This is all I ask

Book 3: de Piaget Family

by Lynn Kurland

Genres: Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander; Time Travel Romance

Synopsis

From Lynn Kurland, the New York Times bestselling author of the Nine Kingdom series.

Set near the Scottish border at a rugged castle on the edge of the sea, this is the story of a courageous lord who lost everything he held dear. Of a strong young woman willing to sacrifice everything for happiness. Two lost souls who find in each other a reason to live again, to laugh again, and to love for the first time...

Release date: October 1, 2000

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 432

Sample

PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR LYNN KURLAND

“Clearly one of romance’s finest writers.”

—The Oakland Press

“Both powerful and sensitive . . . a wonderfully rich and rewarding book.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs

“A sweet, tenderhearted time travel romance.”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“A story on an epic scale . . . Kurland has written another time travel marvel . . . Perfect for those looking for a happily ever after.”

—RT Book Reviews

“[A] triumphant romance.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A perfect blend of medieval intrigue and time travel romance. I was totally enthralled from the beginning to the end.”

—Once Upon a Romance

“Woven with magic, handsome heroes, lovely heroines, oodles of fun, and plenty of romance . . . just plain wonderful.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Spellbinding and lovely, this is one story readers won’t want to miss.”

—Romance Reader at Heart

“Breathtaking in its magnificent scope.”

—Night Owl Romance

“Sweetly romantic and thoroughly satisfying.”

—Booklist

“A pure delight.”

—Huntress Book Reviews

“A consummate storyteller.”

—ParaNormal Romance Reviews

“A disarming blend of romance, suspense, and heartwarming humor, this book is romantic comedy at its best.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A totally enchanting tale, sensual and breathtaking.”

—Rendezvous

Titles by Lynn Kurland

STARDUST OF YESTERDAY

A DANCE THROUGH TIME

THIS IS ALL I ASK

THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU

ANOTHER CHANCE TO DREAM

THE MORE I SEE YOU

IF I HAD YOU

MY HEART STOOD STILL

FROM THIS MOMENT ON

A GARDEN IN THE RAIN

DREAMS OF STARDUST

MUCH ADO IN THE MOONLIGHT

WHEN I FALL IN LOVE

WITH EVERY BREATH

TILL THERE WAS YOU

ONE ENCHANTED EVENING

ONE MAGIC MOMENT

ALL FOR YOU

ROSES IN MOONLIGHT

The Novels of the Nine Kingdoms

STAR OF THE MORNING

THE MAGE’S DAUGHTER

PRINCESS OF THE SWORD

A TAPESTRY OF SPELLS

SPELLWEAVER

GIFT OF MAGIC

DREAMSPINNER

Anthologies

THE CHRISTMAS CAT

(with Julie Beard, Barbara Bretton, and Jo Beverley)

CHRISTMAS SPIRITS

(with Casey Claybourne, Elizabeth Bevarly, and Jenny Lykins)

VEILS OF TIME

(with Maggie Shayne, Angie Ray, and Ingrid Weaver)

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

(with Elizabeth Bevarly, Emily Carmichael, and Elda Minger)

LOVE CAME JUST IN TIME

A KNIGHT’S VOW

(with Patricia Potter, Deborah Simmons, and Glynnis Campbell)

TAPESTRY

(with Madeline Hunter, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and Karen Marie Moning)

TO WEAVE A WEB OF MAGIC

(with Patricia A. McKillip, Sharon Shinn, and Claire Delacroix)

THE QUEEN IN WINTER

(with Sharon Shinn, Claire Delacroix, and Sarah Monette)

A TIME FOR LOVE

Specials

“TO KISS IN THE SHADOWS” from TAPESTRY

This Is
All I Ask

Lynn Kurland

Table of Contents

prologue

THE TWIGS SNAPPED AND POPPED IN THE HEARTH, SENDING a spray of sparks across the stone. The cauldron bubbled ominously, the thick brown contents slipping up to the edge and almost over, much like a youth looking into the abyss of sin and toying with the idea of leaping in headfirst.

“Magda, mind the kettle!”

