Song of the Heart (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 1)

Book 1: Medieval Runaway Wives

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Medieval Romance; historical romance; medieval romance; England; knight; romantic heroines historical; 1300s; 99 cents; Medieval Runaway Wives

Synopsis

I've dreamed of you since that night—only to awaken to emptiness.

Book 1 in bestselling author Alexa Aston's new Medieval Runaway Wives has arrived. An earl whose wife abandoned him. A woman fleeing an abusive husband. Two damaged souls come together and find love in Alexa Aston's new historical romance trilogy.

As the third wife of an abusive French vineyard owner, Madeleine Bouchard hasn't produced the expected heir after three years of marriage. Fearing he plans to kill her, she flees during a trip to England. Unable to make her way home, she joins a troupe of traveling mummers and reinvents herself as the only woman troubadour in the land, captivating audiences with both song and story.

Nobleman Garrett Montayne's fascination with Madeleine causes him to pay the troupe to bypass their next stop in order to journey to his estate. Though he suspects Madeleine of being a thief with dark secrets, love blossoms between them under the magical moon of summer solstice.

But Madeleine's past is about to catch up with her, as her husband is set to arrive to conduct business with Garrett. Madeleine determines to free herself from her loveless marriage and make a new life with Garrett, no matter what the cost.

Each book in Medieval Runaway Wives is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order. Read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Runaway Medieval Wives:
Book #1 – Song of the Heart
Book #2 – A Promise of Tomorrow
Book #3 – Destined for Love

*Note: Song of the Heart was previously published as Music For My Soul. This second edition contains new material for readers to enjoy.

Release date: August 18, 2020

Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

Print pages: 412

Sample

PROLOGUE

August 1327—Stanbury

 

Garrett Stanbridge, Earl of Montayne, left the training yard and made his way toward the keep. The summer day had been sweltering and he was drenched in sweat from sparring with his men throughout the long afternoon. He wanted a cold bath and colder tankard of ale, not necessarily in that order. Racing up the staircase that led to the keep, he pushed open the heavy door and entered, the cool washing over him. He spied Annie, his daughter’s nurse, carrying Lyssa down the stairs and went to them.

Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Lyssa’s brow.

“How are you, my sweet girl?” he asked and she smiled, reaching her chubby arms toward him.

“I am much too dirty to hold you, Lyssa. Once I’ve cleaned up, you may sit on my knee and I’ll tell you a story or two.” He turned to Annie. “Would you have water sent up for a cool bath if Lady Lynnette has not already done so?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He left and hurried up the stairs to the solar, ready to tell his wife about his day. It surprised him that she was not already waiting there for him. Usually, Lynnette made a special effort to be present when he returned to the keep each day. Though very shy—and very young when they’d wed—she tried her best to please him in small ways. He was hoping she would soon have good news for him. He’d noticed her belly seemed slightly rounded two nights ago when he’d made love to her and prayed that she was with child again. They’d lost their firstborn, a son, last June, shortly after Lyssa’s birth. While Garrett doted on his daughter, he knew he needed sons to keep Stanbury strong.

He set aside his sword and stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Several servants brought in buckets of water and poured them into the copper tub. Once they left, he eased into it and lathered well before rinsing and drying off. Feeling refreshed as he dressed again, Garrett wondered what might be keeping Lynnette. Mayhap she had gotten distracted in her garden, which she loved to tend. More likely, she and Edith, his mother, sat in the great hall and played with Lyssa, encouraging her as she toddled about. The girl was just learning to walk, despite being almost sixteen months old. Richard had begun moving upright at nine months, delighting his parents with every step. Still, Garrett understood why Lyssa lagged behind her brother’s progress. Her mother was reluctant to put her down. Ever since the fever took Richard from them, Lynnette clung to their remaining child. It was only thanks to his mother’s encouragement that Lynnette had finally begun allowing Lyssa to explore more on her own two feet.

His belly grumbled noisily and Garrett returned downstairs. The great hall was filled with people ready to partake in the evening meal. He moved toward the dais and greeted his mother with a kiss to her cheek.

“Where is Lynnette?” he asked, beginning to be concerned.

“I haven’t seen her in several hours. Do you think she’s lost track of the time?”

“It’s not like her to do so,” he replied as he gazed across the great hall, hoping to spy her in conversation with someone.

They took their places as servants brought them trenchers and cups of wine. Garrett ate, uneasiness filling him. Lynnette was predictable, doing the same tasks every day. To miss greeting him in the solar and helping with his bath was surprising. To miss the evening meal was unthinkable.

“I’m going to look for her,” he told his mother, leaving most of his food untouched.

