Never Kiss A Stranger

by Heather Grothaus

Genres: Historical Romance; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

Nowhere in medieval England are three women so powerful--or adored--as the heiresses of Fallstowe Castle: Sybilla, the ruthless beauty, Cecily, the pure-hearted innocent. . . And Alys, the youngest sister, whose wild spirit has yet to be matched. . . Lady Alys thinks everyone knows the legend: If a man and a woman meet at midnight within the ancient Foxe Ring ruins, they are as good as married. But when she finds a captivating stranger lurking there in the middle of the night, she discovers the one man who is unaware. It's a deadly pursuit that brings Piers Mallory to the Fallstowe lands. But now that fate has attached the alluring, and curiously insistent, Alys to his side, it may work to his advantage to play by her rules, at least for a time. Yet the danger Piers courts is no game--and the passion he and Alys share is all too real. . . Praise for The Warrior. . . "A spirited tale rich in intrigue, betrayal, ancient magic, and a love destined to overcome all odds." --Hannah Howell, New York Times bestselling author "Grothaus definitely has talent and a true feel for the era." -- Romantic Times

Release date: March 1, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 349

Sample

December 1276Fallstowe Castle, England

The monkey ruined the feast.

Outside of the king’s own court, Fallstowe’s winter feast was the most lavish affair in all of England, and had been since before Alys Foxe was born. Every nobleman in the land coveted the yearly invitation, and most spent the summer and autumn months leading up to the celebration wracked with worry that they would be passed over. Alys had to admit that her eldest sister had outdone herself this year.

Yards and yards of shimmering, ivory fabric billowed down from the domed ceiling of the great hall, gathered to the side walls by evergreen ropes festooned with bunches of bold holly and deer antlers, giving the cavernous room the appearance of some rich, fantastical tent. The north balcony was peopled with no fewer than twenty musicians, the swelling sounds from their strings and percussion overflowing the granite railing into the stone receptacle below, drowning attendees who clutched at each other, bobbing and spinning within its seductive, melodic tide—beautiful ladies in exquisite striped brocades and long veils, powerful noblemen sporting their finest velvets and woolen hose. Balladeers meandered through the guests, strumming lutes along with the symphony above, and adding their voices in perfect, ringing tenor harmonies.

The rich perfume of melting beeswax and smoke from the hundreds of lit candles warmed and scented the air like the prelude to a storm. Endless trays of food boasted openly of the decadence of both the occasion and its hostess. It came from every corner of England—fish, quail, venison dressed with sage and onion; and far beyond—pork with oranges and lemons, goose with saffron and pomegranates. There were thick custards bejeweled with coarse, sparkling sugar, apples studded with cloves. Wine of every shade and fortitude from the most costly casks Bordeaux produced, ales and meads, and the most noxious spirits ran like streams, like bawdy rivers.

So although there were no doubt countless men gnashing their teeth in jealousy in their own plain halls this night, Alys wished most sincerely that her eldest sister would have forgotten to include her in the winter feast. She was bored to tears, not at all interested in dancing or drinking herself into a simpering, giggling fool like most of the other young ladies in attendance.

Her rich blue gown, made of the finest perse directly from Provence and commissioned specifically for the event upon Sybilla’s direct command was quite lovely and made Alys the envy of many of the women, but she took no pride or enjoyment from it. Even when Sybilla herself had said that the shade of blue against Alys’s pale skin and blond hair would cause many to mistake her for an angel, and Sybilla was never, ever coy. Alys would have been more comfortable in her plain woolen overdress and leather slippers.

She cared not a fig for the prancing young men who trailed her, obnoxiously proclaiming—and inflating—their family’s importance to King Edward in hopes of winning Sybilla’s approval as a match for one of the wealthy and notorious Foxe sisters. Since Mother’s death more than a year ago, it seemed Sybilla’s most fervent wish was to see Alys married as soon as possible, likely so that she could be quit of the devilment that was the youngest lady of Fallstowe. She’d even gone so far this night as to pointedly introduce Alys to Lord John Hart, a paunchy, somber widower who was three score if he was a day.

