The guard at the gatehouse of Abberley Castle planted himself firmly in front of the open portcullis, legs astride. In his right hand he held a lance, at least ten foot long; a narrow white flag fluttered from the top, just below the shining point, heavily embroidered with the colours of the King.

‘What business have you here?’ he asked roughly, jutting his chin up at Bastien.

‘I have brought the Lady Alice home,’ answered Bastien, nodding at the maid beside him. The guard scrutinised the girl riding at the big man’s side.

‘It’s me, Albert,’ Alice laughed as the expression on the guard’s face changed to one of astonishment. ‘It’s really me.’

‘Holy Mother of God, so it is!’ The arrogant mask slipped from the guard’s face as he blinked up at Alice. ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ He glanced curiously at Bastien. ‘The whole place has been in an uproar looking for you!’

‘Then I had better go in and find my mother,’ Alice replied, her heart sinking slightly as she anticipated the tumult of questions.

‘Oh, of course, of course!’ The guard stepped back, nodding and smiling. Alice kicked her heels into the mare’s flanks to set the animal walking once more. In the shadowed darkness of the gatehouse, she paused, knowing that once she passed through the gate, her charade of betrayal would begin.

‘Lead on, my lady.’ Bastien was at her side, his horse sidling so close to her that the toe of his boot brushed along the side of her hip. She flushed, grateful for the damp, cloying dimness of the gatehouse. ‘And remember to play your part—’ his voice held a warning ‘—because I’ll be watching you.’

‘No need to threaten me, Bastien,’ she whispered back, conscious that the guard watched their backs, ‘I value my father’s life too much.’ Last night, she had witnessed a softer side to this man, the briefest, fleeting glimpse of the sadness he had endured at the loss of his brother. Yet ever since that time he had been cold, aloof, behaving like a complete oaf.

‘Then let’s do this,’ he said, impatiently. ‘And remember, don’t call me by my real name, make something up.’ The slightest nudge from his heels sent his horse trotting out into the light of the inner bailey. The irritation that had plagued him all morning seemed exacerbated by the situation; he wanted to do the job quickly and leave, leave this maid who seemed to draw him in, closer and closer, with every moment he spent in her company. He had never spoken of his brother’s death before; he had vowed never to speak of it. Christ, this maid was turning him into some maudlin’ fop, ready to spill the beans about every little crisis! How had she managed to wring the words from him, undermining his normally rigid self-control? Many women had asked before, yet he had never told of the depths of guilt that laced through him. But he had been punished for it. His mother had made sure of it.

Grooms immediately ran to secure their horses, small boys scampering over the cobbles to grab the reins as Alice and Bastien pulled them in. Intending to dismount before Bastien could help her, Alice was dismayed to find him at her side before she had even slipped her foot from the stirrup.

‘Let’s start as we mean to go on.’ He lifted her easily, swinging her down, his big, warm hands steady about her waist. But he didn’t let her go at once, holding her so she was clamped against him, chest to chest, her toes dangling a good foot from the ground.

‘Put me down,’ she squeaked at him, outraged. Between the muscled cords of his neck, she could see his pulse beating strongly.

‘Just remember,’ he growled at her in a low voice, ‘that you are eternally grateful to me for rescuing you from those barbarian Yorkists.’

Alice’s toe made contact with his left shin.

He winced. ‘Be agreeable…or else.’

Was it her imagination, or did she see the trace of a smile on his face? Was he actually enjoying this?

‘I’ll behave,’ she answered quietly. ‘But I can’t say it’s going to be easy.’ At her words he allowed her to slide down so her feet touched the ground, holding her in such a way as to make the movement slow, deliberate. Her eyes met his, accusation in their blue depths. ‘And you can stop that sort of behaviour,’ she snapped. ‘I’m betrothed.’

‘So you said,’ Bastien replied slowly, his eyes flicking over her bright head at the sight of an older woman emerging from a doorway, shrieking at the top of her voice. Spinning in his loose hold, Alice’s heart sank. ‘Prepare yourself to meet my mother,’ she ground out, her teeth set.

