Elisabeth Hobbes - A Wager for the Widow

He took a step away from Eleanor and turned his back on her. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but with a speed that took her by surprise William twisted the sword about his wrist and spun round.

Before Eleanor could react William had the sword held full at arm’s length, pointing at her breast. The tip was barely a hand’s breadth from touching her dress. The words died on Eleanor’s lips and the only sound that came out of her mouth was a soft whimper. Her head jerked up in shock and she discovered William watching her intently, his face fiercer and more determined than she had ever seen him look.

AUTHOR NOTE

A widow in the Middle Ages was in a better position than most women. While there was pressure—either to remarry or enter a convent—a widow had a degree of independence unavailable to wives and daughters and was able to run her own affairs, often carrying on with the businesses left by her husband and acting as guardian of his estate until any children came of age.

The only real person mentioned in this story is John Fortin, a merchant who traded with Bordeaux in the late 1290s. He might have been generous enough to allow others to invest in his ventures, but whether he did or not the wine trade out of Bristol flourished from this period onwards and was a great opportunity for those with the finances available to make their fortunes.

A few inspirations helped me get into Will and Eleanor’s minds. This quote by Giacomo Casanova was one: ‘A girl who is pretty and good, and as virtuous as you please, ought not to take it ill that a man, carried away by her charms, should set himself to the task of making their conquest.’

‘Thunder Road’ by Bruce Springsteen was also playing in the background when I wrote, and on the journey to and from work while I did a lot of my thinking.

For readers wishing to search online for locations, or visit them, Eleanor’s house is heavily modelled on St Michael’s Mount, but also owes some influence to Lindisfarne Castle on Holy Island. Sir Edgar’s fortified house is based on Ightham Mote in Kent and Stokesay Castle in Shropshire.

A Wager

for the Widow

Elisabeth Hobbes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELISABETH HOBBESgrew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children, and three cats with ridiculous names.

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To my mum, who inspired a love of reading and history and who took me round castles as a child.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Eleanor Peyton was never certain what was worse: the dreams where her husband died, or the ones where he was still alive. The former were always the same: Eleanor would stand and watch as though she was carved from granite, unable to move while Sir Baldwin clawed helplessly at his throat, sliding to the floor of the feasting hall. The screams of their wedding guests would ring in Eleanor’s ears and she would wake sobbing and shaking.

Tonight’s dream was the latter type. Eleanor could almost feel Baldwin’s breath on her face as he drew her close for a kiss, his brown eyes filled with a warmth and hunger that he had never exhibited while he had lived.

Though three years had passed since his death, Eleanor woke with her heart racing, aching for something she could not name. They had never shared this bed, yet she felt his presence surrounding her like a shroud.

Wiping a sleeve across her damp eyes, Eleanor untangled the sheets from around her legs and drew back the bed curtains. Soft grey light was beginning to find its way through the gaps in the heavy curtains covering the windows. Slipping a fur-trimmed surcoat over her linen shift, Eleanor hurried across the chilly stone floor to the window seat. A biting squall was blowing in from the sea, tossing fishing boats around the jetty at the shoreline. Eleanor settled herself on to the thick cushions, curling her bare feet beneath her, and waited for the sun to rise.

She was perfectly placed, therefore, to spot the rider on horseback as he galloped down the road from the nearby village, coming to an abrupt halt at the water’s edge. He dismounted and paced back and forth, searching for something. At this time of year the arrival of a message from her father was neither unexpected nor welcome and Eleanor frowned to herself. Soon the tide would go out, revealing the causeway and the messenger would find his way across the narrow path that separated the islet from the mainland. The man lowered his hood, revealing a shock of hair the exact copper shade of Eleanor’s own. At the sight her heart leapt and she broke into a smile.

The door opened and Eleanor’s maid entered carrying a basket of wood.

‘Jennet, come look.’ Eleanor beckoned. She indicated to the figure huddling in the rain as the sea slowly receded. ‘Go tell Goodwife Bradshawe we have a visitor for breakfast, then help me dress. I need to look my best. I can’t have my brother reporting back that I’m fading away in my isolation!’

* * *

An hour later Eleanor stood in the doorway, watching with amusement as her brother made his slow ascent up the steep hill. He paused at the gate to hand his horse to a waiting stable boy before climbing the winding pathway of old, granite steps, the sleet making his progress slow. Eleanor grinned to herself at the sight of the heir to the barony of Tawstott red-faced and breathing heavily with exertion.

‘Good morning, Edmund. You must have risen early to beat the tide!’

Her brother scowled and pushed his dripping curls from his eyes. ‘Why couldn’t Baldwin have built a house somewhere flat?’ he grumbled good-naturedly.

It was a familiar joke and Eleanor laughed. ‘It’s because you’re a year older now. You didn’t complain when you were twenty-five.’ She reached up to bat him on the arm. Edmund caught her hand and drew her in a hug before holding her at arm’s length and examining her carefully.

‘You’re thinner than last year,’ he announced, ‘Mother won’t be pleased.’

Eleanor rolled her eyes. ‘I assume I will have a few days’ grace to make myself look presentable? I don’t have to return today?’