My Lord's Desire. Margaret Moore

fellow, and as loyal as they come. Just because you can’t dance a jig or ride off to war is no reason to believe you’re not deserving of a bride.”

      “Thus says the most handsome knight in the king’s court.”

      “Who’s fortunate to be friends with the finest man at the king’s court.”

      That honest response made Randall smile, something Armand was glad to see as they entered the great hall.

      The Earl of Pembroke had been poor in his youth, but as the furnishings, gorgeous, colourful tapestries and banners of the earl’s household knights hanging in the hall now testified, he was poor no longer. After years of loyal and devoted service to the Plantagenets, he’d been given Isabel de Clare, the richest heiress in England, for his bride.

      A clean, bright wood fire burned in the central hearth, warming the chamber that could be chilly even in summer. Well-made, heavy trestle tables had been set up for the meal, including one on the dais for the king and queen and their chosen companions, their chairs sporting silken cushions for their comfort. Pristine white cloths covered the tables above the salt for the courtiers and were set with silver goblets and spoons. Below the salt, tankards and wooden spoons had been put out for the soldiers and body servants of the nobility.

      The rushes on the floor had been sprinkled with fleabane and rosemary, the scents mingling with the smoke drifting up to the louvered hole in the roof and the perfume of the courtiers. The ever-present hounds roamed the hall, anticipating scraps tossed their way from the meal to come.

      The beleaguered master of the hall rushed from table to table and servant to servant to ensure that all were in place and ready to perform their duties.

      As they made their way to a table, Armand and Randall passed tumblers and jugglers stretching their limbs and practicing for the performance they would give during and after the meal. Nearby, minstrels tuned their instruments, and a bard was mumbling to himself, obviously practicing, too.

      Armand caught sight of Godwin and Bert, and inclined his head in a greeting. The soldiers grinned and tugged their forelocks in return.

      The priest, an elderly, pinched-faced fellow with a fringe of white hair, said a grace that was notable for its pleas for God’s mercy in these terrible times. As Armand said his amen, he reflected that with such a king, asking for God’s mercy was no doubt a wise precaution.

      “There seems to be a bevy of unmarried ladies here,” Armand observed as they took their seats. He nodded at one of the noblewomen sitting opposite them, closer to the king. Her long features struck him as unfortunately reminiscent of a horse. “Who is she?”

      The young lady caught him looking and giggled and blushed as she whispered to another young woman beside her. That lady met Armand’s gaze quite brazenly.

      God help him, how could he have forgotten what life at court was like? The games of love, the little intrigues. The suspicions. The jealousies.

      Forgotten or not, he needed a richly dowered wife, so he had to play these games. He raised a goblet in salute and said, through clenched teeth, “Well, Randall? Who is she?”

      “That’s Lady Mary de Chearney, and the blond woman beside her is Lady Wilhemina of Werton,” Randall answered. “I believe both have dowries large enough to pay Bayard’s ransom thrice over, but I’ve heard Lady Mary’s father has his eye on a Scots earl for her, and I think Lady Wilhemina’s brother plans to marry her off to a very rich, very old Welsh nobleman with several estates in the March.”

      Relief filled Armand, and then annoyance. He mustn’t think of his own pleasure when it came to marriage. He must remember Bayard, languishing in a dungeon until his ransom could be paid.

      Shyly sliding Armand a glance and a smile, a maidservant placed a platter of fine white bread before them. Armand took out his eating knife and cut off the heel of the loaf. Let others praise the roasted meats and exquisite sauces to come, the pottages spiced with herbs from far-off lands and puddings made of rare ingredients. As he’d sat in that dungeon, it had been bread he’d missed. He’d dreamed of having a whole loaf to himself, washed down with honest English ale.

      The maid’s smile reminded him of another appetite that hadn’t been whetted since his release. He’d not had the energy for some time, and lately, all his efforts had gone to raising the money to free his brother. Nor had he met a woman who stirred his desire—until Lady Adelaide.

      His gaze drifted toward that lady, sitting serenely beside the king. Had she been acting a part in the stable, trying to attract his interest before she learned who he was? Or had she been acting in the garden, when she had made sport of his appearance?

      Randall cleared his throat as another servant set down the trenchers of slightly stale bread that would be used as plates. Later, when they had been soaked with the gravy and sauces, they would either be fed to the hounds, or given to the poor waiting at the castle gates. “I think Lady Eloise would be your best choice for a wife. Her dowry should be enough, and she’s a very sweet girl.”

      Had there ever been a better friend? “Bayard wouldn’t want your happiness to be part of his ransom.”

      “Oh, I have no interest in her that way.”

      Armand gave Randall a look that told him exactly what he thought of that response.

      His friend sighed as he took a piece of bread for himself. “What does it matter if I like her or not? She won’t want a cripple.”

      “If that’s all she sees when she looks at you, then she’s not worthy of you.”

      Randall tossed his bread to one of the waiting hounds. “You don’t know her. She’s the kindest, most amiable lady at court.”

      Armand’s brows rose. “Am I looking at a man in love?”

      When Randall didn’t answer, Armand knew the truth, and it made him feel…strange. It was as if Randall, who was usually the one left behind, had ventured into a foreign land without him. “If you care for her that much, you should ask for her.”

      Randall’s lips thinned into a stubborn line. “I may not be a mighty warrior, but I do have my pride.”

      “You fear her family will reject you?”

      “I’m afraid she might.”

      The minstrels struck up a cheerful tune, and more servants arrived bearing roasted venison, beef, eels soaked in ale and a thick pottage made of liver and kidneys, leeks and bread crumbs. Armand cut himself a slice of beef and put it on his trencher. The pottage he would not have. Although it smelled good and was likely tasty, the look of it reminded him too much of the slop he’d been fed in that cell. “So you haven’t told Lady Eloise how you feel?”

      “I’ve hardly spoken to her at all.”

      Armand paused with a piece of roasted beef halfway to his mouth. “Then how can you be so certain of your feelings?”

      “I just am,” Randall said as he ladled some of the pottage onto his trencher, speaking with a conviction that took Armand aback.

      Randall pointed to his chest. “I feel it in my heart. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.”

      Before today, Armand would have said such a thing was impossible, or a happy delusion at best. But then he’d walked into a stable and discovered a woman with a kitten clinging to her back. A beautiful woman who looked at him with the most amazing eyes he’d ever seen, a few tendrils of hair encircling her perfect features, her lips parted as if begging for his kiss. She’d made his heart race and a vitality he hadn’t felt in months rip through his body.

      He forced his attention back to Randall’s dilemma as a second course of duck stuffed with a mixture of eggs, currants, apples and cloves arrived, as well as roasted chicken filled with bread and onion and spiced with rosemary and sage. A carafe of thick gravy accompanied both, and Armand was liberal in its use. “What of Lady Eloise’s family? Perhaps if you were to approach