To Tame A Warrior's Heart. Sharon Schulze

www.millsandboon.co.uk

       SHARON SCHULZE

      is a confirmed bookaholic who loves reading as much as writing. Although she has a degree in civil engineering, she’s always been fascinated by history. Writing about the past gives her a chance to experience days gone by—without also encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!

      

      A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, teenagers Patrick and Christina, and their miniature dachshund, Samantha. She is the current president of the Connecticut Chapter of RWA; in her spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.

      

      Readers may contact her at P.O. Box 180, Oakville, CT 06779.

      To the Connecticut Chapter of RWA—what a group!

      Your friendship and support mean more than I can say. Special thanks to my editor, Tracy Farrell, for her patience and encouragement—and for recognizing Nicholas and Catrin when she met them again.

       Prologue

       England, 1214

      After a lifetime spent fighting for others in distant lands, he had finally returned to England to take his rightful place among his kind. Tall, strong, handsome—a warrior blessed with skill and grace upon the battlefield.

      And between the sheets, rumor had it.

      Lord Nicholas Talbot appeared the embodiment of knightly virtue, a nobleman born and bred.

      King John knew better.

      How it pleased him to bend Talbot to his will, to watch as the arrogant young lord danced warily through the intricacies of Court. Sooner or later, Talbot would trip and reveal his true self to the world.

      That thought brought a pleasure of its own.

      But until he did, his liege lord would make use of his skills, send him to the far reaches of the kingdom, if he wished.

      And if Talbot did not obey, ’twould be an easy task to expose his shame to the world.

      King John smiled. No matter what the deed, how could Talbot refuse?

       Chapter One

       The Welsh Marches

      Hooves clattered against the rocky path, the sound echoing through the mist-shrouded trees. Catrin shifted in the saddle; the shiver that ran down her spine owed little to the icy moisture covering her like a blanket. Never had the journey to her cousin’s keep at l’Eau Clair seemed so long—or so ominous. She pulled her cloak snug at the throat. Perhaps ’twas her impatience to arrive that made her nerves feel stretched to breaking, not the threat of an unknown menace hidden just beyond her view.

      A pair of men rode ahead of her, another behind, to protect her. But she could sense their unease, hear them mutter low-voiced prayers as they scanned the thickening fog. She should never have brought them, the least skilled of her brother’s guard; she feared they’d prove a meager defense.

      A soft whine caught her attention and she drew her mare to a halt. “Idris, come,” she called to the wolfhound who trotted at her side.

      She surveyed the dripping trees as he rested his massive head against her leg. “Is anyone out there? Go see.”

      Idris nudged her, then dropped back to the edge of the forest, head moving from side to side, ears cocked.

      Catrin urged her mount on before turning to the young man who rode beside her. Padrig’s bony face appeared calm, though his skin looked pale as a fish’s belly. His bright blue eyes perused the area as if he were already the warrior he hoped to become in Lord Rannulf Fitz-Clifford’s service.

      “Mayhap we should have waited for Ian,” she murmured.

      “Nay, milady, there was no need.” Padrig sat straighter in his saddle. “Though Lord Ian’s company would be welcome, of course.”

      Despite Padrig’s brave words, he was afraid, to judge by his pallor. Though fourteen, nearly a man, he had led a sheltered life until he came to them. Yet he craved adventure, and the chance to become Rannulf’s squire, with the same fervor she’d seen in her brother at that age.

      She’d been wrong to leave without Ian, she’d realized as soon as they’d reached the forest. Her sense of unease had grown, so that now only her fear of retracing their tracks kept her moving onward, toward l’Eau Clair.

      They’d have been safe with her brother’s escort, for no one would dare threaten the Dragon—Prince Llywelyn of Wales’s enforcer. But now…

      She should never have risked Padrig’s safety, nor that of the others, for her own selfish impatience.

      Her cousin Gillian would give birth when God—and her body—willed it, whether Catrin was there or not. And likely manage just fine, despite Gillian’s protestations to the contrary.

      “You don’t need the others, milady.” Padrig looked down at the gleaming sword at his waist, then glanced up, his cheeks red. “There are five of us, enough to protect you. Isn’t that what you told Father Marc before we left Gwal Draig?”

      Despite Padrig’s tact, her face heated with shame. She’d fairly screamed the words at the hapless priest when he’d made a last, valiant attempt to stop them. Ian would berate the poor cleric yet again, no doubt, when he returned home and found her gone.

      Padrig laid his right hand on the cross formed by his sword hilt. “I am yours to command, Lady Catrin. I will guard you with my life. I swear it.”

      She suppressed a smile at his fledgling bravado. Somehow the lad had managed to clutter his head with the foolish tales of chivalry so popular among the Normans. She didn’t deserve such loyalty, but it would be cruel to spurn his gallantry. “I am honored, Padrig.” She reached across the narrow space that separated them, not surprised when he grasped her hand in his and essayed a rough bow.

      “Nay, milady, ’tis I—”

      A muted sound captured her attention and she tugged her hand free. “Did you hear that?”

      She halted her mount and waved Padrig to silence, but only the distorted clatter of hooves met her straining ears. Yet Idris bounded past them, just as she heard the sound again.

      A flight of arrows!

      “Hurry.” She spurred her horse toward Padrig’s and forced him to the side of the trail. “Come with me.”

      A muted cry echoed through the trees, followed by the clash of steel against steel. Catrin slid from the saddle, grabbed Padrig by the arm and pulled him into the forest.

      The two rear guards sped by as she drew the boy deeper into the brush. Heart pounding, she dragged Padrig after her, paying no heed to the icy water and branches that pelted them as they stumbled though the leafless trees.

      “Where are we going?” Padrig paused to disentangle his cloak from a bramble. “Shouldn’t we help the guards?”

      “’Twill do no good if we rush onto the trail and are attacked,” she replied, bending from the waist to catch her breath. “Subtlety—”

      A horse lunged past them, eyes rolling. One of her guards dangled from the saddle, blood