A wizened old woman jumped as if she’d been stuck with a pin, pushed her white hair out of her face with a plump hand and hastened to the fire.

“Sweet Mary, I think I’ve burned it again!” Magda cried.

“By the Fires of Hell, I do hate it when you use those saintly epitaphs,” the second said, coming over and taking away the spoon. She tasted, then cursed. “Lucifer’s toes, must I do everything myself?”

“Oh, Nemain, what shall we do?” Magda exclaimed, wringing her hands. “I cannot bear watching them lose this chance when the Fates have worked so well in our favor thus far!”

Nemain grumbled as she pulled the pot off the fire.

“Berengaria, come taste this. I say ’tis the worst love potion Magda has burned yet.”

Berengaria didn’t answer. She was far too busy staring out the window and watching the past unfold into the future. It was a gift she had, this Seeing. It had amused her in the past to see what the future held, to know how kings would die and lands be lost. It had also come in handy to know beforehand when whatever castle she lived near was to be besieged, leaving her time enough to pack her belongings and seek out new lodgings before the marauders arrived. But this task that lay before her now was her most important yet: to bring two unwilling and, frankly, rather impossible souls together. Aye, this was worthy of her modest arts.

She felt Magda tiptoe over to her, heard Nemain curse as she stomped over with her worn witch’s boots, but she didn’t pay them any heed. Failure had been but a breath away. Had the lord of Blackmour possessed a bit less honor, he would have ignored his vow to protect and defend a woman he hardly knew. Perhaps honor wasn’t a wasted virtue after all.

Berengaria let the present pass before her eyes, watching the dark, dangerous knight the Dragon of Blackmour had sent as his messenger. She scrutinized the battle-hardened warrior and was pleased to see that he wouldn’t falter in his errand. He couldn’t, or all would be lost. There would not be another chance such as this.

“Magda, by my horns, that is a foul smell,” Nemain snapped as she retreated to the far side of the hut. “Pour it out and start over again. And go carefully this time! It’s taken me a score of years to find the thumb-bone of a wizard and you’ve almost used it up. I’ve no mind to venture up to Scotland again to search for another!”

“Stop shouting at me,” Magda sniffed. “I’ve only been at this a few years.”

“I daresay even the lowliest priest could tell that. He would sooner think you a nun than a witch.”

Berengaria ignored the renewed bickering. Instead, she watched a homely woman-child of a score-and-one years who practiced with her forbidden sword in the garden at Warewick. The girl’s father wouldn’t be pleased with her disobedience, but with any luck the Dragon’s messenger would be there before Warewick could learn of her actions. Berengaria nudged the knight a bit more, like a pawn on a chessboard, forcing him to urge his horse to greater speed. Satisfied he would arrive in time, she turned her attentions back to the young woman.

“Just a few more moments, my child,” Berengaria said softly, “and then your new life will begin.”

one

Warewick Keep, England, 1249

THE TWIGS SNAPPED AND POPPED IN THE HEARTH, SENDING a spray of sparks across the stone. One of the three girls huddled there stamped out the live embers, then leaned into the circle again, her eyes wide with unease.

“Is it true he’s the Devil’s own?”

“’Tis the rumor,” the second whispered with a furtive nod.

“He was spawned in the deepest of nights,” the third announced. She was the eldest of the three and the best informed on such matters. She looked over her shoulder, then looked back at her companions. “And I know what happened to his bride.”

Gillian of Warewick paused at the entrance to the kitchens. She didn’t like serving girls as a rule, what with their gossiping and cruel taunts, but something about the way the maid uttered the last of her boast made Gillian linger. She hesitated, waiting for the girl to go on.

“’Tis said,” the third began, lowering her voice and forcing the others, including Gillian, to edge even closer, “that his lady wife found him one night with his eyes as red as Hellfire and horns coming out from atop his head. He caught her before she could flee and she’s never been heard from since. ’Tis common knowledge that he sacrificed her to his Master.”

