The Norman's Heart. Margaret Moore

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      Tonight, it dawned on Roger de Montmorency that to win Mina Chilcott’s respect would be no common thing, and to have her desire him would be worth any effort it might take. He didn’t doubt that later, when they were alone in bed and he caressed her with his expert hands, he would bring her such ecstasy as she had never known. Yes, he would earn both her respect and her desire. More than that, he didn’t need or want.

      Harboring such thoughts, Roger slipped into a companionable mood. Now he could overlook Father Damien’s mumbling of the blessing outside the chapel that had made him a married man, although at the time he had ground his teeth with frustration. Instead, he remembered the moment he had put the ring on Mina’s slender finger and repeated Father Damien’s words. She had not trembled or blushed, but thrust her hand toward him with a vigor he found exciting. No timid wench, Mina, and he hoped she would do everything with such enthusiasm.

      Glancing at her seated to his right, he noticed that she was not eating, despite the plethora of fine foods placed before her. Well, he supposed many brides lacked that kind of an appetite.

      “A bountiful feast,” the baron, who was seated on Roger’s left, remarked, as if he had been reading his host’s mind. “You’re not eating much.”

      Startled, Roger looked at his own trencher and saw the baron’s observation was not without merit.

      “I regret I cannot stay beyond today,” the baron said.

      “I, too, my lord,” Roger responded.

      “Reginald told me you have invited him to remain with you?”

      Both men turned and looked to the other side of Mina, where Reginald Chilcott was already displaying every sign of getting drunk. “I’m glad,” the baron said quietly. “He’s a nonsensical young man, but I have hopes he might improve under the proper supervision.”