Hers To Command

Praise for Margaret Moore

“Ms Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe

“This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Ms Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armour.”

—Rendezvous

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.”

—Under the Covers

“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.”

—romancereaderatheart.com

“If you’re looking for a fix for your medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of award-winning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!” —aromancereview.com

“You seem to be a most unusual nobleman.”

“As you seem to be a most unusual lady.”

Even he could not have said whether he meant that for a compliment or not, but it was true. “I’m impressed with your concern for your sister,” he added as he strolled towards her, and that, at least, was the truth.

Lady Mathilde backed away as if she were afraid. Of him? That was ridiculous – he had given her every reason to believe he would be the opposite of dangerous to her.

The woman before him flushed, but didn’t look away. Her mouth was half parted, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She swayed forward a bit – enough to encourage him to think she was feeling the same pull of desire and curiosity.

Responding to that urge, he put his hands on her shoulders and started to draw her closer…

Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheikh”. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com

Hers To Command

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With thanks to everyone who has offered support and encouragement during my writing career, and the readers who buy my books. I couldn’t do it without you!

PROLOGUE

London, Michaelmas, 1243

SIR ROALD DE SAYRES’S nostrils flared with disgust as he stepped over the refuse in the alley in Cloth Fair between the slaughtering yards of Smithfields and the bulk of St. Bartholemew’s Church. Aware of the sword he wore on his left, he firmly clasped the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt on his right and scanned the alley for the man he was to meet.

“Sir Roald!” a coarse Yorkshire-accented voice called out in a harsh whisper. The bulky shape of a big, brawny man stepped into the alley from a shadowed doorway. He wore breeches, tunic and cloak, patched and none too clean.

Roald peered at the figure in the dim light, trying to get a good look at his face. “Martin?”

“Aye, sir,” the man replied with a nod of his shaggy head.

Roald relaxed a little, but he didn’t take his hand from his dagger. “You told no one you were planning to meet me here?”

“No, sir,” the former garrison commander of his uncle’s castle answered.

“And you told no one in Ecclesford you were going to London?”

“Not daft, am I?” Martin replied with a hoarse laugh.

Not daft, but not clever, either, Roald thought as he regarded the traitorous fool. “It’s as you promised? The garrison—?”

“Will be like lambs to the slaughter. Taught ’em next to nowt, and their weapons are older’n my mother. Paid for the worst, told Lord Gaston—who wouldn’t know a decent sword from a pike—they was the best.”

And pocketed the difference in price, no doubt.

“Them that are left won’t know how to mount a proper defense, neither,” Martin bragged, the big brute clearly not caring a ha’penny about the fate of his former comrades-in-arms. “They’ll be running ’round like chickens if you march on ’em.”

“And his daughters? Prostrate with grief, I assume?”

Chuckling like the fool he was, Martin nodded. “They was weepin’ and wailin’ when I left. They think that father of theirs was a saint or summat.” Martin grinned again, the corner of his wide, ugly mouth lifting. “Told ’em I wouldn’t take orders from no women—and I wouldn’t, neither, especially that Lady Mathilde.”

Roald didn’t care what excuse the man gave for leaving his cousins’employ as long as it didn’t involve him. “You told no one you were meeting me tonight?”

“No, my lord.”

Pleased his alliance with this traitorous oaf was still a secret, Roald reached into his finely woven woolen tunic and produced a leather pouch. He had no immediate financial needs, thanks to the moneylenders who were only too happy to help him when they learned he was the heir of Lord Gaston of Ecclesford and soon to be in possession of one of the most prosperous estates in Kent.

As always, it wasn’t just the thought of his new wealth and power that warmed him. How he’d make that shrew Mathilde grovel before he sent her off to a convent for the rest of her life. As for Giselle…his loins tightened at the memory of her ethereal beauty. He’d marry her off to the highest bidder, but not right away. Oh, no, not right away.

Martin cleared his throat, clearly anxious for his reward.

Roald held out the pouch, mentally assessing the man’s strengths and weaknesses. A trained fighter Martin might be, but all men had their vulnerabilities. Big men were slow, and stupid men were the most easily defeated of all.

Grabbing the leather bag, the soldier eagerly emptied it into his calloused palm, the coins gleaming in the moonlight. With a slow deliberation that set Roald’s teeth on edge, the lummox began to count them as he returned them, one by one, to the pouch.

“Do you think I’d try to cheat you, Martin?”

Martin glanced up, frowning. His gaze faltered, and he swept the coins, half of which were below their proper weight and value, back into the pouch. “No, my lord.”

Roald fingered the jeweled hilt of the dagger in his belt. “What will you do now that you’re quite rich?”

