Hearts of Steel

Prologue

Quentin’s brow furrowed. His hair grew damp with sweat.

He studied the cards in his hand and glanced casually at Renton.

Damn, the ill-tempered nobleman seemed smug as he ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair.

His host for this game sat across the table from Quentin as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

He watched Renton gaze to his left. Quentin in turn viewed the old fool seated next to Renton. Soon the baron would quit the game. Only Quentin would be left to challenge his host.

God, but he wanted to win. Deserved to win. Why shouldn’t he? At a score-and-one, he was the Earl of Nowland and bastard son of the king. His life should be richly blessed.

If only he could win this one hand.

The balding baron placed his cards face down. “Enough.” He spat upon the rushes gathered on the floor and pushed away from the table.

Blond and buxom Lady Alita, always the perfect hostess and wife, moved from her husband Renton’s elbow to the yielding nobleman. “My lord, would you care for some wine? I know a man’s card play can work up a powerful thirst.”

They stepped away, Alita’s chattering striking a raw nerve with Quentin. She reminded him of his sister—the last person he wished to think of at this crucial moment.

His final opponent pushed the cards around in his hand.

Quentin watched him, his heart pounding.

Renton was notorious for displaying a casual but confident air.

His cards could be worth less than a pile of dung, and no one would be the wiser.

Quentin determined that his neighbor would not get the best of him.

Not this time.

Yet a quarter hour later the stakes were next to impossible. Quentin now found himself sweating profusely.

Tiny rivulets formed along his nape and coasted down his back. He had to win. He must.

“My final wager to add to this,” Quentin heard himself say. His voice sounded tinny, coming from a long way off. Colors began to swim around the table, confusing him.

“What say you then, Nowland?” Renton growled. “You’ve no more coin at hand.” He belched loudly and took another swig of his ale.

The man’s vulgarity seemed the final straw. His heart full of hate, Quentin locked his jaw and narrowed his eyes, staring at his enemy. “The copse,” he growled.

Renton’s eyes gleamed. “The entire forest? Even the stream running through it?”

“Yes,” Quentin said, his voice low and menacing. “The whole of it.”

His host smiled. “You do realize that would include the hunting rights, Nowland? That it would become my land, an extension of Mangeron? That you could only set foot on it at my invitation?”

Quentin’s gut tightened, but he smiled in return. “I understand perfectly, my lord.” He paused a moment. “However, I don’t intend to lose.”

Renton laughed. “Then the copse, it is. I shall match you. My pair of steeds you’ve so admired, and your pick of brood mare to go with them.”

He couldn’t wait to possess those magnificent horses and all the foals that the mare would produce. “Agreed.”

“Then show your cards, Nowland.” Renton spread his across the tabletop slowly and then raised his eyes to meet Quentin’s.

No! Quentin’s blood screamed out. He wanted to take back the wager, scratch the entire night from his memory. He couldn’t lose to Renton de Mangeron.

Yet he had.

He slowly laid down his own cards as if he were in a nightmare. Renton chuckled. The two men’s eyes met.

Renton said softly, “My copse now.” He reached out his arms and swept the stacks of gold coin on the table toward him. “And my gold.”

Quentin smiled pleasantly, despite the fact his heart hammered unmercifully in his chest. He waved a hand nonchalantly. “It happens.”

He looked around. Life went on in the great hall of Mangeron. Guests ate and drank as they listened to a minstrel. He returned his gaze to Renton.

“A fine match,” he said, nodding his head. “I suppose I’m off for the garderobe and a willing wench, eh?” He laughed heartily, doing his best to disguise the pain that tightened about him, as real as any vise.

Renton’s robust laugh caused Quentin to see red. “Mayhap I’ll invite you to go hunting soon, Nowland. On my new land.” He laughed again at his own wit as Quentin stepped away and crossed the room.

He was unbearably hot and needed fresh air. Quentin left the great hall, a headache already pounding mightily at his temples. They came infrequently but were painful when they occurred. He moved rapidly down the corridor, blind to everything except the fact that he’d lost. Again.

When would he get his gambling under control?

His blood and tastes ran royal, but his circumstances were not. Why must he always push himself beyond his means? He dreaded what would occur next. His tenants must be milked dry yet again. He could already hear their grumblings.