Leaving the dais, he spoke to several servants. None had seen the countess for hours. Garrett returned to the solar and found it empty. He wandered the corridors, calling her name, even opening various doors to no avail. Finally, he went to Lyssa’s bedchamber, where Annie rocked the girl to sleep.

Quietly, he asked, “When was the last time you saw Lady Lynnette?”

“She decided to go riding after the midday meal,” the servant replied. “She wishes to gain more confidence upon a horse.”

Garrett turned abruptly and headed for the stables. Concern filled him. Lynnette was a poor rider, too timid to manage a horse who knew when its rider was unsure. It had aggravated him when she arrived as his bride. He’d given her lessons but none seemed to take. She tried sporadically to master the skill but had never kept with it for long. He felt guilty because he knew she always tried to please him. This latest effort at attempting to master riding was most likely due to her wanting to achieve a sense of ease upon a horse to make him proud of her.

He reached the stables and found Barth, his head groom. The man looked nervous when he spied his liege lord and Garrett guessed why. He could smell the alcohol on Barth’s breath from several feet away.

“Were you here when Lady Lynnette went out to ride?” he demanded, overlooking Barth’s drunkenness for now because of his growing concern regarding Lynnette.

“I saddled her horse myself, my lord. And Stephen’s. He was to accompany her. But he didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Though the grounds surrounding Stanbury were thought to be safe, Garrett always cautioned Lynnette to take someone with her on her rides. She’d become too nervous to ride with him, feeling he judged her with every mistake she made, and so she’d taken to asking their reeve to ride with her on the few occasions she went out.

The groom shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him, my lord.”

“What time did she return?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Barth swallowed, his eyes cast to the ground. “I’ve been busy.”

Garrett strode down the row of stalls and came to a stop where Lynnette’s horse was.

The stall was empty.

A sick feeling washed over him. She’d ridden out by herself and hadn’t returned. She could be hurt, thrown from the saddle, unable to walk. Or worse. He pushed that thought aside and hurried back to the keep. Entering the great hall, he spied his reeve and motioned to him. Stephen excused himself from the men he conversed with and came toward him.

“Yes, my lord? You have need of me?”

“I do. Why did you not accompany Lady Lynnette on her ride today? She is missing. Her horse isn’t in its stall. I need to organize a search party to find her.” He glared at the reeve. “None of this would have been necessary if you would have gone with her.”

The reeve’s solemn look as he gazed at Garrett made him go cold inside.

“Could you come with me, my lord?” Stephen asked and hurried from the boisterous noise of the great hall.

He followed but as soon as they reached the entryway, he called for the reeve to stop.

“I have no time for nonsense. I need to organize the search.”

Stephen shook his head. “I fear . . . you will not find the countess, my lord.”

Garrett seized the reeve’s shoulders. “Why do you say that? What has become of her?”

“She is mostly like gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

Sadness filled Stephen’s face. “Gone from Stanbury. With another.”

He tightened his hold. “What do you mean? You’re talking in circles.”

“She’s left with another man,” the reeve ground out.

Garrett’s hands fell away. “Another man?” he asked, not comprehending what he was being told.

“My lord, I should have told you,” Stephen began. “I . . . I did not know how to do so.” He swallowed. “Twice, Lady Lynnette went riding recently. She wouldn’t allow me to accompany her either time. I worried about her. She is still a novice in the saddle after all this time. I decided to follow her at a distance. And that’s when I saw them. In the woods.”

“Saw who?” His belly tightened.

“A knight, my lord. One I did not recognize. Tall with dark hair. They . . . spoke at some length.”

“And?” he demanded, nausea filling him.

Stephen looked miserable as he said, “They appeared to be quite close, my lord. They were familiar with one another.”

Garrett didn’t have to ask what the reeve meant. He understood that Stephen had witnessed Lynnette kissing this stranger. Or something even more intimate between them.

“I left my lady in the forest with this knight,” Stephen said, shaking his head. “I thought she would return. Now, I’m not so sure. I fear there were more of these clandestine meetings that I knew nothing of. And that this knight convinced the countess to run away with him.”

The words were like a physical blow. Garrett reeled from what he’d learned.

“No. It couldn’t be,” he said, dumbfounded. “She wouldn’t leave me. Leave Lyssa.”

Yet how much did he really know about his shy wife? Had she been in love with another man before she arrived for her arranged marriage at Stanbury? Had this man from her past come for her? Convinced her to flee with him? Were Garrett and Lyssa merely reminders of the babe they’d lost and she’d needed to get away?

The answers might drive him mad.

“We must look for her,” he said with determination. “Find my captain of the guard and have him bring every soldier to the inner bailey at once.”

