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The Knight's Return
Joanne Rock
In dire need of a protector and escort, Irish princess Sorcha has no choice but to allow mercenary Hugh de Montagne to fulfill the role. Having been duped into marriage, then exiled in disgrace, Sorcha trusts no man. Yet something about the brooding warrior makes her yearn for his touch. . . .At the king's behest, Hugh must thwart Sorcha's enemies at all costs. He has no intention of taking a wife, but every dayand every nighthe spends with the flamehaired princess leads him closer to temptation. . . .



“Will you keep my secret?” He stood close to her in the darkness, the warmth of his body making her shiver.
“Secrets are dangerous,” she warned him, wishing she had listened to that counsel when her old nursemaid had bestowed it upon her long ago.
“Aye. All my life is a secret to me and it puts me in danger every day.” The heat behind his words presented an illusion of truth. He spoke like a man tormented by demons of his own.
“I owe you for helping me rejoin the world today, if only for a few hours.” She had enjoyed the intense interest he seemed to take in her. “I will keep your secret until we meet again.”
“When will that be?” he prodded, seeking answers she did not have.
“You may return to the cottage in daylight, but let us not meet under the cover of night anymore.”
There was an intimacy about it. A sense that they shared more than secrets in the darkness….
The Knight’s Return
Harlequin
Historical

Praise for Joanne Rock
“Joanne Rock’s heroes capture and conquer in just one glance, one word, one touch. Irresistible!”
—USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Leto
A Knight Most Wicked
“Rock starts with an unusual setting—Bohemia—and makes it work. Her character-building skills give us a hero and heroine who are deeply emotional and engaging.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Knight’s Courtship
“Joanne Rock’s historicals will sweep you away to a world so filled with passion and pageantry that you’ll never want to leave.”
—Romance Junkies
The Laird’s Lady
“Classic battle of wills plot, fiery repartee and feisty heroine.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Knight’s Redemption
“A highly readable medieval romance with an entertaining touch of the paranormal.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Wedding Knight
“The Wedding Knight is guaranteed to please! Joanne Rock brings a fresh, vibrant voice to this charming tale.”
—New York Times bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

Joanne Rock
The KNIGHT’SReturn


TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For Dean, who ensures there is never a dull moment…

Available from Harlequin
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The Wedding Knight #694
The Knight’s Redemption #720
The Betrothal #749
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My Lady’s Favor #758
The Laird’s Lady #769
The Knight’s Courtship #812
A Knight Most Wicked #890
The Knight’s Return #942

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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue

Chapter One
North of London, 1169
Waking proved difficult when one’s eyes were stuck shut.
The dizzy-headed man stretched the muscles in his face from his position on the hard pallet. He willed his lids to open so that he might see the world about him. The scents that assailed him were at once familiar and strange. Sheep dung. Hay. The burnt remains of some poorly cooked meal. Likewise, the sounds did not provide any clues. He heard children shouting and laughing. A woman’s voice yelling. Animals braying, naying and snorting.
The effect was unpleasant and not what he was accustomed to. Or was it?
Worry crawled along his forehead as he struggled to envision a normal morning. A normal day? He was not sure of the time let alone the place.
“The border leaves this morn, Meg,” a man’s deep voice barked nearby. “His illness is a burden on this family that robs our own children of food.”
“Have you no Christian charity, husband?” The softly sweet feminine tones sounded almost musical in the cool room.
Was he the topic of discussion? It was no leap to guess his health was poor since he could not open his eyes. His body ached with weakness, his limbs too heavy to lift.
“You are not a lord’s wife, Meg. If you want this unconscious lump of humanity to have his fill of food and broth, take him to a family who can afford him. You ken? He leaves today or I bring him to the village square to be with the other half-wits unfit to feed themselves.”
Something stung inside him. His pride, he realized. He was not a half-wit. Just a suffering man.
“But John, what if he is someone of consequence? Young Harold says he brought in a horse and he hardly looks like a stable boy…” The woman continued pleading with her husband but their conversation became muted as another voice sounded closer to his ear.
“You must leave if you do not want to become fodder for the village pigs next week,” a boy’s voice—close to his bedside—whispered.
With a last great effort, the man dragged open one eye and then the other.
He was in a small wooden cottage with a dirt floor and one large chamber. Animals walked as freely as the four humans in residence. Well, four discounting him. The man was not sure he felt quite human and the consensus seemed to put him well below both people and animals in importance.
A lad peered up at him in a small wooden cottage, his face covered in dust, his filthy hair matted against his cheeks. The eyes were lit with interest, however. As if pig fodder proved fascinating.
“My brother says that is what they do with half-wits if they provide no service,” the boy continued.
The man touched his temple and winced. The hair had been trimmed, his forehead sutured with neat stitches. He knew at once the sewing had been the work of the sweet-voiced woman. No doubt he owed his life to these strangers.
“What is your name?” the boy prodded, poking him in the shoulder.
His eyes fell shut again and he scarcely heard the conversation growing heated across the room. By the rood, he would get up and leave if he could.
“Don’t you even know your own name?” The boy sounded exasperated, his speech mirroring his father’s in cadence.
“Hugh.” The man answered without thought, but that lone name was all he managed. Now that it hung in the air between them, he wished to add something to it—to claim his family and legacy with some other title.
Hugh son of someone. Hugh of York. Hugh of the Black Garter. But he could not find any hint of a second name in the chaos of his foggy thoughts. His head felt scrubbed clean of the past, as if it had retained nothing prior to this moment.
Panicking, Hugh slapped the thighs of his hose and waist of his tunic, searching for personal belongings. There was no sword. No eating knife with a family crest that might help identify him. No leather pouch of belongings or some lady’s favor.
And why would a man wearing rough woolen hose and a worn cotton tunic be possessed of some lady’s token? The idea seemed incongruous and yet…
Who in Hades was he?
“I don’t mind you eating my gruel, Hugh.” The boy sniffed back a wet inhalation and scraped his sleeve across his face for good measure. “But me da says you must go because, even though you came into my master’s stables leading a horse, you might not be more than a common thief.”
“A horse?” Hugh wondered if he might have belongings stored with the beast’s saddle and bags, though he suspected not since the cottage’s inhabitants were ready to toss him into the streets. Surely if he had possessions to speak of, his hosts would have taken them in recompense for their trouble.
“Aye.”
“How long have I been here? Where did you find me?”
“You came into town on Monday and left your horse in the care of my da’s stable. Later that afternoon, we discovered you in a ditch beside the alehouse, your head split wide and bleeding like soup from an overturned pot.”
Hugh searched his memory for some recollection of the event. Was he a drunkard then?
“And what day is it now?”
“’Tis Wednesday.”
“Can you take me to the mount?”
The lad nodded. Across the cottage, the other family members seemed to have noticed he was awake and speaking. The woman hastened to his bedside while the man hung back.
“I will leave immediately,” Hugh called to the crofter, determined to figure out why his head ached like the bloody devil and his brain seemed blank as a newborn babe’s.
Both the man’s and the woman’s raised eyebrows demonstrated mutual surprise.
“You must not go—” the woman began.
“You owe my boy for the care of the horse. Perhaps you could trade those shoes,” the husband suggested.
Sweet Jesu. Was this what his life had come down to? Selling his shoes to stable his mount?
Hugh had the feeling he had not been raised in this kind of struggling world, though perhaps he just wanted to cling to a pleasing vision on a hellish day. But Christ above. His leather boots were not the frayed scraps of cloth his host wore to protect his feet from random sheep dung lying about the cottage. Perhaps his gut instincts were not pure fancy after all.
“I am beholden to you and your whole family.” Hugh attempted an inclination of his head to show respect to these people living with their pigs, and immediately regretted it. “I will give the lad the shoes upon retrieving my mount.”
A scant while later, his body aching after following the boy through a narrow street past women doing their washing, Hugh realized suspicious eyes turned toward him from every direction. No doubt the inhabitants of this area had heard of his condition from their neighbor. He would invent a full name for himself to ensure his wits were not in question. He could pretend a sanity he did not feel. But he would not allow himself to be taken for a victim of mania. Or drunkenness, for that matter.
“Here,” the lad said finally, pointing the way to a stall hardly worthy to be called a stable.
Yet the mount was a warhorse of great breadth and strength. The saddle that hung from a nearby post bore no unusual markings, and there were no bags or bundles through which to search for clues to his name.
“Thank you,” Hugh said carefully, leaning forward to remove his shoes while the boy saddled the horse. Hugh’s head pounded with the small effort to unfasten the boots, but he struggled to hide his weakness in front of the villagers’ peering eyes. “I am grateful to you, son.”
“Thank you,” the boy returned, eyes shining with pleasure as he took the offering. “Good luck to you in Connacht, sir.”
The farewell made Hugh straighten. The sound of the name rang with the familiarity of an old friend’s face.
“Pardon?”
“That day you dropped off the mount, you said you were riding to Connacht on the morrow, but that was some days ago. Me da says that’s a town in Wales, but the blacksmith who lives yonder claims it’s a kingdom across the Irish Channel.”
Hugh knew with a certainty he could not explain that he had planned to attend to some affairs in the Irish petty kingdom. Though for what purpose, he had no memory. But it was more of a clue than he’d had so far about his purpose. His place in life. He would go to Ireland to retrieve his sanity.
“I make my way to the Ireland. Fare thee well, boy.” Hugh stepped lightly to his horse, avoiding the filth in the road before he raised himself up on the mount’s back.
He did not know his own name, but he knew with a bone-deep certainty he could make his way to Ireland by his wits if nothing else. A fierceness roared within him.
He would discover his name. His legacy.
But first he needed to discover why the mention of a far-flung Irish kingdom sent the first tremor of recognition through his addled brain. He knew absolutely that some great task awaited him in Connacht. A matter that needed tending to with all haste.
A mission he might already be too late to accomplish.
Connacht, Ireland
Two months later
Sorcha ingen Con Connacht felt the presence of a stranger before she heard his footsteps in nearby woods.
Stilling herself, she reached for her dagger with one hand and hugged her young son closer with the other. No one walked the paths near Sorcha’s home. All of Connacht knew her shame.
Being banished from her father’s small Irish kingdom had put her into exile for over a year now, and the isolation in a remote stretch of forest made her senses keen to the presence of another soul. She could feel a change in the air when anyone neared—even when a maid from the keep delivered food stores or a villager traded meat for clothing from Sorcha’s loom. But when an approaching stranger was male, her senses sharpened all the more acutely.
Sharpened with the undeniably primal instincts of a mother protecting her babe.
Every day she half expected her father’s guard to arrive to take her son away and deposit her in a convent. Her father had threatened as much by summer’s end. But surely her father’s knights would not arrive quietly. They would storm through the forest with a full contingent to seize her.
“Who goes there?” she shouted into the trees in a harsh voice, determined her son would come to no harm even though they were vulnerable here—far removed from her father’s lofty keep on the coast. “My sire is lord of these lands and will allow no harm done to his heir.”
Her boy, Conn, squealed in response to her raised voice from his seat upon her hip. She hushed him softly while concealing her dagger up her sleeve. Should she run? Or did that invite some thief to give chase?
She cradled Conn tighter, squeezing the weight of his year-old body closer. He squirmed now, his hand gripping a hank of her hair and pulling hard.
“I seek the lord of these lands, lady, and I mean you no harm.” A masculine voice preceded the trespasser from the other side of a small clearing at the base of the mountains that protected the headlands of Connacht.
Sorcha roamed the mountainside daily since she’d been confined to an outpost at the edge of her father’s lands, the hills and valleys her refuge from the world’s disdain.
She’d always felt safe here, even if she was scorned. Now she couldn’t help but recall the warnings she’d received from her father’s keep that war might come to Connacht at any time. She walked steadily backward as she watched the man emerge from the trees.
And if the resonant thrum of masculine tones had been impressive, his size was twice as daunting.
The stranger was easily the largest man she’d ever seen. Thick-chested and girded by muscles that could only be honed for sword fighting, the traveler had to be a warrior even if he rode no horse and brandished no sword. Squinting through the late-afternoon sunlight, Sorcha struggled for a better look, only to feel faint as his features came into clearer view.
“For the love of Our Blessed Lady.” Her grip on her child slipped, the boy’s chubby fists shoving her mercilessly in an effort to walk on his own. She had no choice but to put him down if she wanted to maintain her grip on her weapon, so she tucked him behind her skirts.
She straightened, not believing her eyes. Did the dead return to walk among the living? She tucked the knife closer to her body, wishing the point did not scrape open her finger as she held it in place. Still, if the stranger stalked any closer, she would be glad to have the blade within easy reach.
“My lady?” The man paused, as if attempting to prove his claim he meant no harm.
Did he realize how much harm he caused with no more than his starkly featured countenance?
Dark hair streamed down his back, glistening in the sunlight as if he had just rinsed it clean in some fast-running spring brook. His gaze took on a curious gleam, although she could envision those dark, gold-flecked eyes turned to her in anger.
Or in passion…
Heaven help her, but did she have to be reminded of her sins at every turn?
“What business do you have with the lord of this place, sir?” Her words were raw in her throat, stripped of any soft courtesy.
A tremble tripped through her skin, followed by a tangle of emotions in her belly that seemed too convoluted to sort through now.
“Your expression makes me wonder if we have met, my lady.” The stranger did not incline his head like a courtier. He only continued to stare at her with an attention all the more rapt since she began her careful perusal.
And yet, this was not her former lover. She could see the differences in this man’s face now that he’d moved closer and the sunlight no longer played tricks with her vision.
Still…the trespasser’s resemblance to the father of her son was remarkable. Suspect.
“We are unknown to each other, sir. Pray excuse my surprise at seeing you here when I am accustomed to privacy upon this side of the mountain.” Wanting to escape him and flee the quiet glade where no one would hear her if she cried out, Sorcha bent to retrieve the blanket she’d brought along with the basket she’d used to gather flowers. “Conn, we must go, my love.”
While smiling reassuringly at her son, she never took her eyes off the man, watching his hands for any sign of movement toward his weapon. Cursing her father for consigning her to this godforsaken borderland, Sorcha would never feel safe in these woods again—not when Conn’s life depended on her. Keeping her boy secure was the only benefit of allowing her father to dispatch her to the convent. The king would protect his grandson. She would merely have to relinquish all contact with her child and trade the rest of her days to give Conn a future.
For now, she tried to keep her movements unhurried despite the maelstrom of memories, emotions and questions that attacked her from all sides. Not even the scent of spring flowers all around her could cover up the stench of her fear.
“Pray do not let me disturb you.” The man held up a hand in a show of surrender, keeping his distance from her and Conn. “I have journeyed far to see your sire and I would not let anything delay me from the task.”
“You would make better time on a horse, warrior.” Could he be a spy for the invading armies, surveying the lands before others arrived? She could not understand his alliance or his possible purpose here.
The man lacked the accoutrements she associated with a knight. He wore no sword, although a dagger gleamed from its sheathe at his waist. His garb bore no hint of family or heraldry, which she supposed was not strange for a mercenary, and yet his clothes had almost too humble an air for a man of such imposing stature and breadth. Still, given his resemblance to her onetime lover, she half expected to see the du Bois crest upon his person—the white stag rampant upon a blue field.
“I was set upon by thieves some leagues hence,” he explained, locking his hands behind his back as if to reinforce his message that he meant no harm. Unfortunately, Sorcha was well acquainted with men who were not at all what they seemed. “Their numbers were too many to defeat for a lone knight.”
“Thieves?”
He shrugged as if the loss of his horse and weaponry were no great offense, when she knew some knights owned nothing in the world save their armor and their mount. Had he made up the story about the thieves to explain away his presence here? Had his family sent him to find her? Curiosity grew, but she tempered it with wariness.
“I thought to offer your father my services in cleaning out the lot of them if he can provide me with a horse. Nothing would please me more than to rescue my own mount with the blood of his captors.” He inclined his head again, strangely polite for a mercenary, especially one with Norman forebears. “Begging your pardon for the threat, my lady.”
Something tugged at her hand and she nearly lost her grip on the knife up her sleeve as Conn tried to get her attention. Heart squeezing with a trickle of fear that the stranger might perceive the flash of a blade as a threat, Sorcha gave herself another cut as she shoved the blade back in place.
“My father is wily with horseflesh, sir.” She spoke quickly to deflect the man’s attention from the way she hitched at her sleeve. “So be careful to look upon the mount he provides. But I have no doubt he will gladly make such an exchange.” The lord of Tir’a Brahui had ascended to the throne with as much cunning as might, and while Sorcha did not appreciate his treatment of her, she could not deny her father the respect that was his due.
She could, however, torment him gently through this unseated warrior by encouraging the man to barter. The thought made her smile right through the strain of this odd conversation with a total stranger.
The sun slipped lower on the horizon, causing the man to shield his eyes.
“Might I know your name so that when I speak to your father I may tell him we have met?” He stood bathed in sunlight, his rough-hewn garments taking on a golden sheen as he studied her.
And once again there loomed a flash of recognition, a sense that she had once known him…Perhaps it was a good thing her knife was not more accessible.
“I am Sorcha.” She owned her identity with pride despite her father’s desire to make her regret all that she was. “And I assure you that your bargaining will prove more favorable if you do not mention my name to my sire. Fare thee well, sir.”
Turning, she kept the knife tucked up her sleeve. She wanted to put distance between her and the source of her muddled feelings—fear and resentment at his intrusion on her privacy, worry that he was some relative of her former lover. She recoiled at the thought. Her exile gave her far too much time to mull over past mistakes and fret for her son’s future. She didn’t need any more worries. There was no choice but to forget she’d ever met this dark-eyed stranger.
“You do not wish to know my name in return?” the stranger called to her.
“We will not meet again,” she returned without looking back, holding Conn’s hand with her free palm.
“Sorcha?”
Sighing, she paused. Turned.
“Aye?”
“You must hold the blade at your side. Within the folds of your skirts.”
“I beg your—”
She stopped when his gaze slid unerringly down her body toward the hand concealing her weapon.
“Your hold is too awkward to be unnoticeable. Whereas if you grip the handle in your palm, you are more comfortable and in more of a position to use it quickly. For instance, if I came at you now—”
He stepped forward.
“Do not.” She pulled Conn behind her again. Shaking her arm, she slid the blade free of her sleeve so she could use it if necessary.
By God, she would let no man touch her son. Not even one who looked strangely like the boy’s father.
“I only meant to suggest you could not react quickly enough with a dagger inside your sleeve.” He halted his progress, although she guessed he felt little threat from her blade. “I will pray you never have need of your weapon, but if you are inclined to use it, you would do well to draw blood from the enemy and not from your forearm. Godspeed, Sorcha.”
The mercenary spun on his heel, a crude excuse for a shoe covering his foot in straw and linen as he walked away. Was he a desperately poor knight? A common thief playing games with her? She could not imagine how a commoner could have taught himself such a pretty accent, but perhaps that was no more strange than a horseless English knight strolling through her father’s kingdom on shoes of straw.
Either way, she was well rid of his company and she would be more careful in the future. Hadn’t she heard the foreign wars would find their way to Connacht before long? And how sad that she feared the idea of foreign invaders less than another, more personal threat against her.
Her son.
Plucking up Conn in her arms, she ran home with all haste, grateful for another day of freedom from the convent to be with her child.