“By God’s hooks,” he swore, grinding his teeth. He’d suffered enough. It was time to make someone else pay.

Quentin had no idea where he went as he stormed down the stone-flagged corridor. He only wanted retribution.

And then he saw her. Renton’s daughter. The raven-haired girl with her father’s dark blue eyes was but ten-and-three, but she had the body of a woman. A very ripe woman.

Quentin decided it would be her. Here. Now.

He slowed his pace as he approached her. What was the chit’s name? Bevia. Yes, that was it. Bevia.

“Bevia?”

She took notice of him and stopped in her tracks. “Oh, my lord. You startled me.” She leaned down to pick up the doll she’d dropped.

Quentin bent and reached it first, handing it to her. He gave her his most engaging grin. “I am most sorry for that, my dear.”

He saw the effect his smile had on her. If he knew one thing, it was the way to a woman’s heart.

He had the height of Edward Longshanks, far beyond what most of the king’s brood had been given, coupled with his mother’s gray eyes and distinct, silvery blond hair.

He used all this to his advantage whenever he could.

Bevia shyly returned his smile. “May I help you, my lord? Are you lost? I could—”

Quentin placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I was on my way to your father’s study, my sweet. He promised me the loan of a book. I first went to the garderobe and,” he shrugged, “I seem to be turned around.”

“I can take you there,” she said eagerly.

Quentin gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Oh, would you? That would be most delightful, dear Bevia.” He drew her hand through the crook of his arm. “I am quite looking forward to what I find there.”

The girl led him down several halls, chattering much like her mother as they walked. Quentin murmured politely every now and then, and she didn’t notice he wasn’t listening to her.

But he was taking her in. Her breasts were full, her waist tiny. His heart quickened as he thought of punishing Renton through his daughter. ‘Twould be most enjoyable.

Bevia stopped. “This is my father’s solar. You must enter it to cross to his study. There’s no other access, I’m afraid.”

Oh, this was rich. Quentin would have Renton’s daughter in the lord’s own bed.

“Would you mind showing me, Bevia? I wouldn’t want to disturb anything. You know how particular your father is.”

He saw her mouth purse with distaste. Renton was said to have a heavy hand. Quentin didn’t know if it extended to his own family, but he felt sure it must by the expression on the chit’s face.

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. She pushed open the door. A fire burned low in the grate, the only light of the room. They entered, and Quentin silently closed and locked the door behind them.

Flushed with drink and success, Renton pinched Alita’s ample rump as they walked up the stairs.

Most of the evening was now a blur after so many cups of wine and ale, but he remembered the most important event.

He’d bested that pompous ass, Quentin of Nowland.

The beautiful wooded area adjacent to his own property now belonged to his estate.

Not his neighbor anymore. Renton would never foolishly gamble it away as the king’s bastard had.

Renton threw an arm about his wife’s shoulders.

A quick romp with her and then sweet sleep awaited him.

He paused as they reached the solar. The door was ajar.

His guard went up. He never left it so. Neither did the servants nor Alita.

It had taken training, but he was a particular man and liked things done his way.

Someone had been here. But who?

He motioned Alita aside and opened the door cautiously.

The fire burned as mere embers now, the room mostly in shadow.

Renton stepped in and examined his surroundings.

No one was there. Still, he felt a presence and moved toward the bedchamber.

In the doorway, he noticed the bed curtains, always opened upon his arising, had been closed.

Someone was in his bed.

And then he heard the singing. It was soft and haunting. A child’s voice and a child’s song. Relief filled him, followed by anger. What child stumbled into his bed? Now he’d want fresh sheets. He wouldn’t lie where another had.

Renton moved toward the bed and lit a candle next to it before he drew the curtain aside. Chills ran through him.

His daughter sat propped upon the pillows, cradling her doll in her arms. Bevia rocked the toy and sang to it, her eyes glassy, her face pale. She was naked. Renton saw the blood between her legs and spilled on his sheets.

“Bevia?” he asked, touching her arm gently so as not to frighten her. “Bevia, who did this to you?”

His daughter gazed blankly at the wall and continued to sing eerily off-key.