To Burn (41 page)

"Go, then," Rowland said.

The squire was gone before any more instruction could be given, which was likely his intent.

"He will go first to that comely lass with the black hair," William said. "Perette."

"Aye." Rowland nodded ruefully.

* * *

It was not to be. There was not a woman to be found. Each one, whether aged or comely, was sequestered within the solar, a place no man dared enter unless expressly invited. It was a setback.

Ulrich had not yet found the opportunity to charm any of the women into issuing such an invitation. Given time, he would. He had all the optimism of a young man who had not yet failed in matters of romance.

With a lopsided smile and a shrug of his wide shoulders, Ulrich departed the tower, searching for a fellow squire on whom to pour friendship and gossip and learn of the history of Weregrave in return. He would be subtle—had he not vowed to be?—and he would be quick. Perhaps if he had found a maid he would have tarried a bit, but what pleasure in tarrying with a man?

It took less time than he would have supposed to pry out the secrets of Weregrave, but only because there were no secrets. Nay, all knew. It was only Rowland who was in ignorance as to the history of his bride and Ulrich commanded himself not to shake with outrage at King Henry's gift. Rowland, after all his suffering, deserved better.

Ulrich raced up the tower stair. Rowland met him at the door to William's chamber and faced him squarely. Rowland's expression was open and calm. That such news must be vomited out on such a man... Ulrich fought his anger. Rowland had bathed and dressed, to add honor to his vows of fidelity and constancy. Rowland deserved so much better than what Weregrave offered him.

"Tell me of her husband," he said.

Ulrich swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice from shaking. "Which one, Lord Rowland? Of which husband would you have me speak?"

"How, boy, what say you?" William asked.

"Tell me what you learned," Rowland said very softly.

"Of husbands, Lady Nicolaa has had four."

"Four! Is she four times a widow?" William asked.

"Nay, not ever a widow."

"Repudiated?" Rowland asked. What was so wrong with her that she had been rejected four times? He had seen no flaw.

"Nay, not repudiated," Ulrich said. "Though it is said her last husband was mouthing the words. Nay, king, overlord, and bishop have invalidated each marriage for one reason or another, leaving her husbands free to marry again."

"And did they?" Rowland asked.

"Aye, each one, and in untimely haste. Each man taking a bride of greater worth or greater favor. Leaving no child behind."

He had heard of it. He had seen it once or twice in his life. A marriage invalidated for the thinnest of reasons or the weightiest. In one instance, a husband and wife found to be within the sixth degree of consanguinity after fifteen years of marriage. The wife had finished her days in a convent. The husband had died with a sixteen-year-old bride of considerable worth in his bed. And how had King Henry II come by his wife, Eleanor, she who had jumped from the bed of the King of France to climb in with Henry of England, dragging her Aquitaine riches along with her? Aye, it was done, though it was never well done.

"No child?" William said, his anger growing with his concern. "She has never quickened with child, even to produce it stillborn?"

"Nay, there has been no child, living or dead," Ulrich said.

This was the worst of it. A woman who could not produce a child left her line without an heir; all that had been achieved in this life was lost without a blood heir to carry the name and the legacy of a man into the future.

"You must not do this, Rowland," William said. "I know your heart softens for her even now for what she has faced, but you cannot chain yourself to a woman who is barren. Your future will be as barren as she is."

But what of Nicolaa? Four times cast off and each time by a husband who had sworn to stand by her. How bruised her heart must be to have been so used. That explained the stillness of her; she held herself in the stiff quiet of great pain, her body braced for the next buffeting at the hands of her next husband. It was as he had known. She was fearful—if not trembling in fear then frigid with the unending shock of it. How great was her need of a man who would stand true to her.

Had she loved any of her husbands? Had they left her for no reason but greater profit with another wife? He would not do the same to her.

Let her be barren. It did not matter to him. His future had died with Lubias.

He would remain with Nicolaa.

Excerpt from

A Kiss to Die For

by

Claudia Dain

© 2003, 2011 by Claudia Welch

Prologue

The Texas wind was blowing hard and cold, but he didn't care. All he cared about was that little girl in his sights; she was a woman full grown, but slight, like a girl, with red hair the color of ripe pumpkins hanging down her back. The wind blew her hair hard, making strands of it whip around her head like straw in a cyclone. She kept pulling at it, tugging those wild strings of hair down with her white hands until she held them like a bouquet.