Chapter Two
She knew him or she knew of him. Of that much Hugh was certain.
He paced an empty antechamber within the walls of Tir’a Brahui, the coastal keep belonging to Tiernan Con Connacht. Hugh had reached the holding the night before but did not wish to intrude in the dark and appear a threat. He truly had lost his horse and his sword, but not to thieves as he’d told Sorcha. He’d needed to trade them for various supplies on the long journey since he’d had no funds to speak of. Last night, he’d foraged for food, stamping down the desire to build a fire, and spent the night anonymously in the king’s forest, the same way he’d spent so many nights these last two moons on the road.
Now, at midmorn, he paced the sparse room adorned in naught but colorful tapestries that were surely aged and tattered a hundred years ago. The petty kingdom ruled over by Sorcha’s father was subject to a higher king of Connacht, but Hugh’s understanding of the country’s leadership stopped there. He’d been too focused on figuring out who he was and how to survive the long journey to pay attention to politics and the incessant warmongering that seemed to take place among the smaller kingdoms.
Now that he’d come to Ireland, he hoped to see something or someone that would nudge a memory. His impression of Tiernan Con Connacht was not favorable thus far and Hugh rather hoped they were not related. What king allowed his daughter to live unprotected on the fringes of his kingdom? Hugh could not envision the woman and her son surviving for long with Norman invaders at Hugh’s heels.
The idea of harm befalling her did not settle well. In fact, he’d felt pulled to her so strongly he guessed they must have met. And yet she’d denied any knowledge of him. Still, even without a connection between them, he’d been compelled to protect her. The memory of her gripping a knife so fiercely her fingers bled stayed with him long after night had fallen yester eve. The warrior in him recognized her absolute commitment to protecting her son at any cost, and he had no doubt she would have wielded the blade fiercely if Hugh posed a threat.
Had he left behind a woman so devoted to family? Stopping in front of a faded yellow tapestry depicting a man and a woman releasing their falcon, Hugh smoothed his hand over the lady’s face. He’d given little thought to the possibility of being married, but the stirring in his blood at the sight of Sorcha made him consider the likelihood.
Could he have forgotten a wife? A child?
“You may see His Highness now,” a man announced as Hugh spun to see him. A servant was dressed in red and blue, his clothes as vibrant as everyone else’s in this strange land.
“Thank you.” Hugh released a pent-up breath, more than ready to get answers about his identity.
He’d offered up a false name at the gate to Tir’a Brahui, calling himself Hugh Fitz Henry. The surname was common enough, the kind of moniker bastards received all the time when their mothers wished to point fingers at a father. Other times, the name was chosen in homage to a king since there had been a Henry on the English throne for nigh on seventy years.
How sorry was it that Hugh remembered more about the king’s seat than his own place in the world?
“Follow me,” the servant said, disappearing into the corridor lit by a torch despite the daylight hours. The keep allowed in precious little sun, and the interior corridors remained shadowy.
Squinting to adjust to the dimness, Hugh planned his strategy for this meeting. He needed to pinpoint the king immediately—to gauge the lord’s reaction before he could mask his response to Hugh’s presence.
Perhaps the king was a friend. But what if he was somehow behind Hugh’s predicament? The stitches healing in his head told him someone had brutalized him. Was his lack of memory due to the beating? He knew he was no half-wit since his skills with a weapon and his instincts for survival had proven well honed on the journey here.
“This way, sir.” The servant paused beside a door but did not enter it, standing aside to let Hugh pass.
Hugh nodded and surveyed the portal. Light streamed from the chamber. The one wall within his view contained a rack of swords polished and ready for use. Steeling himself for the meeting, Hugh walked through the door.
Any expectations for a crown-wearing lord in a high throne were dashed by the sight of twelve men seated at a table, none higher than the other. He scanned the faces quickly, his eyes starting at one end of the table and working down, only to be struck by the sense that the king was the largest man seated in the center.
That noble wore a jeweled brooch at his collar and the ruby at the center was the kind of stone few lords would possess. In a land where the number of colors a person wore seemed significant, this person’s garb contained the most. Purple and yellow vied with green and blue. Checkers on his tunic were not enough ornamentation. Stripes on his crimson cloak made him a target for the eye. Every other knight at the table wore bright silks and satins.
But for a court that adhered to a hierarchy of dress, giving slaves but one color to wear and the king as many as imaginable, Hugh was surprised the king did not take a seat at a higher table or even at the head.
If Tiernan Con Connacht was a man of traditional custom, Hugh had yet to see a sign of it.
He also had yet to see any hint of recognition in the sovereign’s face. While it was disappointing not to discover an answer to the matter of his identity, it also meant he was able to relax without having to pretend to know someone he did not recollect.
“Your Highness.” Hugh swept a low bow. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Bowing did not feel natural to him. Another hint he spent more time battling enemies than licking royal boot soles.
“If you are here to talk peace between our lands, you are the strangest courtier I’ve ever seen.” The older man spoke between sips of ale, the knights around him going quiet. “Ye look more like a warrior than a peacemaker.”
The knights clustered around the king appeared ready to lunge for their knives at any moment.
“Peace is no business of mine. I come to offer you my sword if you have need of a mercenary.”
He had no sword, of course. He’d bargained with lords and thieves, merchants and even a child who had taken the bribe of a cake in exchange for help unlocking an armory on his way to their seaside kingdom. He’d not stolen any weapon from that armory, but he’d needed a blade to obtain a meal, after which he’d replaced the knife. In that way, his journey had been unbearably slow, but he’d arrived in Connacht at last.
He would talk his way into a place among the king’s court until he had time to know these people. To understand what connection bound him to them.
“I find it hard to believe you would offer that which you do not possess.” The king’s keen eye assessed Hugh’s lowly garments. “I spoke with my man at the gate and was told you carried no weapon save a dagger, and I would be more than surprised if you could inflict much damage on a sword-wielding enemy with such a knife.”
“You might be surprised what cunning will accomplish when it allies with such a knife.”
Someone at the king’s table snorted.
“And think you I will take your word on this skill?” One sandy eyebrow arched and Hugh knew he was a moment away from being dismissed.
His lack of checkered clothes and leather shoes put him at a disadvantage.
“I am content to prove the claim.”
For a moment, no one at the table spoke, and then the king barked with laughter.
“Do you hope to cut down my men from inside my walls, English? Are you my enemies’ latest weapon?”
One of the king’s men stood, his hand still on his sword, although he did not draw it.
“I would lay waste to any enemy first, my liege,” the younger man swore, his cheeks flushed with impassioned feeling.
“No need, Donngal.” The king waved him down, still studying Hugh. By now, Hugh thought he spied a hint of interest or—possibly—respect in the other man’s eyes. “I would ask that Fergus do the honors.”
With a nod to the man seated at his right, Tiernan Con Connacht as good as gave the battle order.
“You must know your gatekeeper relieved me of my knife.” Hugh gauged the other man’s height. His breadth.
“Donngal, give him yours.” The king took another sip of ale and leaned back in his chair at the table. He seemed ready for a show.
Hugh would strive not to disappoint. Being taken in as a mercenary meant earning the right to remain in the court, where there must be a clue to his past. The right to remain in Connacht long enough to discover why Lady Sorcha’s eyes lit up when she first spied him.
The boy who’d risen to threaten Hugh now flushed even deeper to hand over his dagger to an English knight.
“Thank you.” He accepted the blade as Fergus stalked around to Hugh’s side of the table.
Before the knight stepped within sword’s reach of him, Hugh reacted. He arced back the blade and let it fly, seeing the knife launched from his hand before he had time to wonder if he possessed the necessary skill for such a trick. The knife traveled end over end, spinning through the air until it found its mark under Fergus’s arm, pinning the fabric of his tunic and cloak to the wall behind him.
The captive cloth pulled the knight back in midstride. Steel clanked and reverberated as ten men drew their swords in response. Hugh marveled at this newly discovered talent even as he thanked the saints he did not kill the warrior. Every day he learned more of his skills and he had to think he’d once been a powerful knight. A leader of men, perhaps. Or a battle tactician.
“Hold.” The king lifted one arm, a heavy gold nasc thick with engraving about his wrist. “Donngal, free Fergus and sheathe your knife. Men, you may put away your swords around our unarmed friend.”
When Donngal looked as though he would argue, Fergus growled low at him and that was all it took to quiet the younger man.
“Leave us, my friends,” the king continued, motioning to his knights.
Hugh watched as ten men filed out, some glaring at him, others paying him little heed. Only Fergus and the king remained. He sensed that boded well. If Hugh had been destined for death, he suspected the king would have accomplished the deed in front of all his men.
“Well done, sir.” The king’s whole aspect changed as he waved Hugh closer. “I have need of a man with your skills in the matter of my daughter.”
Warning hummed over Hugh’s skin. Did the king despise his exiled offspring so much that he would hire a mercenary to…He could not complete the thought. And he would not hurt a woman no matter what the prize.
“I hoped to fight at your side, Your Highness.” He inclined his head to show respect in an effort to balance his words of disagreement.
“You have already met my daughter.”
His head snapped up.
“She may be in exile, but that does not mean I do not watch over her.”
“It is true we exchanged words,” Hugh acknowledged.
“You could have killed her. Or worse.”
“I would harm no woman.”
“Precisely why you show potential as a protector for her.”
Who entrusted a princess to a foreigner, and a stranger at that? Tiernan would be at war with the Normans before the year was out. The king had no reason to trust Hugh.
“Why not a man of your house?” Why not Fergus?
“She is protected from afar, but not from up close, and she has always been too willful to allow my guards near her, even when she lived within my walls.” He scowled. “She once sneaked from the keep to ride with my men on a campaign against the Norsemen. She journeyed halfway across our lands in the guise of a man’s garb before she revealed herself, informing Fergus she was bored and wished to return home.”
Fergus grunted, shaking his head at the memory.
“Do you know she refused to allow him to escort her and made it a point to escape him at every turn until he had to tie my daughter to him like a captive?”
“A bold and unwise scheme on her part, Your Highness, but now that she is a mother—”
“She came to be a mother through deceiving me shamefully and cavorting with a man I’ve never had the chance to lay eyes on, lest he would be in his grave in many small pieces.” The king shouted for more ale as he clamped a gloved hand to his forehead. “The lass is a danger to herself and possibly a danger to her son, who is innocent of her crimes. I will send her to the convent by summer’s end, but until then, her son is too young to be taken from her. I would reward you generously if you would consider watching over her these next two moons without letting her know you are her protector.”
“And how do you suggest I would succeed where your men have failed?” Hugh was more than ready to take on a task concerning the princess after the leap of recognition in her eyes upon their first meeting.
“Ye boasted enough of your skills with or without a sword. Have you no answer for the chance to serve a wealthy king?” Tiernan Con Connacht held out his flagon as a flame-haired maid approached with a pitcher. “And have you no idea how to win a lady’s favor?”
“I am a knight, not some court poet to sing praises to a lady’s elbow.”
“You will court her.” The king took a long drink. “Offer to escort her about.”
“Surely you cannot propose a union when—”
“Of course not.” The fire in the king’s green eyes suggested he did not wish to imagine any man touching this spoiled daughter of his no matter how much he bemoaned her headstrong ways. “You may leave here a wealthy man come harvesttime when a convent is willing to take her in. As long as she is untouched and you have not revealed your true purpose to her by then, you may have your choice of rewards from the royal treasure stores.”
Guard a willful princess through the summer months until he could discover who he was? He guessed there must be drawbacks to this task that the king could not find a man of his own to manage the chore. But then, Sorcha would recognize all but the newest of her father’s knights.
Regardless, he would walk away from this a richer man, even if he did not regain his memory. He could not afford to say nay.
“What makes you think she will agree to this courtship?” Hugh did not deceive himself that he would hold any great appeal for a woman raised in the lavish setting of Tir’a Brahui. And his pride would not allow him to beg for any woman’s favor.
The king smiled. “I have banished her for over a year, son. The lass has had nowhere to go save a few quiet hills in the forest. She rejected the courtship of other noblemen at first, but I think she might be more amenable now if only the offers for her hand had not ceased long ago.” His eyes brightened. “By now, I suspect she would allow the devil himself to woo her if it meant being allowed to leave her domain.”

