Captured by the Warrior by MERIEL FULLER Page B

agreed to marry him! Bastien’s choice of words made Edmund sound like some sort of court fop. Unease sluiced through her veins, a trickle of doubt. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about; you don’t even know him.’
    ‘Aye, but I know you,’ he shot back, ‘and I know your demanding, wilful behaviour. No man in his right mind would put up with that, so your Edmund, well…all I can say is “good luck” to him.’ Bastien shrugged his shoulders.
    ‘That’s it! I’m not staying here to listen to this a moment longer!’ Alice pushed past his large frame, almost tipping herself into the flower-bed in the process. A shaft of pure rose scent burst into the air, strong and heady. ‘Edmund is not like that at all!’ she threw back over her shoulder before mounting the stone steps. Ahead of her, the arched doorway stood open, throwing out a shaft of warm light, like a beacon. ‘At least he knows how to treat a lady!’
    In two short strides he was upon her, one hand gripping her upper arm, preventing forward movement. His distinctive smell of musky leather, spliced with a tint of mead, curled around her. ‘I would treat you like a lady…’ his voice lowered, a tantalising baritone ‘…if you behaved like one.’

Chapter Seven
    T he morning sun sent brilliant shafts of light streaming through the arched upper windows of the great hall, the rays refracting slightly through the brittle, hand-blown glass. Few people moved about; the hour was still early. One servant scrubbed down the well-worn planks of the trestle tables, the bristle brush swishing rhythmically across the wood, the water in the bucket sloshing noisily as the servant kicked it along the floor to keep level with his cleaning. Another servant swept the large flagstones clear of debris from the evening before, heaping together a mound of wine-soaked straw before lifting it into a barrow. The new fire burned merrily in the grate, the damp sticks crackling and spitting.
    At the top table, Bastien sat alone. Finishing his breakfast, he pushed the platter away. The high collar of his shirt dug into his neck and he reached up to pull at it, to try to stretch the stiff linen. Inadvertently, his fingers brushed over the leather lace that he wore beneath, next to his skin. The familiar circle of goldthat dangled against his chest drew his fingers, almost against their will. Katherine! The name punched into his brain, clamouring, begging for attention. A raft of memory scythed through him, making him pull his fingers away abruptly, as if bitten. Why did he still wear it, if it caused him so much pain? He had hoped by this time the memories would have dulled, dwindled into the misty obscurity of the past, and the betrothal ring would remind him of the true love that had once been his. The fighting in France had helped; a mind totally focused on the intricacies of battle allowed little room to brood over what had happened. Yet even now, when he touched the ring, the memories leapt vividly into his brain as if they had happened only yesterday.
    He needed to focus, to turn his attention to the task in hand. Where was the silly girl anyway? He’d sent the maid up hours ago to tumble her from her bed; he was damned if he was going to do it himself! Every bone in his body baulked against the Duke’s plan. He’d wrangled far into the night with Richard about the sense in taking the girl at all—surely it made better sense to keep her prisoner here, for Bastien to go as a messenger? But the Duke had been stubborn, adamant. ‘The Queen guards the King like a secret; no one has seen him for months. She is more likely to trust someone she knows. Think sensibly. The girl is a gift, our key to enter the House of Lancaster.’
    His toes curled at the prospect of travelling at a snail’s pace; with the girl carried in a litter it would take an extra day, at least. No doubt she was fussing and flapping with her clothes right now, in anticipation of seeing her