“Still afraid of horses, little sister?”
Alys was unable to speak as the panic built inside her chest. She wasn’t sure whether it was the horses or her brother that frightened her, and she didn’t care. She struggled for calm, not certain if she’d find it, when Claire spoke up.
“I’m not,” she said boldly.
Richard turned his piercing gaze away from Alys to take in the golden beauty of his younger half-sister. “I can see you’re not afraid of anything,” he said with a shout of laughter. “That’s no horse for a lady.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “She’s mine. I raised her from a weanling, trained her…”
“Everything you have is due to my generosity and good will, and I can withdraw both at any time.” He glanced with covetous eyes at the magnificent mare, and Alys knew with a sinking feeling that Claire would lose Arabia. And it would break her heart.
For once Claire summoned tact, wise enough to recognize the danger she was in. “And we’re most grateful for your generosity,” she murmured between her teeth.
Richard put out a leather gloved hand and tilted Claire’s face to the sunlight. “By God, you’re a beauty, aren’t you? They didn’t lie. A much lovelier sight than your plain older sister. We’ll make a pretty pair, Richard the Fair and his beautiful sister.”
Before Claire could summon a response he turned, back to Alys. “Recovered your wits, sweeting?”
“I never lost them, my lord,” Alys replied without complete truthfulness.
“And are you looking forward to meeting your husband? He’s a prodigious fellow, dark enough to frighten dairy maids, but you have my blood in your veins. You’ll bear up well.” There was a crafty look in his red-rimmed eyes, one that didn’t bode well for the future.
“I look forward to it,” she said.
Richard wheeled his horse around, kicking up a cloud of dust. “You may be spared yet, sister,” he said over his shoulder.
“What?”
“He said he might prefer beauty to obedience. He’ll take his pick of the two of you, and Simon of Navarre’s a clever man. He’ll most likely go for the beauty.”
“No!” Claire cried, Arabia rearing as she sensed her mistress’s dismay.
“You’ll do as I say. Simon of Navarre is of value to me—a greater value than two pretty bastards. He’ll take whichever sister he desires. You needn’t worry, Alys,” he added. “I’m certain I can find someone who’ll warm your plump bones.”
He pounded back toward the entrance to Summersedge Keep. The drawbridge was down, the portcullis raised, but the spikes looked like sharp teeth. It was the mouth of a demon they would be entering, and, once inside, the drawbridge would be drawn up, the portcullis dropped, and they would be devoured.
It made no difference that the monster would choose Claire. Alys would rather die than see her sister sacrificed to a demonic creature.
Claire was weeping. She wept easily, but this time there was little Alys could do, short of clambering out of the traveling carriage and hugging Arabia, and she had no intention of attempting any such thing, not even for Claire.
“Don’t worry, love,” she said briskly. “It isn’t going to happen.”
” ‘Don’t worry!’ ” Claire echoed with a wail. “It was bad enough to think of you wedded to that monster. I can’t bear it!”
“Maybe he’ll choose me instead.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Claire scoffed, entirely without malice. “Of course he’ll choose me. Men are notoriously shallow.”
“Even a demon wizard?”
Claire shuddered in horror. “I’ll kill myself before I let him touch me. The servants tell me he’s an old man, with gray hair and a twisted hand like a demon bird. I couldn’t bear it.”
“You won’t have to,” Alys said, very calm. “Haven’t I always taken care of you? I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Oh, Alys, how can you stop it?” she cried.
“I don’t know,” Alys muttered. “But I will. He’ll choose me. I’ll force him.”
And Claire, looking down at her small, fierce sister, managed a watery laugh that was half relief, half derision.
Chapter Two
Simon of Navarre was already seated at Richard’s right hand when the sisters entered the Great Hall. He found he felt a surprising amount of anticipation, waiting for a first glimpse of his future bride. Not that he had the slightest intention of staying married to her. Permanence was not a way of life for him, and he doubted Richard’s grandiose plans would succeed. When they collapsed, and Richard with them, Simon of Navarre would be off in search of new opportunities, and he had no intention of burdening himself with a wife, no matter how lovely she was.
And she was lovely indeed. The noisy court lapsed into sudden silence as the group of women entered, and all eyes focused on the willowy blonde, with her beautiful face, her rippling hair restrained only by a thin circlet of ribbon, her plain clothes caressing her body as most men’s hands were itching to do.
He looked down at his own hand. The scarred, twisted one. He felt no urge to touch such beauty, admire it as he might. He glanced up at her again. She hadn’t noticed him yet. None of the women were looking at him; they were far too busy taking in the wonders of the court, which suited him well. Her face was astonishingly beautiful, though, as with most young girls, without strong character. He could see she was willful by the slightly stubborn set to her full mouth. He could see she was uneasy by the faint shadow in her perfect green eyes. He could see she was spoiled by the faint swagger in her graceful stride. She was a peacock, surrounded by gray doves, and she knew it, and she reveled in it, even though it made her nervous.
He realized then that he’d been mistaken. There were six women in the group, and five of them were staring about with wonder and curiosity. The