Sorcha unfurled the scroll from her father onto a worn table, the first missive he had sent in many moons.
In the early months of her exile she had burned his letters, refusing to hear anything he had to say after he cast her out. He had not listened to the explanation behind her growing belly. Had not cared that she was grievously deceived into thinking she was married after a false priest had said all the proper words to bind her to a man she thought would be her husband for eternity.
But time and motherhood made her less rash. While she would still not allow her father or any of his men near her, she had read his last three missives. They no longer contained recrimination and accusation. He had written her of how his sheep fared. Of negotiations with his allies as he prepared to fend off the oncoming Normans. She missed knowing the workings of the kingdom.
She used to read to her father once his eyesight began to fail and she’d taken pride in the education he’d granted her when most women had no such privilege. Her father had given her much, but had expected unswerving loyalty in return. A loyalty he considered betrayed.
Sweet heaven, she could not live in the past any longer. Staring down at the page, she read:
Daughter,
I have shielded you from suitors while you were in confinement and for many moons afterward, but by your leave, I will forward all future entreaties to you. As you do not wish my counsel, I will not offer it. Hugh Fitz Henry, a mercenary who wandered into our lands recently, will arrive at your cottage this day.
Yours,
The bottom was signed with all her father’s assorted titles in the way he might sign an official document. Lord of this, baron of that, and so on. Sorcha stared at the missive in vague horror. Her father did not bother to soothe her with any niceties.
A stranger wished to court her? A wandering mercenary, no less? Clearly her father did not think she was worthy of a noble union anymore. And didn’t it surprise her how much that could still sting her heart after all this time?
She blinked furiously at the burning in her eyes, determined to live with the choices she’d made. Choices she could not regret when they had given her the precious blessing sleeping two rooms away with his nurse. How quickly a woman’s life and all her illusions could be torn asunder.
She did not know how long she stood in the middle of the cottage’s small hall, numb to the core. Should she send this suitor away the way she had rejected her father’s other overtures? Sorcha had to admit this one did not seem so much like an offering, however. Her father’s note had implied he was giving up on her.
Could this be one of his tricks? Some overgrown nurse in disguise sent to spy on her? Or was he truly giving her one last chance before he made good on his threat to send her to the convent?
The knock at her door reminded her she’d been thinking for too long. What had happened to the days when she had followed her heart and trusted her instincts?
Glancing out a narrow window, she scanned the tree line for signs of her father’s men but found no one save the imposing warrior on the other side of her threshold.
Or, from what she could see, he appeared to be a warrior. The only visual her tiny window allowed was the sight of the man’s bulging bicep fitted with a golden torc.
A soft gasp leaped from her mouth before she caught it with her hand and stepped back from the wall. By the mantle of Our Blessed Lady, she had not even seen the man’s face and already her heart quickened. This Hugh Fitz Henry did not lack for virility. Slipping over to the window once more, she eyed the man’s strong arm again, his bronzed skin setting off the brighter gold of the torc. The ends of the ornament were fashioned into the heads of two bulls, which were surely a fitting device for a man whose arms were easily the size of her thighs.
When he knocked again, Sorcha stuffed her father’s parchment in a leather pouch that hung from her girdle and opened the door.
A towering man awaited her. Easily reaching the top of the door frame, he would have to duck to enter her home. A white linen liente gleamed with bright newness in the spring sun, the short sleeves showing the arm she had already admired.
The warrior was far more sleekly handsome than she recalled after their meet in the glade two days prior.
“It’s you.” She could not contain her surprise.
The warrior bowed, his limbs falling in graceful lines despite the massive bulk of his body. He watched her with eyes that were not deferential in the least.
“Hugh Fitz Henry, at your service.”
Muscle rippled in his back and across his shoulders as he moved, his shirt stretched taut from the bow. As he straightened, she found new muscles to study, her eye lingering on the shadows beneath his light tunic.
Powerful.
The sheer size of him separated him from another knight she’d known. The knight whose face resembled his in some ways. But close up, Sorcha found differences she hadn’t seen that day in the clearing.
Still, those external dissimilarities did not mean they didn’t share the same black heart or the same opinion of women. Why would this man choose her—a fallen woman of the most public sort—to court?
His motives could not be honorable.
“Your service is highly suspect here, warrior. I suggest you find your path back to my father’s keep.” Backing up a step, Sorcha swung the door closed, unwilling to let any scheming mercenary into her home, no matter how appealing his appearance.

