Terri Brisbin
Authors: The Betrothal
THE BETROTHAL
TERRI BRISBIN
“A welcome new voice…you won’t want to miss.”
—
USA TODAY
bestselling author Susan Wiggs
JOANNE ROCK
“
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
MIRANDA JARRETT
“Miranda Jarrett continues to reign
as the queen of historical romance.”
—
Romantic Times
#747 THE VISCOUNT
Lyn Stone
748 THE RANGER’S WOMAN
Carol Finch
#750 ABBIE’S OUTLAW
Victoria Bylin
is a wife to one, mom of three and dental hygienist to hundreds when not living the life of a glamorous romance author. Born, raised and still living in the southern New Jersey suburbs, Terri is active in several romance writers’ organizations, including the RWA and NJRW. Terri’s love of history, especially Great Britain’s, led her to write historical romances. Readers are invited to contact Terri by e-mail at [email protected] or by mail at P.O. Box 41, Berlin, NJ 08009-0041. You can visit her Web site at www.terribrisbin.com.
Bestselling author Joanne Rock loves writing romances for Harlequin so much that she creates steamy contemporary stories in the Harlequin Blaze and Temptation lines while still indulging her passion for lush medievals with Harlequin Historicals. Joanne graduated from the University of Louisville with a master’s degree in English literature and had fun trying on a variety of career hats, including television promotions director, actress and model. Having since discovered that her widespread adventures provided research for her books, Joanne now resides in the scenic Adirondacks with her husband and three sons, content to spend her days penning happy endings. Learn more about Joanne’s work by visiting her Web site, www.joannerock.com.
considers herself sublimely fortunate to have a career that combines history and happy endings, even if it’s one that’s also made her family regular patrons of the local pizzeria. With over three million copies of her books in print, Miranda is the author of twenty-seven historical romances, and her bestselling books are enjoyed by readers around the world. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including two
Romantic Times
Reviewer’s Choice Awards, and a Romance Writers of America RITA
®
Award finalist for best short historical romance. Miranda is a graduate of Brown University with a degree in art history. She loves to hear from readers at P.O. Box 1102, Paoli, PA 19301-1145, or [email protected]. Please visit her Web site at www.Mirandajarrett.com.
Terri Brisbin
Joanne Rock
Miranda Jarrett
THE CLAIMING OF LADY JOANNA
Terri Brisbin
HIGHLAND HANDFAST
Joanne Rock
A MARRIAGE IN THREE ACTS
Miranda Jarrett
Terri Brisbin
Canterbury, England
March, in the Year of Our Lord 1201
H
e was certain his head would split open if he did not clench his jaws together. Such rage filled him that Braden knew nothing good would come from saying any of the things he was thinking.
The damn girl had refused him!
And she’d done so in front of King John’s court. The king was highly amused by her antics, as was his court, but the situation simply added to Braden’s dark standing among the nobles of England. Most of those who served the king’s interest laughed only because they had his protection. Braden’s reputation scared them into better behavior when John was not present.
Why had her parents not obtained her consent before making the matter an issue in public view? Her arguments, articulated before a randy king willing to grant his new wife any request, had resulted in John’s declaration that the lady must publicly consent to the match.
Although he found her courage before her parents’ and his
rage and the king’s scrutiny somewhat admirable, she needed to be brought to heel quickly and firmly and he was the one who could do it. Even though his plans for her were not as black as some who believed his family’s sordid past would suggest, he would not suffer such an insult without retribution and punishment against the one responsible. And Lady Joanna was that guilty soul.
God help her.
When he thought he might be able to speak without revealing the extent of his rage, he turned back to face the unhappy couple who did stand before him. They had the sense to realize how angry he was and what they stood to lose if their daughter did not go through with their arrangements. They wanted this marriage for their own reasons, as did he. They would have to make this right.
“The betrothal is completed, with or without her approval. But, I must have her consent at the wedding ceremony.”
“Aye, my lord,” Joanna’s father stammered out. Everyone there at the king’s Easter court knew of his decision now.
“Bring her to me at Wynwydd by the end of the month and make certain that only words of acceptance and consent come out of her mouth. I will handle the matter if you do not, but our agreement will change, as well.”