Stephen hurried away as Garrett paced restlessly. His mother emerged from the great hall and came toward him.

“What troubles you, my son? Did you find Lynnette?”

“No.”

Briefly, he recounted what the reeve had revealed. Shock filled his mother’s face.

“Do you truly believe Lynnette would abandon her husband and child?” she asked. “It seems so unlike her. She is as timid as a mouse, Garrett.”

“Mayhap I never knew her.”

He thought back and realized how little his wife had spoken during their conversations. How he’d always talked about Stanbury and his soldiers. Their tenants. The harvests. Other than knowing his wife enjoyed time in her herb garden, Garrett was hard pressed to think of anything else about her—other than she had been a good mother. Had Richard’s untimely death caused something to break within her?

He might never know—unless they found her.

Venturing into the inner bailey, he addressed the gathered soldiers. Garrett did not mention the unnamed knight or Stephen’s suspicions. He merely explained how Lynnette had gone riding and never returned and he feared she lay hurt somewhere nearby.

“We must find her,” he said firmly, believing they would.

The search that night proved fruitless. Garrett rode out many nights after that in all directions, asking others if they’d seen Lynnette. He described her appearance in detail, mentioning the necklace that she always wore, which he knew would stand out. The emerald stones had been his wedding gift to her, its clasp made up of a lion holding a sword. Each time, he returned home emptyhanded—and bitter.

Gradually, he ceased hunting for the woman who never sent word as to her whereabouts.

And never came home.

 

CHAPTER 1

April 1331—Frothmore—home of Lord Ancil

 

Madeleine perched on the edge of the enormous bed, her mouth dry, her heart beating wildly. Every night for the last three years had led to this moment. She hadn’t known when the time to flee would arrive, but she knew she would recognize when the time was right. Tonight felt right, despite the obstacles to overcome. For one, she was in a foreign country. Even though she spoke English as well as a native, her journey would still be treacherous. She might make a mistake, one that would label her an outsider. Or even get her killed. She couldn’t afford a misstep.

She flinched as she heard heavy footsteps echoing along the stone corridor. For such a tall, gaunt man, Henri de Picassaret made too much noise when he was drunk. When sober, though, her husband could be as stealthy as a cat stalking a mouse. These days, Henri hounded his own wife.

Madeleine swallowed hard and tried to calm herself. He must not suspect anything. She forced a serene smile onto her lips as the door crashed open.

Henri staggered in, his valet, Bertrand, scurrying after his master. Madeleine glanced quickly at the portly, balding servant. He wore a pained expression upon his sallow face and merely shook his head.

Bertrand steadied Henri and guided him toward the bed. Madeleine automatically rose and took Henri’s other arm. Together, they managed to get the older man to the bed.

“My head aches,” Henri complained, his words deeply slurred. “My stomach pains me.”

Madeleine caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Usually, Henri drank only the finest French champagne, turning his nose up at other brews. When in England, though, he tried to accommodate his host’s wish. Lord Ancil must have been serving a particularly strong mead. She grimaced at the sour smell that rose from her husband.

Madeleine nodded at Bertrand, signaling him to leave. “You know English food rarely agrees with you, Henri,” she said lightly. “I have prepared one of my mother’s soothing drinks to calm you.”

Henri snorted. “Nothing could soothe my stomach now, Wife. Not even one of Cadena’s mystical remedies.”

Fear rushed through Madeleine’s veins. He must drink from the cup tonight. Somehow, she must convince him—or she’d never escape her nightmare.

“Henri, be reasonable. You want to feel well enough to attend mass, do you not?”

Her husband never missed daily mass. Not that he was a particularly religious man. In fact, he went strictly to pray for his own good health. He bragged that he’d made a pact with God—his attendance at mass in exchange for his physical well-being. Henri was fanatical when it came to his health. Madeleine hoped her words would persuade him. She waited anxiously for his response.

“Ah, Mon Dieu. Give me the cup,” he snarled.

Thank you, Sweet Jesu. Madeleine sent her own grateful prayer to God. She reached for the drink sitting on the bedside table and placed the pewter cup into her husband’s hands.

“I was able to mix your medicine with a little wine. Hopefully, that will hide the medicinal taste. I’m sure the wine, too, will help settle your stomach.”

Henri took a swig of the brew, his mouth creasing with disgust. He did, however, finish the contents of the cup. Escape would have been impossible otherwise.

“Disrobe me,” he ordered.

Madeleine complied, glad it would be the last time she saw his pasty flesh. Though her husband was extremely thin from eating sparsely, his belly, round and bloated, protruded from his almost skeletal frame. She credited that to all the champagne he drank. If she never tasted the frothy wine again, it would be too soon, for it would always remind her of Henri.

