PROLOGUE
Lady Elizabeth Bramwell of Aldwyn plopped upon the hearth, stretching out her long legs as she carefully concealed the breeches she wore under her borrowed kirtle.
She yawned wearily, tired from her day of riding and exploring.
The fire warmed her back and would hopefully dry her auburn hair, heavy from the summer shower she’d been caught in that afternoon.
She ran a hand through her thick mass of curls, using her fingers to pull any knots free.
“I will have no more of this, Elizabeth,” her father roared. “You ignore me at your peril.”
She steeled herself for their usual argument. “Then quit parading suitors before me.” She tossed her head, the wild auburn curls spilling about her shoulders. “’Tis a waste of their time and yours, not to mention mine.”
She ignored his murderous glare and continued slipping her fingers through her tangled locks, hoping a servant would interrupt her father with a situation that needed his immediate attention. If so, she could slip away from the great hall and avoid this entire conversation.
Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Instead, her father began pacing the room, his voice bellowing as she imagined it did on the battlefield when he shouted orders to his loyal knights. She thought it loud enough that possible King Edward in London might be able to hear of her wrongdoing.
Her red-faced parent paused in front of her. “You think you can control your hair? I would but wish I could tame those devilish red locks. ‘Twould be a start to taming you.”
“My hair has as much brown as red in it, Father.”
He threw his hands up in despair. “That’s not the point, Elizabeth. I swear it’s the Devil Himself in you causing you to act the way you do.”
Though she knew where the conversation headed, she couldn’t help her retort. “And besides my shade of hair, what fault do you find with my behavior?”
Her father fisted his hands at his sides and took a deep breath. “You cannot run off every time I summon an eligible man to Aldwyn, Daughter.”
“Why not?”
Her father began harping again, his long strides carrying him back and forth across the great hall.
Elizabeth tuned out his lengthy tirade. After ten-and-seven years, she knew her list of transgressions by heart and could recite them from memory.
On any given day, her father’s litany of his only child’s misconduct might go on for hours.
It usually began with the fact that she was too headstrong. Unmanageable. Stubborn. Willful.
Then he’d move on and claim that she’d run wild, as if she were some hound that should be bent to a strong master’s will.
Her father always managed to point out that no suitor pleased her.
Ever. Elizabeth took secret pride in the fact that two had even asked to be released from their intended betrothal to her because of her strong will.
But his next words did not fall on deaf ears.
“... so in that case I have no choice, Daughter. I will force you into a convent and wash my hands of you.”
She smiled sweetly, ready to meet any challenge he threw her way.
“Then I shall merely plot my escape. Run away.” She placed her elbows upon her knees, resting her chin upon her fists.
“Admit it, Father. I am incorrigible. You cannot make me do anything, especially find a convent that would want me. I would surmise that within a week the good nuns and their mother abbess would push me outside and lock the gates to keep me from returning to their fold.”
She stood and dusted the front of her man’s dark brown tunic, one she had swiped from where it lay drying in the sun. She left a gold coin in its place, knowing the owner would come out the better in the trade.
Her father looked at her solemnly. “Just as I thought you would say. Which is why I now produce this.”
Elizabeth watched warily as he walked to an oak chest and lifted its lid. He removed a thick scroll. She knew exactly what that meant.
“Sweet Jesu, Father. Not another betrothal contract?”
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