Martin grinned. “Enjoy some sport, then get meself a wife. Maybe buy an inn.”

“I could always use a trained fighter,” Roald proposed.

Martin shook his head. “Beggin’your pardon, my lord, but I’m done with that. Not gettin’any younger, nor any faster. Time to take what I’ve earned and settle down.”

“Like a horse put out to pasture, eh?”

Martin frowned as if the comparison displeased him, but he nodded nonetheless. “Aye, you could say that.”

“Well, it’s a pity, but of course, if that’s what you’d prefer,” Roald said amiably. “I give you good night, then, Martin. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you, you mustn’t hesitate to come to me and ask.”

With a bow and another grin, the soldier tugged his forelock and started to pass the French nobleman, heading for the end of the alley.

He never made it. With the speed of an adder, Roald grabbed him by the neck from behind and shoved his pretty silver dagger up under the man’s ribs.

His eyes wide and wild, gasping for breath, Martin flailed like a landed fish as he tried to free himself. Unfortunately for him, while Roald was not as big or muscular, he was strong. And determined. Still holding the bigger man around the neck with his arm, he pulled out the dagger and shoved it in again.

Weak, the blood pouring from his side, Martin sank to the fetid ground, falling with a thud when Roald finally released his hold.

Out of breath and with a look of disgust, Roald pulled his dagger free and wiped it on the man’s no doubt flea-infested tunic. “Should have worn mail, you stupid ox,” he muttered as he grabbed the pouch. Twenty marks—or even a portion of that—was still worth holding on to. His greedy little whore of a mistress had been demanding a present from the new lord of Ecclesford. He would give her a ring or some such bauble, and he trusted she’d be suitably grateful. After all, there was no need to go rushing off to his estate. Mathilde and Giselle would be too upset by their father’s death to do anything but mourn for days yet.

As for Martin, when his body was found, people would assume he was just another fool who came to London and got himself murdered.

They’d be right.

CHAPTER ONE

THE FOX AND HOUND in the county of Kent lay ten miles from the castle of Ecclesford along the road to London. It was a small but comfortable inn, with a walled yard, a taproom frequented by the local farmers and food slightly better than one usually found in such places. Inside the building was the aforementioned taproom, redolent of damp rushes, ale and cheap English wine, smoke from the large hearth and roasted beef. A little natural light shone in through the wooden shutters, now closed to keep out the cool, moist morning air of late September.

Five days after Roald de Sayres killed the former garrison commander of Ecclesford Castle, two women went up the rickety steps leading to the chambers where guests could lodge for the night. One of the women, beautiful and blond, trembled with every step that brought them closer to the rooms where the guests slept. The other who led the way appeared full of confident conviction as she marched briskly upward, oblivious to the creaking of the stairs and motes of dust swirling around them. Nothing was going to dissuade Lady Mathilde from her quest, not even her own rapidly beating heart.

“Mathilde, this is madness!” the lovely Lady Giselle hissed as she grabbed hold of her sister’s light gray woolen cloak and nearly pulled the white linen veil from her head.

Grabbing at her veil to hold it in place, Mathilde turned toward her anxious sister. In truth, she knew what they were doing was outrageous, but she was not about to lose this opportunity. The innkeeper’s son, who knew of their troubles and their need, had come to them the day before and told them of the young nobleman who’d arrived alone at the Fox and Hound—a merry, handsome Norman knight with a very thin purse.

His looks mattered not to Mathilde, and indeed, she would have been happier had he been homely. But the knight’s nearly empty purse caused her to hope that he would be glad of the chance to earn some money, even if he had no personal interest in their just cause. The lordly brother and equally lordly friend the knight had mentioned also made her hope he might be the answer to her prayers.

“What else are we to do?” she asked her sister, likewise whispering. “Sit and wait for Roald to take Ecclesford from us? If this fellow is who he says he is, he could be exactly the sort of man we need.”

“Perhaps Roald will not dispute our father’s will,” Giselle protested, as she had every time Mathilde mentioned her plan to discourage Roald from trying to take what was not his. “He has not yet come and—”

“You know as well as I how greedy he is,” Mathilde replied. “Do you really believe he will accept losing Ecclesford? I do not. He may come today or tomorrow, demanding that we turn the estate over to him. We must do everything we can to prepare for that.”

Giselle still didn’t budge from her place on the step. “This knight may not want to help us.”

“Rafe said he was poor. We will offer to pay him. And after all, we aren’t going to be asking him to risk his life.”

“But why must we go into the bedchamber?” Giselle asked piteously, wringing her hands with dismay. “We should stay in the taproom. He will surely awaken and come downstairs soon.”