Gillian felt a shiver go down her spine. Her knowledge of the world outside the castle walls was scant indeed, but she could well believe that England was full of witches and ogres who wove their black magic in the dead of the night. Her brother had told her as much and she’d had no reason to doubt his tales.

“He never leaves his keep, or so I’m told,” the second girl said suddenly, obviously trying to sound as important as the third. “He has his familiars see to his affairs.”

“Perhaps he fears someone will learn what he truly is,” the youngest of the three offered.

“A monster he is,” the second stated, bobbing her head vigorously. “There isn’t a soul in England brave enough to face him. A mere look from his eyes sends them fleeing in terror.”

“And no children in his village,” came the third voice, as low as before. She paused. “Blackmour drinks their blood.”

Gillian gasped in horror and her wooden sword clattered to the floor. Blackmour?

The girls whirled to look at her. The eldest girl hastily made the sign of the cross, then fled, pulling the other two after her.

Gillian stared after them, speechless. The wenches had been talking about the very Devil’s spawn himself, yet they crossed themselves against her?

“Lady Gillian, your father is waiting.”

Gillian spun around to find her father’s man standing behind her. She thought of asking for time to change her garments, then thought better of it. The longer her sire waited, the angrier he would be. When he saw how she was dressed and realized what she had been doing, he would be angry enough.

She picked up her wooden sword and forced herself to stand tall as she walked behind the steward, even though the mere thought of facing her father’s temper was enough to make her cower. She whetted her lips with a dry tongue as she followed the seneschal up the stairs and down the passageway to the solar.

Gillian left her sword against the wall before she trailed her father’s man into the small chamber where her sire conducted his private affairs. Her heart pounded so forcefully against her ribs, she was sure both men could hear it. Oh, how she wished William were alive to protect her! She took a deep breath and clutched her hands together behind her back.

“You sent for me, my lord?”

Bernard of Warewick was a tall, heavyset man, a warrior who had survived countless battles and would likely survive countless more. Gillian forced herself not to cringe as he turned his substantial self around and looked at her, starting at her feet and working his way up—his eyes missing no detail. She felt as if her boots were caked with twenty layers of mud, not just one. She was painfully conscious of her worn tunic and patched hose. Her hair, which was never obedient, chose now as the proper time to escape its plait. She felt it fall around her face and shoulders in an unruly mess.

Her father’s eyes narrowed.

“Can you not do something with those locks? They look like straw.”

Gillian’s shoulders sagged.

“And I expressly forbid you to set foot in the lists. Perhaps you need to have your memory refreshed.” His eyes slid pointedly to a birch switch leaning against the wall.

“I wasn’t in the lists,” Gillian whispered. “I vow it.”

“You were in the bloody garden!” he roared. “Damn you, girl, I’ll not bear such cheek!”

Before she could move, he had snatched up the rod and brought it across her face.

The sting told her the skin had broken, but it could have been much worse. She took a step back, ready to drop to her knees and curl up to protect her face from more painful blows.

“My lord,” the seneschal put in quickly, quietly, “perhaps you should wait. Until after,” he added.

The sound of the cane cracking against the far wall made Gillian jump. At least the switch was far from her. She looked up to see the tic under her father’s eye twitching furiously. Sweat began to drip down his face and his breathing was a harsh rasp in the stillness of the chamber. He fixed his man with a furious glance.

“Bring the whoreson in. I’ll beat respect into this wench after he leaves.”

The moment her father’s notice was off her and on the door, Gillian scurried over to a corner. She put her hand to her cheek and found the cut to be only a minor one. Oh, how was it all the other daughters in England bore such treatment? She had lain awake nights in the past, wishing she had the courage she knew other maids had to possess. She imagined them bearing up bravely and stoically under the lash while she herself was reduced to tears and begging after only a stroke or two. Lately, just the thought of the pain and humiliation was enough to make her weep.

Her brother had sheltered her as much as he could, but he had been away much of the time, squiring and warring. But when William had been home, he had shooed the maids from the solar and taught her the rudiments of swordplay—with wooden swords, of course, so no one would hear. He had even fashioned her a true sword, a blade so marvelously light that she could wield it easily, and so dreadfully sharp that she had once cleaved a stool in twain without much effort at all.

