To The Castle. Joan Wolf

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      Praise for the novels of JOAN WOLF

      “Especially appealing…”

      —Booklist on White Horses

      “Wolf spins a very entertaining love story.”

      —Romantic Times on White Horses

      “Romance writing at its very best.”

      —Publishers Weekly (starred review) on The Guardian

      “Wolf…leaps into the contemporary romantic suspense arena with this smart, compelling read.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Silverbridge

      “A quick-moving, enchanting tale…An excellent choice for readers who want an exciting epic.”

      —Booklist on Daughter of the Red Deer

      “Captivating…endearing…heartwarming…Wolf’s assured storytelling is simply the best.”

      —BookPage on Royal Bride

      “Fast paced, highly readable…”

      —Library Journal on The Gamble

      “An entertaining and thought-provoking read.”

      —Washington Post Book World

      on The Reindeer Hunters

      Also by JOAN WOLF

      WHITE HORSES

      To the Castle

      Joan Wolf

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      For Joe, the bedrock of my existence.

      Contents

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Chapter Twenty-Six

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

       Chapter Thirty

       Chapter Thirty-One

       Epilogue

       Afterword

      One

      The funeral mass for Sybilla de Bonvile was held in the cathedral of Lincoln on a day of high clouds and gusty wind. Nell de Bonvile walked with her parents behind the coffin of her only sister as it was carried by six knights up the aisle to the altar rail. The archbishop himself waited with holy water to sprinkle on it before he turned with majestic slowness to ascend to the altar where he would begin the funeral mass.

      Nell knelt next to her mother and listened to the familiar Latin words, her eyes on the coffin that contained the eighteen-year-old remains of Sybilla. She felt immense sorrow engulf her as she thought of her sister’s life, blown out like a candle by a fever and coughing illness.

      If only they had called upon Sister Helen, perhaps she might have been saved, Nell thought. But Sister Helen, one of the nuns at the convent where Nell had lived since her eighth year, had not been called upon, and Sybilla had died.

      Next to Nell, her mother raised a handkerchief to her face and began to sob softly. Nell wanted to comfort her mother, but hesitated to touch her. She wasn’t sure if her mother would want comfort from her sole remaining child. Nell knew she could never take the place of her beautiful sister or her brilliant brother. Perhaps her mother would be hurt by the reminder that they had gone and all that was left to her was Nell.

      She looked beyond her mother to the face of her father. The Earl of Lincoln’s face was like stone. He made no motion to comfort his wife.

      Tentatively, Nell reached out and touched her mother’s arm. The countess gave no sign that she felt Nell’s fingers; she continued to sob quietly into her handkerchief. After a minute, Nell removed her hand and folded it in prayer.

      Dear