CHAPTER ONE
Richard, Earl of Cornwall sat behind an enormous teakwood desk that had been brought all the way from the Byzantine Empire upon the backs of donkeys. He was a small man, dark-haired, and possessed the supreme Plantagenet trait of one droopy eyelid. It gave him a rather moronic appearance, but the man was anything but foolish. He was brilliant, mildly scrupulous, and richer than God himself.
A thin lancet window in the wall of the crescent-shaped solar allowed the December chill to penetrate the rich chamber, which was resplendent with lavish furnishings. Richard himself was clad in the finest wool and satins that money could buy. Across the room, he watched the captain of his army carefully, gravely aware of what he was suggesting. The conversation, so far, had not been a pleasant one.
“It makes perfect sense,” Richard said. “This would answer all of our prayers, Thomas. Think on it!”
Thomas stood across from his liege, gnashing his teeth furiously. It was obvious he did not agree. “You shall forgive me, my lord, for showing less enthusiasm than you. It does, after all, involve my daughter, and…”
“She is all I have, Thomas,” Richard insisted. Although he thought of the de Bretagnes, father and daughter, as his family, he would not let Thomas’ indignation deter him. “I have no daughters to give.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but you have nieces.”
“It would take time to secure them and I do not want to risk d’Vant changing his mind. It makes perfect sense to pledge Ryan.”
Thomas gnashed his teeth so hard that he bit his lip. “Dennis d’Vant,” he hissed, drawing the name out so that it was correctly pronounced: de Vont. He paced away from Richard, trying desperately not to appear insubordinate. “Son of Rodrick, a man who made our lives a miserable hell up until his death.” He turned sharply to the earl. “How, my lord, can you ask me to pledge my daughter to the son of this man?”
Richard inhaled slowly and rose from his cushioned chair. It was cold in the room and he moved to the copper vizier, glowing red with heat and coals. He warmed his hands a moment before speaking.
“St. Austell Castle controls the road leading from the Cornwall peninsula to the rest of England. She controls St. Austell Bay. While Rodrick was alive, he cut off most of Cornwall from the heart of my brother’s kingdom.” He turned to glance at Thomas. “That was why Launceston was chosen as the site for my fortress, you know. To deal with the d’Vants.”
“I know.”
Richard turned back to the glowing warmth. “He and his fathers before him have always been enemies of the crown.” He paused in thought. “The House of d’Vant descends from the kings of Cornwall, which is presumably why they are so fanatical about protecting their land. I suppose they believe they have an unalienable right to rule it.”
Thomas did not say anything. He lowered himself in to a chair, staring off into the dimness of the cold room. “But to pledge Ryan into that violent, hated house?” he closed his eyes at the thought of his sweet daughter in the hands of a d’Vant. “You are condemning her, my lord. ’Twill kill her, I think.”
Richard gazed at him pointedly. “Do you really think I would send Ryan to her death? Have more faith in me than that.” He moved away from the vizier and stood in front of his miserable officer. “I was there for her birth, Thomas. You permitted me to name her Ryan Elizabeth. And do you recall why I named her that?”
Richard was trying to draw the man out, but Thomas was unwilling to be comforted. “Because Ryan means ‘little king’ in Gaelic,” he muttered. “You called her Little King Elizabeth for years until she begged you not to.”
“Only when she grew to a woman,” Richard’s droopy eye was twinkling. “’Tis undignified for a young lady to be called by a childhood name in public.” He put a strong hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “Given that I am so fond of her, do you think I would lightly consider Dennis d’Vant’s proposal?”
Thomas had to shake his head. “I suppose not, my lord.”
It was the answer Richard sought. He left Thomas and went back to his desk. In front of him laid a partially unrolled vellum. He fingered it as he spoke.
“Dennis d’Vant seems to be different than his forefathers,” he said quietly. “There are more reasons than he has expressed. He proposes a marriage to end the hostilities once and for all. Why do you suppose he has done this?”
Thomas shrugged; he found he was fairly weak with the realization that the decision on his daughter’s future had already been made. “We heavily damaged St. Austell with our last siege. Perhaps he is simply tired of war.”
“A d’Vant tired of war?” Richard shook his head at the improbability. “How many times has St. Austell been rebuilt in the past year?”