Chapter Three
The warrior caught the door neatly in his hand, his fingers wrapping around the wood at the last second.
The move was quick, silent and unexpected.
He reopened it slowly, his broad arm coming into focus by degrees until she could see the whole impressive length holding open her threshold. And wasn’t that just a little bit…dominating?
Sorcha searched for her old grit and fire—the willfulness her father had bemoaned half her life—and found only a maternal fear for the babe sleeping two rooms away. She would not allow any strange male in such proximity to her son, especially not one who would flex his strength in direct opposition to Sorcha’s wishes.
“Be careful, sir. I practiced my hold on my knife and I assure you I can wield it more easily thanks to your advice.” She kept her hand hidden in her skirt to perpetuate the idea that she might hide a blade from him.
“You closed the entryway with that hand.” He smiled as he released the slab of wood, the removal of that strong arm making her feel less intimidated. But then, she remembered that about him from the glade where they’d met. Hugh Fitz Henry was skilled at giving the illusion he would not harm someone. No doubt he’d needed to cultivate that talent from a young age, given his size.
“I reached for it after I closed it.” She was no stranger to deceit when a situation warranted.
Her fear had diminished somewhat, but she could not be too careful.
“Lady Sorcha, will you feel more at ease outside?” He gestured to her small plot where a few wildflowers had grown since winter. “I just wish to speak to you and if you are still as unmoved by my suit afterward, I promise to leave and bother you no more.”
Ah, they could be so accommodating when it pleased them, couldn’t they? She peered past him to the fresh spurts of spring grass and budding trees, an awakening world she’d spent little time noticing until she’d had naught to entertain her but the seasons and her son.
Would it be so dangerous then, to sit in the garden with him, this man who had already proven no threat to her well-being? She had not spoken at length to any noble person—any adult noble person—since she had been banished. Her sister, Onora, had attempted to visit her, but Sorcha had feared Onora would suffer at their father’s hands for the efforts and had forbade her younger sibling to visit the cottage anymore.
Surely Sorcha could keep this knight at bay when his intentions were more—corporeal than violent. After her first romantic encounter with a man, she’d learned too late the power of a woman’s ability to say no, but she would put that lesson to use well now, if necessary.
“I will join you shortly.” She pointed to the left where her garden awaited. “There is a bench nearby. I will bring us some mead.”
Hugh’s head tipped back and a short bark of laughter sounded.
“And a knife, I’ll warrant.” Nodding, he stalked out to the garden, reading her far too well.
Had her expression become so transparent in her year away from court that even a knight with such unpolished manners would see through her purpose so quickly? Ach. She was as awkward and unpolished as he after keeping no company for so long.
Perhaps she should not turn away Hugh Fitz Henry without a bit more thought. Conversation might do her good. She could hone her skills and sharpen her mind grown dull from lack of use. If she hoped to talk her father out of locking her away in a convent, she would need a smooth tongue and sharp wit.
Tucking a sheathed blade into her garter, Sorcha hurried around the kitchen to assemble a tray. A pitcher of sweet mead. Freshly baked honey bread. Two flagons. When all was ready, she carried it out into the garden and set it on the bench.
Hugh was nowhere in sight.
Had she scared him off already? Perhaps a woman who threatened him with a blade had not been what he’d hoped for in a courtship. Surprised at the twinge of disappointment that filled her throat, she was about to retrieve the tray when she heard the rustle of tree branches and a crack of wood.
“Sir?” She peered around the garden to the woods nearby and didn’t see anything.
Until she looked up.
And spied Hugh Fitz Henry perched in a tree, his big body balanced on a thick limb as one boot dangled from a freshly broken branch. With one hand, he held tight to the oak. With the other, he reached out for a tiny puff of white and black. Her son’s six-week-old kitten.
“Oh!” Sorcha raced over to stand beneath the tree, nervous the animal might fall. “The bold little thing. He is not yet weaned and he would scale heights as if he were a bird.”
She lined up under the small animal, holding her skirt out from her body like a cradle to catch the poor thing if he should lose his tenuous grip. Conn would be sad and puzzled should any harm befall his wee friend.
But Hugh stretched a hand’s span more and snatched the animal up while the kitten mewed piteously. Relief flooded through her. For although the kitten was a small thing and the mother cat had litters of many to safeguard against the loss of one, this particular little beast remained special to her son. And therefore, tremendously special to Sorcha.
“Thank you.” She waited impatiently for Hugh to descend, finally taking the kitten from him when he was but a few feet from the ground. “You have averted tragedy, sir, and I appreciate it greatly.”
She wrapped the mewling creature in her long sleeve as she crooked her arm, smiling as the feline licked her wrist in joyful obliviousness of his near accident.
Hugh leaped to the ground as nimbly as a squire, though the expression on his face bore little resemblance to a boy’s.
“You should have a care with the revelation of your legs, my lady.” His voice took on a growling note that surprised her in the middle of her happy reunion with the cat.
And then she recalled lifting her skirt.
“Thankfully a woman’s garments allow her to dispense with a layer without revealing—anything.” Her cheeks heated nevertheless. And while she would like to pretend that it was her long and lonely exile that had turned her manners so coarse, she suspected she would have been as quick to flash her underskirts even while she lived beneath her father’s roof.
“You forget that men require little encouragement to envision the exact shape and texture of a woman’s thighs.” He stormed past her, boots pounding an angry tempo on the ground as he closed in on the pitcher of mead. Helping himself to a flagon, he downed it quickly, readjusting his tunic.
His braies.
Sweet. Merciful. Heaven.
She needed to remain mindful of being around a man. Heat washed through her like a summer fever even though she had no business imagining anything so—physical about this bold and unusual warrior. Quickly, she averted her eyes, although she hadn’t seen anything untoward. It unsettled her enough to have imagined the discomfort his movements hinted at.
Flustered and frustrated with herself that she only perpetuated the man’s probable view of her as having loose morals, Sorcha kept her distance while he took a seat beside the tray of bread and mead. The scowling expression on his visage told her to run back inside the cottage. Yet he held himself firmly to the bench as he poured a second cup full of mead.
The man possessed restraint, if the flexing and tightening of the knot in his jaw proved any indication. That spoke well of him.
Still…how to proceed? She’d had every intention of sharpening her conversational skills and improving her manners, yet here she stood, speechless and supremely ill at ease.
It did not help matters that her thoughts had turned as warmly intimate and disconcerting as Hugh Fitz Henry’s must have. But then, how could a woman’s thoughts remain pure when a man insisted of speaking about the shape of her…er…legs?
“Forgive me for my lapse of judgment, sir,” she said finally, only half meaning it. She’d hardly flaunted her body in front of him, but if she was going to humble herself enough to ask her father to let her raise Conn, she would need practice in swallowing her pride.
The task had never come easily to her.
“No, it is I who should ask your forgiveness. It is not your fault that a man’s thoughts are wayward and inappropriate.” He poured the other flagon full of mead. “Here. Come and join me, my lady, and I pray you do not hold my ill-tempered outburst against me. Your mead would soothe the ragged beast in any man.”
He lifted the second cup, holding it out to her. Entreating.
Saints protect her, she felt as frightened as the tiny kitten must have, perched on a high branch and teetering against a fall only to be given an alternative that appeared every bit as scary. But she, too, found herself moving inexplicably toward Hugh Fitz Henry.

She came to him.
Hugh thanked all that was holy that he had not scared off the woman who might be his only link to his past. For that matter, even if Sorcha could provide him with no hints of his identity, at least he had been admitted into her father’s service. Where else would a man with no past and no true name obtain such a chance? There was a certain safety in that acceptance that he would not risk for the sake of the heat Sorcha stirred within him.
“Thank you.” She gripped the cup he offered and brought it to her lips with a hand more steady than her breathing.
He turned his attention back to his own drink lest he lose himself in watching the way her lips cradled the smooth silver vessel.
He knew in that moment she was not like most women. But how did he know that? As soon as he formed the thought, he attempted to chase down the root of it. What other women in his past had helped him form the basis for comparison? He possessed a sense that females did not appreciate being reminded of a man’s baser nature. Many a noblewoman would have fled his presence at the mere suggestion of what the shape of her legs did to him.
Yet all his struggle for an image of any other woman yielded nothing. No face of a mother or sister, wife or betrothed.
The only woman he could see was the one who sank slowly to the bench beside him, her cup clutched in a tense grip. Had her father been correct in his assessment that she would permit any man to court her—even one as coarse as he—if it meant she might gain freedom from her exile?
“Your gardens are a sight to behold,” he observed lightly, needing to divert their attention.
And yet even that topic weighed awkwardly on his tongue. How could he comment on the lushness of her budding fruit or the heavy blossoms on the vine without sounding like he meant something else entirely?
“I have far too much time to tend them,” Lady Sorcha returned mildly. “I do not know what you have heard about my situation, but as an exile, I am not allowed in my father’s presence and I have no duty to his house. That leaves me with substantial time to tend the flowers.”
Settling her empty cup on the tray beside his, she refilled them both from the heavy pitcher before proceeding to slice a squat loaf of sweet bread.
“He gave me the impression you were free to leave your home with a guardian.” He extended his palm to receive the bread, but she was careful not to touch him as she handed it to him.
Instantly, he regretted putting her on guard to such an extent.
“Did he suggest I might be endlessly grateful for the chance to escape?” She arched a brow and studied him assessingly, her earlier discomfort fled in the face of her irritation.
He debated the wisdom of a lie and decided such a course would be unwise with this woman. Clearly she knew her father well and, perhaps, was as well versed in manipulative games as her sire.
“Are you so content with your banishment?” he asked instead, tearing into the honey bread with the enthusiasm of a man still recovering from a long journey.
His food on the road had been sparse and dependent upon his hunting, something he indulged only upon dire need with his focus so keen to discover his name. His home. He savored the rich texture and delicate scent of the honeyed bread, so different than any scantly cooked beast on his travels.
“No one would seek such isolation as this, and yet I have discovered small delights in the silence of a summer night where there are no servants to sneak about the courtyard stealing embraces or reveling knights to sing and jest till sunrise.” Sorcha broke off a bit of her repast and nibbled the morsel. “Here, I am not subject to my father’s tempers or marched in front of his guests like an exotic animal on display.”
“So you do not wish to hasten your release?” He helped himself to more bread, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he had eaten well.
Or perhaps he merely ate to quiet another hunger. His gaze strayed entirely too often to the princess’s mouth as she licked a crumb from her lips or tasted her mead.
“On the contrary, I cannot wait for my release.” Her green eyes took on a new fierceness. “But I will never be so desperate that I will accept any man my father places in my path in order to secure freedom.”
“I would like to think I have placed myself in your path.” He studied her with new respect, appreciating her shrewd assessment of the situation. “I was not summoned to Connacht by the king. I arrived at his gate under my own accord.”
“If you do not see my father’s larger designs, you are not as clever as I suspected.” She returned her cup to the tray between them with a thump, startling the wee kitten that had fallen asleep in her lap.
The furry beast lifted its head and blinked bright blue eyes before dropping back into slumber amid Sorcha’s skirts.
“I suspect your father wishes you to wed so he does not have to send a cherished daughter to the convent.” Hugh stretched his legs and tipped his head back to the warmth of the spring sun, not daring to gaze upon the fiery Irish princess for long lest his thoughts stray again into uncomfortable terrain.
And while Sorcha might not be desperate to accept his suit, he needed her acquiescence with every fiber of his being. If she refused, he would be dismissed from Connacht and separated from the only clue he had to his past.
“I hardly think my position on the far outreaches of his lands makes me cherished, but you have seen his purpose well enough.” She shifted on the bench beside him and he straightened to see her rise, the kitten now in her arms.
Her feet followed a stone path through the hedges and flowers, a small nod to order in a garden overflowing with pleasant disarray.
“And you know my purpose as well,” she continued, halting to meet his gaze from where she stood. “That leaves me at a disadvantage because I do not comprehend your motives at all.”
Her searing gaze told him she would not tolerate lies lightly.
Nor could he tell her the truth.
That left him in uncharted terrain, just like the whole rest of his anonymous life. He settled for shades of the truth instead.
His eyes raked over her, taking in her proud spirit and womanly form. From her straight shoulders and proud tilt to her chin to the way she cradled the young kitten in her arms, Sorcha was a study in contrasts. And underneath his need to know why she recognized him, Hugh simply wanted to know her.
“I couldn’t forget you after I saw you in the forest yesterday.”