She helped him into the bed and quickly covered his pale skin with the linen sheets then walked quietly to the other side and slipped under the covers. She was thankful Henri did not speak. She was too tense, her nerves too raw. Soon, his breathing slowed and deep snores filled the chamber.

It was time.

She crept from the bed and quietly dressed. Her fingers trembled as she slipped on her smock, kirtle, and cotehardie. Thanks to the number of jewels she had sewn into her garments’ hems, the clothing was quite heavy. Henri had always lamented that she was useless at any of the womanly arts—sewing tapestries, supervising the household, or having babies.

That thought brought her pain. When she married Henri three years earlier, she’d longed for babies and knew her husband was eager to have a son who would inherit the de Picassaret vineyards one day. She had imagined filling the chateau with many sons and daughters, hearing their laughter, teaching and loving them as her own devoted parents had done for her and her brother.

After she saw what life with Henri would be like, she hungered for babies even more. Though it might seem selfish on her part to want to bring a child into the world whose father was a monster, Madeleine had abundant love in her heart to give to little ones—but it was not to be. Just like her husband’s two previous wives, she was barren. But throughout the last year she had harbored wicked thoughts concerning this and had foolishly voiced them to Henri one night. She accused him of being the barren one, his seed worthless in her womb.

She had paid dearly for those rash words. Henri had beaten her many times before, for even the smallest infraction, but that night was different. Usually, he only abused her back or legs, not wanting to mar what the world saw. This time, he struck her face repeatedly until her eyes had swollen shut. She also now carried a small scar at the top of her cheekbone, courtesy of his signet ring—and uncontrollable rage. Worst of all, he’d broken her knee in the vicious attack. As a result, she now walked with a slight limp.

Madeleine pushed aside the painful memories. It was obvious Henri grew tired of her. She wasn’t the young, malleable girl and hadn’t produced an heir. Instinct told her that her life was in danger. She didn’t believe his previous wives’ deaths were accidents. The opportunity to escape her nightmarish existence might never present itself again.

She crossed the chamber and reached for her lute, the one possession she valued above all others. She refused to leave the beloved instrument behind. Retrieving the rope from its hiding place under the bed, she stood and took one last look at her sleeping husband. No love filled her heart, no honor, nor loyalty. Henri had beaten any feeling she’d ever had for him out of her long ago.

She made her way hastily through the dim corridor and down the staircase. Fortunately, the layout of Frothmore was simple. In this time of peace, the sally port outside remained unguarded. Reaching it, though, would take every bit of courage she possessed. She couldn’t leave using the entrance to the keep, knowing Lord Ancil had a handful of men guarding the door on the outside. Instead, she would escape from a small window she’d located upon their arrival and head toward the sally port—and freedom.

Reaching it, the chill of the night air struck her. She realized she’d left her cloak in the bedchamber and regretted her carelessness. Still, she’d rather catch her death of cold than remain with Henri one more night. Escape must occur now, in this moment.

She placed her lute on the ground and first wrapped the rope around and then knotted one end of it to the heavy, ornamental wall sconce nearby, praying it would hold her weight. She lowered the rest of the length through the window. It disappeared into the darkness. For a moment, Madeleine clasped the rope but didn’t move. Heights terrified her but she must conquer her fear. She quelled the rising nausea as her stomach roiled and prayed for God to keep her safe.

She released the rope and, looping a scarf through her girdle, she swept it under the strings of her lute, tying the instrument securely to her waist. Once again, she gripped the rope and climbed up and through the window, grateful she was slender since it was so narrow. She only had a short distance to go and squeezed her eyes shut as she lowered herself. When her feet touched the ground, she expelled the breath she’d held. Only then did she dare open her eyes.

“Thank the Christ,” she murmured, trying to calm her racing heart.

Skirting buildings and staying in the shadows as much as she could, Madeleine finally reached the wall that surrounded Frothmore and moved close against it so she wouldn’t be spotted, knowing the posted sentries watched for activity outside the walls and not from within. She made her way to the north side, toward London. Once she arrived in the city, she’d pawn enough jewels to purchase passage back to France. She would return to Bordeaux and her parents, if only for a short while.

Henri had allowed no contact with her parents since their marriage. He said she was immature and too dependent upon them and that she must learn to rely only upon him. Madeleine later learned he’d told her parents the break was at her request. She could only guess at the heartbreak his cruel words caused.