Lord Robert turned to his wife and dismissed her with a wave. When they were alone, Joanna’s father spoke again.
“She will give her consent to anything you ask, my lord. I promise you that. Worry not, my lord. She will give it at Wynwydd.”
If Braden had misgivings about any harsh treatment his betrothed would receive at the hands of her parents, he banished them quickly from his thoughts. The girl could do with some days of bread and water and a few days on her knees in prayer—the most frequent methods of convincing a wayward girl to follow the wisdom and wishes of her parents.
“At Wynwydd, by month’s end,” he said, nodding to the other man.
“And the gold, my lord?” Lord Robert’s unease at asking was clear; his hands shook, and he would not meet Braden’s gaze.
“The agreement was gold for a wife. When I have a wife in name and truth, you will have your gold. And not before.”
“She will comply, my lord,” Lord Robert answered with confidence now. “Just leave her to me.”
Lord Robert bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Braden alone with his anger. He needed a wife and the lord of Blackburn needed gold to rebuild his fortune and his lands. An acceptable trade for both parties. This had to work.
Braden walked to the table and poured a goblet full of the rich, red wine served by the king. Drinking it down without pause, he tried to allow his anger to pass. The girl would be brought to him at his estate near Wales within a few weeks. She would give her consent and they would marry. Her parents would receive their payment. The rumors whispered about the warlock lords of Wynwydd who killed the wives and servants who displeased them would be silenced. And his name, threatened with extinction, would continue.
All would be well.
It had to be.
Welsh Marches
April, in the Year of Our Lord 1201
“C
ut it.”
“But, my lady…”
“You must do this for me, Enyd. I fear that my hands shake too fiercely and I would take off my ear as well as my hair.”
Joanna’s attempt to calm her maid through humor did not work. Although Enyd held the shears closer now, the look of refusal on her face did not change.
“’Tis never been cut, my lady. Not since you were a wee one,” Enyd said, drifting off into her thoughts. “Is there no other way?”
The waves of pain returned and Joanna fought against the weakness. She had so little time. The journey to Wynwydd would take only a day longer and then her fate was sealed. After finally succumbing to the beatings, she’d given her parents the words they wanted to hear. As the intensity and frequency of the lashings had increased, Joanna knew that her stubbornness and continued refusal to consent to the marriage would get her killed.
Well, if she had to die, at least she would choose the time and place, and it was not in the clutches of a warlock who would lay a curse on her soul even as she went to her death. ’Twould be in Scotland, with her sister.
Her hand slid up to her cheek and she felt the rising heat there. Time was slipping away and the small party of holy brothers traveling north to their home would be leaving just after dawn. The herbal concoction given to her to keep away fever was not working. From the sticky feeling that trickled down her leg, she knew that one or more of the wounds had reopened and were bleeding again.
“Enyd, if you love me, you will do this now, and then be gone. If you know not of my plans, my parents cannot hold you responsible.” Or torture it out of her.
Tears poured down the old woman’s cheeks as she raised the shears and cut off ten-and-eight years of growth that lay over her shoulder in one braid. Joanna closed her eyes as the sharp blades chopped through her hair. Swallowing against the pain, she waited for the servant to finish. Enyd stood with the long, dark braid in her hands and shook her head.
“A lady’s crowning glory,” she murmured sadly as she held it out to Joanna.
That glory was difficult to mask and her disguise would be the difference between escape and death. After a moment of mourning for all that should have been otherwise in her life, Joanna nodded to the woman who had cared for her for as long as she could remember a caring face and voice.
Enyd threw her arms around Joanna and the searing pain of the embrace made her hiss. Not willing to miss the moment, she held on tightly and breathed in the woman’s comfort for as long as she could endure it. Then, releasing her, Joanna stepped back and nodded at the door of the chamber. Without another word, Enyd left and Joanna struggled to gather what she needed for the journey ahead.