Chapter Four
Onora Con Connacht stifled a gasp of surprise at the strange knight’s presence in her sister’s garden.
So this was the Norman mercenary who had caused such an uproar in her father’s court? She urged her mount closer to the garden wall, determined to obtain a better view. Standing on her palfrey’s back, she could just see over the moss-covered enclosure where the kings of old used to install their mistresses or—occasionally—a widowed queen out of favor with the new ruler. Now Sorcha lived here, a prisoner in her own realm for daring to defy their father.
“Be still,” she hissed at her horse, her balance unsteady as she stood on the mare’s back. “I’m almost there.”
Gingerly, she reached past the thorny branches of a yew tree to the smooth trunk of a young pine. As the palfrey stilled beneath her, she bent her knees and leaped, keeping the pine in her grasp as she flung herself to the top of the garden wall.
She must have disturbed a group of birds, because there was an outcry nearby and the flap of wings. Onora held herself steady, waiting to be discovered and hoping against hope she would not be.
This wasn’t the first time she’d sneaked into Sorcha’s domain, though her older sister forbade the secret trips. Onora missed her sibling dearly and knew if their positions were reversed and Onora had been banished, she would want someone to visit her. As it was, Onora took great pains to escape her father’s watch, his vigilance far more formidable with his younger daughter than it had been for Sorcha. A fact that had proven a vast inconvenience, but she took pride in finding new ways to elude her protectors.
Of course, she could never remain away from her father’s keep for long and she confined herself to bringing the occasional length of exotic silk or a wildflower cutting. Her presents were small and often attributed to one of Sorcha’s attendants. But it pleased Onora to know she’d touched her sister’s life anyhow.
When the garden quieted again, Onora felt certain she had not been discovered. Carefully, she seated herself on the stone wall to watch amidst the cover of thick branches. In the distance, her sister conversed with the tall Norman, their talk too low for her ears.
How could her father have permitted this stranger to visit Sorcha with no guard? The Normans would march on Ireland before long now that the exiled king of Leinster had asked the Normans for help regaining his kingdom. The Normans always rejoiced at trouble in Ireland since they lived for the chance to steal power in the greatest land on earth. So why trust a Norman with his own daughter?
Or could the stranger bring an honest offer to Sorcha that might save her from the convent? Onora’s romantic nature rejoiced at the possibility.
“Lady Onora?”
From outside the wall, a man’s voice startled her.
Her hand flew to her waist and the protection of her dagger as she turned. There, standing at the base of the wall, stood a frowning young groom she recognized as the caretaker for Sorcha’s horse.
“Eamon,” she whispered, wishing she did not feel a pang of feminine pleasure at the sight of someone so wholly inappropriate to her station. Why couldn’t her heart beat with such speed at the sight of a noble who came to court her instead of a man destined to wed a village girl?
He was broad shouldered in a way that made the female servants of the court sigh, his muscular form filling out his tunic admirably. His dark hair and blue eyes marked him as Irish, while the deeper shade of his complexion suggested a hint of the exotic, as if his mother had been wooed by a spice trader at the village fair.
“Come down at once before you are injured.” Eamon glared at her with the displeasure one might cast upon a disobedient child. Then he began to scale the wall.
Hand over hand, he climbed quickly, his nimble fingers finding purchase between the mossy rocks. Alarm tingled up her spine.
“You cannot order me about.” It was difficult to infuse her voice with the proper authority while striving to whisper, but she did not wish anyone to hear them.
“I am keeping you safe, Princess,” he retorted, closing the distance between them rapidly.
“Shh!” she hushed him, fearful now for him as much as her. At least her rank would save her if she was discovered. “Have a care with your voice. My sister is within.”
Eamon reached the top of the wall, his long, tanned fingers splaying along the rock so that the smallest of the digits rested a hairsbreadth from her bottom. She scooched back a bit, the pine tree impeding her movements.
“All the more reason you must descend.” He pulled one leg over the wall so that he straddled it like a horse.
He faced her, his thighs bracketing her without touching.
“You, sir, are highly improper.” She glared at him to cover her nervousness.
“Unfortunately, sneaking out to your sister’s cottage against your father’s orders is even more improper.” He winked, a wicked smile revealing straight, white teeth. “It’s not me who’ll have to worry if we get caught. If you’ll allow me, I’ll help you descend safely.”
He extended his hand like a high king shuttling his queen about the great hall with much ceremony. Being the center of a handsome young groom’s attention would not have been a hardship, except that Onora had the impression that Eamon thought she was more of a bother than anything. And that wounded her feminine pride far more than a tumble off the wall would injure the rest of her.
“I will allow no groom to command me.” She looked down her nose and ignored the girlish urge to accept his hand.
Her heart fluttered oddly in her breast as she kept her eyes trained on the garden. Unfortunately, she had moved too far behind the pine tree to see Sorcha or her knight any longer. She could see only a pitch-covered trunk and, if she looked to her right, a small waterfall in the brook that trickled through the garden. Peering to the right was not an option, given Eamon sat so near.
“You see naught but a groom then?” He lifted a hand to a leafy limb of an overgrown apple tree and followed Onora’s gaze. “Are you always so quick to believe what you see?”
“What else would I believe?”
He plucked a white flower tinged with pink and rolled the stem between his fingers.
“We sit among branches that bear naught but decorative flowers today.” He stilled the bloom and offered it to her. “Yet the tree has not revealed its true purpose with the fruit that will follow, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Do you mean to suggest you are working toward a higher purpose?” She knew some ambitious villagers lifted themselves out of drudgery to become clerks or even clerics.
But as she cast a wary eye upon her strong and virile companion, she could not envision him taking priestly vows.
“I mean you have not discovered my hidden task in dismissing me as a mere groom.”
He turned his sea-blue gaze upon her, unsettling her with the frank assessment contained therein. The look he gave her bore none of the subservient ducking or downcast eyes she usually received as the king’s daughter. Eamon studied her the way a man might research a keep he wished to conquer. He seemed to seek out her weaknesses and strengths, as if he viewed her for the first time.
Awareness swirled inside her, a warm, tingling sensation that danced through her veins like a sip of well-made wine.
“You overreach to suggest otherwise,” she complained, although he certainly gave her pause. Why claim to be something he was not? “I have seen you tend my sister’s mare these last many moons.”
As soon as she said it, she regretted the implication that she’d noticed him at all. Flirting with grooms—even grooms who aspired to a higher station—was out of the question. If her sister had been exiled for being with a knight, what would the king do to a daughter who dared dally with a servant?
Turning on the wall, she lifted her legs over the other side so she could climb back down. Her visit with Sorcha would have to wait. She didn’t wish to have witnesses to the news she brought from the keep.
“Allow me to help you, Lady Onora.” The man plucked the apple blossom from her fingers and tucked it behind her ear, using the stem to secure a bit of her hair along with it.
He touched her so quickly that she scarcely had time to protest. Her pulse pounded in her veins, warming her skin all over. Even now, he moved to steady himself on the top of the wall, lying on his belly so that he might guide her down the sheer face of the enclosure.
“Nay.” Shaking her head, she refused his help. “I will depart on my own, but it will be the last time you chase me away from my own sister. Whether or not my father approves of my visits, he shall hear of your presence if I see you on the premises again.”
“That would only aid my true purpose, and for that I would thank you.” He kept his eyes upon her as she made her way carefully down the wall, her toes seeking chinks in the rock more slowly than his had done. “Be sure to mention I tried to keep your pretty neck intact.”
She flushed even warmer, confused by the strange encounter. Shoving the thought from her mind, Onora leaped to the ground.
“I will not give any credit to you for saving a neck that was never in danger.” She turned on her heel and wondered how she could mention the strange meeting to her father. She was curious now, and wanted to know about this mysterious groom even more than she wanted to know about Sorcha’s new Norman.
But she could not risk her father’s wrath in admitting this visit since that might encourage Tiernan Con Connacht to rid himself of his eldest daughter all the sooner. Onora had only come to tell Sorcha her time avoiding the convent was almost over. Their father made plans to send Sorcha away before harvesttime.
And Onora would not lose her sister to the nunnery without saying goodbye.