But marriage—especially to a wealthy, spotted adolescent, or wealthy, senile old lecher—held not the appeal that perhaps it should have since she had turned eighteen. Alys sensed she would never find a husband to suit her within the circle of Sybilla’s rich and boring contemporaries.

Thus, Alys would have happily forgone the entire feast in favor of following grumpy old Graves though Fallstowe, rousting would-be lovers from the darkened stairwells, or playing with the foals in the stables, or spending the evening in the corridor outside of the garrison, listening to the soldiers curse and tell lurid tales of sex and murder.

Until the arrival of the monkey, of course. And then the evening had become immensely more interesting.

It caused a delighted commotion among the guests as it accompanied Etheldred Cobb, Lady of Blodshire, into the hall, riding on the old widow’s fat, rounded shoulder. A small, grayish-brown animal with a pink face, it wore a ridiculous skirt about its waist, which seemed to be fashioned from several sheer, colored scarves, and was yoked to the old woman by a long, fine lead of hammered gold attached to a leather collar. Lady Blodshire’s entourage followed meekly: her son, Clement, and her personal maid, who Alys had always fancied looked more like a man than did young Lord Clement himself. It was common knowledge, although never spoken aloud, that Lady Blodshire had carried on a raging love affair with the masculine maid Mary since Lord Blodshire had fallen ill and died a handful of years ago.

Alys had no love for her mother’s acquaintance, Etheldred Cobb, especially since her son, the pale and winsome Clement, had taken more than a passing interest in Alys. But the monkey was drawing her—along with everyone else in the hall—to the mustachioed old woman like beggars to a fallen purse. Because Fallstowe was her home, the crowd reluctantly gave Alys passage at her impatient “Pardon me, excuse me.”

“Yes, she’s quite keen,” the old woman was saying in her gravelly voice, and pivoting her rotund body so that all gathered around her could admire her pet. “A gift from one of our valiant knights upon his return from Crusade.” She craned her neck awkwardly to look up at the monkey and waggled a finger toward it with a cracking coo. “You’re keen, aren’t you? Make your bow, now. Go on.”

As Alys neared, she saw the monkey flinch and move its pink face away from Etheldred’s finger warily, small teeth flashing for an instant.

“She has yet to be properly trained, of course,” Etheldred sniffed, her lips settling into a habitual knot. “Still quite wild, I’m afraid, even with my firm hand.” She forced her face around to look at the animal once more. “Bow, Monkey. Bow!” She jerked sharply on the golden leash and the animal tumbled to the stones. It scrambled to its feet and gave a halting bow, cowering and casting its eyes up Lady Blodshire’s skirt warily.

The crowd broke out in applause and admiring “ooh’s.”

Alys’s footsteps hesitated for in instant at the harsh treatment, and ‘twas then that she noticed the slender, golden switch in the old woman’s other hand. Alys stepped before Etheldred Cobb.

“Lady Blodshire,” Alys said and lay a bright smile over her grimace. “Welcome to Fallstowe. I daresay we have been too long without your company. Sybilla will be so pleased.”

Etheldred’s eyelids lowered in a mass of folds as she attempted to look down her nose at Alys, and Alys felt a pinch of gratitude toward her sister for the blue perse gown she now wore, as she caught Lady Blodshire’s quick appraisal of it.

“Lady Alys. You seem a bit more grown since last we met, true. At least you are dressed appropriately, although I cannot say that particular hue suits you at all. And I’m quite certain Sybilla should be pleased with a visit from her poor, dead mother’s oldest friend.”

“Yes, you were Mother’s oldest friend, by far,” Alys quipped the emphasis and then looked quickly to the floor, dismissing the dumpy beast’s sly insults. “It seems we have a unique guest at Fallstowe’s winter feast—is it a female?”

“It is. And what horrid manners you possess, child—Amicia weeps,” Etheldred sneered and then jerked the monkey’s leash once more. “Monkey, up!” She raised a nonexistent eyebrow at Alys. “Did you not notice Clement?”

“Of course I did, my lady. Forgive me.” Alys wanted to kick at the old woman’s shin, but instead turned to the pale young man hovering at his mother’s shoulder, a dreamy expression on his thin face. “Good eventide, Lord Blodshire. It is certainly a pleasure to host your delightful family once more.”