‘Alice, Alice, oh, my little Alice!’ In a peculiar loping style, her mother half-walked, half-ran, across the cobbles, her palms upwards, outstretched towards her daughter. She was pursued by a gaggle of brightly dressed women, their satin slippers and fine silk skirts dancing across the inner bailey like bouncing butterflies: these were the ladies of the Queen’s court, all anxious not to miss one moment of this emotional homecoming.

‘Mother,’ Alice greeted her mother tentatively as the older woman approached. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been so concerned as to her personal well-being; this over-emotional greeting was completely at odds with her mother’s normal manner towards her.

‘Oh, my God, what has happened to you?’ Beatrice’s eyes were wild, searching, scouring her daughter’s face for some kind of evidence that she had been through a terrible time. ‘Where have you been?’ Her hands fluttered over Alice, touching her face, her shoulders, in an agitated, nervous way.

‘Mother, I’m well. Stop worrying.’ Alice caught one of her mother’s hands, bemused by her mother’s effusive manner. ‘I was captured by the Yorkists—’

‘Captured! Oh, good Lord!’ Beatrice moaned, sagging back into the arms of the other ladies. ‘What happened to you…? What did those barbarians do to you?’

‘Nothing happened…I told you…I’m fine.’

Beatrice drew herself upwards, her face pale, but angry. ‘I knew this would happen. I told you, didn’t I?’ Her blue eyes, identical to Alice’s, snapped over her daughter. ‘By God, I warned you enough times, but would you listen…? Nay, you kept going off with your father…’

Alice knotted her fingers together over her stomach, resigned, allowing her mother’s ranting to wash over her. This was more familiar; Beatrice’s worried concern had lasted mere moments, only to be replaced by torrents of criticism. ‘Mother, I am safe…’ Alice managed to interject when Beatrice was forced to pause for breath. ‘Lord…er…Lord Dunstan…’ she frantically conjured up a name for the man at her side.

‘And what did they do to you, eh?’ her mother interrupted. ‘Now, I’ll have no hope of finding you a husband, damaged goods like you!’

Alice flushed painfully at her mother’s crude remarks; usually Beatrice reserved the worst of her criticism for behind closed doors. Her mother seemed to have lost all sense of perspective, letting her true colours show in public. At her side, Bastien shifted imperceptibly—was it her imagination, or did he move closer to her? The bulk of his upper arm curved around the top of her shoulder; the warmth of him nurturing her in a surprising, unexpected way.

‘Mother, please stop this. Nothing bad happened. Listen to me.’ At her daughter’s low, imploring tones, Beatrice’s mouth clamped shut, abruptly. ‘Lord Dunstan rescued me, brought me home,’ Alice continued calmly, relieved that she had managed to stop her mother ranting on. The last thing she wanted was for Bastien to become embroiled in the grubby minutiae of family business.

‘Yes, yes, of course. I was forgetting. Forgive me, my lord.’ Beatrice raised her head jerkily towards Bastien, at last acknowledging his presence. ‘I was so overcome to see Alice again…’

‘No matter, my lady.’ Bastien brushed her apology aside. ‘Although you must rest assured that no harm came to your daughter.’ Even as the words emerged from his lips, the image of himself, sprawled across Alice after she had stolen his horse, pushed vividly into his mind.

‘It seems we are in your debt, my Lord Dunstan. I trust that you will take advantage of any hospitality we can offer you.’ Having recovered her public persona, the formal words slid from Beatrice with ease; she had spent a lifetime dealing with guests and visitors, perfecting the art of receiving them to such an extent that little thought now entered the process.

‘I thank you, my lady,’ Bastien responded with a brisk nod of his head. How different the mother was from her daughter! Beatrice was all sharp angles, her fine court clothes hanging from her thin, bony frame, her eyebrows completely plucked away and redrawn, in his opinion, at a ludicrously high angle with soft charcoal. With her hair completely hidden by an elaborate padded head-dress, he couldn’t even tell if it was the same colour as Alice’s. Whereas warmth and light seemed to pour from Alice, this woman appeared cold, icy, despite her demonstrative behaviour.

Beatrice peered past Alice. ‘And where is that hapless father of yours? Tending to the injured outside the castle gates as usual? Too busy even to greet his own wife? He could have brought you back on his own, surely, without having to trouble this good man here.’