She was determined to see her Maman and Papa once more and tell them how very much she loved them before she took refuge in a convent. She was sure Pierre could arrange sanctuary for her. Her brother was ten years older and though they’d never been close, Madeleine knew she could count on him to help her in a time of crisis. Let Henri have the marriage annulled or, better yet, let him divorce her. She did not care to give herself to any man ever again. The marriage act only brought terror. Pain and degradation. She could no longer tolerate it. She’d seek refuge and peace with the good sisters. Her jewels would assure her of a place in the convent until her death.

Madeleine found the almost hidden door she was searching for and slipped through it. A sally port could be overlooked during a siege due to its size. Messengers used it in times of trouble. Many a sally port had been the saving grace for a castle’s people during times of attack.

It would be her saving grace tonight.

As she cautiously crept away from the wall surrounding Frothmore, she watched over her shoulder for any sentry that might raise the alarm. With each step, fear enveloped her, causing her heart to pound, its loud drumming ringing in her ears.

Madeleine saw a guard move along the wall walk and gaze in her direction. She froze. Panic poured through her at being out in the open. Every muscle screamed for her to flee yet she pushed her fear aside. Movement would attract his attention. She remained stock still, holding her breath. The brisk wind favored her. The clouds blew constantly across the light from the moon, causing many shadows to dance upon the earth. She watched the sentry turn, his back now to her. Without hesitation, Madeleine made for the nearest trees at a steady gait. She reached the copse and entered without hearing a shout to halt.

Safe. She was safe.

She sank to her knees. A thrill rushed through her. She touched the ground almost reverently, brushing her fingers along the cool grass.

Freedom!

She could not remember the last time she’d been outside alone. Henri had a guard follow her wherever she went. He rarely allowed her outside the walls of his isolated chateau in the north. Madeleine breathed in the crisp air, reveling in the sounds of the night. She was practical, though, and knew her sojourn would be a long one. She must put distance between her and Frothmore before the sun rose and she was discovered to be missing.

Keeping to the edge of the woods, she finally reached the road north and began walking as swiftly as her knee would allow. After a mile or so, she began humming, softly at first, but with each step the volume grew. Madeleine relished her newfound liberty on the dark road to London. She thought it best to travel at night since almost all travelers would move during the day. She also would need to steal food along the way, and this would be better accomplished under cover of darkness. She didn’t know how far London lay ahead but surely she could manage for a few days in this manner.

As Madeleine continued walked, she began to sing. Music had always been a large part of her life. She had been thankful that Henri allowed her to play. It was the one thing she did in which he’d found no fault. While she sang, Madeleine thought of Yves, the troubadour that had showed up at her parents’ home long ago to entertain guests. He sang for his supper that night and had never left Chateau Branais. Through the years, Yves become part of their family, teaching Madeleine all she knew about music. He’d told her she was the most gifted songbird in all of France.

She smiled, remembering Yves’ praise, knowing she was fortunate to hear a song but once and the melody became engraved on her heart. It allowed thousands of songs to be locked into her memory. Yves regretted that she could not go out as a troubadour but everyone knew that the troubadours of France were always men.

Still, Madeleine used to entertain her parents and visitors that had come to the Bordeaux vineyard they managed for the wealthy English Stanbridge family. Henri had been one of the many visitors who came to discuss the grape. Obsession with the grape was a national pastime in France. Her father, Robert, thought Henri had good business sense and admired the wines the older man produced. When Henri asked for Madeleine’s hand in marriage, her father had acquiesced.

Her mother was not as certain. It had been a love match for Cadena from the first time she’d seen Robert. She had wanted that for her only daughter, as well. She’d tried to persuade her husband to let Madeleine marry someone closer to her own age, even an Englishman. Cadena herself had been an English bride come to France and she raised Madeleine so that she was fluent in both languages of her parents.

Robert refused, knowing Madeleine would never have the opportunity to marry as wealthy a man as Henri de Picassaret. Yes, the man had bad luck with wives—one had died of a fever and the other was rumored to have taken her own life—but his daughter was young and strong and could give Henri many sons.

As her trek continued, Madeleine untied her lute, which continued to bump against her. She didn’t mind carrying the instrument. After an hour, she began to experience some discomfort. She shifted her boot and forced herself onward. After a few steps, the problem returned. She halted and held her foot out in front of her, rotating her ankle. Feeling better, she started down the road again. Whatever it was began bothering her immediately.

Frustrated, she sat down in the middle of the road, her lute next to her, and removed the leather boot. She stuck a finger inside, feeling around for what irritated her foot, and grasped a tiny rock. She clucked her tongue at the culprit of her distress, holding the pebble up in the moonlight for further inspection.

