The Prisoner Bride. Susan Spencer Paul

ensue if one of her aunts’ pockets should start glowing in the midst of St. Paul’s during Mass. “I’d not be able to forgive myself should I lose it.”

      “Oh, we won’t mind,” Aunt Wynne said cheerfully, bending to slide the stone into a small pocket within Glenys’s cloak. “We have so many of them, and you’ll need this while you’re gone.” She leaned forward to kiss Glenys on the cheek. “Oh, it’s such an exciting time, dearest, but we will worry for you so. Come home to us soon.”

      “Yes,” Aunt Mim agreed, kissing Glenys’s other cheek and hugging her. “Just as soon as you possibly can.”

      “I’ll be home in two hours,” Glenys murmured helplessly as she was enfolded in the embrace. “Less than two hours, I vow.”

      “Leave her be a moment, Mim,” Uncle Culain chided, moving forward. “Glenys can’t leave without my gift.”

      Another offering? Glenys’s heart sank, especially when she saw what Uncle Culain held in his hand. It was his most prized possession, the lone remaining piece of an ancient chess set—the queen. It had been a very odd set, if the intricately carved lady was anything to go by. She was fashioned out of dark red wood, and looked much more like a pagan goddess than a proper queen, with her hair unbound and flowing down to mingle with her long, druidic robes. Her feet were bare, her crown was a wreath of twined flowers and leaves, and her eyes, made of amber, glowed as if a candle burned behind them. Uncle Culain carried the piece with him everywhere, speaking to her as if she could hear him, and even kept her beneath his pillow when he slept. It was impossible that he would part with the chess piece, even for the short while that Glenys would be gone.

      “No, Uncle Culain,” she said desperately, pushing his hand back. “I could never take your good lady, not for any reason.”

      “But you must,” he insisted. “You must, for she is the only treasure Caswallan will bargain for. He would not part with the Greth Stone for any measure of wealth or fear, but for her,” he said, gently placing the small wooden figure in Glenys’s palm, “he will gladly give it to you.”

      “Caswallan?” she said with confusion. “Uncle Culain, I’m only going to the bank. I’ll not be journeying to Wales for another month at the very least. I’ve already arranged to wait for Daman and his men. You know that.” She looked about her at each delicate, lovely face, aunts and uncles alike. “You all know that.”

      They nodded and smiled, and began to walk her toward the great room’s entryway, where Dina stood waiting for her. After hugs and kisses from all four of her elderly relatives, she was bustled out of doors, with Dina right behind, and was soon stepping into the waiting carriage with the help of one of the house servants. She looked back, out the open window, as it pulled away, to find her aunts weeping and waving and her uncles nodding sagely and waving.

      After so many years, Glenys would have thought that she would be well used to her relatives’ unusual ways, but, presently, she was thoroughly bewildered and amazed. The items they’d given her felt far more like terrible burdens than loving gifts, though she knew in her heart that they’d been given as the latter. The chess piece felt as warm as life in her hand, and Glenys pulled her gaze from the sight of her waving aunts and uncles to look down at it, slowly uncurling her fingers to reveal the little treasure. The beautiful lady was face-up in her grasp, and her amber eyes glowed with that odd, peculiar light that had always unnerved Glenys.

      “God’s mercy,” she murmured, quickly pushing the piece into the same pocket as the white stone, praying that neither would cause any trouble at the bank. She looked across to the seat where Dina sat. “Perhaps we should wait until the morrow to visit with Master Fairchild. I vow I am full discomfited.”

      Dina’s gaze was sympathetic. “’Twill be well, mistress. The white stones never glow when ’tis so light as today, and the others…you must simply keep them hidden. All will be well,” she promised once more, so convincingly that Glenys believed her. Almost.

      They passed the courtyard gates and were soon on the main street heading toward the center of London.

      “Pray God you are right, Dina,” she said fervently, sitting back. “I have a most unsettled feeling that we would do very well to finish our business and return home as quickly as may be.”

      Chapter Two

      “I thought you said that Glenys means ‘fair one,”’ Kieran said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning indolently against the cool bricks of the tavern wall. The wind gusted and the folds of the heavy woolen cape he wore flapped against his leather-clad legs. Casting a glance upward, he saw that the clouds had grown darker, thicker. The day had started as both warm and clear, but a storm was on its way.

      “And so it does,” Jean-Marc replied, setting his empty tankard aside on the ledge of the tavern’s open window. “Mistress Seymour was sadly misnamed, I fear. Her parents must have hoped for a different manner of daughter.”

      Kieran smiled. “Not with Daman for a son.” He eyed the tall, stately figure of Mistress Glenys Seymour as she made her way from her carriage and into the building where her banker kept his business. “She is just the sort of sister such a brute would have, though her coloring is far milder.”

      “Not very mild,” Jean-Marc retorted. “Her hair’s as bright as a sunrise.”

      “Nay, ’tis softer, more like a sunset,” Kieran corrected, “though the rest of her appears to be more formidable. I have a great deal of difficulty imagining a soft fellow like Sir Anton scaling that particular fortress, even for love.”

      Jean-Marc snorted. “What you mean,” he said, “is that you can’t imagine such a female letting a simpering fool like Sir Anton make the attempt.”

      “Nay,” Kieran murmured thoughtfully, “I doubt that, too. She’s not beautiful, of a certainty, but neither is she painful to gaze upon. And her figure is pleasing, i’faith, despite her height. S’truth, Mistress Glenys could do far better for a lover than so delicate a lordling as Sir Anton.”

      “I little doubt he cares what she looks like,” Jean-Marc stated, “or whether her figure is pleasing or no. She’s wealthy—that’s what the scoundrel’s thinking of.” When his master made no reply, Jean-Marc glanced up at him and asked, “You didn’t believe Sir Anton’s foolish tale any more than I, did you?”

      Kieran shook his head. “I didn’t believe a word of it. He was as clear a liar as I’ve ever set eyes upon.”

      “Yet you’re still determined to take Mistress Glenys away and hold her prisoner in York, waiting for Sir Anton to fetch her?”

      “Aye.”

      Jean-Marc spat on the ground and uttered a sound of unhappiness. “’Tis a fool you are, by God! You risk your neck—and mine—only to spite Sir Daman. And to what purpose? Naught that you do to him can give your sister back all that she’s lost because of him, or return the joy he took from her.”

      “Mayhap not,” Kieran said softly, his gaze held fast to Mistress Glenys’s carriage, most specifically on the coachman and lone manservant, who already began to look weary and bored with their waiting, “but I can make him know misery, as he made Elizabet know it, and I can make him know what ’tis like for his beloved sister to be in the power of another. But never fear, Jean-Marc,” he added, glancing at his companion, “I mean Mistress Glenys no harm, and well you know it. Her heart and person will remain untouched and pure—at least until Sir Anton comes to take her away. After that, Daman must worry anew.”

      Jean-Marc uttered a loud snort. “You? Turn a woman over to a knave who might do her harm?” He laughed. “Never. Not even a woman like that who’s tall enough and surely strong enough to bash Sir Anton on his puny head. Gawd’s mercy. Tell me another tale, m’lord.”

      Kieran scowled at his grinning manservant, but said nothing. The truth of it was that Jean-Marc knew him too well. The thought of leaving Mistress