Chapter One

 

Lord Bletchley's hopes for an advantageous marriage waned when Rhiannon dumped her wine over his head.

Rhiannon Winston, daughter of the imposing Baron of Hearthwood and imposing in her own right, glared at the man seated beside her as he dabbed daintily at the single eyebrow that stretched over his muddy eyes like a dead caterpillar. He tucked the blackwork-embellished lace handkerchief back into his sleeve, clucking his disapproval. When he said in the syrupy, patronizing manner that she had come to despise in the hour she had known him, "Now, my dear, that wasn't very kind," she debated adding the soup to the wine. A stern glare from her mother held her hand, but she would not stay her tongue.

"I am not your 'dear', sirrah, and you have not leave to chastise me!"

Baroness Winston sighed as she gazed over at her husband; he met her gaze with a slight shaking of his head. She had attempted to educate her impetuous daughter in the behaviors and manners befitting a lady, but Rhiannon had too much of her father's fire in her and none of his self-control. The Baron, seeing the resignation in his wife's face, decided to take matters into his own hands.

"However, daughter," he boomed, "I may chastise you as I see fit, and you shall not abuse guests in my own home!"

Her father was the only man Rhiannon hesitated to defy, but at this moment she was past prudence. "Father, this buffoon assumes too much! He would see us wed before I agree to this odious match! How dare he make such suggestions to me about our nuptials! It is revolting!"

Wisely, Baroness Winston extended her hand to the perspiring lord, who had once again produced his handkerchief. "Sir, will you join me in the study? I shall have wine brought to us, and Julia, my lady-in-waiting, is most excellent on the lute. I will have her play for us."

Lord Bletchley accepted her offer gratefully, uncomfortable as always with confrontation. Perhaps all the wench's titles and beauty were not worth braving such a vile temper. He followed the gracious hostess from the dining hall, giving a surreptitious pinch to the maid, who restrained her squeal. She did not think it wise at this moment to let this man's proclivities be known. She had heard tell of what he was doing with the young women of the household, and receiving a pinch was nothing compared to what some other girls had undergone. She was getting away lucky with nothing but his hard fingers on the softness of her bottom.

When the servants closed the doors behind them, Winston took his seat and steepled his fingers before him. His voice was quiet, controlled, and Rhiannon recognized that he was angrier than she. She preferred his rages over this cold, reserved manner that she, as his favorite, rarely saw.

"It would seem, daughter," he murmured, "that your mother and I have allowed you too much freedom in allowing you to choose your own husband. It was a foolish decision. You are not prepared to make a choice in a wise manner."

Rhiannon stared at her father, apprehensive, knowing his moods as well as she knew her own. She had inherited much from him; not only his volatile temper, but his glossy black hair and eyes the color of dark leaves as well. His intelligence, too, she had been gifted with, and now intimated that he was on the verge of making a decision that would affect the course of her life. She steeled herself for the ultimatum she knew would come.

"I will choose a husband for you if you cannot find one of your own in a month's time."

Rhiannon leapt to her feet. "Father, no!" She fought to control her voice, to speak gently, to plead if necessary. "I cannot believe you would condemn me to a life of unhappiness with a man I cannot love. I know you care for me more than that."

Winston hid his smile behind his hand. Rhiannon thought she read him well, but he was only seeking to wed the girl before tongues started wagging. At nineteen, she was fast approaching the age where unmarried women were thought undesirable, or worse. Of course, any who looked at his daughter would know differently. With her pale skin and long hair that when unbound reached the swell of her bottom, she was one of the most sought after women in the shire, title notwithstanding. Perhaps he should have sent her to court to be educated, as his wife had urged, but the thought of such an innocent prey to the decadence of Henry's nobles froze his blood.

True, he would have been a richer man today had he fawned and curried favor with the King as his father had done, but the prospect galled and insulted him. He respected no man over God; and Henry's break with the true Church and his demand that all bow to the Church of England was unacceptable. For propriety's sake and for the safety of his family he worshiped as he was ordered to, smiling upon his King's divorce and marriage to the witch Anne Boleyn, but he kept the true faith and taught his daughter to hold her beliefs secret. However, his absence at court hurt his coffers.

Now he could only afford to garb his daughter in the simplest satin and brocade, but even with the quiet austerity of the crimson and black gown and kirtle she wore, which was her best dress, Rhiannon was an impressive woman and needed no ornamentation. Perhaps by threatening her with the promise of an arranged marriage to some unmannerly fop like Lord Bletchley, she would be less demanding of her prospective suitors. Although, he conceded, he was greatly pleased when she had upended her drink over the fool's head. There were several times he would have liked to end Bletchley's mindless boasting and insulting intimations himself.