“I think you’d better take your leave.” Anger poured through Sorcha. Did Hugh think her so daft that she would believe such idle flattery?
“Have I offended you by declaring a fascination with you?” He remained seated, a fact she appreciated since his physical size would intimidate her even with a whole slew of her father’s knights to protect her.
And, truth be told, his imposing presence made her acutely aware of her femininity. Her petite stature and slender limbs. The sexual element of that contrast was never far from her mind and she could not understand why. How many times had she regretted her passionate decisions? She could not afford any more. Especially not with a man who bore a strange resemblance to Edward.
“Nay. You offend me by not speaking the truth.” She knew he had come to Connacht for reasons he did not reveal. Anyone looking upon his fine, strapping form and the sharp intelligence in his eyes would see a knight in his prime. A knight accustomed to command. He must have a reason for being here besides courting an exiled princess far from his homeland.
“Do I not?” He shot to his feet and a few quick strides carried him close enough for her to touch. “I would be more than happy to prove my…interest.”
She bit her lip, unsure how to respond. Unsure what exactly he had just offered.
“That will not be necessary.” Her voice failed her, emerging from her lips in a cracked sound.
Her first lover might have only visited her bed a handful of times before fate and an enemy’s sword had felled him, but their time together had taught her the way of things between a man and woman. And even if the coupling had not fulfilled her every last romantic dream, it had taught her much about the way a man could turn a woman’s steely will to molten want. Edward hadn’t provided her with that elusive pinnacle of pleasure, but his embrace had taught her she was as passionate in bed as she’d always been outside of it.
She would do well to rein in that fire now before she allowed it to dictate the course of her life again. Except Hugh’s sinewy form emanated a heat that warmed her, while the spicy male scent of him tempted her to lean closer and take a deeper sniff.
“You’ve no right to call me a liar, lady, lest you are willing to let me prove I speak the truth.” His amber eyes locked on hers, the whiskey-golden gaze seeming to see past her defenses to the woman beneath.
A foolish notion, and yet those eyes undid her.
She swayed on her feet, perilously close to him. Who knows what folly she might have fallen into if the rustle of birds in a nearby tree hadn’t distracted her. Straightening, she shook off the spell he seemed to have cast upon her and took a step back.
“I owe you naught, sir. I risk much by even allowing you within the walls of my home.” She had no guards to protect her here, just a wet nurse for her son and a groom who helped keep the horse fed and exercised.
“Then you have all the more reason to trust my ability to restrain myself with you.” He reached toward her and for one heart-stopping moment she though he meant to touch her, but instead he merely scruffed the head of the sleeping cat within her arms. “If my intentions had been less than honorable, I could have easily exercised my will here in the privacy of your gardens. Will you not trust me to escort you to the village fair on the morrow where we will be in full view of many watchful eyes?”
Her gaze dipped to his broad hand gently stroking the kitten’s fur, his fingers a hairsbreadth from her breast as he did so. Her breasts ached in warm response and she was grateful the tiny beast and her folded arms hid her body’s reaction.
“Think about it, Sorcha,” he prodded, lifting his hand to tip her chin, forcing her to meet his clear-eyed gaze. “When was the last time you enjoyed the taste of freshly baked meat pies and the scents of a spice trader’s cart? I hear there are minstrels from Scotland who are known to perform long into the night.”
He dropped his hand, but her skin retained the memory of his touch.
“You do not play fair, sir,” she complained, already smelling the smoke of a bonfire heaped with fragrant dried wood. “It has been many moons since I attended a feast day, let alone a full-fledged fair.”
“In truth, I cannot remember the last time I had the pleasure of such entertainment myself.” His grin beguiled her, calling her to forget her worries and join him in whatever mischief he had planned for the morrow. “We will make a merry pair.”
“Too merry, I think. The whole village will think we are courting.” She snuggled the kitten closer to her face, rubbing the fur along her cheek, but not even the animal’s warmth could replace the memory of Hugh’s gentle fingers. “And while I am pressured to wed, you must know there will be equal expectations heaped upon you.”
She worried her lower lip as she replaced Conn’s kitten on the ground. She should have already refused Hugh’s offer. Joining him at the fair day would only complicate matters. Yet what if his presence soothed her father’s haste to send her to the convent and bought her more time with her son before she had to give him up forever?
“Not even an Irish king could force a marriage upon me that I did not wish.” He narrowed his gaze for a moment and she shivered to think what kind of enemy Hugh Fitz Henry would make. “I vow no amount of pressure would sway me.”
She had spent every day since discovering her “husband” had played her false telling herself to trust no man. And still the fiery truth in Hugh’s eyes swayed her as much as her longing to dance a merry round while the minstrels played and the bonfires yawned flames into the night.
“Aye.” She could not resist the opportunity to break free of her exile. The chance to make a happy memory before she was confined to a life of toil and prayer. “I will attend the fair day at your side.”
“Excellent.” His smile brought forth an answering grin from her lips and she thought for a moment she might actually have fun with this mysterious Norman who chided himself for peering at her thighs and devoured her sweet bread like a starving man. “I will call for you at noon.”
She would have to leave Conn in the care of his nurse, but by the saints, she would venture out of her narrow domain and into the world again.
“Until then.” She dropped her gaze and dipped her head as a polite courtesy even if she had once outranked him.
For a moment, she thought he might attempt to steal a kiss. Oddly, she did not recoil at the notion. No matter that her passions had been used against her so cruelly once, the old flame still leaped to life as she envisioned Hugh’s mouth brushing hers.
She licked her lips as heat flowed through her veins.
“Until then.” With a quick bow, he spun on his heel and departed, leaving her surprisingly bereft and more than a little indignant.
Did he seek to toy with her affections by granting teasing touches? She was no maid who needed her passions awakened, but an experienced woman with desires long suppressed.
Sorcha might not drag the man into marriage to save herself from the convent, but she would be hard pressed not to give Hugh a taste of his own teasing medicine at the morrow’s fair.

Chapter Five
After departing Sorcha’s cottage, Hugh waited for the nimble lad to descend her garden enclosure before he accosted him.
As the spy’s face came into view, Hugh discerned the man was older than he’d first presumed. Lean and wiry, the stranger moved like a youth with his easy grace. Yet his face revealed the dark growth of a mature beard and there were faint lines about his eyes.
Concealed behind a hemlock tree close to the garden’s wall, Hugh began his protective assignment from the king with all haste.
Silently, he slipped from his hiding place and stepped behind the unsuspecting young man. With lightning speed, he wrapped an arm about the man’s neck and another his sword arm, preventing the spy from reaching for the short blade at his waist.
Hugh held him immobile for some moments while his quarry attempted to thrash and then finally stilled. Hugh did not, however, release him.
“What business have you here?” He would wait to identify himself in the hope the man recognized him. Someone must know him. But for now, Hugh kept the agile climber turned away from him so the spy could not see his face.
He understood that not knowing what enemy you faced was more unnerving than confronting an obviously powerful foe. At least then, a man could formulate a strategy. He also understood that if he yanked hard to his right with the man’s head clamped in his right arm, his opponent would expire instantly.
The knowledge gave him pause. Had he ever harmed someone thus?
“Eamon ap Dermot,” the stranger uttered through clenched teeth. “Man-at-arms to Tiernan Con Connacht.”
“I serve the king as well,” Hugh warned. “I will put your story to the test.”
He loosened his hold, but not his guard. Eamon freed himself and spun on his heel to face him. However, Hugh could not discern any recognition upon the man’s face.
“As will I,” the dark-haired Irishman threatened. “’Tis my duty to guard the princess, as it has been every day since her banishment.”
Eamon ap Dermot stepped back and rubbed his throat, a gesture no warrior would make since it revealed a weakness.
“You guard her?” Had the crafty old king omitted this detail on purpose when he asked Hugh to protect Sorcha? If so, he must have known he risked the young man-at-arms’s life.
Or was the spy lying?
For a moment, Hugh considered the possibility that Eamon was a consort to Sorcha—a lover taking advantage of a young woman’s isolation. The thought burned through him with sudden fury and he tightened his hands into fists on instinct.
“As well as one man might,” Eamon answered, oblivious to the dangerous direction of Hugh’s thoughts. Ceasing his ministrations to his neck, Eamon straightened to his full height. “I am to act as a lowly groom in order to remain close to her. But my blade is a weapon of the king’s house and I protect the princess with his authority.”
Eamon reached for the blade and proffered it, but by now, Hugh no longer saw him as a threat. There was truth in the boast, and his speech had the ring of a well-remembered charge that had changed Eamon’s life forever. No doubt the king had raised up the youth in station to do his bidding.
And, looking him over more carefully now that he was certain Eamon was not a secret paramour for the princess, Hugh decided the guard was a wise enough choice. Nimble and quick-witted for a common-born laborer, he must have been keeping a watch over the events in the garden this morning.
“If that is true, you will serve me in the future. The princess is now my charge.” He gave Eamon a hard look. “If I were to ask you about the princess’s activities today, what would you tell me of your observations?”
“My lady received a strange knight who cast a bold eye upon her person though he did not treat her with disrespect.” Eamon met his gaze with a narrow look of his own and Hugh saw promise in his intelligent speech and sharp assessment.
“Well enough. You must pretend to be a lowly groom?” Hugh suspected that had been the man’s position before he’d been assigned the new task as well, but he could easily see where Eamon would use his duty to pull himself up in station. “You know the Conqueror himself was descended from a tanner on his mother’s side.”
Another random piece of information he knew not how he possessed, yet if he chased the thought through the channels of his brain, it darted elusively away.
“Some men make their own destinies from naught,” Eamon agreed, sheathing the king’s blade.
Hugh tensed to think of his own situation. His very survival depended upon seeing this through. He couldn’t allow himself to indulge in softer feelings for the fallen princess. Sorcha had the protection of a caring father. Hugh had naught but his own cunning. He didn’t even know his own name.
“Aye. Some men more than others.”