‘We were both captured by the Yorkists, Mother,’ Alice explained gently. ‘Only I was fortunate enough to escape.’

Beatrice’s lips pursed together; two points of colour appeared high on her cheeks. ‘Both of you…completely irresponsible. First Thomas, and now this.’ She shook her head, a sharp movement that made every pearl in her head-dress shudder and jolt, before turning on her heel and marching inside, her back as straight as a poker inside the stiff folds of her court dress.

Alice stared after her mother for a moment, yearning, for a split second, for a different reaction from her. Then she shook her head as if to rid herself of that dreamlike thought, pulled her spine straight and angled her head up to Bastien, chin high and proud. ‘I’ll find someone to show you to your chamber.’

Bastien saw the hurt chase across Alice’s gentle face, saw it quickly suppressed, hidden, unformed. The urge to comfort her, to wrap her in his arms and kiss away the forlorn look on her face, surged powerfully through him, an insistent desire. He clenched his fists by his sides, compelling himself to look away from her limpid features. Even though he was accustomed to the soldier’s rough way of life, Alice’s mother had been cruel, critical. Surprisingly, he understood.

Alice lowered her cold, naked body into the wooden tub of hot water, a small sound of delight emitting from her throat at the delicious sensation. The rising steam was fragrant, scented by the dried lavender sewn into the muslin bags that floated in the water. Leaning back, she rested the nape of her neck against the edge of the tub. She pressed the warm pads of her fingers against the shadowed wells of exhaustion beneath her eyes, and began to relax, relishing the sweetness of the water brushing against her tired limbs.

‘Your mother’s worked herself into a real state over you.’ Joan, her mother’s servant, appeared above her, slowly pouring another pail of hot water into the tub. The heated liquid trailed around her calves, her toes.

‘She’s always in a state about me, Joan.’ Alice sighed, trying to blot out her mother’s pinched, withering expression. Reaching for the cloth, floating languidly atop the water, she began to scrub herself with a fierce briskness. She didn’t want to talk about her mother now, or even talk at all, preferring to empty her mind of all thoughts, to drift.

‘She thinks something terrible has happened to you.’ Joan’s voice held a dramatic edge, no doubt fuelled by the gossiping women that surrounded her mother.

‘So she sent you to try to wheedle the truth from me.’ Alice grimaced at the shifting surface of the water.

Joan passed the empty pail to the boy who waited in the corridor to take it back to the kitchens, and closed the door. Turning, she wiped her wet hands down the front of her simple fustian gown. Her face was a little flushed; she had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Any mother would be worried when their daughter disappears for days…especially in the company of…that man.’

‘What? Lord Dunstan? He’s completely harmless!’ Alice buried her face in the cloth, knowing that nothing could be further from the truth. Even her protest sounded hollow, false; she hoped Joan wouldn’t notice.

‘Nobody in the castle knows him, so naturally people are asking questions, even the young Queen. She especially wants to know how he rescued you.’ Joan began soaping Alice’s wet hair, the pads of her work-roughened fingers digging into her scalp.

‘How he…?’ Mother of Mary! How had he actually ‘rescued’ her? Alice’s mind scrabbled about for details, spluttering slightly as Joan poured a pail of water over her hair, rinsing it. She and Bastien hadn’t even had the forethought to cobble a story together! Being quizzed by Joan was one thing, but Queen Margaret, with her incisive quick-wittedness, was certain to become suspicious if their stories didn’t marry. And if Bastien’s true identity were discovered, then her father was dead. Much as it galled her, it was her responsibility to ensure this didn’t happen.

Alice stood up suddenly, water sluicing from her slender limbs, the wet strands of hair clinging to her skin, iridescent as a pearl in the glowing candles that lit the chamber. ‘I will go and tell my mother the whole story, in detail, to stop all this speculation.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ Joan agreed, handing Alice a large linen towel.

Drying herself quickly, Alice ran to the oak coffer and began to dress. A square-necked blue silk kirtle covered her linen undergarments, followed by a high-waisted gown in a heavier green silk. Joan secured the leather laces at the back, fastening Alice tightly into the dress.