“Lady Alys,” he said in a disappointed whisper. “Have we only just met? Please, I must impress upon you once more how ‘twould thrill my very heart were you to address me as Clement.” Alys was forced to surrender her fingers to his outstretched palm and he leaned over her hand and pressed his dry, cold lips to her skin, where they lingered. “Fallstowe’s gay ornamentation wilts next to your sweet beauty! ‘Tis as if I am in the presence of an angel!”

Alys pulled her hand free to dip into a shallow curtsey. An angel? Oh, yes, thank you, Sybilla. “You are too kind, Lord Blodshire.”

“Monkey, up!” Etheldred screeched and stamped her wide foot.

But the monkey only screeched in kind reply, sounding very much like its mistress, and tried to bolt from the leash. The crowd had drifted away as Alys was welcoming the Blodshire trio, but now those closest to the old woman glanced over once more with bemused and indulgent smiles for the unruly pet.

“You devil’s animal,” Etheldred hissed and brought up the gold, corded switch. She swung it with a whicker of air before Alys could stop her, but instead of landing on the monkey who now hunched near the stones, the switch broke against the length of golden links, pulling the leash from Etheldred’s fat fingers.

Alys squealed as, in the next instant, the monkey clambered swiftly up her own skirt and scrambled over her back to perch on the shoulder farthest away from Etheldred Cobb. She could feel the animal’s tiny fingers in her hair as it clutched at her circlet and the flicking vibration of its heartbeat through its feet. Alys brought up a hand to steady the small creature. Its hair was soft and radiating heat, its limbs feeling both delicate and powerful beneath her palm.

“Come here, you little bitch,” Etheldred growled and made to grab the monkey from Alys’s shoulder.

Alys instinctively stepped back, steadying the monkey with her hand, her fingers wrapping protectively around its slight forearm.

Lady Blodshire’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Mary?”

The mule-faced maid, heretofore nearly forgotten by Alys, stepped from behind Etheldred and toward Alys with outstretched—and bandaged, Alys noticed—hands. “Be still, my lady, lest it bite you.”

Alys was not certain whether the maid meant the monkey or Etheldred Cobb, and it took a mustering of all her decorum to not turn from the Blodshire group and flee with the monkey. She could feel the animal’s trembling increase in the instant before the maid’s hands claimed it. Alys was forced to assist the maid by prying the monkey’s fingers from her circlet, lest she lose a goodly portion of her hair along with the small animal.

“It is beyond my understanding,” Etheldred began when Mary had stepped behind her once more, “why my son thinks you worth a moment of his time, as forward and gauche as you are. Amicia spoiled you to ruination, I daresay.”

“Mother,” Clement whispered, his thin brows lowering.

Alys’s stomach clenched. “Do not trouble yourself over Clement’s affections, my lady—I’m certain it is only Fallstowe’s wealth he admires. ‘Tis most costly to outfit as many knights for Crusade as Blodshire has so piously promised. Perhaps someone fears for her soul?” Alys let her eyes go deliberately to the homely maid over Etheldred’s shoulder, and Mary dropped her gaze while her face flushed scarlet. Alys looked boldly once more to Etheldred, and noticed that the group held the other guests’ attention once more.

“How dare you slander me so, you little heathen!” Lady Blodshire quivered with rage. “I should strike you where you stand.”

“Oh, do allow me to have a stool fetched for you so that you might reach me properly, you fattened old—”

“Lady Blodshire, I thought it must be you when the guests gathered into such a knot. Welcome to Fallstowe.”

Alys’s words were cut off not only by Sybilla’s gracious welcome, but by the sharpened points of her fingernails digging into Alys’s tender upper arm.

“That … girl,” Etheldred sputtered, and pointed a gnarled finger at Alys.

“Is young and foolish,” Sybilla supplied.

Alys jerked her arm free and looked up at her sister, the sparkling-cold, beautiful Sybilla. “She is cruel to that animal, Sybilla. The poor thing is terrified of her!”