“At least twice to some extent, but it seems as if there is always some sort of repair or building going on.”
“Enough to bankrupt them?”
A light went on in Thomas’ eyes. “You are suggesting they can no longer afford to keep their war efforts financed?”
“It would seem logical.”
“But what of St. Austell harbor? Surely it brings in heavy tariffs.”
“St. Austell Castle is enormous, as is her army. It would take a king’s ransom to keep them going.”
“But what of her tolls on the road to and from Penzance?”
“Not many people stray that far into the wilds of Cornwall with a battle going on between Launceston and St. Austell, and certainly not enough people to support a war machine of that size.” He smiled rather smugly. “What we could not accomplish with our constant sieges, Thomas, we can accomplish with an arraigned marriage. A hefty dowry would come with a royal bride.”
“But Ryan isn’t of royal blood.”
An odd flicker came to the earl’s eye, but it faded unnoticed. “She is of my choosing,” he said quietly. “And I shall supply her dowry. Therefore, she is a royal bride.”
Thomas thought a moment. “So d’Vant proposes peace and in exchange, he receives a wife and a sizable sum of money.”
Richard nodded firmly. “That is why I said Dennis seems different from his forefathers. He’s willing to play the political game in order to survive. Rodrick was either too stupid or too immersed in his legacy to realize that.”
Thomas felt marginally better. He did not know why he should, but he did. Now he had to break the news to his daughter. He knew she would not take it well. Wearily, he rose from his chair, noting from the light filtering in through the lancet window that the sun was setting. Through the gray cloud cover, it was difficult to tell. He felt as if his heart was gray and cloudy also.
“I suppose I should inform my daughter of her destiny,” he said quietly.
“Indeed.”
Thomas sighed in resignation; Christ, he wasn’t looking forward to this in the least. Moving through the door that led to the darkened halls of Launceston, he silently practiced the words he would use to describe to his daughter, explaining how crucial her role was in the peace of Cornwall. He truthfully did not think there were any words strong enough to convince her.
He was right.
“Thomas, I forbid it!” Richard was furious.
“We have no choice, my lord.”
“Of course we have! I forbid you to present Ryan in this… this state!”
Thomas sighed patiently. “You do not understand, my lord. If I untie her, she will run.”
“She will not!” Richard shrieked. “I forbid it!”
“She will, I assure you.”
“Then I shall make it a royal command!”
“She will defy you.”
It was the afternoon following the receipt of d’Vant’s proposal. Richard stormed about his solar, marching over the luxurious Persian rug that nearly covered the length of the room. He stomped around in fine slippers crafted in Assyria, a robe and tunic made in Italy, and hose that were made from the most amazing linen from Egypt. But the fury on his expression was pure Plantagenet.
“Thomas, you cannot present her to her husband like an animal on a leash,” he beseeched him. “What will d’Vant think? That I have saddled him with the wildest, most disobedient woman I could find?”
Thomas nodded calmly to the ravings. “I am aware of that, my lord. If you wish to speak with her one last time…”
The earl waved his hands irritably. “No, it would not do any good. She will only ignore me, or cry like she did the last time.” He shook his fist at his captain. “I swear, Thomas, if she wasn’t the loveliest thing on God’s good earth, I’d….”
He could not finish. Thomas wriggled his eyebrows in understanding. “That is about as far as I get before I cannot finish my sentence, as well.” He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “She is so much like her mother, in every way. I know I should be harsher with her, but…”
Richard was torn too. He had watched the Lady Ryan Elizabeth de Bretagne grow from a fat, beautiful baby into a woman of such magnificence that to gaze upon her literally took his breath away. Truly, she looked like an angel; hair of amber tumbled down her back in waves, and spectacular eyes of a golden-brown could cast a spell so strong that no man was resistant. In truth, the color of her eyes was like a brown cats-eye stone that Richard had set in a ring. It was a piece of jewelry that had come from the Holy Land with his uncle. The stone seemed to change color in the sunlight, going from a rich brown to a spectacular gold depending on the angle of the rays. Ryan’s eyes were like that, too; they changed with her mood accordingly.
And God only knew, she was moody. The earl’s men had called her a spitfire since she was small. She was also stubborn, willful, and extremely difficult at times, but she could also be the sweetest creature on the face of the earth. Truly, Lady Ryan was a paradox who now belonged to Sir Dennis d’Vant. God have mercy, Richard thought.