‘Let me sort your hair, Alice.’ Joan frowned dubiously at Alice’s tumbling mass of curls, already starting to dry in the heat of the room.

‘There’s no time.’ Alice was already bundling the thick strands into a tight coil at the back of her head, driving in long, jewelled hairpins to secure the bulk of it.

‘Here, cover your head with this.’ Joan placed a small headdress on top of Alice’s head, again, securing it with pins. A light, silk veil drifted down from the velvet padding that formed the U-shape. Joan stepped back, running an appraising eye over Alice. ‘You’ll do, as long as you’re just visiting your mother. Now go, before she worries herself into an early grave.’

Alice didn’t need telling twice.

Bastien would have been given a chamber in the west tower, she was sure of it. Closing her chamber door gently behind her, she leaned back for a moment, listening to the gentle puttering noises that Joan made as she tidied things away from Alice’s bath. She didn’t want Joan to see that she turned right down the corridor, instead of left, towards her mother’s apartments. Swiftly, she moved along the dimly lit passage, her bare feet making no sound against the wooden floorboards. In her haste to reach Bastien, she had forgotten her shoes and stockings—too late! Instinctively, her hand trailed lightly over the hewn stone wall for guidance; darkness had fallen outside, and the corridor only had one burning torch to light its length, throwing its flickering light from the far end, next to the door to the stairwell. Her hand made contact with the iron rivets, sunk deep into the grainy wood of the door, and she pushed through, on to the spiral staircase. Tiredness had been chased from her; revived by the bath, her mind ran with a cool determination. To create a plausible story with Bastien was her main aim; it would enable him to dampen whatever suspicions the Queen might hold of him, and facilitate his audience with the King.

The stairs were unlit, so finding Bastien’s chamber was easy; light flooded out from beneath the door, and she rapped sharply with her knuckles, three times. No answer. Confident that no one else was about, she called his name, softly at first, then louder. Again, no answer. Her fingers curled into her palms, impatiently. Why did he not hear her? The need to speak to him overrode her hesitancy; calling his name once more, Alice turned the handle on the door and stepped in.

Lit by several torches, the chamber blazed with light, and she blinked rapidly after the dimness of the stairs. A fire crackled strongly beneath a massive sandstone mantel, filling the room with a sweet, soporific warmth. The bed was made up, the horsehair-stuffed mattress heaped with clean linens and woollen blankets. A tunic and something white—it looked like a crumpled linen shirt—had been flung across the fur coverlet, gleaming in the firelight.

Too late she heard the sound of water splashing in the side room to the chamber. She checked her hasty stride, and halted, bare toes curling hesitantly against the sleek elm boards. Indecision coursed through her, then, in a moment, she spun around, intending to leave.

‘Alice?’

She turned back at the familiar voice. Head almost touching the stone lintel, Bastien emerged from the ante-chamber, linen towel scrubbing at his hair, rivulets of water running down the strong column of his throat and over the smooth, solid muscles of his torso, before disappearing into the low waistband of his chausses. A leather lace darkened with water swung from his neck, a golden ring swinging against the bare, honed skin of his chest, sparkling in the ambient light.

‘Oh…I’ll…’ Shocked, Alice stared, open-mouthed. A furious blush leapt uncontrollably to her cheeks; she put her palms up, trying to cover her face, to hide her reaction to him. A weakness surged over her and she staggered back, back, reaching her fingers behind her to grasp the door handle.

Bastien threw the towel on to the bed and stuck his hand in his hair, rumpling the glossy locks. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ he asked, eyebrows raised in question.

Alice swallowed, her mouth dry, arid. ‘I’ll…er…I’ll come back later.’ Mother of Mary, she could hardly speak properly, her breath emerging in short little puffs. The door handle refused to yield under her useless fingers; it wouldn’t turn!

Water droplets clung like diamonds to the muscled sleekness of Bastien’s skin, the sculptured muscles of his chest glowing in the warm light. Her blood fired; her fingers itched to touch, while her brain told her to leave, to go, now.

‘What is it?’ he asked, curiously. The maid seemed rooted to the spot. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ He took in the hectic skin of her face, her wild-eyed look. He walked over to her, and to his amazement, she shrank back, as if she was trying to disappear through the very wood of the door!

