Chapter One
Corfe Castle, Dorset
“For the love of God, he has only been dead these three months. Why must you force my husband from my memory so quickly?”
A lone woman faced off against a man clad in pieces of mail and leather, her words of anguish filling the air between them.
The question was infused with sorrow and curiosity.
Yet, it was a legitimate query. In the lavish solar that was the heart of Corfe Castle’s mighty stone keep, the emotions filling the room were as heady as the black smoke from the snapping fire.
The man with the silver hair tried to be stern with his reply but found he could not when he gazed into her agonized face.
Her dual-toned eyes, a mesmerizing shade of bright green with a splash of brown around the iris of the right orb, slashed into him until he could no longer hold his gaze.
He ended up rising from his chair and turning his back to her. It was the only way he could breathe.
“I am not attempting to erase his memory, Diamantha,” he said quietly.
“Robert was my son and my grief exceeds your own. However, the fact remains that he is no longer with us and it is your father’s wish that you remarry as soon as possible.
You are young and wealthy, and your father wants you to find a suitable husband. ”
The Lady Diamantha de Bocage Edlington changed moods as swiftly as a flash of lightning; she charged to her father-in-law, forcing the man to look her in the eye. When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth.
“My father,” she seethed. “By all that is holy and right, I knew he was behind this. I knew it!”
Sir George Edlington was old; too old for what he was about to face.
A dead son, a grieving daughter-in-law, and pain in his heart that was deeper than an ocean.
No parent should ever have to bury a child.
With a deep breath for courage, he grasped Diamantha by the arms as if to shake some sense into her.
“Your father wants his daughter to be taken care of,” he said firmly. “Robert, God rest him, would want this also. He would not want you to spend your life reliving memories that are of no use to anyone. And he would want Sophie to know a father again.”
Diamantha yanked away from him, her small body showing more strength than George had imagined it held.
“Sophie’s father is dead,” she half-hissed, half-wept. “She will never know another. And I do not want another husband.”
“So you would let your daughter live her life without the guidance of a father?” George was growing agitated. “And you would rather live your life alone and bitter? That makes little sense.”
She lost some of her fire. “It is my life. How I live it is none of your concern.”
He cocked a dark, bushy eyebrow. “I wonder what Robert would say to that?”
She opened her mouth in preparation for a scathing retort but found herself unable to muster the energy. After a moment, she shook her head and turned away.
“He would say nothing to me,” she said weakly, her brilliant gaze finding the lancet window and the lush green hills of Dorset beyond.
The scent of early summer was warm upon the air and she inhaled deeply.
“He would do what he always did. He would bow to my wishes and let me do as I please. Your son was far too much of a gentleman to contradict his wife, even when she was wrong.”
George watched the slender curve of her back beneath the blue damask surcoat and the way her reddish-brown hair fell in a heavy, shimmering sheet past her buttocks.
It was long and straight and silky and she always pulled it off her face in a pleasing style that Robert had liked.
Though it was the custom for married women to cover their head, Robert could not bear to see his wife’s luscious hair covered.
As George gazed at the woman his son had outright adored, the familiar pangs of grief began to claw at him again. With her, he saw the last memories of his son and he was loath to send her away as her father wished.
But what he wanted was of little consequence.
Diamantha’s father was a powerful warlord serving the Earl of Teviot in the north and George, as a servant of the king, would do as he was ordered.
It was out of his hands. With a blustery sigh, he turned back to the chair that had once held his weary body.
“At least you will not go far,” he said softly. “You can take comfort in that.”
Diamantha looked at him. “What do you mean?”
George picked up the parchment that lay upon the table next to the chair. “You will go to Sherborne Castle,” he replied, not looking at her. “Cortez de Bretagne is to be your new husband.”
Diamantha looked at him as if she did not understand his words. Then, her eyes widened. “De Bretagne?” she repeated incredulously. “Is that the man my father has chosen?”
