The Prisoner Bride. Susan Spencer Paul

Not enough, howbeit, to keep him from carrying out the plan Sir Anton had laid before him. The chance at having revenge on Daman Seymour was far too compelling to make Kieran change his mind.

      There were few people that he had loved in his life, but among those dear few, and assuredly most prominent, were his parents and brothers and sisters. He was, he supposed, a fortunate bastard, if any man basely born might be called thus. His parents—both mother and father—openly acknowledged him, as did his various grandparents, aunts, uncles and half siblings. Indeed, he knew himself to be well loved by all sides of his family, and had been raised by his stepfather as if he were his natural child. Aye, Kieran was fortunate, especially after his many years of wandering and troublemaking. Time and again his family had rescued him from imprisonment, hanging or worse. Time and again they’d pleaded with him to put his restlessness aside and settle down at the small estate that had been provided for him. And time and again, when he disappointed them, they continued to wait with open arms. He didn’t deserve such a family, and certainly not such a long-suffering one. There was only one way in which he was able to make himself worthy, and that was by his loyalty and his own love for them.

      This was what drove him to seek revenge against Daman Seymour. Sir Daman, so handsome and celebrated, had caused Kieran’s youngest sister, Elizabet, to fall so deeply in love that she had set all of her usual good sense aside. She had believed that Daman would wed her; Kieran knew full well how easy it was to make a sheltered young maiden believe such as that. In her innocence, love and trust, Elizabet had given herself to Daman, and Daman, the accursed knave, had soon thereafter abandoned her, despite knowing that she had conceived his child. Not even the fear of Kieran’s powerful stepfather, Lord Randall, had kept the fool from so ignoble a deed, though perhaps Daman had known, and rightly so, that Elizabet’s pleading would keep her father from having Daman run to ground and thrown in prison. Shame had done its equal share in convincing Lord Randall to leave the matter be. Elizabet’s pregnancy had been well hidden, though that, in the end, hadn’t been necessary. Grief over the abandonment of her faithless lover had driven her to illness, and she’d lost the child but a few months after it had been conceived.

      That had been five months ago, yet Elizabet remained inconsolable. During the few days Kieran had spent with her at his stepfather’s estate, she’d done naught but weep, so wretchedly miserable that Kieran’s own heart had felt riven. He’d sworn then that he would repay Daman Seymour for what he’d done to the dearest, sweetest girl on God’s earth, and had been searching for a way to fulfill that vow since. Sir Anton and his offer of employ had fallen like a gift into Kieran’s lap.

      “Aye, you’ll never let Sir Anton take Mistress Seymour away,” Jean-Marc said with surety. “Especially not once she’s fallen in love with you and pleads with you not to abandon her.”

      “I’ve abandoned a great many others, despite their pleading,” Kieran replied evenly, not contesting the fact that Mistress Glenys Seymour, and her little maid, Dina, as well, would fall in love with him. Women—no matter their age, birth or status—always fell in love with him, and had been doing so since before he’d turned fifteen. It couldn’t be helped, only acknowledged and dealt with. He had known when he’d accepted Sir Anton’s task that Mistress Glenys’s certain passion for him would complicate things. Just as Jean-Marc had said, she would most likely do as others before her and plead with Kieran not to leave her, especially if he held her prisoner in York for more than a few months. But his heart, despite his intense admiration of females in general, had never been swayed by any woman’s words, except perhaps for those spoken by his mother and sisters. He was well used to gently turning ardent females aside. It would be an outright falsehood to say that he’d avoided breaking more than a few hearts during his years of wandering, but Kieran had been careful never to leave a woman as Sir Daman Seymour had done, either with child or in such despair that death seemed preferable to life. And Daman’s sister was no exception.

      Nay, Kieran’s revenge must be upon Daman alone, else it was of no value. As to Mistress Glenys, he would keep her safe and comfortable while she was imprisoned in Sir Anton’s keep in York, and he would make certain that Sir Anton treated her well afterward, neither forcing her into marriage nor keeping her from her family. As for himself, Kieran would rebuff her declarations of love as gently as he might and do whatever he could to discourage such feelings from the very start.

      Fortunately, Mistress Glenys herself would make the task easier. If he’d been attracted to her, Kieran would have found it difficult indeed to keep from seducing her. He’d never fallen in love, but women were assuredly his weakness. Mistress Glenys, however, had the look of a safe woman, which was to say that she wasn’t the kind of female Kieran usually preferred. She was…square, he supposed one might say. Angular. It was an odd way to describe a woman, but very apt for Mistress Glenys. And despite the evidence of delightful curves beneath her surcoat, she was also too thin. Unless her clothing possessed some kind of magical powers in hiding what lay beneath, Kieran could detect none of the sweet, soft plumpness that he best loved in his women. Nay, Mistress Glenys was all tallness and bones and strength, a stout, healthy female who looked as if she could put the fear of God into a great many men—though Kieran didn’t count himself among them.

      “She’ll be out soon,” he said.

      “Aye, in but a few minutes,” Jean-Marc agreed. “Very prompt is Mistress Glenys Seymour.”

      It was true. They’d been watching her, as well as ferreting out information from those who gladly imparted it for gold, for only three days, yet already Kieran knew a great deal about her life—and none of it very exciting. She was twenty years old, almost beyond the acceptable age of marriage, and living with her elderly relatives in one of the stately palaces built on the Strand. She attended Mass with her aunts and uncles each morning, and each afternoon went out into London’s center to direct the many Seymour family businesses, always devoting at least one day each week in speaking to their banker, Master Fairchild. Each evening she returned to her grand family dwelling, the main gates shutting firmly behind her, locking her and her family and servants safely inside until the following morn.

      He’d seen no visitors arrive in that time, no suitors, no neighbors or acquaintances. In three days nothing about Glenys Seymour’s life had varied. Indeed, it had all been so incredibly, unrelentingly dull that Kieran couldn’t help but wonder how a young woman—even a serious, modest young woman like Mistress Glenys—could bear it. As well, it wasn’t very wise for a wealthy young woman to keep such a regular and expected schedule. She made it almost too easy for kidnappers to take her. He was surprised that no one had tried it before now, for surely her family would willingly pay a large ransom for her return. There was, of course, the thought of the lady’s brother, Sir Daman, to dissuade most knaves from even contemplating such a crime. The thought made Kieran smile.

      “It’s time,” he said, casting one last glance at the ever darkening sky overhead.

      Jean-Marc nodded and began to unlace the cloak he wore. “I’ll be waiting around the corner, then, ready to trade clothes with the coachman.”

      “And I’ll go and fetch him and the manservant,” Kieran replied, adding as he walked away, “Don’t strike too hard this time, Jean-Marc. I want neither of them hurt. There’s no need to rush. We’ve plenty of time. Everything will go off most easily, I vow. Trust me.”

      Jean-Marc’s low laughter filled the increasingly chilly air, accompanying Kieran as he made his way.

      “Hurry, Dina,” Glenys said insistently as they made their way out of the building where Master Fairchild kept his banking business. A servant held the large wooden door open for them, bowing as they passed. “I want to be home as soon as we may.”

      Picking up her skirts, she hurried out to the street toward their waiting carriage. Dina’s rapidly following footsteps spurred her on, and Glenys barely cast a glance at their manservant, John, as he opened the door, lowering his head and tugging his forelock.

      Despite the brief exchange, Glenys knew at once that something was wrong. But she had already stepped into the carriage before her body responded to what her brain had told her—that John wasn’t that tall or well-muscled.

      “Dina,”