St. Erasmus was little more than a name to Sorcha, yet the saint who protected sailors received high praise along the Irish coastline where unpredictable winds and waves could whisk a man off to a watery grave with no warning.
It was his feast day the village celebrated, inspired by a devout nobleman whose seafaring son returned safely home one year after a journey to the continent that lasted half the nobleman’s lifetime. He’d thought the son dead all that time, and his joy in his offspring’s return had called the father to sponsor a small chapel on the coast overlooking the sea.
Mostly, Sorcha was grateful to Erasmus for providing the excuse to leave her cottage for the first time since her father learned she was expecting a child. The realization had come late in her confinement thanks to his frequent trips away from the kingdom for warmongering. Still, upon seeing her swollen figure, he’d wasted no time in sending her away despite her protests that she’d been deceived.
The betrayal from a beloved father still hurt, even more so close on the heels of discovering the treachery of her first and only lover.
“What say you, Lady Sorcha?” her companion inquired, gesturing to the group of tents and bonfires, peddlers’ carts and children at play on the fringes of the festivities. “Are you not glad to see your neighbors and friends?”
“I am most pleased to see the meat-pie maker.” She pointed toward a cart at the end of one row where an old man and two of his daughters worked beside a brick fire pit. Her belly growled in anticipation of her favorite treat.
“Then I shall deprive you no more.” He ducked beneath a ribbon strung between the trees for some kind of a game a group of children played and led her toward the cart heaped with food.
The scents of roasted capon and venison mingled with heavy spices as they reached the small table beside a temporary hearth erected for the fair. Hugh purchased a pie for each of them along with a cup of wine, then guided her toward a small hill overlooking the gathering.
Happily, she took a seat on the warm grass and bit into the delicacy while absorbing the sights and sounds of the crowd.
“Better?” he asked, watching her while she ate.
His appearance at her door that morning had taken her aback, his appealing looks a surprising enticement to a woman who wanted nothing more to do with men. At least not until she resolved the rift between her and her father.
But Hugh Fitz Henry was no pox-marked and flap-bellied nobleman who staked his manhood on a birthright he’d done no more to earn than emerge from the womb. Nay. Hugh was a warrior in full measure, a man who clearly lived by the sword, if the breadth of his shoulders and the scars upon his person were any indication. The backs of his hands were laced with healed wounds, while a long gouge marred his throat and disappeared in his tunic. She admired the strength of spirit in a man who fought for his lands, the way her father had fought for his kingdom.
And yet, what did Hugh fight for here? Why did a brave knight linger with an exiled Irish princess? The obvious answer was a political marriage. But he did not pursue her the way any other man ever had. He did not boast about the wealth of his lands and stables to sway her, or worse, assume her father would force her to wed no matter if she cared for the suitor or not.
“Aye.” She reached for the cup of wine he’d settled between them, mindful of his amber eyes upon her and the fluttering sensation they caused deep in her belly. She’d best mind her wits before she repeated all her old mistakes and ended up with another babe causing the next gentle flutter within her. “But I cannot relax and enjoy the day while I ponder your motives.”
She sipped the wine while he finished his meal. The fact that he never needed to rush into speech intrigued her, his manner so at odds with her father’s fiery temper and quick tongue. Too often, she and her father had found themselves in a disagreement because neither of them could leash their responses the way this controlled Norman could. If anything, Hugh seemed to savor the time to think before he answered, as if he rolled his thoughts around his brain the way she rolled the spiced wine about her mouth to dissect the complex flavors.
“I thought we clarified the matter of my interest in you yesterday.” His voice hit a lower note and the deep tone rumbled through her skin to vibrate along her senses like a drum.
Her flesh heated from her breasts to her neck, the flush crawling more slowly up her cheeks.
“I mean—” She cleared her throat, determined to speak her mind without growing distracted. “What motive have you for your presence in Connacht? Why would a Norman knight approach an enemy king when war between our people seems imminent?”
“You are aware of our politics despite your long exile, lady?” He appeared surprised.
And, she hoped, just a bit impressed with her knowledge.
The saints knew her father had never been overly fond of her interest in the running of a kingdom. He called her political interests “wholly unnatural” for a woman. And while she did not regret her choices to learn all she could about the governance of the kingdom, she rather wished her headstrong sister had not followed her direction. Onora appeared determined to oppose their father’s rules wherever possible, from defying his dictate that she not see Sorcha, to dodging prospective husbands by all possible means.
“I know my father is an unpopular choice for High King. As much as he might want the position, the king of Leinster is already drawing Norman support to be High King instead. Connacht will feel the brunt of Norman blades before the matter is settled.”
“And you think I come to make war on your father?” He took the cup from her hand, his fingers brushing hers in a fleeting caress that should not have been half as pleasing as it was.
“You are a long way from home.”
“I seek only friendly relations with your father, who I might add, was not half so suspicious as you.”
He kept his gaze upon her as he finished the wine.
“As a man, my father can test your words by the sword. As a woman, I must seek more subtle reassurances.”
The sight of his sculpted mouth glistening with the last of the dark red wine had her turning away to find distraction among the fairgoers. She watched two village girls smile and tease a pair of farm boys selling their young goats. She wondered if the maids knew the dangerous game they played.
But then, perhaps they would not push their play to the limit the way Sorcha had once done with the smooth-tongued young stranger who had wooed her in her father’s absence.
She had thought to divert herself with that game again today with Hugh, if only to chide him for his hasty retreat yesterday at her cottage. But Hugh was no Edward du Bois. Hugh had already warned her of her effect upon him. She would not make the same mistakes of her past simply to soothe a wound to her feminine pride.
Besides, exchanging a kiss with Hugh could land her in an unwanted marriage as part of whatever political maneuvering Hugh attempted. She would not be used again.
“Sorcha.” His hand was suddenly upon her elbow, a warm entreaty to face him. “I cannot tell you the full extent of my task here, but I vow I mean you and your family no harm. I will protect you at all costs. I swear it on the strength of my sword arm since you have no reason to trust in my honor.”
Oh. As pledges went, Sorcha found his moving. His words tempted her to believe him as much as his hand upon her arm tempted her in other ways.
“Sorcha!” A feminine squeal a mere stone’s throw away shattered the moment.
Blinking away the last remains of broken intimacy, Sorcha turned to see her sister racing headlong toward her. She stood just in time to catch Onora in her arms as her younger sibling fairly bowled her over.
“You are free!” Onora’s cry of pleasure attracted attention from all around as villagers, her father’s men-at-arms and a few gathering nobles from nearby lands turned to see the source of the noise.
Sorcha could scarcely speak from the tightness of her sister’s hug, but she laughed with pleasure and returned Onora’s enthusiastic greeting as well as she might. What did she care for the curious looks? She had already driven her father to call for her lifelong confinement to the convent. No transgression she made now could possibly make her situation more dire. Although, she supposed, he could yet find fault with Onora.
Before she could suggest they make their reunion more private, however, Hugh wrapped a guiding arm about her shoulders and drew them deeper into the trees at the top of the hill.
Onora did not go quietly.
“You wish to hide us, sir?” She relinquished her tight hold of Sorcha, but did not let go completely.
As Sorcha watched her sibling, noting the new maturity in a face free of all childish softness and the long dark waves that any woman would envy, she could not help but wonder if Hugh would find Onora appealing. The notion made her uneasy. Sorcha told herself that was only because of Onora’s untempered youthful passions and Hugh’s hidden past.
“I wish to keep the daughters of the king safe from harm during a time of growing unrest.” Hugh did not even meet Onora’s gaze as he peered out over the fair-day gathering, hand upon the hilt of his sword while his eyes searched for…what?
“You think we are at risk now more than in previous years?” Sorcha asked, already knowing it must be so. However, if Hugh had any particular reason to think the house of Connacht was in danger, she wished to know of it.
“You are wise to the enemies your father makes with his bid for the High King’s seat.” His sword hand relaxed as he turned back toward them, although Sorcha remained more uneasy than ever.
He’d said he would protect her at any cost and it seemed his actions attested to that. While she appreciated the guardianship, she regretted to think she needed it.
“Do you think Conn is safe?” Her heart ached with a sudden need to be at her son’s side. “The cottage is hardly a fortress—”
“Conn is far safer at home where his presence is unknown by all but those closest to the king.” Hugh’s shoulders relaxed and Sorcha felt some of the tension slide from her own.
“You know of him,” Onora accused, her rosebud mouth full of disdain as she pursed her lips. “Why should we believe your motives when you are a Norman?”
Hugh cast a smile upon Sorcha. “She bears great resemblance to you in all ways.” Bowing, he backed up a step. “Lady Onora, I will leave your sister to address your concerns. If you need me, I will be within shouting distance.”
Striding away to speak to Sorcha’s groom who had appeared on the hillside, Hugh left the sisters alone in the sheltering trees.
Onora wasted no time.
“Sorcha, I tried to see you yesterday to tell you that Da wishes to send you to the convent with all haste. He says he will not wait until the end of summer and that you must leave before Lammas.”
The fear and empathy Sorcha saw in her sister’s eyes sent a tremor of alarm through her.
“So soon?” Her heart sank at the thought of leaving Conn before his second birthday. She had thought to have more time with her son before her father imposed the inevitable censure upon her for having a child without the benefit of a husband he chose.
A husband who married her before a real priest with a hundred witnesses.
Old regrets rose high, threatening to pull her under their heavy weight.
“He claims we are both unsafe now. He is to hasten the search for my husband and he will not afford you as much time with Conn as you wanted before you are to—” Onora’s voice broke “—depart from us forever.”
Tears leaped to her sister’s eyes and Sorcha pulled her close to comfort her. Onora made it sound as though Sorcha would be sent to her death. And, in a way, perhaps she would be. She would very likely never see her family again once she was sold into the nunnery. Onora would wed a man from a far-off kingdom for a political alliance. Their father would be embroiled in wars that might last for the rest of his life. Sorcha’s youthful mistakes would be forgotten once she was locked away behind the high gates of a priory. Her sole comfort was that Conn would be raised by the king.
Her illegitimate son would find acceptance at last.
But the price for clearing his name of her sins would be high indeed.
“I have always known this day awaited me.” Sorcha would not cry in front of a sister already disposed toward giving free rein to her emotions. “In the end, we make no choices without consequences.”
The wisdom had come too late to Sorcha, but it might yet aid Onora. Sorcha watched a group of girls chasing butterflies nearby and felt a pang of yearning for those simpler times when they would have joined the village children in such a game.
“But at least they are your choices.” Onora gazed off into the distance. Nay, she seemed to be staring toward Hugh and the groom. “You did not bend to father’s will to wed some toothless old nobleman who would swive with a sheep in the absence of a woman.”
“Sister!” Sorcha sought for a sense of outrage with which to chide her, but could not hold back a laugh. “I cannot fathom where you have gained such a wicked mind.”
“It is not far from the truth, and well you know it from the men Father offered to you.”
Sorcha recalled two different lords her father had suggested as husbands and shivered anew. She had spent so much time these past moons regretting the life she had to offer Conn that she had almost forgotten what made her rebel so strongly in the first place. Would she have been any better off now if she’d dutifully wed one of those ancient noblemen?
“But I have learned that acceptance is more important than you realize.” She squeezed Onora’s arm to emphasize the point as a nearby children’s game grew rambunctious.
Hot cockles always appealed to the most rowdy children as it involved placing a hood over the eyes of a person in the center while others circled him and randomly hit the blinded person until they were identified by name.
Somehow, this round of hot cockles had spread all the way up the hillside as the blindfolded boy listed about, trying to both duck and guess his tormentors’ names.
Hugh must have noted the players’ advance, for he called out to her from his position farther down the hill. She was about to proclaim her safety when she was struck in the temple and fell heavily to the ground.

Chapter Six
Reckless youths scattered like the wind.
Hugh plowed past them to reach Sorcha, suspicious of every face that streaked by but unable to search for a culprit until he knew the princess of Connacht had suffered no lasting harm. He had been alert for full-grown men who might wish to hurt her or steal her away, not barefoot urchins in the midst of a game.
“Sorcha.” He kneeled to the ground beside her, careful not to land on the river of auburn hair spilling out onto the grass.
Her skin was pale, the faint freckles on her nose standing out in sharper relief. He plunged his hand beneath the blue veils hung from her silver circlet, feeling along the back of her head for any injury. Gently, he sifted through her silky hair.
Relief rushed through him when he found no blood, though he discovered a lump just above her ear. The spot was swollen and warm to the touch.
“She said nothing before she fell,” Onora told him, her voice breathless. “She merely sank to the ground.”

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