Elizabeth Elliott

“Do you remember how I touched you?”

His voice dropped lower, to the tone of a confession. “Your skin was so soft, like the petal of a rose. The roses are in bloom at Montague, and every time I smell them I think of touching you. And kissing you. In my mind I have kissed you a hundred times, in a hundred different ways.”

Claudia didn’t breathe, afraid she would break the spell between them. She’d never guessed that she plagued his thoughts as completely as he plagued her own. Never guessed the effect those revelations would have on her. It took a conscious effort not to move, to keep herself from melting into his arms.

He could be toying with her, testing her resolve. In her mind she repeated everything he’d said, but couldn’t recall a single word that rang false. She felt an overwhelming urge to touch him. She felt an urgent need to surrender to his kisses and to admit that she wanted nothing so much as to be in his arms.…

BETROTHED
A Bantam Fanfare Book / October 1996

FANFARE and the portrayal of a boxed “ff” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1996 by Linda Crippes.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-83065-4

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Dedication

Other Books by This Author

About the Author

1

Northern England, 1288

G
uy of Montague rode into Lonsdale Castle as if he owned it. Atop a massive black warhorse, his armor glittered so brightly in the midday sun that those who cheered his arrival shaded their eyes as he passed by them. A score of knights in blue and white surcoats rode behind him. The knights’ lances rested in holsters near their stirrups, the tips pointed skyward with a long, fluttering pennant tied to each end; the white wolf of Montague on a field of midnight blue.

Guy surveyed all he could see of the castle. The massive gatehouse with its twin barbicans and double gates looked well kept, and the outbuildings before him were freshly painted. The six-story keep that sat atop a raised knoll in the center of the castle seemed in good repair as well. Guy had yet to meet Baron Lonsdale, but already he could tell that the man knew the value of a properly run fortress. Apparently Baron Lonsdale knew the value of many things, including the run-down keep he intended to sell to Guy for a king’s ransom.

Evard de Cordray, Guy’s second-in-command, rode up beside him. He’d removed his helm to reveal dark hair and pale green eyes that also scanned the bailey. “ ’Tis a fine welcome, is it not, my lord?”

“A promising start, Evard.” Guy looked at Lonsdale’s high stone walls, which blocked the cool summer breeze. The sun beat mercilessly on his armor. Guy removed his own helm and tucked it under one arm. In response, the crowd sent up a roar of approval. He shook his head and sighed. “They act as if I just presented them with a trophy.”

“You have.” Evard cast a wary glance around them, although
none were close enough to hear their conversation over the clatter of hooves and armor and the din of the crowd itself. “Their baron will become a rich man as a result of your visit. Each of them will prosper from their overlord’s newfound wealth.”

Guy looked out over the crowd, at faces filled with the excitement of the moment, at many broad smiles that could be a reflection of greed. He felt like a fat pig being led to the slaughter. “For the price their baron asks, one would think I meant to buy Lonsdale itself.”

“You have an army strong enough to reclaim Halford Hall,” Evard said in a quieter voice. “Why bargain with a man you do not trust?”

Guy shook his head. “War will not ease Halford’s suffering. If I can settle this without bloodshed, so be it.”

Evard nodded, but presented another concern. “I still think it a mistake to ride into Lonsdale with but a score of knights at your back. You are vulnerable, baron.”

“I have weighed the risks, Evard. Lonsdale knows he will have his own war should he take me prisoner. My death begets nothing but bloodshed. It is in his best interests to be a congenial host, for he will get what he wants most. Gold.” The black warhorse began to toss its head, and Guy loosened his hold on the reins, aware that the beast could sense his tension. “In the unlikely event that he should employ some treachery, the odds are still weighed in our favor. I have no doubt that our spy knows as much about this fortress as Baron Lonsdale himself.”

“ ’Tis an advantage,” Evard agreed, without much enthusiasm.

