butterfly headdress covered with a rich veil propped precariously on her head. Curly strands of her golden hair bounced around her like a flailing mop, and tufts of ermine trim floated into the air.
Heart pounding, Brenna shielded her miniature like a mother protecting a child. She’d been banished to this tower a year ago because she wanted a life of her own, a chance to make her own way in the world.
She’d defied her father—refused to marry and had boldly told him she would run away and join a convent. If Papa found her erotic works, he’d burn her painting supplies. If the town’s head churchman, Bishop Humphrey, found them she would be burned.
“My bridegroom—James—the wedding—” Gwyneth’s words tumbled over one another, each one rising in pitch. Tendrils of golden hair escaped from her curled and coifed arrangement as if she’d been tearing at the strands in panicked worry. The butterfly headdress slid to one side, and her veil hung haphazardly in her hair, clinging halfway down the length by one hairpin.
Thrusting her brush into a jar of spike lavender oil, Brenna composed her features as her sister closed in on her. “The wedding took place this morn, did it not?” She’d listened for the shouts of jubilation that should have filled the great hall hours ago, then decided perhaps the guests had been too few for the sound to carry to her tower.
“Papa—the woods—sunrise—” Hands shaking, Gwyneth rattled across the floor planks like a skeleton quivering in the breeze. She nearly tripped over a large board painting of the birth of Christ that lay drying. “The men—the weapons—”
Brenna pursed her lips; her worry about the erotic paintings evaporated. Gwyneth was too wrapped in her own issues to notice the nature of artwork.
“Take a deep breath, sister.”
Sucking in several gulps of air, Gwyneth tugged the sleeve of Brenna’s simple kirtle. Her soft fingers looked out of place against the paint-splotched and threadbare garment.
“Papa’s been captured!” Gwyneth finally gasped out.
Fear iced Brenna’s stomach. “Dear stars! What happened?”
“Papa ambushed the wedding party as they traveled here, and The Enforcer took him hostage.”
The Enforcer.
James Vaughn, Earl of Montgomery. A privateer commanded by the king to annihilate smugglers and rebels.
Her sister’s fiancé.
“Bloody hell,” Brenna cursed, then winced remembering the beating Papa had given her last time she’d spoken bad language aloud.
She squeezed her sister’s shoulders. The Enforcer punished any who dared question King Edward’s ultimate authority. It was said he killed whole crews of ships’ men and confiscated honest cargo, murdering and stealing all in the name of the crown.
She and her father had issues, but he was still her papa. And she did not want him destroyed at the hand of some monster.
“Papa tried to stop the wedding.”
Ice turned to fury. Brenna felt a wave of frustration that she’d been locked in her chamber and knew so little of the comings and goings of the household. “Of all the idiotic—Papa’s a dunderhead, I tell you! Why the devil did he ambush the earl? I thought he wanted you to marry him.” And you always do as you are told.
“He did. But I–I–I–” Tears leaked down Gwyneth’s pale heart-shaped face and dripped off her pert little chin.
Brenna resisted the urge to shake her sister. “Tell me.”
“James of Montgomery is a b–beast! He killed his last wife in cold blood.” Gwyneth covered her eyes with her hands and began to cry loud, moaning wails. “I didn’t want to marry him—and I told Father—and—”
“Tsk, tsk.” Turning her sister by the shoulders, Brenna led her toward the large four-poster bed, sat and hugged her while Gwyneth blubbered incoherently. Her brows had been freshly plucked, and she smelled of wedding scents—fresh lavender, silk, and wildflowers.
A sting of jealousy catapulted into Brenna’s heart. Both of them had refused marriage. But her father had declared imprisonment for her and a war party to defend Gwyneth!
She shoved her envy aside and stared at the vase of purple foxglove on her painting desk. Where others had forgotten her, Gwyneth brought her flowers.
’Twas not her sister’s fault that their father loved her more.
Gwyneth sniveled into her hands, sniffing and wiping at her eyes.
From her seat on the bed, Brenna peered out the open door and wrapped her arms tighter around her sister. Now would be a good time to escape. She was ready: gold and food were packed in a small parcel beneath her bed along with pots of pigment and her favorite paintbrush, the tiny hog’s hair one. She had a letter from Mother Isabella, the abbess of La Signora del Lago, a nunnery in Italy along the coast.
Brother Giffard, the traveling monk, had arranged for her passage on a ship leaving for Italy at week’s end. ’Twas a voyage fraught with danger, but an escort was set to meet her and she had plans to take shelter at her brother’s home until she could make it to La Signora del Lago. If Nathan knew she was coming, he would try to stop her, but he would not turn her away if she showed up on his doorstep. For months she’d been practicing with a knife to be able to protect herself if need be.
Snatching her pack and leaving while the door was unbolted and the castle was in chaos would make her getaway easy. Her sister would marry Montgomery, her father would be set free, and she would be gone afore anyone realized what had happened.
After a few moments of hysteria, Gwyneth lifted her tear-stained face toward Brenna and began fumbling with the mother-of-pearl buttons on her houpelande. Around her, the bed curtains shivered.
“Gwyneth! What are you doing?”
“Montgomery plans to hang Father at sunset unless I agree to marry him. But I cannot. You have to help me.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Pulling Gwyneth’s fingers from her buttons, Brenna stroked the back of her hand. “Peace, sister. Montgomery is an earl, a wealthy one at that. ’Tis no sacrifice to marry him.”
“Brenna,” Gwyneth choked out through tears, “I–I saw him at the faire. He’s the spawn of Satan. He nigh beat a man to death with his bare hands. He’s huge and strong. It took three large men to pull him off of the wretch.”
“Surely he had reason—”
“Nay, sister, he did not. ’Twas because the man spilt a few drops of ale on his new paltock. Adele and I followed him from the tournament field to see him without his armor and helm. He’s a hideous scarred monster—his face full of white, puckered skin instead of a man’s features. Children ran from his pathway.”
With a hearty tug, Gwyneth yanked a wicked-looking dagger from the bodice of her voluptuous gown. The blade was short, only as long as a woman’s palm, but it gleamed sharply. It had a small pommel and a red ruby winked in its hilt.
“Our family will ne’er be safe if I marry him. He must die!”
Her