But her sword was currently hidden in the deepest recesses of her trunk and it was of no use to her. Her brother was buried alongside her mother in the deepest recesses of the chapel and he could not save her. Gillian again put her fingers to her cheek, the feel of the broken skin reminding her all too well what she would suffer at her father’s hands once his man had departed for safer ground. She never should have gone out to the garden. If she hadn’t thought her father would be away for the whole of the day, she wouldn’t have.

The door burst open and a tall, grim man strode inside. He was dressed in full battle gear, as if he expected to sally forth and slay scores at any moment. Perhaps he had expected a battle in Warewick’s solar. Gillian would have sold her soul to have relieved him of his mail and donned it herself.

The man made her father a curt bow.

“Lord Warewick, I bring you greetings from Lord Blackmour. He trusts all is in readiness.”

Gillian paled. The Dragon of Blackmour? What could he possibly want with her father?

“Aye, all is in readiness,” Bernard barked. “But he was to come himself. I’ll not bargain with one of his underlings.”

The man smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “My lord Warewick, I am Colin of Berkhamshire and I am not an underling.”

Gillian caught her breath. Merciful saints above, Colin of Berkhamshire had a reputation for violence and cruelty that spread from the Scottish border to the Holy Land. William had traveled with him on the continent and told her tale after bloody tale of the man’s lack of patience and his love of slaying those who offended him. It was said he’d once cut down five knights his size because they dared comment on the style of his tunic. Seeing Sir Colin in the flesh left Gillian with no doubts the tale was true.

She looked quickly at her father, wondering if he had realized his error. His expression gave nothing away, but the tic under his eye twitched with renewed vigor.

“Hrumph,” Warewick grunted. “Even so, I’ll not have Blackmour insult me by not coming himself.”

Colin’s smile grew chillier and Gillian pressed herself harder against the wall, ready to duck should a fight ensue.

“I’m of the understanding that you can find no other mate for the child,” Colin said. “As she is far past the age when she should have been wed, I should think you would be anxious to rid yourself of her. My lord has accepted your rather ordinary and unimaginative dowry and done it willingly. Perhaps you would be better served by keeping your pride on a tighter leash. There are other maidens with more attractive holdings than hers.”

Colin’s words sank into Gillian’s mind like sharp daggers, painful upon entry and excruciating as they remained. She wanted to draw air into her lungs, but her shock was too great. She stood still, listening to her father and Colin of Berkhamshire discuss her marriage.

To Christopher of Blackmour.

“Nay,” she whispered, pushing herself away from the wall. “Father, nay!” She crossed the chamber and flung herself down at his feet. Her terror of Blackmour overcame all the fear she felt for her father. Anyone but Blackmour, anyone at all. He had horns, he drank children’s blood, he danced under the moon as he worshipped the darkness. “Father, I beg you—”

“Silence, wench,” he thundered, backhanding her.

Gillian went sprawling. She rolled herself into a tight ball, preparing for the inevitable blow to follow. She cried out when she felt hands haul her to her feet.

But the chest she was gathered against and the arm that pinned her against that chest were not her father’s.

“Hush,” a deep voice commanded. “I’ve neither the time nor the patience for tears.”

Gillian had never been so close to a man other than her brother or father and she found she didn’t care much for the sensation. Not only was Colin of Berkhamshire only slightly less evil than the Devil himself, he smelled.

“The child comes with us. Now. The ceremony will be a se’nnight hence. The banns have already been read.”

Gillian closed her eyes and began to pray. Oh, God, not to Blackmour!

“The bold whoreson! I might have changed my mind.”

“Indeed?” Colin drawled. “You rid yourself of your daughter and gain a powerful son-in-law with the same deed. I suspect that changing your mind was the last thing you intended to do.”

“Begone,” Bernard snapped, but there was no fury behind his word. “And take that sniveling wench with you. The sight of her sickens me.”

Gillian was too terrified to argue. She squeezed her eyes shut as Colin swung her up into his arms and carried her from the solar.