“Well,” the earl was calming, realizing that he was in a difficult situation and shouting wasn’t going to help. “It would seem she must be reasoned with not to run away if we untie the rope from her ankle. What about Lyla?”
Thomas shook his head. “Her cousin would more likely help Ryan than us. Hell, if we allow Lyla, she will untie the rope and they’ll both run off. We shall never find them!”
Richard grimaced. “Women,” he growled. “What to do, then?”
Thomas sighed thoughtfully. “Speak to her again, I suppose. Extract a promise that she will not run away if we untie the rope. Convince her how foolish she looks being presented to her future husband like a rabbit in a snare. Truthfully, I know naught else to do.”
Richard pondered that. Then he nodded firmly, as if coming to some sort of decision. “Indeed. I shall speak to her common sense, then.”
“She is only seventeen. She hasn’t much.”
“She has enough.”
“And if that does not work, my lord?”
Richard would not look at him. “Then we let d’Vant deal with her. Suppose we use that as a threat if she doesn’t behave?”
Thomas was both horrified and encouraged by the suggestion. “It might very well work, my lord.”
Before Richard could say another word, a shriek erupted from the corridor outside the solar. Servants were running about, howling, and Thomas stepped into the hall curiously. One woman, dressed in a severe wimple and soiled brown robes, nearly ran into him in her haste.
“My lord!” she screeched. “The lady has escaped us!”
“Damn!” Thomas pushed past the woman with Richard close on his heels.
The keep of Launceston was three stories in height, rather small and circular in shape. On the bottom floor were the kitchens and a chamber in which Thomas slept. The second floor held the great hall and Richard’s half-moon shaped solar. The third floor held the earl’s lavish bower, as well as a chamber where Ryan and her cousin, Lyla, slept. There were narrow spiral staircases running between floors, which made running up and down them difficult with armor and weapons. Thomas struggled to maneuver these stairs, made even more trying as harried servants attempted to descend, bumping into him and the earl. It seemed that the entire castle was in an uproar, and for good reason.
As he knew, Ryan’s chamber was empty. There were no signs of a struggle, not as if she had fought her way out of the rope that tied her ankle to the bed. In fact, both the rope and his daughter were missing and a light of understanding came to his eye just as Richard rushed up behind him.
“There is no sign of her,” the earl swore softly under his breath. “No one has seen her. What do you suppose…?”
Thomas put up a quelling hand before gesturing strongly towards the two lancet windows cut into the wall of the chamber. They were just big enough for a young lady to leap from. Before he could stop the earl, the man rushed to one of the windows and hung over the ledge, nearly pitching himself out in his haste.
“Damnation!” he roared. “There is a rope on the ground below!”
Thomas had suspected as much. He moved towards the other window, much more slowly than the earl had, and peered to the green slope below. “We should have put her in the vault,” he muttered. “’Twould have been safer.”
The earl grunted, running his fingers through his dark greasy hair, wondering aloud how he was going to explain this to Dennis d’Vant. But a distinct sound roused him from his thoughts, a rhythmic click splattering across the wooden floor, and the earl suddenly pitched forward onto the overstuffed bed.
“Damnation!” he roared, rubbing his arse where Ryan’s pet goat had charged him. “I am going to murder that devil of a goat, do you hear?”
Thomas scooped up the medium-sized white goat. The animal bleated, knowing Thomas, and did not struggle. Wearily, he plopped it back onto the little pile of rags, where the animal slept curled up like a pet cat directly next to his daughter’s bed. Bucephalus, her goat, expended his aggression and laid down obediently.
“We must find my daughter,” Thomas shook his head. “If we can.”
With Dennis d’Vant due to arrive within the hour, Thomas could feel panic nipping at his heels. He had to find Ryan before the entire peace process was ruined. And he had to convince her that running wasn’t going to absolve her of her destiny. Come what may, Ryan was to become the enemy’s wife.
“Faster, Lyla!” Ryan was panting. The affliction that had gripped her lungs since childhood often made physical exertion difficult, just as it was now. It was a struggle simply to breathe, but she was determined to ignore the discomfort. “We must make it to the abbey!”