Rhiannon saw none of his musing, only the imagined ire in her father's eyes. She sighed, "Very well. It seems I have no choice but to submit to your will."

Winston nodded. "Child, it has always been so. I do what I do out of love for you. You are dismissed, but you must apologize to the lord. He may be a minor noble, but he is a noble nonetheless."

"Yes, father," she acquiesced, with no intention of performing such a galling task. Let the lord stew, she decided, smiling sweetly at her father and leaving the dining room, the epitome of meekness.

Once the doors were behind her she stormed up to her chambers, in a fine temper. She passed several surprised servants who, accustomed to her tantrums, stepped clear as she rushed past them. She slammed her door behind her, tearing off her headdress. The delicate filigree of pearls that edged the sheer fabric of her French hood broke and spilled upon the floor, but she took no notice.

Her anger gave way to despair then, and she flung herself on the bed, weeping. How was she to find a husband in one short month, a man of the sort who frequented her dreams? Certainly, he wouldn't be among those pasty-faced fellows that her parents were forever presenting her with; no, he would be someone who set her blood surging, someone along the lines of the epic Tristan or Roland. She wanted a man who made her feel like a woman, a powerful, commanding man. Instead, she was doomed to a life of unhappiness and mediocrity, bound to a Lord Bletchley who would simper and drool and paw her with his soft, wet hands.

Rhiannon drew a deep breath, calmed herself. Her hysterics always passed quickly, and she would not allow herself to fall into hopelessness. She had a month to make her decision. In a month's time, she might very well change her father's mind. If not, then she would refuse to marry and damn the consequences. They would have to drag her to the altar, and no force on Earth could make her utter the marriage vows. Imagine Lord Bletchley's face at that insult!

She recalled what her mother had once told her, that love came after the wedding. Rhiannon could not find it in her heart to believe that was true. There had to be more to life than grey, cold marriages based on convenience. She was the daughter of a noble, but did that mean she could never have happiness, never be stirred to the core the way her imaginings brought her? Why, then, did her imaginings exist? Why did her imaginations soar with the thought of handsome, virile men who stirred her to the soul?

She rose, glanced through the window that overlooked her father's estates. Lord Bletchley was mounting his horse clumsily in the courtyard, chuckling at something a serf girl did as she passed him. Apparently, he was not pleased with Julia's lute playing and had made good his escape. His expression was one of lechery as he bent down, slipped a hand into the girl's bodice, the fingers squeezing and palpitating. She squealed, tried to pull away, but he held tightly to her, no doubt bruising the tender young flesh. Rhiannon's face flamed. This was the man who professed such undying devotion? This was the man that her parents presented to her for marriage, the lifelong commitment that, despite the King's proclamation, could not be broken by any save the law of God?

She smoothed her gown, her hands catching on the aged, blood-red fabric of the kirtle. True, Lord Bletchley had a great deal of money and would dress her in velvet and jewels, but she would prefer the embraces of a peasant if he offered her the fiery feeling she knew that some men had for a few lucky women. Money did not warm the heart or the insides of an unhappy wife.

As she watched her undesired suitor ride away, she yearned to be outside, running freely about as she had when she was a girl. She used to escape her guardians and explore the rocky beach but a mile or so from her father's estate. She smiled in fond remembrance. There, with the waves crashing before her and the cliffs rising behind her, she would fancy herself a princess awaiting her true love from a mysterious and unnamed land across the sea. It was her favorite game as a child.

Rhiannon, if anything, was impetuous. Having made her decision, she rushed to her wardrobe and flung it open. The doors crashed against the walls. Removing a cape of black wool, she tossed it over her shoulders and pulled the hood about her face, hiding the finely worked lace that was her only head covering. Her mother would be scandalized, for she was a woman of propriety and ladies never appeared bareheaded in public. Well, then, today she was no lady, only a girl freeing herself from the horrors the captivity her guardians wished to inflict upon her.

Rhiannon crept from the room, making her way down the winding staircase. She pressed into an alcove when a chattering servant and a chambermaid passed her, knowing that to be seen would end her escapade before it began.

"And then 'e promised me a gold coin ..." the younger said proudly. The other snorted.

"The Lord Bletchley is as free with his words and his hands as he is tight with his money. Remember, Anna, just because a man beds you does not mean that he must keep his promises to you. Men make far too many vows in the bedchamber that they never intend to keep."

The other girl sighed. "Aye, yer right. And I let 'im poke me too. 'e wanted to test the goods, 'e said, so I held up me skirt and bent over for him. 'e poked 'is fingers in and waggled them around good. It felt nice, though, with his fat fingers moving around in there. Then he slid one into me bum hole and did I squeal!"