By King's Decree. Shari Anton

manor’s door opened and John entered on an icy gust of wind. “The watch is set, my lord,” he said, picking his way among the pallets to reach the table.

      Gerard’s eyes narrowed as he waved John to a stool. “Why do you report instead of Lenvil’s captain?”

      John removed his helmet to reveal midnight-black hair and a full, though neatly trimmed beard.

      “I may have overstepped my authority, my lord,” John said with no apology in his voice, though he glanced at the sleeping Harold. “Since Lenvil has no defensive palisade or earthworks around the manor, I thought the most effective defense was to station extra sentries. I do not mind telling you, my lord, I feel naked in this place.”

      “’Tis within your authority to assign guards as you deem necessary.”

      “Aye, my lord, Wilmont’s men. But if you walk the perimeter tonight, you will find a few of Lady Bronwyn’s escort among the men of Wilmont and Lenvil. The lady’s men asked for duty. They have been here for a fortnight and grow restless, as duty-conscious soldiers will.”

      John lowered his voice to a near whisper. “There is a lack of discipline among Lenvil’s guard I find disturbing. The watch is haphazard. I had to rouse several of Lenvil’s men for the night watch. They grumbled, expecting Wilmont soldiers to assume the duty.”

      Gerard frowned. “The guard grows soft.”

      “I fear so. They have no regular weapon practice, no sport or heavy work to build muscle or strength. Should an enemy attack, I fear the manor would be overrun before a rider could reach Wilmont for aid. Lenvil is vulnerable.”

      Gerard felt his anger pulse, at Harold for allowing his guard to become lax, at himself for not seeing the situation immediately. As baron, final responsibility for Lenvil’s defense rested on Gerard’s shoulders.

      That any of his holdings could be vulnerable irked Gerard. That Lenvil was easy prey made him furious.

      He’d found ease at Lenvil.

      The war in Normandy had been long and harsh, the death of his father a bitter blow. Fury at Basil ate at his innards. Frustration at King Henry’s order to deal with Basil in court grated against Gerard’s warrior nature.

      At Lenvil, he’d found a haven.

      Near the arch separating the manor’s two rooms, Gerard saw a flash of yellow. Why was Ardith awake and flitting about at this hour? Certainly not to speak with him. Ardith avoided him as though he were diseased.

      He told John, “Tomorrow we shall measure the seriousness of the problem. Arrange some sport to test their mettle.”

      John’s smile spread. “Perhaps a ball game, my lord?”

      Gerard’s smile matched John’s. “You lead one team and I shall lead the other. Agreed?”

      “With pleasure.”

      “Good. Turn in, John. I will make the last round of the guard and ferret out our laggards.”

      “Then I will see you next on the playing field, my lord. Prepare for a thrashing.”

      Gerard laughed lightly as John picked up his helmet and strode from the manor to seek his tent and bedroll. Gerard glanced toward the arch. Ardith remained hidden.

      He sighed inwardly. This obsession of hers to avoid his company was annoying—and presented a challenge. In many ways, it was to Ardith’s credit he felt content at Lenvil. Yet, it was also her fault he sometimes felt the leper, an outcast.

      Ardith unbalanced his mind.

      After his lecture to Belinda on the care of her son, Gerard had returned to the manor to see Ardith by the fire, her drying hair flowing about her shoulders. As she shook her head and combed her hair, the fire’s light had danced off reddish strands, highlighting her auburn tresses.

      She’d changed her gown. The saffron wool hugged her body like a sheath from shoulders to hips where the skirt flared to swirl about her ankles. His loins had stirred when she arched backward toward the fire, closing her eyes, reaching to run her fingers through her hair.

      The sensuous pose had ignited his desire. His manroot urged him to close the distance, to press his growing need against the woman’s place so enticingly presented. The thought of lifting her skirts and driving himself deep within her had made him shudder.

      Then Ardith had opened her eyes and noticed him standing inside the doorway. She’d declared her hair dry and scurried off to the other chamber. She’d returned a short while later, her hair plaited and veiled, but she stayed as far away from him as was possible and still complete her duties.

      And still she shunned him, hiding on the other side of the arch, unwilling to enter the hall while he was present His patience snapped.

      “Ardith, come out,” he said brusquely.

      Slowly, Ardith appeared from behind the timber. Though she still wore the saffron gown, she’d dispensed with the veil. Her plait fell forward across her chest, snuggled into the valley between her breasts.

      “Well, what brings you from your pallet, my lady?” he asked when she didn’t move or speak.

      “I came to fetch my father. He should sleep in his bed.”

      Ah yes, the dutiful daughter, concerned for Harold’s needs. Harold—who spoke to Ardith only to complain, who noted her existence only when something disturbed his comfort. Such loyalty was commendable, but at the moment her devotion rubbed a raw spot on his temper.

      “’Tis his own foolishness leaves him sprawled drunk across the table. Leave him sleep where he lies.”

      Ardith’s chin came up. “’Tis you who bear blame for his drunkenness, my lord. He could not leave until you called a halt to the revelry and retired to your tent.”

      A valid accusation, one he ignored.

      She’d called him “my lord” with a touch of censure in her voice. What would his given name sound like coming from her lips, in her sweet voice that chimed melodious when she smiled, or better, in a breathless whisper hovering on the fulfillment of passion?

      He looked down at Harold. The old man was too far gone with drink to wake easily. If Ardith insisted that her father sleep in his bed, then Harold need be carried.

      Gerard stood, too quickly. Lenvil’s brewer made strong ale. He waited for the slight dizziness to fade, then commanded, “Take his feet.”

      As Ardith chose her path among the pallets, Gerard hooked his arms under Harold’s, gripping him firmly about the chest. Ardith tugged at Harold’s legs, dragging them from beneath the table. Then she turned around and bent over, hooking her hands under Harold’s knees, presenting a prettily rounded bottom for Gerard to admire as she wiggled to secure her grip.

      With a slight grunt, she straightened. “Ready, my lord?”

      “Aye, my lady. Lead on.”

      None too steadily they moved, Ardith laboring with the weight, Gerard battling the effects of drink mixed with lust.

      Gerard was sweating by the time they dumped Harold onto the bed. He plopped down to sit on the bed, elbows on knees, chin on an upraised fist. The chamber hadn’t changed much over the years. Harold’s bed dominated the room. Coals in a small brazier reduced the chill. Three pallets dotted the floor. Bronwyn slept on one, the other two remained empty; one meant for Corwin, the other Ardith’s.

      Ardith removed Harold’s boots and stood them near the brazier. Gerard felt a tug on the blanket beneath his rump. He didn’t move.

      She came around to face him. “My lord, if you would stand a moment…” she said.

      He reached out to capture her hand. She didn’t pull away. “Do you dislike me, Ardith? Am I so loathsome you must keep your distance?”

      “Nay, my lord. I meant no offense. But I have duties to perform