Lady Lyla de Bretagne’s freckled cheeks were red, her silky auburn curls sticking to her damp, pretty face. “I am coming as fast as I can,” she huffed. “We have been running for miles!”
In truth, Ryan was glad that her cousin gave her an excuse to slow. It was becoming increasingly difficult to draw breath and she knew, from experience, that she had to rest if the tightening in her chest was to go away. So her pace slowed and she collapsed to her knees in the middle of the frozen meadow they had been traversing. Around them, winter held Cornwall in its grip and what was normally a green, lush landscape was now kissed with the dead of frost. The unfortunate thing was that Ryan’s escape from her bower had been so quick and foolhardy that she hadn’t taken anything of warmth with her. All she had been concerned with was sliding down the rope and trying not to break her neck in the process. Lyla had waited at the bottom, while a well-paid servant had secured the rope at the top. It hadn’t taken Ryan much coinage or charm to convince the poor maid to help her when no one else would.
So now she was free. But free for what? Running about a dead wilderness with her whining cousin in tow. And where were they going? To an abbey not far to the north, a tiny place called St. Perpetua. The nuns there would give her sanctuary; she knew it. She only hoped they would not make her do penance for disobeying her father and the earl.
Ryan’s golden-brown eyes drifted over the landscape, as her lungs sucked in much-needed air. Truly, she’d never been this far out of Launceston without an escort. But she wasn’t fearful; well, not really. No one, not even bandits, would be out in this foul weather. Clad in a rich gown of crimson wool with warm woolen undergarments, she wasn’t truly cold, yet, because of the running they had been doing. But she knew she would be soon, especially when the sun set. It was imperative they reach St. Perpetua’s Abbey before sundown.
“Ryan,” Lyla said, still struggling to catch her breath. “Your lips are blue. Perhaps we should….”
Ryan waved her off, though she was feeling faint and her hands were becoming numb. “I am fine,” she wheezed. “We can make it just a bit further.”
Lyla stared at her cousin, having long since realized that helping her escape had not been such a wise thing. She could not believe she had let Ryan talk her into it. Firstly, Uncle Thomas and the earl would not be pleased. Secondly, Dennis d’Vant would not be pleased. And thirdly, her cousin’s health wasn’t very good, especially in the winter months. She was prone to attacks of wheezing, which the earl’s physic treated with great care. But the physic was back at Launceston, and Ryan’s wheezing appeared to be getting worse. Lyla began to feel a great deal of fear for her cousin’s health, enough to risk the wrath of her uncle upon returning home to seek help.
“It’s cold,” she said. “Ryan, we should not have run off. We should go back so the physic can…”
Ryan rose unsteadily to her feet. Her head swam and her chest tightened like a vise as she struggled across the meadow towards the distant trees. “I am not going back,” she said between gasps. “The nuns at the abbey can take care of me. I will be in no better place to be healed than in the House of God.”
Lyla ran up beside her, noticing how sickly pale Ryan was in spite of her flushed cheeks. Her golden-brown eyes were unnaturally bright, and the luscious amber hair, normally so combed and cared for, hung wildly about her face. It was straggling in her eyes and Ryan did not even bother to push it away. It would seem that Ryan’s determination to reach sanctuary simply to avoid marriage to Dennis d’Vant had no limits. But, then again, Ryan’s stubbornness and determination was legendary.
“Please, Ryan,” Lyla begged softly. “We should go back. We should simply apologize to the earl and your father, and all will be well, I promise.”
Ryan did not look at her. “If you are so cowardly, then you may go home. I shall not hold a grudge.”
“I am not cowardly,” Lyla insisted, stung. “But you are growing ill. What if the nuns cannot take care of you?”
The world was dimming in Ryan’s vision, but she ignored it. She wasn’t going to let her foolish health deter her from what she had to do. But with every step, her breathing became tighter and her vision darkened. She had to make it to the abbey. She had to make it!
It was her last coherent thought before the world suddenly slipped away and she felt something very cold on her face. She had no idea that she had fallen forward, striking her face on the frozen dead grass. She could hear Lyla calling to her and thought she might have felt her cousin trying to shake her, but she could not be sure. All she knew was that her chest was dangerously tight, and she could not breathe. It was an effort not to surrender to the comfort of not breathing, to give into the deadly consequences that threatened. A few more seconds and the world went completely black.
