Knight's Ransom. Suzanne Barclay

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      “You do say the oddest things, and I doubt you’ll find such a paragon here. ‘Tis a greedy group that’s come to Bordeaux.” Margery glanced about, frowning. “The old ones have come to relive their glory days, the youths for fame and fortune. Those who can’t earn it in combat, seek to marry wealth…or steal it.”

      “True.” Cat sighed, heartily sick of being pursued by men with gold lust, not love in their eyes. Before leaving, her mother had warned Cat to be on her guard. “Philippe will watch you as zealously as he would his own daughters, but you must do your part. Take care you are never alone with any of these men. Most are even less honorable than that disgusting Henry Norville was, and God knows we don’t want a repeat of that disaster,” Gaby Sommerville had added, never one to mince words.

      As if Cat would ever leave herself vulnerable to a man again. She drew in a breath of hot, stagnant air and released it noisily. “How I long to leave this stifling court behind and ride out for a day,” she said wistfully.

      “’Tis too dangerous.” Margery’s eyes widened. “Never say you are going to sneak out and ride alone as you used to do at home.”

      “Nay. I may be bored nearly to death, but I’m not stupid.” She gestured toward the two hulking men-atarms, who stood with their backs to the tiny alcove, giving the illusion of privacy. “Gamel and Garret guard me so zealously I cannot even visit the garderobes without them. I wish…”

      “Mon Dieu. I’ve never seen him before. Who do you suppose that is?” Margery murmured.

      Cat followed Margery’s gaze to the man who’d just entered the hall. Tall and wide shouldered, dressed all in black, he stuck out like a raven in a room full of peacocks. Looking neither right nor left at the gawking nobles, he walked toward the dais and their host, John, Duke of Lancaster. The sight of the crowd instinctively parting to permit him passage reminded Cat of her father. Though the stranger was more leanly built, he had the same proud carriage, determined stride and stern expression that made men stand aside for Ruarke Sommerville.

      Power. It radiated from this man the way heat did from sunbaked rocks. Here was a presence to be reckoned with, Cat thought, going up on her toes to get a better look. Torchlight flickered over his rugged profile, high forehead, a straight nose and solid jaw. Inky hair fell past his nape, accentuating his deeply tanned skin. She gasped softly, recognizing him as the man who’d stared at her through the window. Who was he?

      “Whoever he is, he’s causing a stir,” Margery whispered. “Lady Clarice looks like a child ready to pounce on a sweetmeat.”

      Cat realized her own jaw had dropped open, snapped it shut and forced her gaze from the magnetic stranger. “He’s likely some impoverished knight. Why, he isn’t wearing a bit of gold chain.”

      “He’s impressive enough without.”

      Aye, he was. And that rankled. Cat fought against the insidious pull of something she’d sworn she’d never feel again. Desire. Only Henry had never affected her this strongly.

      The stranger stopped before the dais and inclined his head. “Gervase St. Juste begs Your Grace’s leave to enter the tourney.” His low baritone raised Cat’s heart rate another notch. Though his form was correct, uttered by hundreds of men anxious to participate in the tourney, his voice had an edge the others had lacked. Pride, she thought. And mayhap anger, as well.

      “I bet he never begged for a thing in his life,” Margery said, and Cat was disposed to agree.

      Lord John leaned forward, the disinterest of the past two weeks absent from his leathery face. “From whence do you hail?”

      “I’ve a small holding called Alleuze in the Languedoc.”

      “Hmm. Have you fought before? We want no inexperienced lads injuring themselves in their quest for glory.”

      The strikingly beautiful Clarice sidled up. Her red lips and the black kohl lining her eyes contrasted vividly with her white skin. “Oh, I doubt Sir Gervase is inexperienced.”

      “If he is, you’ll soon cure that,” someone shouted. A round of laughter and catcalls greeted this.

      Cat waited for Sir Gervase to acknowledge Clarice’s unspoken invitation. A muscle twitched in his cheek, but his gaze remained locked on the duke’s. “I think you will find me an adequate foe.”

      “Foe? Have you forgotten we are here to celebrate the peace between our two countries?” Lord John asked sharply.

      “I forget naught,” Sir Gervase replied in kind.

      “He’s certainly a prickly fellow,” Margery said.

      Cat nodded, taken with the way he’d ignored Clarice, yet wary of his animosity. “He doesn’t seem to welcome this peace.”

      Apparently the duke agreed, for his gaze narrowed as it swept the bold knight from head to toe. “I crave peace. These continued hostilities have taken a toll on both our peoples.”

      Sir Gervase’s raven head bowed a fraction, and his shoulders sagged as though some terrible weight had dropped on them. Then he straightened. “On that we are agreed. Peace is necessary.”

      “So you have come to fight in the tourney. Do you seek to bash a few English heads under the guise of sport? Or is it ransom you are after?”

      The knight started. “What?”

      “Ransom. The taking of prisoners in the melee in order to get rich by ransoming them back to themselves or their families.”

      “I am familiar with the process,” Sir Gervase growled. “But I want naught I do not deserve. I come to celebrate the peace.”

      Now why did she think that wasn’t strictly true? Cat was intrigued by this big, mysterious stranger. He wasn’t for her. Even had she been in the market for a husband, which she wasn’t, her father would never approve her marrying an impoverished French knight. Still there was something about him that caused a purely feminine flutter deep inside her.

      “Cat!” Margery’s padded elbow landed in her ribs. “His Grace is calling for you.”

      Frowning, Cat lifted her skirts and worked her way through the crowd to the edge of the dais. “You wanted me, Your Grace?”

      A knowing grin split the old war-horse’s face. “Caught you daydreaming, eh, m’dear? I said Sir Gervase has a harsh opinion of us and I thought meeting some of our lovely ladies might soften him toward us. This is Lady Catherine Sommerville, daughter to Lord Ruarke and goddaughter to my brother, the king.”

      Excitement shivered across Cat’s skin. He was totally unsuitable, yet he fascinated her. “Sir Gervase,” she murmured. Relieved by the steadiness of her voice, she glanced up at the knight. Her heart slammed against her ribs as her curious gaze met his. Gray. His eyes were an unusual shade of gray, she thought. Cool and mysterious as fog on water, fringed by long black lashes. The expression in his eyes changed to something totally unexpected. Contempt. Shock held her immobile.

      “A pleasure, Lady Catherine.” His smooth words at odds with his expression, he took the hand she’d instinctively held out. The brush of his mouth on the back of her hand sent a frisson of heat up her arm.

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