Denise Lynn - Bedded By The Warrior

The Queen paused in front of her and asked, ‘Do you understand me?’

Unable to speak past the lump thickening in her throat, Sarah nodded.

‘Now go. See that you, your new husband and his friends are gone from my court before morning.’

‘What more could one expect from Eleanor’s whore? She is getting no less than what she deserves.’

Sarah held her tongue as she walked quickly past the darkened alcove on her way to the chapel. She heard the snide remarks of the other ladies, just as they’d intended. But she knew any response would be foolish—it would only add strength to the vipers’ tongues.

It wasn’t as if she’d not heard the same spittle repeated numerous times during her prolonged stay with the Queen’s court. So, why now did it sting as much as her father’s hand slapping her face? Sarah held her head high. She’d give no one the satisfaction of witnessing her pain.

Once beyond the alcoves and away from the biting words, Sarah dragged her feet, seeking to delay her arrival at the Queen’s private chapel. She wondered if this was how a condemned man felt as he walked to his death.

Did a sick dread churn in his stomach as he approached the executioner? Did the blood flowing through his veins slow as if thickening from the icy touch of fear?

Regardless of her failure, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She’d been promised more—so much more. For countless months, Sarah had held fast to the sworn promise of a grand marriage.

And now her treasured dreams had turned into a nightmare of doom. Sarah choked back a threatening cry.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to wed—she did. As a young girl, she had come to Queen Eleanor’s court, hoping for many things. Like the other girls and young women sent to court, she had grown up hoping to eventually find a husband.

Not just a husband, but a knighted lord. An honourable man who would care for her, protect her, give her children, a place to call home and a life worth living.

But most of all, she wanted to hold tight to the things she’d gained at court—respite from her father’s sharp tongue and easy rage. And freedom from the harshness of life in a poor keep occupied only by men-at-arms. She couldn’t return to living a life of fear.

Sarah fisted her hands at her sides. She wanted to rail at the unfairness. She’d willingly ruined her reputation by posing as the Queen’s whore—for what? A worthless vow?

Her arrangement with the Queen had seemed simple—if Sarah wished to leave the court under better circumstances than which she’d arrived, she only had to use her appearance of fair-haired innocence, and her wiles, to convince specific lords and ladies to speak freely. Any information gleaned was then relayed to the Queen, who would use the knowledge to her benefit.

In return, Sarah had been promised a wealthy, titled lord as husband. One who could provide the security and safety she’d never had.

Instead, Queen Eleanor was forcing her to wed Bronwyn.

The tears choking her throat were as much from fear of William of Bronwyn as they were at the thought of leaving the court.

Even though she had little reason to believe the Queen’s latest promise, Sarah clung desperately to the slender thread of hope that this time Eleanor would keep her word.

Since the plan had gone so awry, Sarah needed only to marry this man, find out all she could about him and the Earl, and then discover their dealings with King Henry. Once Eleanor had the information, the Queen swore she would ensure Sarah quickly became an eligible widow, with enough gold to entice any man of her choosing.

Sarah’s steps faltered as Bronwyn stepped away from the shadows darkening the corridor and into the light gleaming out from the chapel’s entrance. It was one thing to dupe a man she did not know and would not see on the morrow. But she would see this man every day—and every night.

She held his stare, in a show of bravado, as she resumed her walk down the long corridor. But the thought of being his wife, even for a brief period of time, made her insides tremble.

William of Bronwyn was not just large—the top of her head barely reached his shoulders—he was built of solid rock beneath his flesh. He could easily maim, or kill her, with one blow.

Sarah wanted to faint into oblivion. But fate would not be that kind.

Every fear she’d ever experienced, every memory of harsh cruelness she had ever faced, raced back to grip her chest in a crushing hold. She struggled to breathe, then wondered why she bothered. Would it not be easier if her breath simply ceased for ever?

‘Lady Sarah.’

She stopped just out of his reach, ignoring his extended hand. ‘My lord.’ She couldn’t help the coolness of her tone. At the moment, coolness was the best she could muster.

‘I was not certain you would come.’

‘What choice had I?’ At his frown, she wondered if perhaps he regretted his demand for this marriage. Hope flared anew. She stepped closer. ‘There is no need for us to wed.’ If the Queen would not see reason, perhaps William of Bronwyn could be convinced to do so.

To her dismay, he disagreed. ‘I will not take you from here without the benefit of marriage.’

‘Why not?’ She sought desperately to correct his flawed reasoning. ‘There is no need to concern yourself with my reputation. You can do nothing to ruin it further. That was accomplished long before you arrived at this court.’

William shook his head before directing her towards the chapel’s door. ‘Belittling yourself will not change my mind.’

He made light of her reputation? Did he believe she degraded herself to him out of hand? The questions racing through her mind gave her pause. No man of self-worth would willingly take a harlot to wife.

She knew nothing of this Bronwyn except for the fact he was at court. And while he possessed no title, he was on friendly terms with the Earl of Wynnedom. From what the Queen had claimed, both men were involved in something with King Henry.

Without making it obvious, Sarah studied him. The man was clean. Even though his hair was overlong, light from the wall sconces reflected off the recently washed strands.

The two of them were close enough for her to smell sandalwood—a beguiling scent that called to her senses. Ignoring the effect that scent had on her, she took in his court clothing and well-heeled boots.

The leather wrapping on the scabbard hanging from his side was new. And the hilt of the sword was far too ornate to belong to a lowly man-at-arms.

Oh, yes, this man was drenched in self-worth from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.

Sarah drew her gaze to his face. From the intensity of his piecing stare, she knew he’d been studying her as well. She needed to be careful and make certain he would discover nothing she didn’t wish him to see.

This could be her last chance to convince him to change his mind. She lowered her head and looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. ‘My lord, I seek not to belittle myself.’ She softened her voice to a whisper, beckoning him to lean closer. ‘I wish only to warn you of the truth.’

Sarah peered up, making certain she’d captured his attention, then continued, ‘You are the Earl’s man. As such, marrying the Queen’s whore can do little to help your status.’

‘Status? I care nothing for what others may think.’

In all her years at court she’d yet to meet one person, man or woman, who cared naught about the opinions of others. She tried again. ‘You may not care at this moment. But some day you will.’

Sarah placed a hand on her chest and glanced into the chapel before appealing to his common sense. ‘Would you have your children know their mother was rumoured to be nothing more than a harlot?’