‘You can’t do this. I will not allow it, Anna.’
He stared at her in disbelief and caught the gleam of her eyes and the faint shine of her moist lips in the moonlight.
‘You cannot stop me! I am no longer your responsibility.’
‘I saved your life,’ he said, losing his temper and pulling her into his arms. ‘Whilst I am alive, I will always feel I bear some responsibility for you.’
‘Now who is talking nonsense?’ She struggled to free herself, but it was as if she was a butterfly imprisoned in an iron fist. Suddenly she wondered why she was trying to escape when she was where she wanted to be. She drooped against him and rested her head against his chest.
Her submission was so unexpected that Jack was at a loss as to what to do next. Really he should release her and walk away, but instead he wanted to go on holding her. Hatred and grief had held him captive far too long.
June Francis’s interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first five novels were set in Medieval times. She has also written fourteen sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell-walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochie dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her website: www.junefrancis.co.uk
Previous novels by this author:
ROWAN’S REVENGE
TAMED BY THE BARBARIAN
REBEL LADY, CONVENIENT WIFE
June Francis
My thanks and appreciation to my agent, Caroline Montgomery, and senior editor, Linda Fildew, for giving me a second chance to enjoy writing Historicals for Harlequin Mills & Boon again, as well as to my editor, Suzanne Clarke, for being so enthusiastic and encouraging about my writing.
Prologue
France, 1469
Jack Milburn groaned, twisting and turning in the bunk. Perspiration dampened his dark hair as, in his dreams, he relived the nightmarish times again.
‘Go quickly! Allez vite!’ he ordered, ears alert to the sound of splintering wood.
‘Mais, M’sieur Milburn, où—?’ cried Hortense.
‘Ne pas demander aux questions,’ he interrupted, pushing the maid who was carrying his son in her arms from the chamber. He hurried her along the passage that led to the alley at the back of the house and opened the door.
‘Papa!’ screamed Philippe, stretching out a hand to his father.
With tears in his eyes, Jack took the small hand and kissed it before turning to Hortense. ‘Courez! Courez vite!’ His expression was bleak as he closed the door quietly behind them. Taking a deep breath, he drew his sword and headed for the entrance hall to face the man who had killed his lover, Monique.
The Comte de Briand stood in the doorway, a dark looming presence. Jack did not need him to step forward into the candlelight to recognise Monique’s bestial husband. The Comte’s lank hair was yellowish white and fell to his huge shoulders. His nose was a squashed blob of dough in the centre of his swarthy face and the black-and-white streaked moustache and beard almost concealed the plump lips that snarled, ‘Chien anglais!’ as he lunged forward with his sword. Jack parried the blow, aware that two other men had entered the chamber behind his enemy.
Jack ground his teeth, experiencing a familiar fury as the scene played in his head. Odds of three to one meant that the chance of his surviving the conflictwas unlikely. Still, he was determined to fight for all he was worth, so as to give Hortense plenty of time to get away with Philippe. It was too late to save Monique, but he was prepared to sacrifice his life to enable his son’s survival. His sword arm felt as heavy as lead each time he lunged and parried, and he felt as if he were wading through honey. Then came an agonising pain in his right cheek and, after that, a blow to the head that finished the fight.
‘Monique! Philippe!’
He was vaguely aware that someone was bending over him and could hear the slap of waves against the hull of a ship. For a moment he was convinced that he was in his own cabin on the Hercules and it was the Comte de Briand bending over him. He could picture his smirking face, mouthing ‘Your son is dead.’ Jack felt the scream welling up inside him and he prayed for death. But his instant death was the last thing on his enemy’s mind.
‘Signor Milburn, wake up! The physician is here to see you.’
Someone was shaking his shoulder and Jack struggled to escape the shackles that imprisoned him as he trudged on through the desert wasteland. It was sheer stubbornness that was keeping him moving, gripped as he was by an impotent rage. One day he would return to France and avenge the deaths of Monique and his son. He would seek out the Comte de Briand and kill him if it was the last thing he did.
Chapter One
England, summer 1475
The air felt hot and humid. As she left the village, Lady Anna Fenwick could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. If she was to reach home before the rain came, then she was going to have to hurry.
Something sharp hit her on the cheek and she heard a man’s whispering voice say, ‘Take that, witch! May God strike you down dead.’
Shock brought her to a halt as blood trickled from a cut on her face. Only recently had she become aware of the servants looking at her askance and whispering in corners. Her heart was heavy as she recalled a couple of village women holding out horn-shaped amulets, believed to be effective against the evil eye, as she passed by.
‘Murderess! Adulteress!’ hissed the voice.
Anna wanted to shut her ears to the accusations. But what good would that do? She found it difficult to believe that anyone who knew her could speak of her in such a way. It was a year since her four-year-old son, Joshua, had died of the whooping cough. Her grief had been almost unbearable, worse than when her husband, Sir Giles, had died a year earlier. During the last few months she had felt ill at ease in her own home with just the servants and Giles’s nephew, the son of his dead sister, and his wife, Marjorie, for company. Whilst Giles had been alive, Will’s manner towards her had always been circumspect but she knew he resented her. He had lived with Giles since being orphaned as a youth and had been his heir until, at the age of forty, Giles had fallen in love with Anna and married her. On his death bed her husband had told her about the marital agreement that he and her eldest half-brother, Owain ap Rowan, had drawn up on the eve of Anna and Giles’s wedding.
‘You’ll burn in hell,’ said the voice, forgetting to whisper this time.
She