“I think I shall call you Henri, little pebble, for being the source of all my discomfort.” She tucked the smooth stone into her pocket, determined to let it be a reminder to her in the future of the troubles she’d escaped.

Madeleine started to sing a tender ballad that reminded her of her parents as she slipped her boot back on. When she’d married Henri, she assumed love would grow quickly between her and her wedded husband, just as it had for her parents. The song died on her lips at the thought.

Oh, how she had been proven wrong.

 

CHAPTER 2

Stanbury

 

Garrett paced restlessly as Lyssa opened a gift from her grandmother. His daughter was five years of age today. It was the fourth birthday his wife had missed.

The thought of Lynnette brought a quick sting to his eyes. Aggravated, he turned away from the assembled group in the great hall and took a long pull of the mulled wine, draining the cup in one swallow.

Lynnette.

His insides ached just thinking her name. He still could not guess, even after so long a time, why she left with another man. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, like most of his class and rank, but a genuine affection existed between them. Or so he’d thought. They laughed at the good times and had cried together when their son, Richard, succumbed to a fever shortly before his second birthday.

Still, they had little Lyssa, barely six weeks old at the time of her brother’s death. Garrett assumed they would have many more children but he’d been proven wrong. Lynnette’s unexpected disappearance put an abrupt end to that. Though he’d ridden out for weeks on his own in search of his wife, she seemed to have vanished without a trace. Finally, he could no longer hide from the truth. His wife had deserted him and their daughter for her lover.

Garrett spat upon the floor in disgust, angry at himself for still caring about her. At times, his marriage didn’t seem real. He could barely remember what Lynnette looked like, and then he would catch a glimpse of her in Lyssa and memories of Lynnette would come flooding back.

Ashby rose from the party of merrymakers, a thoughtful look upon his face. Garrett knew his childhood friend worried about him. It was true Garrett had lost his sense of humor these past few years and was in a black mood more often than not. His fits of depression could last for days, even weeks, and it was becoming harder and harder to rouse himself from his gloom.

Garrett poured another glass of wine and drank the contents in a single swallow, his eyes daring Ashby to say anything. Before, his drinking had been of little consequence. In fact, he usually became quite lighthearted when he partook in a few cups of wine. Now, the more he drank, his mood turned ugly to hateful.

Lyssa squealed in delight, drawing her father’s attention. “Oh, Papa, Papa! Come here, Papa!”

Garrett set his cup down and went to her, a smile upon his face. Despite everything, he always tried to be a good father to his only child. He was a family man at heart and relished the times when he pulled Lyssa into his lap and listened to her prattle on in the engaging way she had about her.

“What is it, Lyssa?”

“Look at what Aga made me,” she said excitedly.

Garrett took the doll Lyssa handed him and glanced toward his mother. Edith gave him a tentative smile, wary of her son’s mood. He’d been curt to her—to all women—since Lynnette abandoned her family. Part of it was not knowing where his wife had gone. Part came from knowing he could not marry again and beget an heir for Stanbury. He had soured on all women, not understanding how a wife could desert her husband and babe. The bitterness threatened to swallow him up at times.

Yet he knew his mother could not be blamed for Lynnette’s transgressions. He studied the doll his mother had thoughtfully made for his daughter. He decided he must show his mother more kindness in the future. She had suffered far too much in the past for him to add to her misery.

Garrett asked Lyssa, “Did you thank your grandmother properly?”

His daughter shrugged, her characteristic shyness taking over. Garrett swept her into his arms and swung her around, then tossed her in the air several times. Lyssa laughed until she had trouble catching her breath.

He set her back down on the ground and whispered into her ear, “Go on, Lyssa, and thank Aga.”

Lyssa skipped to her grandmother, pecked her on the cheek, and then threw her arms around the old woman, bringing tears to Edith’s eyes.

“Off to bed with you,” Garrett told his daughter. He motioned for Annie, her nurse.

Protesting, Lyssa informed him, “I’m five now, Papa. I don’t want to go to bed so early.”

He kissed her brow. “When you are a score and five, I’ll still tell you when it’s time for bed.” He gently nudged her in Annie’s direction.

Lyssa left reluctantly, dragging her feet, as Garrett turned to Ashby. “I have some papers to look over. It will take me no more than an hour or so to do them justice. Will you ride with me to London afterward?”

Ashby nodded. “I’m happy to do so. You are to meet with Henri de Picassaret tomorrow?”

“Nay, not until the day after, but I’ve business to see to before that. I don’t look forward to the meeting with de Picassaret, though.”

“Why?” Ashby asked.

“I’ve dealt with the man before. He’s very astute and drives a hard bargain. He’s offered for some of my properties in Bordeaux in exchange for some of his land near Reims.”

