The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

it’s to the nearest convent for you? That would be Llanllyr, of the Cistercians. Or have you another one in mind?”

      “I do. Haverholme, of the Gilbertines, is in Lincolnshire, not far from my parents’ estate.”

      So she had planned, yet as she walked beside this tall, handsome man who loved his frustrating uncle and who had tried to save his family’s honor only to be at war with his brother, the prospect of life as a nun held even less appeal than it had before. But if it was the church or return to the king’s court, what other choice did she have?

      After they had passed the green, Madoc stopped in the shadow of the baker’s, a two-storied half-timbered edifice with a stall for selling fresh bread and pastries on the lower level and ovens in the yard. The scent of his goods wafted around them, homey and wholesome.

      “If you’d rather not go to a convent,” Lord Madoc said, “I’ll provide you with an escort to anywhere else, so you may travel in safety.”