‘Alice, what is it?’ Concerned now, he reached for her hand.

‘Put…your…shirt on,’ Alice breathed out, both palms flat against the door for support. The honed steel of his chest was but inches away! Her eyes feasted on the beautiful sight before her, gulping in detail after beautiful detail. A fresh, invigorating smell lifted from him, the dampness from the water scenting his heated skin. His chest was covered with bronzed hairs, like burnished gold… Look away! her senses screamed. She ducked her eyes, only to be faced with the sight of his strong, flat stomach. In utter desperation, she closed her eyes.

‘What’s the matter…. haven’t you seen a man stripped to the waist before?’

Alice bridled at the taunt in his voice, eyes snapping open once more. ‘What? Nay, don’t be ridiculous, of course I haven’t!’ she blurted out.

His eyes moved over her flushed face. ‘Of course, my apologies. I forgot.’ Lord, but she was beautiful, standing before him, her delicate build framed by the rough-hewn oak of the door. The wide V-neck of her gown revealed an expanse of fragile skin below her neck, the dark fur edging the collar brushing against it. She had changed her gown, now wearing one that fitted her exactly; his eye traced the rounded curve of her bosom, the fine seaming that followed the indentation of her waist. Something knitted within him, deep within the kernel of his heart, igniting a delicious energy, a need. Inwardly, he groaned.

Alice frowned. Forgot? What was he talking about?

‘I forgot you were an innocent,’ Bastien answered her unspoken question. His voice was like silk, flowing over her, low, husky. He stepped a little closer, his knees brushing against the gathered folds of her gown, rustling. In the soft, white hollow of her neck, he could see her pulse, beating rapidly.

Her blush deepened. ‘Stop teasing me. And go and put your shirt on!’ Her palms sprang forwards, lay flat against his chest to push him away. Beneath her trembling fingers, his skin was hard, yet warm. He took a deep, unsteady breath, the green of his eyes threaded with gilded desire.

‘You should have known better than to enter a man’s chamber without knocking.’ His voice was rough, husky. Unexpectedly, he leaned into her, over her, one hand above her head, palm flat against the door behind her. The warmth from his skin swept over her, tantalising, tormenting. Her heart squeezed, then accelerated, the blood hurtling around her body. Her innards dissolved in a flaming whirlpool of desire.

‘Nay,’ she breathed suddenly, quivering beneath him, sensing the change in him, her voice a whisper. ‘Don’t do this.’ But even as the words left her lips, her treacherous body craved his caress.

His fingers grazed her cheek; a shiver of desire pulsed through her at that single contact, thrilling her. He bent his head, and she slanted her mouth up to him, knowing what she did was wrong, but desperate to quell the raging flames within her, eager to find out what before she could only have guessed at. Her senses scattered, logic deserting her to be replaced with a keen, ravening hunger.

His cool firm mouth descended, met her lips with a fierce longing. Wave upon wave of desire crashed through her at the unbelievable sensations bombarding her body. Her hands moved over his chest, clung to his shoulders for support as his lips moved over hers, slowly, languorously. Her mouth opened, like a flower in bloom, and he moaned, pressing his muscled length against her, wedging her up against the door, hard, as the kiss gained in intensity. In one savage, devastating movement, without his lips ever leaving hers, he lifted her up, pinned against the door, so her head was level with his, so her stomach pressed against his stomach, her soft thighs against his. He drank deep, and she gave, willingly.

‘Lord Dunstan!’ Someone banged on the door, loudly, insistently. Startled, Alice jerked against the door in fright, fear bolting through her, breathing fast. Bastien held her tight, her feet still dangling above the floor, lifting his mouth from hers reluctantly to put a finger to his lips.

‘My Lord Dunstan, I have been sent to bring you down to the great hall!’ the voice demanded from the other side of the door.

Alice wilted visibly. Edmund! It was Edmund who spoke through the door. Only the thickness of a plank of wood separated her from shameful discovery! She began to shake her head at Bastien, eyes wide with panic, drumming her fists against his chest, trying to tell him without speech that under no circumstances should he let the man in! Oh good Lord, what had she been thinking? Her body still hummed with the onslaught of Bastien’s kiss, her lips felt bruised, her hands shook as she brought them to her face, ashamed.

