it belonged to someone else.
Bronwyn took a deep breath and exhaled as the sad feeling that had been creeping upon her took hold. The sweet smell of witch hazel was in the air. The odor-filled flower had been her mother’s favorite. Memories of her loss suddenly flooded Bronwyn and she began to hum the verse her mother had sung by her bedside hour after hour, day after day as they lay together, clinging for life. The simple haunting melody had helped her endure life’s most painful events and Bronwyn knew deep down that soon she and her sisters would be mourning the loss of their father.
He should have been back by now. His last communication had been weeks ago with the joyful news he was returning. But he never arrived and Bronwyn knew deep down that something had happened.
Her sisters refused to acknowledge what was in their hearts, but Bronwyn had learned the hard way to face life with no pretenses. If their father had been injured, a message would have been delivered by now. Only bad news took so long to arrive.
“Still trying to sing that haunting little tune, angel?”
Bronwyn froze. The voice was deep and smooth and dripping with male charm. The last time she had heard it, it had belonged to a child turning into a man. The pitch had been slightly higher and with unexpected and humiliating croaks that caused him to grow angry and lash out at those around. Her heart started beating faster at the unwanted memory. Why now? Why had Luc Craven decided to break his banishment now?
“I told you last time we saw each other to never call me ‘angel’ again.” Because of him, she hated the endearment—even from her own family.
Luc faked a bristle and stepped into her view. “I thought you might have changed your mind. I am not the boy you once knew.”
He was right. Last time she had seen Luc Craven, he had been a skinny weak boy with bright white hair, a sharp pointed nose, and overly long limbs. Someone with whom she had been carefree. They had played together almost daily when they were children. He had always been possessive and willful, trying to dictate everything they did or said. Most of the time she had gone along with his wishes, but oftentimes she had done the opposite just for fun. Then one day the fun had abruptly ended and he had been forced to leave and never come back.
Recent rumors that had crossed the short distance between their households had not done Luc justice. She had heard him called handsome, and Bronwyn could not deny that he was indeed very good-looking. Shoulder-length golden hair, sky blue eyes framed in dark lashes, and a granite jaw that matched the rest of his hard, muscular body were indeed attributes most women would consider appealing. But those women were not from Cumbria…and they did not know Luc. For those who were familiar with him didn’t see a handsome man, but a cruel one, without compassion or remorse. And looking into the bright crystal blue eyes staring at her, Bronwyn knew Luc Craven had not changed even a little bit in the past ten years.
“I have not changed my mind, Luc. About the nickname or about you.”
Instantly, Luc’s face hardened and Bronwyn felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. He took a step closer, and outstretched one arm against the tree as he bent over her. “I am a baron now, angel. A man to be respected and obeyed.”
His mouth came toward her and Bronwyn turned her head away so his lips grazed only her cheek. “It has been a long time since we last spoke,” she hissed, “but do not think that I have changed so greatly. I took no orders from you then, and I will not now. Especially not here. We are on Anscombe land and you have no power here.”
The scowl on Luc’s face transformed into a broad, genuine smile. “Maybe not now, but soon, angel. Soon.”
“Not soon, Luc. Never. My father found the new lord of Bassellmere and Hunswick. He is coming.”
“Maybe he is, but not your father.”
Bronwyn’s deep misty blue eyes searched Luc’s face and saw only cruel sincerity staring back at her. “No,” she whispered.
With his free hand, Luc grabbed a lock of her light brown hair and caressed it with his fingers. “Yes, angel. And that makes you mine.”
Bronwyn’s eyes flashed and she pushed as hard as she could against his chest in an effort to get him to move back. But it was like beating solid, immovable rock. “But King Stephen. My father. Lord Anscombe…”
“All dead.”
“But the king promised…”
“That was ten years ago, angel. A long time to be harboring such ill feelings. After my father died this summer, I journeyed to see King Stephen. He was most willing to forgive the innocent transgressions of a young boy in love.”
Bronwyn felt all the rage, all the betrayal, from those years ago surge in her veins. “You didn’t intend love. You intended rape.”
Unexpected, Luc threw back his head and laughed. Bronwyn tried to duck under his arm, but he caught her elbow just in time and squeezed. “King Stephen didn’t remember it that way and thought it a wise idea to mend the feud between our families. I was given leave to choose any of Sir Laon le Breton’s unwed daughters after the New Year, and I want you.”
“You can’t have me,” Bronwyn snarled. “My father…”
“Ah, yes. His absence was the reason I have not announced my claim sooner, but now that he is dead, I see no reason to delay any longer. You are mine, Lady Bronwyn. You always have been and always will be. I’m done waiting. As your husband, I can make your life enjoyable or a living hell.”
He let go and Bronwyn reached into the slit of her bliaut and felt the cool metal against her fingertips. She gripped the hilt and hissed, “I will never marry you and you cannot make me.”
“But I can and I will have you willingly or else I will take one of your sisters.”
Cold fear swept through her as she realized what Luc meant and how far he would go. “You don’t want me, you want Syndlear.”
Luc cackled and the sick sound echoed all around them. “Angel, you still don’t understand. I want both and much, much more.”
Bronwyn felt his cool, long fingers close around the back of her head, bringing her mouth to his. She twisted with all her might and again sought the dagger nestled in her bliaut. Pulling it free, she was just about to press the tip into his skin when a deadly arrow appeared from nowhere and lodged itself into the bark of the alder right between her and Luc’s heads.
Startled, Luc pushed Bronwyn away and ducked for cover. Determining it was a single stray, he straightened to his full height and grabbed the errant weapon, wrenching it free from the tree’s grasp. He tossed it at Bronwyn and said, “Be sure to tell the new lord that his poachers better stay clear of Torrens and Syndlear.”
Luc sauntered to his horse, grabbed his reins, and mounted. He edged the animal next to her side, but Bronwyn refused to step back. He would not make her cringe in fear. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, angel, you never were as weak as everyone thought you to be. Until Epiphany, my lady. At the end of Twelfthtide, we shall wed and you will finally realize that I am the only man for you.”
Bronwyn stared unswervingly at Luc as he disappeared into a thicket of evergreens. She was still clutching the small heavy spear in one hand and her dagger in the other, both weapons of death. Her unusual proficiency in the latter was little known beyond her