There was a figure dressed in a green gown stumbling towards them across the frozen tundra of Cornwall. The knights of the House of d’Vant gazed at the distant figure, watching it run, fall, pick itself up, and then run some more. It was a strange sight. Plodding along on the northern road at the head of a fifty-man escort, the knights watched the sight with mounting curiosity.
“What in the hell is that?” The knight’s name was Riston de Titouan. He was a striking man with dark hair, blue eyes, and a sarcastic wit. He sneered as he watched the figure flail about. “Some sort of a lunatic?”
“I could not begin to guess.” The warrior riding to his right chewed his lip; he always chewed his lip. Sir Clive de Camville removed a mail glove and picked at the skin on the inside of his mouth. “Kill it. Whatever it is, it brings a bad omen. I can feel it.”
“Omen,” Riston snorted. “Everything is a bad omen to you.”
Clive spit a bloody wad onto the ground below and replaced his gauntlet. “Of course. If you had half a brain, you’d understand this.”
Riston rolled his eyes. “You are as skittish as a woman.”
As the two knights embarked on an insult-filled conversation, the third knight watched the approaching figure with the gaze of a hawk sighting prey. His eyes were gray, the color of the angry sky above, and wisps of fine blond hair escaped from beneath his helm to tickle his forehead. He did not keep with the Norman custom of fine-shaving his face, instead choosing to cultivate a well-manicured beard. In fact, the thick hedge of blond whiskers only served to enhance his square jaw and masculine face. He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet and sporting arms the size of oak branches.
“It’s a woman,” the massive knight said, his voice rumbling like the distant thunder.
“How can you tell, Dennis?”
“She has long hair.”
Riston squinted. His sight was poor at long distances. “I thought it was a scarf around her head.”
“A curly scarf?” Clive delighted in making him feel like a moron. “You are as blind as a mole, de Titouan. Absolutely useless.”
Dennis ignored them both. “Rist, fetch her.”
Riston made a face, preparing to argue, but he knew well the perils of arguing with his liege. It took an act of God to work Dennis d’Vant into a rage, but it could be done. And Riston had no desire to be the recipient of a trencher-sized hand to his head. Nonetheless, with an insubordinate sigh, he spurred his charger into the meadow.
“Do not forget to kill her!” Clive called after him helpfully.
The army had come to a halt. Dennis watched as Riston easily overtook the stumbling figure, but he knew that Riston would not harm the woman in spite of Clive’s paranoid demand. Riston rode a circle around the now-stationery figure, apparently in some sort of conversation with her.
From this distance, Dennis could see that the woman was clad only in a gown with no other sort of protection; no gloves, no overcoat, and no head protection. He seriously wondered why she running about in the middle of a field, miles from the nearest post. It was an odd mystery.
Suddenly, Riston reined his horse sharply to the left and took off in the direction of the distant trees. It seemed to Dennis that there was panic to his movements and instinctively, he followed. Clive was not far behind; where one of the trio went, the other two usually followed.
Dennis’ silver charger thundered across the frozen earth. Bucephalus, as the steed was called, was a mighty beast with his master’s even-temper and legendary power. They rumbled past the sobbing, flush-faced woman, and Dennis turned long enough to indicate to Clive with hand signals not to let the woman out of his sight.
Continuing across the dead landscape, he could see Riston well ahead, pulling his horse to slow near the edge of the frozen forest, where Dennis immediately caught sight of a crimson pile on the ground. Riston already dismounted and was on his knees by the time Dennis arrived.
“Who is it?” Dennis demanded, dismounting before his charger came to a complete halt.
Riston did not answer for a moment; it was obvious that a woman lay before him and he gingerly rolled her over, gazing seriously into her white face. Her eyes were closed, her body freezing to the touch. He felt for a pulse in her wrist before gazing up at Dennis.
“Your future wife.”
Dennis’ face did not change expression, though his eyes flickered. It was apparent, for a moment, he did not know what to say.
“What?” he finally hissed.
Riston put his hands around the woman, half-pulling her into his arms. “That woman in the meadow,” he jerked his head back towards the road, “is her cousin. This is the Lady Ryan Elizabeth de Bretagne.”