Guy turned his attention forward again and saw the stained glass windows of a large chapel. “Make certain the men are quartered together,” he told Evard. “You will stay with them to make sure they do not partake too generously of Lonsdale’s hospitality. No wenching, and no more than a sober measure of wine or ale.”

“They will be aggrieved to hear that, my lord.”

“They will be aggrieved if they—” Guy lost his train of thought as his gaze moved to the shadowed doorway of the chapel. In the darkest recess of the doorway was an ominous vision of some sort, the pale oval of a woman’s face floating suspended in the shadows. The vision moved forward and he sighed with relief. The woman was indeed a whole person. She was also staring at him.

He watched her watch him, a little surprised that she didn’t seem distracted by the noisy procession. She held her hands clasped at her waist, her expression so serene that he felt his own tension begin to slip away. As they drew closer to the chapel, her features became clearer. He was still too far away to tell the color of her eyes, yet they looked hauntingly familiar. Where had he seen those eyes before?

They were her only remarkable feature. Her hair was a plain, dark chestnut color, the slope of her nose not as dainty as he preferred, and her cheekbones too high and sharp to flatter the roundness of her chin. He stared openly, trying to summon a word to describe her. Few would call her pleasing or even pretty. Those terms were too earthy to describe a face such as hers. He stared harder.

Exquisite.

That word came very close. “Breathtaking” was a more apt description. He wondered that all in the bailey didn’t gape at her, dumbfounded by such perfection. Not that he would know if others stared or not. He couldn’t take his eyes from her. No matter how common or mismatched her features, they somehow combined to create the face of an angel.

The portcullis slammed shut behind the procession with a resounding clang that broke her strange hold over him. He forced his gaze lower to examine her dull green gown. What that gown contained lacked the religious inspiration of her face. Indeed, that part of her would tempt any man to more earthly thoughts. The high neckline emphasized the lush curves of her breasts and the tattered yellow ribbons around her waist made him want to place his hands there to see if they would encircle her as easily. The skirt flared down forever,
an indication that her legs would be long and probably well-shaped. Then he noticed her thick braid, that the tail of it ended somewhere past her knees. Unbound, the hair would cover her like a cloak.

He found himself glad to be seated atop a horse. Standing upright, the wave of lust that struck him would have sent him to his knees. The face of a Madonna, a body meant for a man’s hands, and hair to tempt a saint to sin.

“Baron?” Evard repeated himself twice before Guy answered.

“Find out who she is, Evard.”

“Who?” Evard asked.

They rode past the chapel, and Guy had to turn his attention forward again or all within the bailey would remark upon the direction of his gaze. The reins drew tighter within his gauntlet, and the horse tossed its head in protest. The woman’s regal bearing and fine clothing marked her a lady, probably the wife of a Lonsdale knight. It didn’t matter. He had to know who she was. “The woman on the chapel steps. Dark hair and a moss-green gown. Learn everything you can of her.”

Guy spurred his horse forward, no longer anxious to meet his host. He wanted to reach the keep where their spy awaited, where Evard could find out more about the woman in the bailey.

“You will not attend the mass to celebrate Baron Montague’s arrival?”

Claudia Chiavari tugged another weed from the bed of herbs, then looked up to smile at the young friar. Her soft voice carried the lyrical tones of her native Italian. “Nay, Friar Thomas. I attended mass this morning.”

That wasn’t the entire reason she wouldn’t attend the special mass, but more of an explanation than she would give any other. Friar Thomas seemed to understand her when she spoke his difficult Norman language. He didn’t ridicule her accent, nor shun her as did many at Lonsdale. The English
were a suspicious lot, distrusting of anyone different from themselves. In her five long years at Lonsdale Castle she’d learned to understand the Norman language, yet she spoke only when spoken to and kept her answers as short as possible. The Norman words sounded right to her, but others said her accent made them hard to comprehend. She hated it when she had to repeat herself, slower, louder, again and again. They made her feel a fool.