“Your chamber, my lady?” he barked.

Gillian couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even find her tongue to ask Colin to pick up her training sword—not that wood would have served her where she was going. Steel was the only thing of use against warlocks, or so she’d heard.

She listened to her father’s steward give Colin directions, respectfully spoken of course, then felt herself being carried up the steep, narrow steps to the tower chamber, a pitifully small place where she had passed all of her days.

“Pack only what can be carried easily,” Colin said curtly as he set her down on her feet. “Your husband will provide you with whatever else you may need.”

Husband? The Devil’s own spawn? Despoiler of maidens, scourge of England, ravager of Blackmour? Aye, she knew much of Christopher of Blackmour and the tales were grim ones indeed.

He had driven his wife mad, killed her and then buried her unshriven. He was known to take the shape of a wolf, loping over his land with long, lanky strides, ripping the throats from sheep and unwary travelers alike. It was rumored he practiced his dark arts by candlelight in his tower chamber, for ever the shadows could be seen dancing wickedly therein in the deepest of nights.

She had no doubt that all of what she’d heard was true. She believed in witches, and magic, and in men changing their shapes when the moon hid his face. And she could readily believe the rumors of Blackmour’s harshness, of the beatings he dealt his servants, of the cruelty he showed to every soul who crossed him. And now she was to be his. Exchanging one prison for another, with like jailors.

For a brief moment, she toyed with the idea of taking her own life. She could pull the sword from her trunk and fall upon it before Colin could stop her.

A firm hand grasped her by the chin and forced her face up. She looked into Colin’s grim expression and quailed. It was no wonder he was so feared. There was no mercy to be found in his gaze.

“The cut on your cheek is not deep,” he said. “I should kill Warewick for having marked you, but my lord will be displeased if I rob him of future sport. Gather your belongings and let us be off. We’ve a long ride before us and I’ll start it before more of the sun is spent on this ill-fated day.”

She was surprised enough at his words to hesitate. Had he come near to offering to defend her? He wasn’t going to simply ignore Warewick’s treatment, as did all the rest in the keep?

“I’ve no time to coddle you, girl,” he said, releasing her face abruptly. “Don’t stand there gawking. Your father has sold you to the only bidder and you’ve no say in the matter. Pack your things and let us be away, while my mood is still sweet.”

The saints preserve her if she ever saw him when his mood was sour. As for the other, she readily recognized the truth of it. Her father could have sold her to a lecherous dotard or a five-year-old child and she wouldn’t have had a say in either. That he had sold her to Christopher of Blackmour only proved how little he cared for her. Aye, her fate was sealed indeed.

Unless she somehow managed to escape Colin between Warewick and Blackmour.

She turned the thought over in her mind. Escape was something she had never considered before, knowing it would have been impossible to get past her father’s guards. Now things were different. She might manage it.

She turned to her trunk, her mind working furiously. Aye, she would escape, and she would need clothing that wouldn’t hamper her as she did so.

She reached for her two gowns, ones she had worn to please her father, to make him look on her with favor—gowns that had tears in the back, reminders of just how futile her efforts to please him had been. Nay, those garments wouldn’t serve her while she fled. And, should she by some malevolent bit of misfortune arrive at Blackmour, she had no intention of anyone knowing how her clothing had been ripped so she might be beaten more easily.

She pulled tunics and hose out instead, things of William’s she had cut down to fit her frame. No matter that they were patched and mended a score of times. Indeed, such mending would perhaps make others think she was merely a poor lad in search of supper. She would beg a few meals, sleep a night or two under the stars, then find herself in London where she would seek aid from the king.

Assuming, of course, that London could be reached in a day or two. How large was England, anyway? A pity her father had been too ashamed of her to let her outside the inner bailey. It would have helped to know where she was going. No matter. She would watch the position of the sun, as William had taught her, and go south. London was south. She would reach it eventually and find the king. He wouldn’t refuse to aid her. After all, she was the only child left Warewick, flawed and unworthy though she was.

Clothing decided upon, she dug into the bottom of her trunk and came up with her sword, wrapped in a tunic.

