Taming The Beast. Heather Grothaus

      From Michaela’s vantage point on the raised dais, it was clear to see the commotion Sir Hugh Gilbert caused within the female population. Michaela herself was surprised at the man’s handsomeness, and his dress was superb—costly and fine. His black hair was trimmed close to his scalp, and he sported a very short beard—little more than heavy shadow, actually. Michaela could see the dark rim of thick lashes around his eyes from her seat. Below her, women companions craned their neck to catch a clearer glimpse of the stranger and then leaned their heads together, twittering excitedly.

      And Sir Hugh seemed quite aware of the attention he was garnering, for as he spoke, he let his eyes stray from Alan’s figure and rove over the appreciative crowd, as if he was a minstrel, readying to recite dramatic verse for an eager audience.

      “My dear Lord Tornfield, Lord Cherbon wishes me to extend his deepest and most heartfelt regrets that he could not personally answer your gracious call to feast with you and your guests. He wishes for me to assure you all that he is ready to fulfill the void left in the demesne by his father’s death, and as such, his many responsibilities oft keep him engaged. Rest assured though, that he is at your service should you but ask for his assistance.” This well-spoken and dazzling man bowed slightly in Alan’s direction. “Lord Tornfield, you have my own personal thanks for your gracious and warm hospitality.” He sat.

      Michaela saw a somewhat bemused smile come over Alan’s face. “Sir Hugh, if you would indulge me, Lord Cherbon is not…ill, is he?”

      Hugh stood once more. “Not at all, Lord Tornfield. The very epitome of health.” He began to sit.

      “Forgive me, but I—we all—had heard that he was wounded most dire in the Holy Land. I thought mayhap his injuries—”

      Hugh stood erect again, slowly, and pinned Alan with what Michaela saw as an overly haughty look.

      “I can assure you that any injuries Lord Cherbon sustained do not hinder his abilities to rule in any manner whatsoever. But I will most certainly relay your kind inquiry after his health to him. I’m certain he will be touched by your…concern.” Sir Hugh sat once more.

      Michaela could not help but feel slightly piqued—as though in some nearly undetectable manner, this Sir Hugh Gilbert had managed to chastise Alan in his own hall, at his own feast.

      Michaela decided she did not like this man, handsome or not, one tiny bit.

      Alan cleared his throat. “Very fine. Thank you, Sir Hugh.” He looked back to the crowd. “And now, for the main purpose of our gathering.”

      All thoughts of the pompous knight flew from Michaela’s head and her stomach clenched. She caught her mother’s eye and winked. Agatha sent her a kind, if rather confused, smile.

      “As you all know, my daughter and I have been on our own following the tragic and untimely death of my wife. Tornfield Manor has been lacking in a lady’s touch, and my daughter lacking for the close bond of a mother. I mean to remedy that this very night.”

      At Michaela’s side, Elizabeth was nearly bouncing in her seat.

      “It is customary to gather all together for the announcement of betrothal, and in that I will not disappoint, save that the period of engagement for myself and my new bride will likely be the shortest on record. Friar Cope?” A robed man Michaela was well-familiar with materialized from the shadows of a perimeter wall and made his way to stand near the magnificent Cherbon cake. The audience gasped.

      “Indeed.” Alan smiled proudly. “For on this night not only do I announce my intent to wed, I will have it done before you all as my witnesses.” The proclamation sounded strange to Michaela’s ears but she paid it no heed, so consumed with joy and excitement was she.

      Michaela wanted to gain her feet in anticipation of Alan’s announcement, but restrained her anxiousness until his next words. She drew a deep, steadying breath.

      “It is with great pride that I present to you all the next Lady Tornfield, Lady Juliette of Osprey.”

      For a moment, Michaela thought she’d misheard Alan because of the thunderous applause that vibrated the stone walls of the hall. But a croaking sound to her left, a sound that was quiet and strangled and should have been unheard in the din, cut through the roar of approval from the guests as well as the screaming in Michaela’s own head. She turned her head slowly, slowly, as if in a dream, to see Elizabeth duck under the table and run to stand before her father, tears streaming down her pale face.

      “Pa—” she croaked. “Pa-pa, no! You said the…wrong name. Michaela said…you were to marry her!”

      The only sounds following the shocking words were the pounding of Michaela’s own heart and the hushed breaths of the guests.

      Then Lady Juliette stood from her seat, and smiled at the girl. “Come now, dear—your father would not marry Miss Fortune. You and I will get along brilliantly.”

      Alan, however had dropped to his knees before his daughter and grasped her shoulders. Michaela looked at his wide, welling eyes as if she were still caught in some lucid dream that was quickly becoming a nightmare.

      “Elizabeth—you spoke! My darling girl, I—”

      Elizabeth jerked out of his hands. “Say it’s not true, Papa. You love Michaela. Say!”

      Alan swallowed and his eyes flicked over Elizabeth’s shoulder to Michaela, who could not seem to breathe at that moment. “I am marrying Lady Juliette, my love. But Lady Michaela will—”

      “No!” Elizabeth shouted and then turned to Michaela, who could do nothing but stare back helplessly.

      Then the little girl ran from the hall. Michaela wanted to follow her, but could not command her legs to move. Alan was still looking at her. The hall was deathly silent.

      Then the clicking of heels caused both Michaela and Alan to turn. Lady Juliette stood before the table, her brows drawn slightly. “My lord, do you wish to postpone the ceremony?” she asked quietly. “I do not wish for—”

      “No,” Alan interrupted, and rose to stand. With one final, strangely pleading glance at Michaela, he joined Juliette and the friar, while Michaela’s throat tightened, tightened, and the usually ignored metal link beneath her dress seemed to be burning a hole into her flesh.

      And when kind Friar Cope cleared his throat and began to speak, when Alan took Juliette’s hand, his back to Michaela, now sitting alone at the lord’s table, Michaela’s heart shattered into a hundred thousand pieces.

      Chapter Five

      Michaela took to her bed for two days, not rising to eat, to wash, and she made little reply to either of her parents who checked on her frequently.

      The fact that she lay in the bed she thought never to cradle her again was enough to sink her into the very dregs of a deep depression. Each time her eyes opened from exhausted sleep, she saw and heard the events of the feast on her last evening at Tornfield Manor like some sort of sick, contrary dream that only occurred while she was awake.

      She’d left that very night, returning to the Fortune household with her parents, not even taking time to pack her few belongings or seek out Elizabeth for a good-bye. She felt cowardly and traitorous for that. She had been too hurt, too mortified, too…destroyed.

      She never wanted to leave this room again.

      A soft rap upon her door caused Michaela to burrow deeper into her pillow and pull the covers up over her head. Perhaps if she feigned sleep, whoever knocked would simply go away.

      “Michaela?” It was her father this time, and she heard the creak of the floorboards as he stepped into the room, and then the door scraping to. “Are you awake?”

      Michaela did not reply, squeezing her eyes shut beneath the canopy of blanket, praying he would leave her.

      But she felt the mattress dip as Walter sat on the side of her bed.

      “Your