Sybilla flicked her ice-blue eyes—so unlike Alys’s own rich brown—toward the monkey, and then returned her disapproving stare to Alys with a cool blink. “Should you one day possess a monkey of your own, you may treat it however you like. Until then, you will do well to remember that others’ possessions are of no concern to you. Apologize to Lady Blodshire. Please,” Sybilla added quietly, and Alys heard the dire warning in her outwardly benign tone as if her dark-haired sister had screamed it.

Alys swallowed. She was a grown woman. And Sybilla seemed to forget of late that she was not their mother. “I will not,” Alys said, lifting her chin and telling herself her voice sounded strong and sure. “She flung the first barb, and this is my home, too, Sybilla. I’ll not allow for such disrespect.”

“The only lady at Fallstowe owed respect is its head, which is me,” Sybilla said calmly, quietly, with a smile, even. Alys knew she was as good as dead. “And you will allow for whatever I deem appropriate. I’ll not have our guests ridiculed.”

“Heavens, what are you two about?” The middle sister, Cecily, now joined the group. Dark-haired like Sybilla, but sharing Alys’s brown eyes, Cecily was the anomaly of the Foxe family, meek, sweet, and more devoted to God than any young woman had reason to be, in Alys’s opinion. She dressed plainer than even Alys did, although her beauty was as striking as Sybilla’s, even with her own rich hair hidden beneath a drab, shortened veil.

“Apologize, Alys,” Sybilla repeated, ignoring Cecily’s arrival. “Or be gone to your rooms for the remainder of the feast.”

Cecily sighed. “Oh, Alys, what have you done now?”

Alys felt her chin flinch, and her eyes flicked to the scores of people staring at her. She was humiliated yet again before the all-powerful matriarch of Fallstowe, Sybilla. Even silly Clement Cobb now looked at her with uncomfortable pity in his watery blue eyes. She had never missed her mother so desperately.

“I will not apologize,” Alys said quietly. And then, louder, “I will not! Clement, you are a dear man, and I am sorry for any embarrassment this may cause you, but I will not apologize to a vain old harridan who belittles others and boasts of her piety out one side of her mouth and then kisses her own maid with the other side!”

The crowd gave a collective gasp and Sybilla’s already pale face went cloud white. Even the musicians and servants had quit their work.

Lady Etheldred sagged toward Mary, and the monkey leapt free as the maid’s arms came around the old woman.

“My sweet Etheldred!” Mary cried.

Clement whispered, “Mother!” before falling to his knees at her side. “Are you dead?” Alys couldn’t help but think she heard a note of longing hope in his voice.

The monkey clambered over the pile of bodies on the floor and launched itself at Alys, who caught it by the arms and swung it up on her shoulder as if she’d performed the action a hundred times before.

“Leave the animal,” Sybilla said in a low, deadly voice, “and go to your rooms. I will join you after I have returned the feast to some sense of order.”

“The monkey stays with me.” She was already in enough trouble—why not add thievery to her list of supposed transgressions? Alys was certain God would forgive her even if Sybilla did not.

The Foxe matriarch’s perfect, slender nostrils flared. “Go. I will fetch it when I come, so be prepared to say your good-bye then.”

“Come, Alys.” Cecily took the arm opposite the monkey, and her grip was firm, but so much more gentle than Sybilla’s had been. She leaned in close to Alys’s ear. “Please, darling—‘twill only be so much more the worse for you if you struggle against her, and I wonder already what she might do.”

Cecily was right. Alys had defied Queen Sybilla and now she would pay. Her oldest sister thought her a child still, and cared naught that she had just humiliated Alys before half the English nobility. There was no foretelling the lengths of the punishment that was to come.

Alys pulled free from Cecily’s grasp easily. “I tire of this mundane feast, and its equally boring guests,” Alys said loudly, tilting her chin lest the tears threaten once more. “I think I shall retire for the evening and work at my stitchery. I bid you good night.”

She swept through the crowd with the monkey clinging to her shoulder gamely, the guests parting for her as if she had been touched by a curse.

Alys could not help but think to herself that perhaps she had been.

