His breath hissed out. “So that’s your game.”
“’Tis no game, Ian.”
“Listen to me, Madeline, and listen well. If it costs me all the fields I hold of Henry, you and the man you took as lover will not win at this.”
Flushing, she pushed herself to her feet. “He’s not my lover!”
“Then why do you want the freedom to wed where you will, if not with Guy Blackhair? What other poor fool have you smiled upon and teased and offered your body to, as you did to me?”
“There is no other man,” she spat, flicked to the raw. “None! But when I choose the man I will wed,’ twill be one I may smile upon without being called to task for it. One I may tease and laugh with and…and lust for with all my woman’s passion, without being thought a whore!”
Praise for Merline Lovelace
The Captain’s Woman
“It takes an immensely talented and knowledgeable
author to combine an enjoyable romance with fast paced
action and an accurate re-creation of the realities of
war into a compelling tale. Lovelace does this as well or
better than any other contemporary romance writer.”
—The Romance Reader
The Colonel’s Daughter
“With all the grit and reality of a strong western and
the passion of a wonderful love story, Merline Lovelace
brings readers into an emotionally powerful tale… Not
to be missed by fans of the genre.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Untamed
“Powerfully emotional story, sweeping you into her
characters’ lives and holding you captivated…a love
story as untamed as the wild Indian territory.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
A Savage Beauty
“The author incorporates…historical fact…so skilfully
into a fictional plot that it goes down painlessly, indeed,
it reads like great gossip. A compulsively readable tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
Merline Lovelace spent twenty-three years in the US air force, serving tours in Vietnam, at the Pentagon, and at bases all over the world. When she hung up her uniform, she decided to try her hand at writing. She’s since had over forty novels published. Merline and her husband of more than thirty years live in Oklahoma, USA. They enjoy golf, travelling and long, lazy dinners with friends and family.
His Lady’s Ransom
Merline Lovelace
To Maggie Price and Nancy Berland, two superb authors, wonderful critique partners and the kind of friends who make this business of writing such a joy – it wouldn’t be half so much fun without our Wednesday-night sessions!
Chapter One
Wyndham Castle Cumbria, Northern England
The Year of Our Lord 1188
“I tell you, Ian, the lad’s besotted with that—that slut. You must do something!”
Ian de Burgh, earl of Margill, baron St. Briac, lord of Wyndham, Glenwaite and other holdings in northern England and Normandy, paused in the act of donning his shirt and glanced at the woman who paced in front of the huge hearth.
“You look much like a peahen who’s been chased around the bailey by a playful cat, Lady Mother.” Affectionate irreverence laced his low north-country drawl. “Your feathers are all aruffle.”
Instinctively Lady Elizabeth lifted a hand to smooth her silvered hair under its gossamer silk veil. Her huge brown eyes took on the look of a wounded doe’s, and the frown marring her delicate features lightened to a winsome expression, one Ian knew full well. It had often reduced his father, a warrior feared throughout England and Normandy, to helpless resignation. In Ian’s youth, that same expression had sent him scurrying on many an errand for his beautiful, gentle stepmother.
His grin softened to a smile of genuine warmth as he took in her woe-filled countenance. He jerked his chin at his squire, and the brawny youth went to shoo away the clutch of servants who had attended their lord while he soaked away the dirt of travel. As the squire cleared the room, Ian went forward to take his mother’s hand.
“Come, Lady Mother, surely ‘tis not so serious as you seem to think.”
“It is,” she insisted, clutching at his fingers. “You cannot know, Ian. You’ve been gone for nigh on a year. First to Ireland, then to France, in this damnable war.”
She stopped as her eyes caught sight of a wound exposed by the open ties of his linen shirt. Tugging at Ian’s arm to bring him down to her eye level, she examined the red, raw cut that traced his collarbone.
“Who stitched this?”
“The churgeon, after the battle at Châteauroux.”
Ian suppressed a wince as she probed the tender flesh with one finger, clucking under her breath. A glancing blow from a sword had slipped under his mailed coif and sliced through the padded leather gambeson he wore beneath. The wound was not deep, but long and ragged.
“Well, ‘twill leave an ugly scar, but ‘tis healing cleanly, so I won’t resew it.”
She sighed, and Ian saw again the concern that had bracketed her forehead ever since she’d come to his chamber to give him the blue wool surcoat lined with vair that she’d lovingly fashioned for him in his absence.
“Don’t fash yourself, Lady Mother,” he said. “Will’s but seventeen, after all, and won his spurs only six months ago. He’s just feeling his manhood, paying court to his first ladylove.”
Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “You’ve not seen him since his knighting. I tell you, Ian, Will’s smitten with that bitch.”
Ian’s brows rose at the uncharacteristic harshness of his stepmother’s words. Known as much for her gentleness as for her charity to the poor, Lady Elizabeth rarely spoke ill of anyone, much less