“We have been waiting for too long as it is,” Mathilde replied. “We cannot sit all day in the taproom, especially when there is much to be done at home, and did you not see the clouds gathering over the hills to the south? If we do not start for home soon, we may get caught in a storm.”

“We know nothing of this man beyond what Rafe has said,” Giselle persisted, “and he was only repeating what the Norman told him last night. Maybe the Norman was merely bragging. A man may say anything when he’s in his cups.”

Perhaps the young man had been drunk, or exaggerating or lying, and if that was so, obviously he wasn’t the man to help them. But if he wasn’t lying, Mathilde wasn’t about to let a knight related to a powerful Norman nobleman in Scotland and who was a friend to an equally powerful lord in Cornwall slip through her fingers without at least asking for his help. “If this fellow seems a liar and a rogue, we will leave him here.”

“How will we be able to tell if he’s honest or not?”

“I will know.”

“You?” Giselle exclaimed, and then she colored and looked away.

Shame flooded Mathilde’s face, because Giselle had good cause to doubt Mathilde’s wisdom when it came to young men.

“I’m sorry,” Giselle said softly, pity in her eyes even as Mathilde fought the memories that flashed through her mind.

“I once made a terrible mistake, but I have learned my lesson,” Mathilde assured her sister. Then she smiled, to show she wasn’t upset, although she was. “But since I may misjudge this man, I’m glad that you are here to help me.”

Without waiting for Giselle to say anything more lest her sister’s doubts weaken her resolve, Mathilde ducked under a thick oak beam and rapped on the door to one of the two upper chambers. Each would contain beds made of rope stretched between the frame, bearing a mattress stuffed with straw, as well as a coarse linen sheet and a blanket. Each bed would be large enough to hold at least two grown men, possibly three. There was little privacy at an inn; however, Rafe’s father had assured them the Norman was the only guest still abed.

“Maybe he’s already gone,” Giselle whispered hopefully when there was no answer to Mathilde’s knock.

“The innkeeper would have said so, or we would have seen him leave,” Mathilde replied as she knocked again, a little louder this time. She pressed her ear against the door.

“Perhaps he left in the night,” Giselle suggested.

“Maybe he’s dead,” Mathilde muttered under her breath.

“Dead!” Giselle exclaimed.

Mathilde instantly regretted her impulsive remark. “I do not believe that,” she said, lifting the latch of the rough wooden door. “More likely the man is dead drunk and if so, he will be of no use to us.”

“Oh, Mathilde!” her sister moaned as Mathilde sidled through the door, the leather hinges creaking. “Wait!”

It was too late. Mathilde had already entered the small, dusty room beneath the eaves sporting three beds, a table and a stool. Articles of clothing had been tossed on the stool beside the bed closest to the door, and an empty wine jug lay on its side on the table, near a puddle of wax that had once been a candle. The large, disheveled bed was still occupied—by a man sprawled on top of the coverings.

He was completely naked.

With a gasp, Mathilde turned to flee—until she saw Giselle’s worried face.

What would Giselle say if she ran away? That she had been right, and Mathilde wrong. That Mathilde’s plan was foolish and impossible. That they should wait and see what Roald would do, rather than take any kind of action.

That she didn’t want to do, so she mentally girded her loins and reminded herself that this man was merely lying on the bed, apparently fast asleep, or passed out from drink. If he was in a drunken stupor and since he had no weapons near him while she carried a knife she wouldn’t hesitate to use, surely she had nothing to fear.

He certainly looked harmless enough in his sleep, although his back bore several small scars and welts that were surely from tournaments or battles. She also couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t an ounce of superfluous fat on him, anywhere. But then, the Normans were notorious warriors, descendants of piratical Norsemen, without culture or grace, so what else should she expect?

“Is he alive?” Giselle whispered behind her.

“He’s breathing,” Mathilde replied, moving cautiously closer. She sniffed, and the scent of wine was strong. “I think he’s passed out from drink.”

Closer now, she studied the slumbering man’s remarkably handsome face, slack in his sleep. He looked like an angel—albeit a very virile one, with finely cut cheekbones, full and shapely lips, a straight nose and a strong jaw. His surprisingly long hair fell tousled in dark brown waves to his broad shoulders. His body was more well formed than most, too, from his wide shoulders and muscular back to his lean legs.

She glanced at the clothes lying on the stool. He might be alone now, but he likely hadn’t been last night. She wondered where the wench had gone, and if he’d even noticed.

Her lip curled in a sneer. Probably not. Like most men, he had likely thought only of his own desires.

She turned away. “This is not the sort of man we require,” she said to her sister. “Come, Gis—”

A hand grabbed hers and tugged her down onto the bed. Mathilde grabbed the hilt of the knife she had tucked into her girdle with one hand and struck him hard with the other.