The only stitchery that was worked on in Alys Foxe’s chamber was done by Cecily, who chose to stay with her younger sister rather than rejoin the dubious and scandalized festivities below. Alys was quite surprised that Saint Cecily had not spent the past hour on her knees, praying for Alys’s very soul. Instead, the middle Foxe sister sat in an upright chair near the hearth and a table of oil lamps, working on one of her endless tapestries, and chastising her sweetly every few moments.

“I know you feel you have your reasons in most instances, Alys,” Cecily broke the silence yet again. “But I fail to see why it is so difficult for you to at least try to get along with Sybilla on the occasions where she actually requires it.”

“My quarrel was not with Sybilla until she stuck her pointy nose in it,” Alys argued petulantly, sounding to her dismay, like the child Sybilla accused her of being. Her eyes flicked to the beamed canopy above her bed, where Lady Blodshire’s liberated pet sat munching a dried fig happily, sans skirt, leash, and collar. “That beastly Etheldred Cobb—”

“You embarrassed Sybilla terribly with your behavior.”

“I embarrassed her with my behavior?”

“Yes,” Cecily agreed quietly, quickly tying a knot and then biting off the thread with her teeth. “Sybilla gives you free reign most of the time. Her view, I’m certain, was that because you are of a higher rank than Lady Blodshire, your breeding should have persuaded you to rise to your station when faced with her venom. Any matter, we are to honor our elders, even when we feel their actions are not particularly honorable.”

Alys rolled her eyes and turned her face back to the window, seeing very little of the night-blackened countryside through the wavy and clouded glass.

“I would think you to commend me for showing mercy to the poor creature unfortunate enough to be in the care of that old bitch.” Cecily gave Alys a look of dark warning, but Alys ignored it. “And for defending myself—as well as our family—against such unwarranted slander! She may as well have called Mother an idiot. I am well aware that all Sybilla cares about is appearances. Ironic, since she plays the whore for any man who dares cross our threshold.”

“Alys!” Cecily said sharply.

“‘Tis true, and well you know it. Why, I would wager that Sybilla’s had no fewer than a hundred men in her bed. If you feel it your duty to lecture one of your sisters on Godly behavior, Saint Cecily, I would hope it to be Sybilla rather than me.”

“She’s not had that many … friends,” Cecily said awkwardly. “And don’t call me Saint Cecily, Alys—‘tis a blasphemy and mean spirited. You wound me.”

Alys did feel a pinch of regret for speaking aloud the popular nickname for her middle sister. “Oh, Cee, I am sorry for that. Forgive me. I’m only so frustrated I could tear at my hair!”

“Please, allow me.”

Sybilla had entered Alys’s bedchamber as stealthily as a cat on the prowl, and one look at her eldest sister’s sparkling eyes and squared shoulders left Alys little doubt that she was the intended prey. Behind her, like a dusty old shadow, stood Fallstowe’s steward, Graves. As usual, he stared beyond the group toward a corner of the chamber, as if completely disinterested in the women keeping his company. Employed by the Foxe family since before even Alys’s father was born, Graves was as much a part of Fallstowe as the mortar between the stones.

“I will not apologize, Sybilla,” Alys stated flatly before her eldest sister had even come to stand before her. “To you or to that vicious dragon below. You were horrid to me before our guests, and I am not sorry the tiniest bit for anything I said to Etheldred Cobb.”

“I have had quite enough of your insubordination, Alys Foxe,” Sybilla said, trapping Alys where she sat at the window. Now even should she desire to stand, Sybilla’s powerful physical presence made it impossible. “Your behavior this evening was the final insult.”

Alys slapped the stone seat at her hip. “Insult? You would speak to me of ins—”

“I said I have had enough!” Sybilla repeated loudly, as close to shouting as cool Sybilla ever came.

The two sisters stared at each other for a tense moment, and then suddenly, Sybilla turned to grab a wooden high-backed chair, the twin to the one Cecily still occupied. She swung the piece around before Alys and sat down, positioning herself directly beneath the stone window seat.

