriously. “They didn’t come with you?”

Gemma shook her head. “My mother and Lady Alice de Clare are trapped in Cardigan Castle. My stepfather is dead. I left before I witnessed the fate of my brothers.”

Stephen sighed. “The Welsh, I presume?”

“Aye. And though I am truly happy to see you, I must admit ‘twas the reason for my visit.”

“Gemma, I am deeply sorry to hear of your stepfather. I had heard rumors of the Welsh rebels nearing your home, but I had hoped they were nothing more than that,” Stephen said.

“I know you have your own battles,” Gemma pressed, “but is there anything you can do to aid us?”

Stephen’s expression fell. “I have neither men nor gold to spare, I’m afraid. The contentious Lord Baldwin is rebelling in the south, and David is even now massing the Scottish army in Northumberland. But I do have an idea.”

“Anything will help,” Gemma said, breathing deep relief. He would help her. Her mother would be safe now. But what could he do without men or money?

“I’m glad that you think as much,” Stephen replied. “I invited the rebel leaders to dine with us today. I intend to negotiate a truce, as I have no ability or desire to battle on yet another front.”

Gemma’s stomach flipped. “They’re here!” She nearly shouted her surprise. Several nearby heads turned her direction.

Stephen waved her voice down. “Yes, they’re here. Just the pair of them with their guard. And I will require your assistance with negotiations.”

“You will?” Gemma asked warily. “How could I be of aid to your cause?”

“You have a unique position in this court,” Stephen explained. “Your father was an English king, your mother a Welsh princess. Your uncle is a leader of the Welsh rebellion, and your cousin the king of England. You have the blood of both sides of the feud running in your veins. You symbolize the unity possible between the Welsh and the English.”

Gemma’s heart raced. She had a notion of where he was headed, and she didn’t like it at all.

“And how, exactly, can my symbolic unity be used to barter for peace?”

“I will offer a lordship to Cadwal in exchange for his vassalage, to be sealed by a marriage to you,” Stephen answered.

She shouldn’t be shocked. Her mother had warned her of just such an arrangement. Gemma’s thoughts instantly rebelled at the notion of marrying one of the men who had led the charge against her family. She knew her mother would be adamantly against it. And yet, she could hardly abandon her family in the middle of a siege simply because she didn’t want to get married.

“I know it is no small matter to you,” Stephen offered when she didn’t respond, “but it is the only way I see to calm the Welsh Marches.”

Though Gemma was utterly repulsed at the idea, she knew that she would do anything to help her family. Even if it meant marrying a Welsh rebel.

Before she had time to argue or agree, the bell rang for dinner. A flood of colorful raiment poured from the hall into the dining room. The first course, a steaming beef stew, already awaited the guests on long trestle tables, decorated with gold-embroidered cloths, spring flowers, and innumerable baskets of hot rolls. As everyone took their seats, a group of minstrels began a lilting melody on two flutes.

On his way to the head of the table, Stephen halted to introduce the Welshmen to Gemma. She turned, and her heart stopped so suddenly she thought she might die on the spot. Both men were giants compared with her small stature, but they also towered over the king. Both had braided blonde hair. And the man to Stephen’s left had slaughtered her stepfather before her very eyes. She would recognize him anywhere, his face had haunted her dreams for nights on end.

Gemma swallowed hard. Her ears rang so loudly with rushing blood that she didn’t hear a word Stephen said. Until he gestured to the murderer on his left.

“And this is his brother Cadwal ap Gryffith, Prince of Gwynedd, whom I hope will agree to be your betrothed,” Stephen said with a smile, as though the man hadn’t just slaughtered half her village. Cadwal didn’t look at all shocked by Stephen’s statement of betrothal, leading Gemma to believe he’d already made the suggestion to the pair of them.

“A pleasure to meet you, m’lady,” the barbarian said, bowing conspicuously.

Gemma said nothing. She could find no words suitable for such a moment, and so she simply bowed in return.

Stephen frowned at her. “Cadwal and Owain will be your dining companions this afternoon, Gemma, so that you can better acquaint yourselves. As I will be leaving near dawn on campaign, we have agreed to meet again at the end of the year to set terms for the betrothal.” He politely excused himself and took his own seat, leaving Gemma to her fate.

Though she had been famished upon arriving at Beaumont Palace, Gemma’s appetite fled rapidly in disgust. The very sight of her meal now turned her stomach. She sat quietly, listening to the lively quartet in an effort to ignore the Welshmen’s attempts at conversation.

The elder brother and heir to the throne of the Welsh kingdom of Gwynedd, Owain, was a decent conversationalist, she grudgingly admitted. Cadwal, however, was a beast in every way. She particularly disliked the way his eyes roved her body, as though they were already married. What might have been an enjoyable feast carried on far too long while she was in his company. Gemma, for her part, said not a word the entire span of the meal.

When, at long last, the feast came to an end, Stephen invited everyone to retire to the hall for dancing. Gemma paled at the thought of dancing with Cadwal, of letting him touch her with the same hands that had stolen her stepfather’s life. She stood, ready to flee from the manor.

“You must be fond of dancing,” Cadwal said, observing how quickly she left her seat after Stephen’s announcement.

Gemma took a deep breath before answering. “No. I was just on my way out.”

“She speaks!” Owain exclaimed, slapping his brother on the shoulder. Mocking her.

“You can’t leave before we dance, love,” Cadwal pleaded, winking at her in a most disturbing fashion.

“I can, and I will,” Gemma said firmly. She bowed to a less-than-pleased Stephen across the room, then hurried out the door.

Before she was across the courtyard, Cadwal had hold of her arm and pulled her much too close. “I’ll be sure to pay you a visit the next time I pass through town,” he said with a leer.

“I’d be happier if you never returned,” Gemma spat, wrenching her arm free and storming across the courtyard. So much for keeping her mouth shut.

It would be one thing if Cadwal had simply killed her stepfather in the course of battle, though even that would be heart-wrenching. But this was another thing entirely. Gemma saw the look of pleasure on his face when he took a life, the victory and self-satisfaction. This man was a monster. She’d sooner curse the body of Christ than marry Cadwal.