Ashby was perplexed. “You are interested in champagne vineyards?”

“No, but we’ve done some business in the past. It’s more a courtesy to see him and hear him out. I’ve learned in business it’s never good to alienate someone.”

“Then see to your papers, Garrett. I’ll make sure our horses are ready.”

***

It was closer to two hours before the two men got on the road. Garrett inhaled the April night air, chilly and fresh, his head bothering him again. The headaches had started shortly after Lynnette’s disappearance and came upon him with no warning. Sometimes lasting a few hours, sometimes a few days, they were becoming more frequent in their arrival and duration. The pain was so great at times that he wondered if he was going mad.

He and Ashby rode in companionable silence. Garrett often marveled at what Ashby put up with, such as leaving for London in the middle of the night, but he would not trade his friend for all the silk in Italy. Ashby was the brother of his heart, the one person he could talk to and bare his soul.

They passed several manors and castles along their ride, even stopping at Frothmore briefly to leave a letter for Lady Ancil with the gatekeeper. She and Edith had been friends in childhood, and any time Garrett made one of his frequent trips to London, he dropped off correspondence from his mother for Lady Ancil.

Back on the road again, they rode for an hour until Ashby pulled up. Garrett slowed his mount and turned to his friend.

“What ails you, Ash?”

Ashby frowned, a puzzled expression crossing his features. “I could have sworn I saw a woman in the road ahead.”

Garrett peered into the distance and saw nothing. “You’re going blind, my friend, or mayhap you need more sleep. Or,” he said in a sly tone, “you simply have need of a woman and wished her here.”

For a moment, Garrett knew he sounded like the Garrett of old, and Ashby grinned at him.

“A soft bed and an even softer woman sound good to me.” Ashby spurred on his horse and they continued on their way.

Ahead of them, a woman suddenly darted out into the road. She bent swiftly and picked up a large object and went scurrying back to the nearby trees. They reined in their horses and stared at each other in surprise.

“I told you, Garrett. I knew I saw someone.”

“You were right. Shall we investigate?”

They guided their horses toward the spot where the woman had disappeared then dismounted. Both men stared into the trees, searching. Neither spoke.

The cloud cover broke at that moment. Strong rays of moonlight poured over the area.

Heart pounding, Garrett spotted someone crouched behind a tree. As he and Ashby dismounted, he called out, “We mean you no harm. Are you hurt?”

***

Madeleine groaned inwardly. She instantly blamed Henri-the-Pebble for her current situation. To remove Henri, she’d placed her lute down beside her. The sound of horses as she slipped her boot back on had caused her to head for a hiding place. Only when the riders came closer did she remember her beloved lute. She couldn’t chance the oncoming horses crushing her beloved possession, so she’d ventured from safety to rescue the instrument.

“Merde,” she swore softly. She looked down at the smooth stone in her hand. “You bloody pebble.”

The two gentlemen must have heard her voice and now approached. Madeleine knew she must take control of the situation in a direct fashion. She bravely stood, her lute in hand, and swung the instrument high above her. Storming toward the pair, she scowled.

“If you dare come closer, I’ll bring my lute crashing down upon your heads,” she warned. “’Tis the only valuable I have. If I destroy it, you’ll have nothing.” She tried to appear as menacing as possible as she studied the men before her.

The one on her left was tall and fair, his blond hair a bit unruly, his frame lean and athletic. He had a nice smile and he was no more a highwayman than her Uncle Raymond. He was dressed as a knight and carried himself with confidence.

The other one was quite different.

He was taller and broader than his companion, with short, dark hair and brooding eyes. He moved with a natural grace and wore his clothes with casual ease. His dark eyes seemed to pierce her soul with a ruthlessness unlike she’d ever known. This man frightened her—and yet at the same time, she felt drawn to him in some inexplicable way. Mayhap it was the sadness he wore, draped about him like a cloak that drew her to him.

The dark one held his hands out, palms up, no weapon in sight. “We wish you no harm, my lady. We would but render you aid. What brings you to the middle of nowhere at night with only a lute for protection?”

Madeleine detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Mayhap these weren’t noblemen after all but highway swine who’d stolen the very clothes they wore. No, she was certain they must be nobility, simply by the arrogant air of the dark-haired man. No ruffian could mimic that.

She thought quickly. Henri was to meet a Lord Montayne while they were in London. He’d carried on about what a ruthless reputation the man had in business and how he planned to get the upper hand with the English nobleman in a bargain he hoped to strike with the man. Madeleine prayed that these men before her might know of Lord Montayne’s unforgiving nature and launched into her lie.