“Alys,” Sybilla began, more calmly now, but a snowflake landing on Sybilla’s tongue would have still frozen to death. “You and I have had our quarrels, true. But I do hope you recognize that as—”

“Head of this family,” Alys supplied in the same moment as Sybilla. Her eldest sister paused, her lips drawn together in a thin line. “You’ve made everyone very aware that you rule Fallstowe, Sybilla, so get on with whatever punishment you’ve conjured in your power-drunk mind.”

“Alys!” Cecily gasped again from her seat by the hearth.

Even before Cecily’s chastisement, Alys realized she had once again let her tongue run away without her good sense, as any small glimmer of mercy was now gone from Sybilla’s blue eyes.

“I have always wanted the best for you, whether you believe that or nay. I understand that, as her youngest, Mother indulged you, and allowed you to claim your happiness by whatever means you chose. Running about Fallstowe like a rough squire rather than a titled young lady. Passing your time with the peasants. Saying what and behaving however you pleased. She did it out of love, I recognize, but I believe that she has done you a grave disservice.”

“Do not speak poorly of Mother, Sybilla, I warn you,” Alys said quietly.

“Not intentionally,” Sybilla placated. “And I loved her too, and miss her more than you will likely ever know. But she is gone. And I can no longer try to control you on my own. Mayhap your future husband will fare better than I. We will all pray that he does.”

“We’re not going to discuss finding me a husband again, are we?” Alys rolled her eyes. “Cecily is four years my senior, torment her.”

“I shall likely take the veil, Alys,” Cecily reminded, still seated in her chair, but now her stitchery lay forgotten in a jumbled heap on the floor.

Graves, now stoically studying the monkey who was leaning over the canopy in a crouch and returning his appraisal, sniffed loudly.

Alys had to agree.

“Oh, you will not, Cee,” Alys scoffed. “You’ve been saying that for years now. Sybilla is the only one who likely believes it anymore.”

“Nay, we are not going to discuss finding you a husband,” Sybilla said, as if the interchange between Alys and Cecily had not occurred.

“Thank God,” Alys sighed.

“For I have this night secured your match.”

Alys’s stomach tumbled. “What? Who?”

“Clement Cobb has asked for your hand, and I’ve given my blessing, as has Lady Blodshire. As a token of peace, she’s offered to let you keep the animal you absconded with as a wedding gift.”

“You promised me”—Alys slid off the window seat—“to Clement Cobb?”

“Yes. It was either him or Lord John Hart, and I took it upon myself to choose the match most appropriate to your age and temperament. Lord Hart is more than two score your senior, and a widower with no heir. Although he seems anxious to marry quickly, I believe he would have little patience for your immaturity and fits of temper, and would most likely beat you or send you home in shame. As it is, your rash behavior this evening is costing Fallstowe handsomely with your dowry to the Cobbs.”

“Sybilla,” Alys croaked. “No! No, I refuse to—no!”

“It is already done.” Sybilla rose from her chair. “You will be married in thirty days, here at Fallstowe. I will make the formal announcement personally, this night. If you like, and promise to behave, you may accompany me and receive everyone’s well-wishes. It is a fine opportunity to redeem yourself and show that you are not the child everyone thinks you to be.” She turned her back to Alys and made to cross the bedchamber.

“Sybilla, you must not have heard me,” Alys said in a shaking voice. “I will not marry Clement Cobb. I would rather take my chances at the Foxe Ring.”

Sybilla’s laugh rang out before she stopped and turned to face Alys once more. “Oh, Alys—you are such the child, still. To put faith in a superstitious set of crumbling old rocks, for shame.”

“‘Tis how Mother and Father met,” Alys said defiantly.

“It is a tale. That’s all,” Sybilla chuckled. Then she glanced toward the window, and her expression grew contemplative. “But the moon is full this night. The weather kind for December. Hie yourself to the ring, if it shall give you some sense of control of your future. Sit there for the entire month if you like. Should a man appear—not only in the middle of Fallstowe lands, but within the very ring of grown-over stones itself—and take you for his bride, my best to the pair of you. I shall be so moved as to pay equal dowry to both Blodshire and your new husband, quite happily.”

Cecily stood. “Sybilla, don’t tell her such foolishness! You know she will attempt it!”

Sybilla shrugged. “. . .