Lord Of Lyonsbridge. Ana Seymour

      As he raised his face to look at her, his black eyes darted around, reminding Ellen suddenly of a rat. The back of his head was shaved in Norman fashion and his black beard was sleeked with some kind of grease, adding to the effect. It made Ellen want to giggle, but she stifled the impulse and kept her voice gracious. “I’ll see your efforts in his stead, Sir William, and make faithful report of your good work.”

      “Thank you, milady.” His eyes shifted from her to the gates behind her, then to Father Martin, then back to her. “I’d understood that your father was sending his nephew to review his English estate.”

      “Sir Sebastian is directly behind me,” Ellen explained. “I found myself with a spurt of energy and rode ahead, to the disapproval of your master of horse.”

      Sir William scowled, and the ratlike expression that had amused her suddenly looked more sinister. “He’s a troublemaker, that one. Begging your pardon, since he be blood, Father,” he said to the friar, “but Lyonsbridge would be better off without the likes of Connor Brand.”

      Ellen looked at Father Martin, questioning. “Connor is my brother,” he explained.

      “Your brother!” She couldn’t decide why it was such a surprise to learn that the forceful man she’d met at the stables was brother to the friar. Now that she knew, she could see the resemblance immediately. They had the same handsome features, the same smile. The priest appeared to be bulkier under his robes, whereas the horse master had, she recalled with an uncharacteristic blush, been of a decidedly muscular build.

      “Perhaps I should have mentioned it right away,” Father Martin said apologetically.

      “Brother or no, he’s been a thorn in my tabard ever since I came to Lyonsbridge,” Sir William grumbled.

      When Father Martin made no response to the charge, Ellen asked, “Then why haven’t you dismissed the man?”

      Sir William shrugged and waved his hand vaguely. “He’s good with the horses,” he said. He made a nervous shuffle with his feet. “Enough of the stable. Let me show you inside the castle.”

      Ellen put her hand on the arm Sir William offered her and let him lead her across the courtyard toward the stairway, but she remained puzzled about his answer. It seemed odd that the bailiff would keep a servant whom he professed to detest, no matter how good the man was with the livestock. In fact, there was something odd about Connor Brand himself. A strange manner of man, she had told the priest. Indeed. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was that she, mistress of the entire estate and acclaimed by the most noble men in Christendom, couldn’t seem to banish the stable master from her thoughts.

      

      The previous day’s frost had disappeared overnight, leaving a mist that hung heavy and thick near the ground. It was not a good morning for a ride, but after breaking her fast with bread and strong ale, Ellen found herself wandering toward the stables. It made sense, she assured herself, to check on Jocelyn’s welfare after the grueling trip.

      She was within yards of the stable and had just about decided that Jocelyn would prove to be her only mission after all, when suddenly the tall figure of the horse master emerged through the fog. Her heartbeat jumped.

      Once again, he did not wait to be addressed first. “Good morrow, milady. You’re up and about early. The very sparrows still sleep, I trow.”

      She put aside her annoyance at his boldness. Perhaps manners were not as formal in England. “You were here before me, Master Brand.”

      “Ah, but I’m a poor laborer whose lot it is to work early and long. You’re a noblewoman, made to while away the hours in play and pleasure.”

      The proper response to such an inappropriate comment would have been to ignore him, but the amused scorn in his tone made Ellen bristle and answer, “I’ve come to England to oversee a household, one that appears to be in sore need of management, I might add. I’ve not come to play.”

      Connor took a step closer to her, then paused. His blue eyes boldly ran the length of her, taking on a sparkle as he smiled and said, “I’ll admit I don’t picture you quietly weaving tapestries the day through.”

      She was standing uphill from him, which made their faces level, less than a yard distant. He gazed at her frankly, without apology. For a moment, she stared back. Then she realized that her face had grown warm and the breath had halted in her throat. She backed up a step. “I’d thank you not to picture me in any way whatsoever,” she said. Her tone was not as imperious as she’d hoped.

      Connor smiled more broadly. “Norman rule has robbed Saxons of many things, milady, but not of their thoughts, nor yet of their fantasies.”

      In Normandy a servant could have been beaten for such insolence, but instead of the reprimand that had leaped to her lips, she found herself arguing with him. “Norman rule has brought the Saxons much more than it has taken.”

      Connor’s eyebrow raised. “So says the Norman lady?”

      “Aye,” Ellen answered firmly. “So says the Norman lady.”

      “Perhaps one of these days you’ll enlighten me about these wonders our conquerers have brought us, milady, but at the moment, I must take leave to go muck my Norman master’s stables.”

      This man was like no servant she had ever encountered, and, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why she continued to stand there like a tongue-tied maid and let him speak to her in such a fashion. It had something to do with the fact that her heart had not slowed from the time he’d first startled her, coming out of the fog.

      One thing was certain. If she was going to put some good Norman order into this place, she’d have to start by regaining control of herself. “You forget yourself, Master Brand,” she said, and this time she was pleased to note that her tone was properly haughty. “If my cousin were to hear you speak the way you have to me just now, he’d turn you over to the king for sedition.”

      Connor turned his back on her and walked down to the stable, collecting a pitchfork that was leaning against the building. Over his shoulder he said, “You misjudge me, milady. I’m a man of peace.”

      “I think not. You and your brother appear to be cut of wholly different cloth.”

      Connor turned back to her in surprise. “Martin told you, then?”

      “Father Martin? Aye.”

      “We’re not so different. Our destiny has given us two different paths, but we walk toward the same end.”

      Ellen shook her head in confusion and finally gave voice to the thought that had been circling in her head since meeting him the previous day. “You don’t talk like any stable master I’ve ever heard.”

      Connor dug the end of the fork into the ground, threw back his head and laughed.

      There was, indeed, an independence about this servant that totally discomfited her. “I’m serious,” she insisted, her voice raising a notch. “Who are you? Father Martin said you’ve lived here all your life.”

      “That I have, milady. Who am I? Why, I’m your stable boy, your horse trainer, your livestock manager.” He left the fork standing by itself in the dirt and took a long step to bring himself once again close to where she was standing. Very softly he said, “I’m your faithful servant, milady.”

      His voice rumbled deep into her midsection.

      She stood there facing him, eye-to-eye, as blood pounded behind her ears. She swallowed once, then again, before making a reply that came out as not much more than a whisper. “Aye, Saxon, you are my servant. See that you act like it.”

      Then, abandoning her intention to visit her horse, she turned abruptly and made her way up the hill toward the castle as quickly as dignity would allow.

      

      “What worm is gnawing at your innards today, Connor?” Father Martin