Dennis could not believe it. “She should be at Launceston. What in the hell is she doing out here?”
“I do not know.”
None of it made any sense, and to put it mildly, Dennis was confused. He stopped staring at Riston long enough to gaze at the woman on the ground and it took him no time at all to conclude two things: that she was almost frozen, and that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever had the fortune to gaze upon. Her delicate face was so pale that it was nearly blue and he watched her, transfixed and overwhelmed, hardly daring to believe that what Riston was saying was true.
Riston’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Dennis,” he said. “This woman is going to die if we do not warm her quickly.”
That seemed to snap him out of his trance; he knew that his knight spoke the truth. But it was too cold and damp to build a fire. That only left one alternative.
“Remove her clothing,” he instructed his knight.
Riston looked surprised at first, but then he grinned. “With pleasure, my lord.”
Dennis glared at Riston so cuttingly that the knight’s smile instantly vanished. “I jest, my lord, truly,” he said meekly, lowering his head and beginning his task. “What do you intend to do?”
Dennis’ gaze lingered on the man a moment longer before removing his helm. His pale golden hair glimmered in the weak light. “I give off more heat than a furnace.” He went to work removing his mail and woolen tunic. “Send Clive for my squire. Have the lad bring woolen blankets from the provision wagon.”
Dennis was very quickly naked from the waist up, perfectly comfortable in the freezing temperature. His shoulders were exceedingly broad and well-shaped, his skin lightly tanned from years of sword-playing under the sun. He impatiently motioned for Riston to hand over the lady, whose dress was half-off her shoulders by now. The knight gently transferred her weight to Dennis, who continued to undress her as Riston went in search of Clive.
The dead trees provided some privacy as Dennis finished stripping her dress and freed it from her small feet. She had on soft woolen undergarments, leaving very little for his fertile imagination; she was a small woman with an enormously attractive figure. Her breasts were ripe and full, her stomach small and flat, and her hips flared into a round, sensual shape.
He was growing more enchanted by the moment, thinking that if the information were not correct and she was not, in fact, his wife to be, he would seriously consider taking her back to St Austell as his mistress. He’d never even had a mistress before. But this delicious young lady was simply too good to pass by.
But all of his lust would be in vain if he did not keep her alive. Ripping off her woolen sheath and leaving only her thick hose, he pulled her naked body against his searing torso. When their skin touched, he swore he’d never in his life felt anything so wonderful. The amazing sensation literally took his breath away and he paused, fighting to compose himself. Then, using her heavy gown and sheath, he wrapped the two of them together tightly and waited for his squire to arrive. But in truth, with his arms wrapped around the woman, he did not care if his squire ever came or not. The entire world could pass him by and he would be perfectly content to stay as he was, forever.
Forcing his feelings at bay, the first thing he was aware of other than her cold skin was how much difficulty she was having catching her breath. Every exhale wheezed and rattled, and every inhale seemed like pure torture. It took him very little time at all to realize she was having serious trouble breathing and he began rubbing her back, not knowing what else to do, in an attempt to ease her congestion.
Riston returned to find his liege holding a naked woman with an expression on his face that the young knight had never seen before. He felt as if he was intruding. “Dennis,” he said hesitantly. “Clive has been sent for the blankets as requested.”
“And the other woman?”
“I sent her back with Clive,” he said. “There are fifty soldiers to watch over her.” He moved closer to the pair, gazing at the unconscious, gasping woman. “She is seriously ill.”
Dennis’ jaw was against her forehead. “I know,” he said quietly. “Her breathing is much labored.”
Riston nodded, his usually self-assured nature subdued. “My brother suffered from the same ailment.”
“How did he treat it?”
“With camphor and peppermint until he died.”
Dennis cocked a concerned eyebrow and Riston held up a soothing hand. “He died in battle a few years ago,” he said. “At Flint Castle in Wales. Remember?”
Dennis nodded his head. “Ah, yes. An uprising against the king, as I recall.”
“A minor skirmish that took my only brother,” Riston’s blue eyes reflected sorrow for a brief moment. “At any rate, I believe we have some oil of peppermint in the provisions wagon. If we boil some water, she could inhale the vapors.”