Only one reason for a woman to wear her hair loose on a day of such wind; she wanted to catch a man's eye.

She'd caught his.

He'd seen her before. This game she was playing with him was an old one and he let her lead him around in it, knowing it built her confidence to have him chase after her. Knowing it made her sure of herself. Knowing that soon she'd do something reckless. And he'd be right there when she did.

He'd give her what she was asking for.

Maybe even today.

He got hard thinking of it, thinking of her under his hands, soft and willing. Her mouth telling him yes when he wrapped his arms around her and asked her to marry him.

That's what she was wanting from him, a proposal of marriage, and that's what he'd give her. That, and a few dozen kisses. But she'd be getting more than kisses from him. A whole lot more.

He knew exactly what she wanted. Same thing they all wanted. And he was more than happy to oblige.

He was nothing if not accommodating.

She was a pretty little thing, her hair so bright against the milk white of her hands. She had a spray of freckles across her knuckles that about matched the color of her hair. She was smiling at him, her eyes blue and round with excitement. He'd arranged this meeting with her yesterday, as she was walking out of church with her folks. He'd whispered to her as she'd passed, her head down as she walked behind her ma, and she hadn't answered. But here she was.

Her folks didn't know about him, not yet. They'd know soon enough. Once she agreed to marry him, they'd know it all.

"You're a pretty little girl," he said, closing the distance between them.

"I'm not a little girl," she huffed, letting loose of her hair. It rose up in the air and twisted, writhing and hot against the blue of the sky.

"Is that why you came today? To prove to me you aren't so little?"

"Is that why you asked me out here? To make sport of me?"

She turned her back on him in a sulk that begged to be petted out of her. He accommodated her, giving her just what she wanted from him. He knew everything about this game they were playing.

He stroked down the wild tangle of her hair, holding the length of it in his fist. It was cool and smooth across the back of his hand.

"Your hair's like slick fire," he said, pressing up against her. "Is your mouth the same?"

She turned in his arms, her hair wrapping around her throat and breasts like a red silk cord. She wanted to give in, but couldn't. He was moving too fast.

"You gonna make me beg for it?" he said on a whisper.

"Would you?" she asked back, raising her eyes to his.

"Nah"—he grinned, lifting up her face—"I'm gonna make you beg. More fun that way."

He kissed her then, liking the smallness of her pressed against him. Her mouth was like fire, after he had tutored her some.

It was her first kiss.

She acted as if she liked it fine. She was pressed up against him, her breasts small and hard and high, and her arms wrapped around him. She was holding nothing back, which was just how he liked it.

"You beggin' yet?" he breathed against her throat. That red hair of hers was still wrapped around her, so hot against the white of her throat.

"No, you'd better," she breathed roughly, "you'd better—"

He cut off her air with a kiss that had her hanging on to his belt for balance. When he was done, she laid her forehead against his chest and gulped in air, her fingers still wedged in his belt.

"Are you playing with me?" she whispered, hiding her face from him.

He wrapped his arms around her with a huge smile. This was it. Time to give her what she'd come all the way out of town to get.

"Hell, no, darlin'. I'm not playing with you. I want to marry you."

"You do?" She looked up at him. She had the most powerful blue eyes.

"I do," he said. "Will you?"

She bloomed like a flower, right there in his arms. "Yes!"

He kissed her again, sealing the pledge they'd just made between them. She sure seemed to like his kisses.

"I've got a little something for you," he said as he ended the kiss. His eyes were gentle as he looked down at her; this was the moment, the perfect moment.

"You don't need to give me a thing," she protested but she reached out her hand for whatever the gift was that he had brought her. "I'm just so happy right now, I don't need another thing to make it perfect."

Women said things like that. They didn't mean them. He knew that.

He kissed her once more, in parting, while he gave her the gift he'd brought just for her. Just like a flower, she was, just like a flower that bloomed bright and fresh with the sun on it and then was blown down by the first cold wind.

When she collapsed on the ground, her throat crushed like a broken stem, the wind blew hard at her unbound hair; it flew up and twirled against the sky, glistening red against deep blue. No one now to hold it down, to keep it off her face and out of her eyes. It didn't much matter anymore. He studied her for a minute, that pretty hair flying wild in the wind, and then left her.

She'd got what she came for.

Chapter 1