His Lady's Ransom. Merline Lovelace

with dire threats of what you’d do if I did not cease my…my preoccupation with the Lady Madeline.”

      Ian’s lips twitched. “Mothers do tend to see these things differently.”

      “Yes, well, this…this is somewhat different, Ian.” Will’s broad smile took on a tentative edge once more, and he leaned forward in his seat. “The Lady Madeline is different. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

      “That’s what you said about the chandler’s daughter, the one with the astonishing repertoire of tricks with candles,” Ian commented dryly.

      “She’s not like that!”

      “Nay? Nor like the two sisters of the count de Marbeau, the ones who—?”

      “I would not have you speak of the Lady Madeline in the same breath as those two.”

      The cool command in Will’s voice made Ian’s brow arch in surprise. He set aside his wine and studied his brother. The boy’s—no, the young man’s—face wore a mask of wounded dignity. Ian had enough years of experience dealing with youthful squires and pages, guiding their transition from boy to knight, to know when to prick their pretensions and when to listen.

      “Very well, I will not speak of her thus,” he told Will easily. “You speak, instead. Tell me of this paragon who has you arrayed in your finest velvet robes and gold rings.”

      “She’s…she’s special, Ian. Charming and gracious, with a laugh like silver bells carrying on the summer breeze.”

      Ian’s brow inched up another notch, and Will leaned forward, his blue eyes shining with sincerity.

      “She’s not beautiful, exactly, but makes all other women pale in her company. And kind—she’s kind to a fault.”

      “She’d have to be, to pay any attention to a clumsy-footed clunch such as you,” Ian agreed.

      Will nodded, in perfect accord with this description of one whose inheritance rivaled those of the wealthiest knights in England and whose form was fast fulfilling its promise of raw strength and masculine beauty.

      “She tells me I’m but a callow cub, as well,” he admitted, sheep-faced. “But she’s given me her hand twice in the dance, and I have hopes of wearing her token in the tourney.”

      As he proceeded to describe the Lady Madeline, Will’s stock of poetic phrases ran out long before his enthusiasm for his subject. By the time Ian had suffered hearing how her hair gleamed like the glossy bark of a towering chestnut tree for the third time, and how her eyes sparkled like the veriest stars several times over, he’d heard enough to make him distinctly uneasy.

      To his experienced ears, it sounded as if the lady but played with Will. She enticed him with smiles, yet kept him at arm’s length with a show of maidenly reserve. Such false modesty from one who had buried two husbands and was rumored to bed with the king’s son grated on Ian. Hand upraised, he called a halt to Will’s paean to the lady.

      “Enough, man, enough! You make my head ache with all your mangled poetry. Let’s go down and seek out this exemplar of womanly virtues. I would see if she lives up to half of your honeyed words.”

      Will clambered to his feet with boyish eagerness. “Aye, let’s go. I’m anxious for you to meet her.”

      “No more than I am,” Ian responded easily, but his eyes were hard as he followed Will from the chamber.

      They made slow progress across Kenilworth’s vast hall, as many acquaintances called greetings to Ian. All the great barons owing homage to King Henry were summoned thrice yearly for these state occasions, held in conjunction with church feast days. It was an opportunity for the king to consult with his barons, and for the lords themselves to share news and gossip. Those who had not provided knight’s service in the latest war were anxious to hear Ian’s account of the action. Will lingered by Ian’s side for a while, then spotted a small knot of courtiers at the far side of the hall. He nudged his brother in the side with an elbow.

      “’Tis her, Ian. The Lady Madeline. I would go and speak with her. Join me when you can.”

      From a corner of his eye, Ian watched his brother’s passage across the hall. His lips tightened at the fatuous expression that settled on Will’s face as he bent over the hand of a slight figure in a flowing crimson gown.

      Seeing her from across the hall, Ian’s first impression of the Lady Madeline was that she hadn’t changed much from the mousy young maid he half remembered. Surrounded by a ring of richly dressed men and elegant women, her slight figure was barely visible. He could just make out her profile, with a nose more short and pert than aquiline, and a chin more distinguished by its firmness than by soft, rounded feminine beauty. From the little Ian could see of her braided hair, caught up in two gold cauls over her ears and covered with a silken veil, it appeared more brown than the bright chestnut Will had rhapsodized over. Some of the tension in Ian’s body eased. Whatever the rumors about the Lady Madeline’s charms, she did not appear to be the sultry beauty Ian had feared. It shouldn’t be all that difficult to detach Will from her circle.

      At that moment the lady looked over her shoulder in response to a remark made by the elderly knight at her side. Flaring torches set in iron holders high above illuminated her face as she made some teasing reply.

      A slow, provocative smile transformed her nondescript features. Green eyes, so bright and luminescent a man could lose himself in them, glowed with mischievous, tantalizing, stunningly sensual laughter.

      Ian drew in a sharp breath, feeling the impact of those incredible eyes like a mailed fist to his stomach.

      Chapter Two

      Madeline’s low, merry laugh rippled through the crowd of courtiers surrounding her.

      “Nay, Sir Percy,” she told the grizzled knight who hovered at her shoulder, “you may not have my garter. Imagine what people would think if you were to wear such an intimate item in the tourney.”

      “They would think what is my fondest desire, lady.”

      “Oh, so?” she said teasingly. “And just moments ago I heard you say you desired above all else to win a certain war-horse, if you could but unseat its owner. ‘Tis the trouble with you fearsome knights. You know not whether you want first your horse or your lady.”

      The courtiers around her burst into laughter as the older knight began a gallant repartee, trying to convince her that she owned his heart. Madeline turned aside his flowery phrases with practiced ease, enjoying the lively give-and-take. Her eyes sparkled as Sir Percy effusively professed his devotion. When the older knight paused at last, William edged him aside with more boyish eagerness than polished address.

      “Lady, may I take you in to supper?”

      “Nay, Sir William, I am promised.” Madeline hid a smile at his crestfallen face. “But I’ll save a dance for you later. The rondeau, perhaps? ‘Twill do my image no end of good to be partnered by the handsomest young knight at the king’s court.”

      Will nodded eagerly and bent over her hand, his bright curls shining against the crimson of her sleeve. Madeline’s gaze softened at his reverent salute. In truth, he was a comely lad, with a friendly, open disposition to match his well-proportioned frame. That he’d already made a name for himself on the tourney field and in several battles didn’t detract from the air of youthful exuberance that she found so refreshing.

      “Will you at least allow me to bring my brother to meet you before the boards are laid?” he asked, retaining her hand until she slipped it from his grasp.

      “What, has he arrived at last? The earl of Margill? The same glorious knight and fearless warrior I’ve heard so much about these last weeks?”

      “Don’t tell him I described him thus,” Will begged, grinning down at her. “In his presence, I refer to him as the biggest churl in Christendom! Give me leave, and I’ll deliver him to your side this instant.”

      Madeline