To both their surprise, the woman in Dennis’ arms suddenly stirred. “Pep… peppermint,” she said groggily, her voice hoarse. “I shall… I shall not breathe it, do you hear? And you cannot force me!”
The top of her amber-colored head smashed into Dennis’ jaw and he grunted. “Hold still, my lady. You must not exert yourself.”
She appeared not to hear him, still twitching about. After a moment, her head lolled back and her eyes slowly opened. She gazed at him, unfocused, and Dennis met her gaze steadily. Her eyes were the most amazing golden-brown he had ever seen.
“You… you are not my father,” she muttered, her delicate brow furrowing in confusion. “Who are you?”
“Someone who means you no harm, my lady.”
Her sweet lips, blue that they were, frowned. “You d… did not answer me. What is your name?”
“Dennis.”
She blinked. Her chest, struggling for air, seemed to rise and fall faster. It was a supreme effort for Dennis not to watch her succulent breasts as they heaved against his flesh.
“Dennis?” she repeated.
He nodded, once. He found himself studying every inch of her angelic face as her eyes, so incredible in color, darkened.
They darkened for a good reason; Ryan wasn’t stupid. There weren’t many men in Cornwall named Dennis. Her mind was foggy and her chest was painfully constricted, but still she could think.
“D’Vant?” she whispered. “Dennis d’Vant?”
He nodded again, once, watching with amusement as Ryan’s eyes widened so big that he thought they might burst from her skull. But he could see the squall coming, and before he could quell it, she shoved her palms against his chin and propelled herself from his grip. But in that brief instant she realized she was without a stitch of clothing on except for her hose, and she howled in horror at her state. Her crimson gown and woolen sheath lay on the freezing ground and she swooped to her knees, picking them up and wrapping them haphazardly about her nakedness.
“You… you fiend!” she panted and gasped, the color of embarrassment flushing her pale cheeks. “My clothes! What have you done to me?”
Dennis struggled not to laugh. “My lady, you were nearly frozen when we happened upon you and your hysterical companion. The quickest way to warm you was to apply heat in the most direct way possible, flesh to flesh. And I see that it has worked.”
She noticed that he too was naked from the waist up. She did not know why she hadn’t noticed their naked state before this. Had she not been so embarrassed and furious, she would have realized he was absolutely magnificent; his torso was trim and muscular, covered in a fine matting of blond hair. His shoulders, wider than a door, were attached to equally enormous arms, now casually crossed.
“You… you had no right,” she breathed. “No right at all!”
His humor faded and he cocked an eyebrow, going in search of his tunic. “Your outrage is misplaced.”
“It is not!”
He pulled the woolen garment over his head, running his fingers through his straight blond hair to push it out of his eyes. “Lady Ryan Elizabeth de Bretagne, you know as well as I that it is my right to do with you as I please.” He watched her expression flicker with horror. “You are to be my wife. By all rights and God’s law, you are already my property.”
Her indignation was replaced by a genuine sorrow. Strangely, he realized that her fear of him disturbed him. In truth, he expected nothing else, considering the circumstances, but still he realized he was bothered. He did not want her to fear him.
“You… you know who I am,” she said softly.
“I do.” In truth, he’d still refused to believe until this moment. But he felt an odd satisfaction now that she had confirmed the rumor. In fact, he was damn pleased now that he thought on it.
Ryan, too, was thinking, but very different thoughts. She did not know what more to say. She could hardly believe Dennis d’Vant had found her.
“Where is Lyla?”
“Lady Lyla is well enough,” Dennis said as he reached to the ground for his helm. “She is being watched over by my men and is perfectly safe.”
Ryan was feeling faint again. She closed her eyes at the realization that she and Lyla were in the custody of Dennis d’Vant, swaying as she did so. Dennis knew she was still in a great deal of distress.
“My lady, if you will allow me to assist you,” he said, somewhat less harshly. “Your lungs require treatment. Sir Riston has informed me that we may have oil of peppermint in our…”
“No!” she shook her head. “I cannot tolerate it.”
“You would rather gasp for every breath?”
She ignored him. Her golden brown eyes opened and she gazed up into the gray, foreboding sky above. It was difficult not to notice the forming tears.
“At this moment,” she whispered, “I think that I would rather die.”
She pitched forward and struck her head before Dennis could catch her.
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