She had bartered a bracelet for clothing and some small coins that would draw less attention. Pulling the bundle out from under the bedcovers, she made quick work of removing her gown and tunic. She tugged up the longer stockings over her own and tied them to the belt for that purpose. Joanna took her extra chemise from her traveling trunk and tore it into strips. Then she bound her breasts down as flat as she could manage. For once, not being well-endowed was a blessing.
Replacing the bandages on the back of her legs took a few minutes and she also listened while she worked, worrying that the rest of her party was rousing for the day. Balancing herself on one foot then the other, she tied on the leather shoes. Finally, she tossed whatever additional pieces of clothing and jewelry she could find into the sack she’d obtained in her trade and pulled the hood that lay around her neck up as far as she could to cover her face.
Looking around the room for anything left behind or anything that would give away her plans, she realized that she had nothing here. Joanna knew that she should feel some guilt over what she was doing—any God-fearing woman would. But the thought of escaping the imminent death her marriage would mean and making a life with her sister in Scotland gave her a moment of hope. Her parents, who had left her on her own so much, would have to fend off the warlock of Wynwydd by themselves.
Now more servant than lady in appearance, Joanna hunched down and walked toward the back stairs of the inn. Passing a few serving women already beginning their tasks for the day, she mumbled greetings in return for theirs. A few minutes of wending through the darkened corridors of the building and she pushed the door open and stepped out into the yard.
Spring was truly progressing through the English countryside. The smells of the blossoming trees that surrounded the
inn and the roads filled the air with their sweet aromas. The warbling of the birds of dawn—sparrow, robin and lark—greeted her as she made her way through the crowded work area toward the resting place of the monks of Holme Cultram Abbey. Sweat beaded Joanna’s upper lip and trickled down her neck and face.
She must make it to them before the fever took control. Whispering a prayer to the Almighty that they would take an ill stranger on their journey, she found them already preparing for the road ahead.
“Good brother,” she said, greeting the apparent leader of the group in a voice as deep as she could force it. “I was told that travelers could seek safe passage with you on your journey north?” She fought the urge to adjust her hood as she felt the scrutiny of the monk passing over her.
“We welcome the company of anyone sent to us by the good Lord, my son. Join us and may the miles ahead pass quickly as prayers to His Glory.” The monk pointed to a place among the others.
Joanna mumbled a reply and followed the gesture until she was behind one of the other monks in the party. In a few minutes, the whole group was making its way along the well-rutted road, walking a few paces behind a cart that carried the oldest and ill disposed of their group. Large enough to offer some protection, but not large enough to draw undue attention, she allowed herself to dream of success.
The road and the trees blurred together and she soon struggled for every step she took. Chills passed in waves over her, making her shiver in spite of the layers of clothing and the exertion of the pace. Then, heat grew in her head and limbs and threatened to overwhelm her. When one of the older monks approached her with questions about her condition, the world around her grew dark and she felt herself falling to the ground.
The days and nights melded together and she had no idea of how many had passed when she returned to herself at last. In spite of the layers of padding beneath her body, she ached as the small wagon in which she lay hit every bump and rut in the rough road. Her groans brought the attention of the cart’s driver, a wizened old man whose blue eyes still blazed with life’s forces.
“Ye are still with us? I feared we’d be digging yer grave on our arrival at the abbey.”
Joanna felt her clothes and found her hood around her neck. Pulling it up on her head, she leaned up on her elbows to look around. She tried to speak, but her throat was sore from being ill and lack of water. The driver held out a skin to her and she took it, anxious to ease the burning.
“Here now, have a care. Too much and ye will just heave it up.”
Joanna nodded and took a smaller amount than she wanted. After it slid down her throat and settled in her stomach, she took another sip. The man smiled a near-toothless grin as she heeded his warning. She handed it back to him and tried to sit up. The rocking motion of the cart and the soreness of her body kept her from doing it.
“Rest a bit more. The good brother who has cared for ye said ye are lucky to be among the living after that fever nearly took ye.”
So, the fever had gotten worse. And the monks had taken over her care. Had they discovered her secrets, as well? When she would have pursued the matter, exhaustion struck her and she found herself drifting off to sleep again. She needed to know so much—where they were, when they would arrive at the abbey, where she could seek safe haven.
None of that mattered as sleep overtook her once more.