‘Who is it?’ Bastien dropped his mouth to her ear, but she jerked her head away, unable to contend with his nearness, struggling to be free of his hold. She let out a deep, shaky breath as he let her slide to the floor. ‘It’s Edmund,’ she hissed. Bastien looked blank. ‘My betrothed!’ she explained, moving to the safety of the centre of the room. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let him in.’

To her utter chagrin, Bastien chuckled, the wide grin splitting his face with mirth, before he turned and opened the door a crack. ‘I’m a little busy right now,’ he explained to the person outside. ‘I thank you…and I’ll make my own way down.’ Listening to directions, he nodded once or twice, then shut the door, turning the key with a satisfying clunk.

At the sound of Edmund’s footsteps fading down the corridor, Alice crumpled back on to the bed with relief; her legs would no longer hold her. ‘Oh, Lord, what have I done?’ She dropped her face into her hands, humiliation churning in her insides.

Bastien approached her, studying her bowed head, the gossamer veil from her head-dress spilling forwards over her neat shoulders. ‘Was it really so terrible?’

She wrenched her face from her hands, eyes wide, pools of translucent periwinkle blue. ‘Nay…aye! It will be if Edmund finds out!’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ She frowned up at him. ‘Because this marriage to Edmund has to work…for my parents’ sake. They’re desperate to see me settled, cared for, especially now, as…’ Her voice trailed off as she smoothed her palm across the bed furs, thinking of her absent brother. ‘It’s possible that I’m all they have left.’

‘And what about you?’ Bastien asked calmly, the brilliant emerald of his eyes shining over her. ‘What do you want?’ His voice contained the husky edge of desire, nudging at her, reminding her.

She laughed, a hollow sound. ‘What I want doesn’t come into it, Bastien. I have to see that my parents are provided for in their old age. Marriage to Edmund will fulfil that.’

‘Do you love him?’

She lifted her wide periwinkle-blue eyes up to his, her cheeks still burning fire from the impact of his kiss, her lips bruised. He knew the answer.

‘Please don’t make this more difficult for me.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was a kiss, Alice,’ he explained mildly, crossing his big arms across his chest. ‘Nothing to get worked up about, nothing to worry about. But don’t fool yourself it was all my doing. You were a willing participant.’

The vivid hue in her cheeks deepened as the memory of the kiss, vibrant, exciting, burst into her mind. She ducked her head, plucking at a loose thread on the embroidered skirt of her gown. He was right—she was just as much to blame as he was. Her flesh throbbed, pulsed from his touch; it was as if he had plundered the very core of her, turned it inside out and set it back differently. She had tasted the edge of danger in that compelling kiss, the promise of something more, and she ground her fingers into the soft fur of the coverlet to quell her heightened feelings. He had said it was nothing, and that was how she must think of it.

Alice flinched as Bastien reached past her, picking up his shirt. A golden ring, resting against his chest, spun forwards on a leather lace, snagging her gaze. Inadvertently, her fingers lifted towards it, touched the cool metal.

‘A betrothal ring?’ she stuttered out, anxious to deflect the attention away from what had just happened.

‘You could say that.’ Bastien yanked the shirt over his head.

‘Who are you planning to marry?’

‘No one. The girl I intended to marry is dead.’ Bastien studied Alice’s startled features, her forlorn, drooping figure. He would do well to remember Katherine now, the cool, linear beauty of his first, his only, love, and recall the agony of her loss. He would do well to remember the strict boundaries of his self-imposed restraint, locked into place at her death. Yet this kiss had surpassed those limits, sneaked through when his guard was lowered, carrying with it the promise of immeasurable desire, of love. This kiss had scared the hell out of him. He had told her it was nothing, a mere passing dalliance to assuage his physical attraction towards a beautiful woman. It should have meant nothing. In reality, the kiss had pillaged feelings he had thought long since laid to waste, and breathed new life into them. At the press of her rosebud mouth, the iron-bound shackles around his heart had begun to slip.