George nodded faintly, re-reading the missive had had received several hours earlier.
It had taken him that long to summon the courage to tell Diamantha of its contents.
He still did not have the nerve to tell her that her proposed fiancé was waiting in the outer bailey, far removed from the view of the main keep, for an introduction.
It was, in fact, de Bretagne who had delivered the missive written by the lady’s father.
“Sir Cortez de Bretagne, garrison commander for King Edward’s holding of Sherborne Castle,” he said as he read the words again. “You have known Cortez for years so it is not as if you will be marrying someone you have never met.”
Diamantha could not keep the shocked look off her face.
“Of course I know him,” she muttered, looking away as she struggled to digest the news.
“His wife was my friend until she died three years ago, around the time Sophie was born. Helene died in childbirth and I remember Robert telling me how grief-stricken Cortez was. The man could hardly function.”
George dared to look at her to see if he could register any manner of acceptance with the arrangement. “Then this does not displease you?” he asked softly.
Diamantha was still caught up in the memories of Helene de Bretagne and her dark, handsome husband. She ignored her father-in-law’s question. “I wonder how my father came to this agreement,” she pondered, wandering back towards the window. “How would he know of Cortez? How would he have…?”
“Perhaps Cortez went to him,” George interrupted with a shrug. “He was there when Robert was killed. He knew that you were widowed. Perhaps he went to your father with a proposal.”
Her head snapped to George. “Do you think that is true?” she suddenly sounded angry again. “Why would he have done this? I have barely spoken ten words to the man the entire time I have known him. Why would he go to my father and demand my hand?”
George put up a hand to stop any building rage.
“I do not know if that is the case,” he insisted.
“It was merely a suggestion. Your father is a great warlord for Edward and so is Cortez. It would not have been difficult for him to arrange an audience with your father, as they are of the same social standing.”
She thought on that a moment before refocusing on George. There was resignation in her manner when she spoke.
“Being the youngest of three daughters, I am sure my father was most receptive to Cortez’s offer,” she said ironically. “My father was always so protective of me and my sisters. He was probably thrilled with the thought of marrying off a widowed daughter purely for the security it would provide.”
“Your father loves you a great deal.”
“He means well.”
George wasn’t sure how to respond. He wasn’t any good at gauging her mood; he never had been and neither had his son. So he set the parchment back to the table and faced her.
“Cortez delivered the missive,” he said, hoping she would not explode at him. “He is waiting to take you back to Sherborne.”
Her only reaction was to stare, rather dazed, at him. “Is this true?”
“Indeed it is.”
The reply came from the door. Both George and Diamantha whirled in the direction of the entry.
Standing in the archway was a tall man with enormous shoulders, partially shrouded by the shadows.
They could see his silhouette in the darkness.
When he saw that their attention was upon him, he stepped forward into the light.
Cortez de Bretagne was a big, muscular man with cropped black hair and onyx-colored eyes.
He was Spaniard on mother’s side, Welsh on his father’s, giving him a dark and sultry countenance.
There was something about the man that oozed strength and seductiveness, far more charisma than most pale and fair Englishmen.
More than that, there was something about him that was unsettling in a giddy sort of way; Diamantha remembered that from the first time she had met him.
Every woman in Dorset knew of the gorgeously handsome Cortez and Helene had quietly weathered the female attention to her husband.
She remained composed and gracious even as flighty women would challenge her for her husband’s affection.
It was a quality that Diamantha had appreciated in the woman, her friend gone these three years.
Now, the handsome husband was to become hers. She could hardly believe it.
Cortez glanced at George but his focus returned to Diamantha. His attractive, chiseled face smiled timidly as he bowed in her general direction.
“Lady Edlington,” he greeted in a soft baritone voice.
“I thought I told you to stay in the bailey until I sent for you,” George was the least bit perturbed.
“I was in the bailey,” Cortez cast him a long glance, his tone no longer soft. “Now I am here. I think a six-hour wait was sufficient.”