“I am lady to Lord Montayne, good sirs. Mayhap you have heard of him.”

The two men exchanged a glance and then continued to stare at her without speaking.

“Yes, I know my husband’s very name can bring even the bravest of men to utter silence.” She paused. “That’s how I frightened our attackers.”

“Your attackers?” the dark stranger asked.

“Yes, the men who waylaid us on our way to London.” She sighed audibly and then teared up, getting more into her performance now.

“Poor Simon. Lord Montayne’s valet, you know. He was escorting me to our London residence when we were attacked. Oh, ‘tis all my fault,” she told them as a single tear cascaded down her cheek. She wiped it away briskly. “I took far too long to finish my tasks at hand. We should never have started out so late.”

“And when was this, my lady?”

Always the dark-haired devil, she thought, never a word from his companion. She shot a look at the fair-haired gentleman, her eyebrows raised. Ignoring the dominant one, Madeleine asked, “Would you like to know how we fared, my lord?” she asked the silent man.

He flushed slightly, but managed to reply, “And then what happened, Lady Montayne?”

Madeleine placed a palm over her heart as if to still it. “’Twas horrible. Three men rushed into the road, daggers raised. Simon’s horse reared and he fell from it. He struck his head and did not move.”

At this, her eyes widened. “I think it frightened the robbers badly. They ordered me to remove the few jewels I wore, but they were all shaking. Then I told them who my husband was and that put the fear of our Lord in them.” She smiled and leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. “It does help sometimes to be married to such a man known for his terrible temper and black moods.”

“I’m sure,” both men muttered at the same time.

She stamped her foot suddenly, allowing her fury to shine. “They will pay, I tell you. My husband will see to it.”

“And you were unharmed, my lady?” Again the darker man spoke, his tone conveying an insolence while his face remained a mask of propriety.

“I’m a bit shaken,” Madeleine admitted. “The brutes tossed Simon’s body off to the side of the road and took my jewels and our horses. All they left me was my lute.” She had lowered the instrument by this time and stroked it fondly.

The stranger asked, “Why did you leave the scene, my lady? Surely you must have feared the men who robbed you. Why would you push forward and possibly have to confront them again?”

Why indeed? Madeleine had gotten so worked up over poor Simon and her missing jewels that she hadn’t quite decided that part of her story yet.

“Mayhap I was more upset by the event than I imagined, my lord,” she ventured weakly. Let them think her a silly, simple woman without a brain in her head.

“Then,” the menacing stranger said, “my friend and I must escort you to safety.”

He held his hand out to the fair-haired man. “May I present Sir Ashby? And I,” said the dark-haired devil, “am Sir Garrett.”

He bowed low, as did Ashby, and continued. “We also were on our way to London, Lady Montayne, despite the late hour. I know Sir Ashby and I could not leave you stranded here on such a dark and desolate road. It’s too far a distance to take you all the way back to Stanbury but we’re happy to bring you to London with us.”

“Oh, then you know of my home?” Madeleine asked breathlessly. Trying to maintain her composure, she added, “Of course, you would, Sir Garrett. If I’m not mistaken, you have been entertained there by Lord Montayne.”

His smile gleamed at her in the moonlight. “As a matter of fact, I have, my lady. Although I don’t recall seeing you there.”

Madeleine cocked her head to one side. “No, I’ve been away often the past few years. My mother has been quite ill and I’ve spent much time with her.”

“I am sorry to hear of her illness,” he answered. “But, come, let us mount our horses and ride to London.”

Madeleine watched Sir Ashby turn his head and discreetly cough into his hand, hiding his mirth. She wondered what he found so humorous about the situation.

Sir Garrett started toward his horse and then stopped, turning to her. “Coming, my lady?”

Madeleine felt her feet moving as if they had a will of their own. “Of course, Sir Garrett. I thank you for your kind offer. I’ll reach London much faster on horse than by foot.”

She was reluctant to ride with them but didn’t want to seem churlish and arouse their suspicions. Surely there must be plenty of time between here and London. She was resourceful and could create an opportunity to slip away. Besides, her feet already hurt enough, thanks to little Henri-the-Pebble.

Sir Ashby quickly mounted his horse as Madeleine moved toward them. He reached his hand out to her. “May I help you up, my lady?”

She had almost placed her hand in his when the devil himself spoke. “You must be jesting, Ash. Your nag was tired before we left for London. Lady Montayne is welcomed to ride with me.”

Ashby withdrew his hand, and Madeleine looked at Sir Garrett.

“My lady?” he said, his hand extended to her.

“Thank you, my lord,” she answered as she placed her hand in his.