It was torn from her hands and Colin barked out a laugh. “What is this?”

Panic overcame her. Nay, not her true sword. Not the sword William had gifted her . . .

“’Tis naught of yours,” she said, making a desperate lunge for it. Her sword was the one thing in the world she could trust to protect her and she would never relinquish it.

Colin held it above his head, far out of her reach. “You’ll have no need of this, lady. My paltry skills will assure your safety.”

“That is mine, you . . . you swine,” she blurted out, using William’s favorite slur.

Colin’s expression changed and she knew her cheek would cost her. In an instant, her choices paraded before her, showing themselves in their fullest glory. She could defend herself, or she could die. She might have survived a beating at her father’s hands, but she knew she wouldn’t survive the like at Colin’s. She grasped for the last shreds of her courage and brought her knee up sharply into Colin’s groin.

He dropped her sword with a curse and doubled over, choking. Gillian dove for her sword, then lurched to her feet, fumbling with the wrappings. She jerked it free of its scabbard and brandished it.

“I know h-how to use this,” she warned Colin’s doubled-over form, “and I wouldn’t think t-twice about g-gelding you if need be.”

“Pox rot you, wench,” Colin gasped. He lurched toward her, still hunched over.

Gillian leaped backward in terror. She caught her foot in her gown and went down heavily, dropping her sword along the way. It skittered out of her reach. Gillian cried out in fear, for she had lost her one advantage. She knew it would be impossible to retrieve the blade before Colin reached her. So she did the only thing she knew to do: she bent her head and cowered, waiting for the first blow to fall.

“Pick up your sword, girl,” Colin said, panting. “I’ve no stomach for beating women. And I remember telling you I wanted to be gone before the morn was wasted. Your father’s house feels more unfriendly than a camp full of infidels. I’m certain you’re as eager to leave as I am.”

Gillian froze, hardly able to believe her ears. When she felt no blow come, she lifted her head to see what Colin was doing. He was staring down at her, but his hands were clutching his thighs. They were not clenched and held high, which, to her way of thinking, boded well.

“I said, wrap up your blade, wench.” Colin straightened, then limped over to her trunk and looked inside. “What of these gowns? None to suit your finicky tastes?”

Gillian couldn’t manage an answer. Colin hadn’t struck her. Indeed, he seemed to have forgotten her insults. She watched him in shock and not just a bit of suspicion. She had wounded more than just his pride and he wasn’t going to repay her for it? It took nothing more than the thought of such an act of defiance crossing her face for her father to punish her. What manner of man was this Colin of Berkhamshire?

Colin picked up a gown and looked at it closely. Gillian wasn’t a skilled seamstress and the gown showed clearly how oft it had been torn. There was even blood on the garment he held, a mark she had scrubbed repeatedly, and unsuccessfully.

Colin flung the garment into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. “Christopher will have other gowns made for you. You’ll not wear those in his hall. Saints, but I’d pay for the pleasure of meeting Warewick in the lists,” he muttered.

He turned, strode over to her and drew her to her feet. He retrieved her sword, scabbard and dropped clothing, then shoved it all into her hands. He took hold of her arm and kept hold of it as he pulled her from the chamber, down the circular stairs and across the great hall.

Her father stood at the door to the hall, his mouth open and likely full of more words that certainly wouldn’t please Colin. Colin shoved him out of the way, then herded Gillian and the rest of his men to the waiting horses.

“You can ride?”

“A bit,” she managed the moment before he tossed her up into a saddle.

They were through the inner gates before Gillian had the chance to find her seat astride her horse. The outer gates had been reached and breached before she could catch her breath or find her wits to marvel at the dumbfounded look on her father’s face. Whatever Colin of Berkhamshire’s other flaws might be, he certainly had a way about him that annoyed her father. The memory of her sire’s spluttering was almost enough to make her smile.

Colin set a brisk pace and by the time Gillian thought to look over her shoulder, her father’s hall was small and becoming smaller by the hoofbeat. She clutched the hilt of her sword and stared back at her prison in fascinati