My Lord's Desire. Margaret Moore

he was a tailor,” Armand shot back.

      That gave her a moment’s pause before she continued just as defiantly. “Perhaps the conspirators are not gone, and since they may still be here, we should continue to look for them, in any way we can.”

      “I will not allow you to put yourself in jeopardy.”

      She wasn’t going to let him, or any man, intimidate her, or tell her what to do. “You have no right to rule me, my lord, so I don’t need your permission, your protection, your approval or your help to do what I must do. Now, if I have your gracious leave, I am going to bed, and tomorrow, I may very well discover I have to speak to several of the king’s clerks. That, I will do, whether I have your permission or not.”

      She swept her skirts behind her and continued up the stairs, determined to prove to Armand de Boisbaston that she was no flighty, foolish woman overwhelmed by his looks, his kiss or his masculine arrogance.

      While pretending to fall in love with him because he had made that necessary.

      ARMAND GLARED after Adelaide a moment, then turned and marched back down the steps to the hall. God’s blood, of all the high-handed, stubborn women! She was precisely the sort of female he would never marry!

      He was so angry and engrossed in silently denouncing Adelaide, he didn’t see the shadow that shifted in the flickering torchlight when he left the stairwell.

      Or the person who made it.

       CHAPTER SIX

      “WHERE ARE YOU off to, Godwin?” Armand asked the soldier as they crossed the courtyard together after breaking the fast the next morning.

      Instead of a gambeson and helmet, Godwin was dressed in tunic, shirt and breeches. He’d also been whistling a jaunty tune as he skirted several puddles left from the previous night’s rain.

      “I just finished my turn on the walk and now I’m on my way to the village,” Godwin replied.

      “May I join you? I’ve had a yearning for some fine ale, and the earl’s told me many times about an alewife here who makes a good brew.”

      That was certainly true. However, Armand also didn’t want to remain in the castle where Lady Adelaide would be, and it was possible that one or two of the conspirators might be staying in the village.

      It had been enough of a strain breaking the fast in the hall with her—acting as if he wanted nothing more than to win that lady’s love, gazing at her from afar as if she were the goddess of his fortunes, all the while knowing her answering smiles were only intended to make their ruse believable.

      At least he hadn’t had to sit beside her. Even if he had, though, surely he would have been able to control himself better than he had last night.

      “Aye, that would be Bessy,” Godwin replied with a chortle. “I’m surprised you never tried some of Bessy’s best before. It’s a full-bodied brew—just like her.”

      “I never stayed in Ludgershall long enough before,” Armand admitted as they went through the barbican and headed for the village.

      As the sun warmed his back and sparkled on the water of the small river that wound its way through the lower meadow known as Honey Bottom, he noted that Ludgershall was clearly prospering under the rule of the Earl of Pembroke. Several two-story half-timbered buildings, with stalls for merchandise below and living quarters above, lined the green. A smithy belched smoke into the crisp morning air, and several elderly men had gathered beneath the wide oak beside it, sheltered from the summer sun. Other cottages were spread along the road before giving way to farmers’ fields.

      The aromas of smoke and cooking meat, chickens and pigs, wet wool and mud, all combined to remind Armand that he was back in England, and free. He’d spent many happy hours in the village on his family’s estate, avoiding his stepmother.

      His cell in France had been as dark as dusk during the day, as chill as autumn, and black as pitch at night. He’d had no candle, no rush light, no torch—nothing to relieve the gloom. That had preyed on his mind as much as his regrets, his fears for his men, and his concern about Bayard, who’d been commanding another of the king’s castles before it, too, had fallen.

      The sight of the tavern, with its sign portraying two stags’ heads swinging outside the door, brought his thoughts back to the present, and the pungent scents of ale, straw, beef stew and bread filled his nostrils as Godwin led the way inside the low building.

      Several farmers were seated in a corner, deep in discussion about the wool crop. A traveling merchant napped in the corner near the hearth, a plate containing a heel of bread and the remains of a thick stew near his elbow, his mug of ale clutched in one hand and precariously perched on his large belly. Two young men were sprawled at another table watching the sleeping merchant like two foxes eying a single hen, quietly making bets on when the mug would tip and spill the ale.

      A pleasant-looking, buxom woman in a loose-fitting gown belted with a large apron greeted Godwin warmly and nodded at a table and bench not far from a large cask of ale that had already been tapped. “Sit ye there, boys, and I’ll fetch you a mug of my best.”

      It had been a long time since anyone had called Armand de Boisbaston a boy, yet he was far from offended; indeed, he quite liked her familiar address. It made him feel like a youth again.

      Because he also wanted to speak to Godwin about something important, he was pleased to note that the bench and table she indicated were in a corner of the room. They wouldn’t be overheard by the other customers or anyone passing by the small windows, for the shutters were open to let in the fresh summer air.

      “Would you like a bite to eat, too?” Bessy asked.

      Godwin grinned. “Aye, some bread and stew for me. What about you, my lord?”

      Armand shook his head. He’d rather save the money, although the aroma wafting in from the kitchen made his mouth water.

      “As you will,” Bessy said with a toss of her light brown hair before heading to the kitchen.

      “Well, my lord?” Godwin asked as he slid onto the bench. “Was I lying? Isn’t Bessy something?”

      “She is,” Armand agreed.

      Godwin chuckled and leaned closer. “I tell you, my lord, if I could get her to marry me, I’d be a happy man.”

      “You’d have both a pretty wife and a business that seems to be prospering,” Armand agreed. “She must be busy these days with all the people visiting Ludgershall while the king’s in residence.”

      “Aye, she is. Merchants and tradesmen from London and all over England have been coming here.” Godwin lowered his voice. “She could do without them routiers, though. A bad lot, the bunch o’ them.”

      Armand thought of another pretty woman who had to endure men’s unwanted attention, and felt a twinge of regret that he hadn’t come up with a better plan to confer with her.

      Bessy set down two frothing mugs of ale and shook her head when Armand went to pay. “You’re Armand de Boisbaston, aren’t you?”

      “I am.”

      “Thought so. I heard about your hair. No charge for you, then, my lord. Keep your money for your brother’s ransom. He come here once and did me a bit of service. There was a rough lout who wouldn’t pay for his meal. He paid up quick enough when he had the tip of your brother’s sword at his throat.” She grinned at the memory, then frowned when Godwin’s hand went to the purse at his belt.

      “Nor you, neither, Godwin,” she said. “Your ale’s free till Christmas for fixing my roof.”

      She winked at the soldier, and then hurried off to take more bread to the farmers.

      “She’s very generous,” Armand noted.

      “Aye,”