“God’s teeth, wench,” the young man cried, releasing her as he sat up, still unabashedly naked. “No need to rouse the household.”

His eyes narrowed as she jumped to her feet, weapon drawn, panting and fierce, before he tugged the sheet over his thighs and belly. “Tell your husband or father or whatever relation the innkeeper is to you that I have paid for a night’s rest, and I will get up when I decide, and not before.”

“Our apologies, Sir Knight,” Giselle said from the foot of his bed as Mathilde breathed deeply and tried to regain her self-control. “We should not have intruded upon you.”

The knight glanced at Giselle and then, as often happened when men first beheld Mathilde’s beautiful sister, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Giselle, meanwhile, lowered her eyes and blushed, as she always did when forced to endure a man’s staring scrutiny.

Totally ignoring Mathilde, the Norman got to his feet and wrapped the sheet around his slender torso. He should have looked ridiculous, but he carried himself as if he were a prince greeting a courtier.

“May I ask what brings you to my chamber, my lady,” he asked as genially as if they were in their hall at home, “for I can tell you are a lady by your sweet and lovely voice.”

Giselle looked at Mathilde with mute appeal.

“We require a knight’s service,” Mathilde decisively announced, her dagger still in her hand, “but—”

“Indeed?” the Norman interrupted, his brown eyes fairly sparkling with delight, as if they were offering him a present.

“How charming,” he continued, addressing Giselle, “although I must confess, I usually prefer to choose my bedmates. In your case, however, my lady, I’m prepared to make an exception.”

Of all the vain, arrogant presumptions! “That is not what I meant,” Mathilde snapped, her grip on her weapon tightening.

The knight turned to look at her. “Why are you so angry? I’m the one who ought to be offended. You invaded my bedchamber when I was asleep and unarmed.”

“But not for…for that!”

“No need to dissemble if it was,” he replied with an amiable smile and a shrug of his broad shoulders, and completely ignoring her drawn dagger. “This wouldn’t be the first time a woman has sought my company in bed, although they don’t usually come in pairs.”

“You…you scoundrel!” Mathilde cried, appalled at his disgusting comment, as she started for the door.

The Norman moved to block her way.

“Let us go!” she demanded, tense and ready to fight, while Giselle shrank into the nearest corner.

“Gladly, after you explain what you’re doing here,” the knight replied, no longer amiable or merry as he grabbed her wrist and forced her to drop her dagger. He let go of her as he kicked the dagger away, but continued to regard her sternly.

Looking at him now, she could well believe he was a knight from a powerful family, and of some repute.

“Is this some sort of trick?” he asked, raising a majestic brow and crossing his powerful arms. “Should I be expecting a visit from an irate father or brother insisting that I marry this lady? If so, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. I might have welcomed her into my bed, but I will never be forced to take a wife.”

Giselle let out a little squeak of dismay. “Mathilde, tell him why we are here,” she pleaded, her face as red as a cardinal’s robe.

“If we explain, will you let us go?” Mathilde asked warily.

He inclined his head in agreement.

“Then I will explain,” she replied.

Determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, she planted her feet, looked him straight in the eye and said, “We require a knight, and we thought, since we heard you did not have much money, that you would—”

“Do I look like a mercenary to you?” he interrupted, lowering his arms, his face flushing and his brown eyes glowering.

“At the moment, you don’t look anything except half naked,” Mathilde replied, managing to sound much calmer than she felt. “Perhaps if you had some clothes on, I would better be able to judge.”

He snorted a laugh. “Aren’t you the coolheaded one,” he remarked, leaning back against the door and once again crossing his arms. “So, you need a knight. For what, if not for pleasure?”

Mathilde cringed at his reply, but gamely continued, still determined to get away from him as swiftly as she could. “To be at our side should our cousin come to the estate our father left us and try to take it from us.”

“You seek a knight to fight this cousin over an estate?”

“Not fight,” Giselle anxiously interposed from the corner.

The knight regarded her with confusion. “Why do you need a man trained for battle, then, if not to fight?”

“To impress him,” Mathilde said. “To show him that we are willing to defend our rights and that we are not without some means to do so.”

“I am to be for show?” the Norman asked with a hint of indignation.

“We hope to make Roald think twice about trying to steal our inheritance.”

The knight tilted his head as he studied her. “Roald is an unusual name. Might I have met him at court?”

Perhaps he had, Mathilde reflected, and if so, she would have to be careful. It could be this man was Roald’s friend, or as much as any man could be the friend of anyone so selfish as Roald. “Our cousin is Sir Roald de Sayres.”

The Norman’s lip lifted with derision. “I thought that might be who you meant. You’re related to that blackguard?”