Adventure & Romance Series

Get all three fantasy romance novels in the Ladies in Waiting series—full of slow burns, scars, court intrigue, and reluctant love. Strong heroines. Complex men. No regrets.

The Series

The Woman Inside

One look at Uric's mother—known throughout the land as the fearsome Ogress—and his potential brides flee in terror. When his queen sends the legendary berserker on a quest to retrieve a healer rumored to be a witch, Uric can't resist bringing the beauty home. Surely a witch would be more than a match for an ogre's son...

Ceylon, bound by duty to serve her queen, reluctantly accepts Lord Uric's escort to Queenstown despite his intimidating reputation and the unsettling rumors about his mother. Determined to resist his romantic pursuit, she unknowingly rides straight into political intrigue that will shake the foundations of her nation.

Between Ceylon's determination to maintain her independence and Uric's unexpected attraction, their journey becomes far more complicated than either anticipated.

The Other Woman

Ally craves passion and adventure after years of a cold, neglected marriage. She's ready to seek a lover and begin anew—there's just one obstacle: her husband.

Roland returns after ten years at war to discover his child bride has transformed into a sharp-tongued, captivating woman. Though her words cut like a sword's edge, her body promises nights of raw passion. If only he could overcome what he believes is her hatred.

But hatred isn't what drives Ally to flee Roland's touch. A much more complicated emotion has her running. Being an unwanted wife was painful enough; this time she refuses to become the other woman.

As misconceptions unravel and true feelings emerge, both must decide if the connection they feel is worth fighting for.

---

Perfect for fans of:

• Historical romance with strong-willed heroines
• Epic love stories with enemies-to-lovers dynamics
• Adventure and intrigue woven through emotional journeys
• Romance that sizzles without explicit content

These passionate tales deliver emotionally satisfying journeys where initial resistance gives way to deep connection, all wrapped in adventures that test both heart and courage.

✨Read a sample now:

CHAPTER 1

In another world, another time....

Ceylon stared at the dark red paste in her mortar. Twenty-three years of being ugly was about to change. Twenty-three years of being the ‘horror of Marksheath’ was nearly over.

Gears whirred in her father’s old grandfather clock, marking the minutes. The scattered beakers, glass tubes, and copper distillers littering her workbench testified to her many experiments. A huge leather book sat open on a stand near her, a slimmer journal on top, weighted with a large brass magnifying glass. Shelves of books lined the walls, still smelling of her father’s pipe smoke, though he’d been dead for some time. She was alone.

Eyes fixed on the hand mirror, Ceylon briskly applied the bloodroot paste over the red stain on her cheek. Born with it, she had endured the pity and revulsion of strangers, but by all that was holy, she would not endure it another day.

Herb lore had fascinated Ceylon since childhood, and she’d spent a great deal of time accumulating knowledge and experimenting on herself. Her studies filled several journals she planned to compile into a book. Her workspace shelves were lined with both ancient texts and modern translations, along with jars of herbs, pots of ointments, pills, and tinctures.

Her jaw tightened as she replaced the tiny pot’s lid. Ugly, reclusive, and a spinster, she knew she might have been dangerously close to being labeled a witch had she not been the Squire’s daughter. Thankfully, the villagers had gotten used to his strange experiments. No one had been surprised when his daughter followed his odd ways; hardly anyone called her a witch.

Long gone, but still protecting her… it was so like him.

She pushed aside the memories and reassured herself that the paste would work. The small mole she’d tested it on had gotten red, scabbed, and fallen off, hadn’t it? With a little help from her special salve, it had healed without a scar. The wretched birthmark would go, too.

She stared at herself in the mirror, jittery with anticipation. Everything was about to change.

One Year Later...

“It’s said she can turn the sorriest hag into a beauty to rival Venus.” With all eyes on him, the velvet-clad courtier bowed low before Her Majesty, Queen Callion of the Nine Kingdoms. The clockwork bird on his hat whirred, flapping tiny wings.

Queen Callion inclined her head, a slight frown on her face as she listened. She’d heard such promises before.

Her sisters, the princesses, were far more eager. “Tell us more!” The eldest and largest of the three demanded, leaning forward. “Was she truly the ugliest maiden in the land?”

“Worse,” assured the courtier, who had never laid eyes on the woman in question. He hoped it was true, for the anticipated reward for success would be substantial.

The middle sister, as scrawny as her sister was plump, eyed him suspiciously. The lower half of her face was covered in a veil to hide the warts on her chin. Even exorcism hadn’t been able to cure the stubborn affliction. “You say she cures warts?”

He snapped his ringed fingers. “As easy as this!”

“And skin blemishes?” breathed the youngest sister, who was covered in terrible pimples.

“Of course! And for a basket of eggs, she’ll even cure boils.”

The princesses exhaled as one and turned hopeful eyes to their sister, the Queen.

Her majesty suppressed the urge to sigh. What would it hurt? She would never be able to arrange marriages for her sisters in their present state.

She caught the courtier’s eye and lifted one imperious finger. “Bring her to me.”

***

Ceylon eyed the caged chicken. The chicken stared back in dismay. It was clear that the relationship was never going to work.

Loath to let down the hopeful peasant woman, she said reluctantly, “I’m afraid that I have plenty of chickens just now....”

The woman’s face fell.

“But if it were to come back in the form of a pie....” Ceylon had eaten one too many chicken pies lately, but surely she could choke down another. Most of the people who came to her for help didn’t have much, but their pride insisted that they pay her however they could. Unfortunately, livestock was the method of choice.

The woman beamed, revealing two copper teeth. “Bless you, lass! I make a chicken pie like no other. This fellow will be ready for you by supper.” She patted the wicker cage.

Ceylon slanted the alarmed bird a wry look. “Right. Now, how can I help you?”

The farmer’s wife planted her bottom on the kitchen bench and bent over, her frowzy head disappearing beneath the table as she did something with her shoes. “It’s me feet.” She freed one and held the large appendage up where Ceylon could see it. “I’ve got fungus.”

Ceylon bit her bottom lip, swallowing a laugh as the woman plopped her foot in Ceylon’s lap and looked at her expectantly. She cradled the ankle in her hand and raised the foot to the light. “All right, then. Let’s see what we can do for you.”

The fungus had eaten into the woman’s toenails and spread all over the foot, but Ceylon was confident they could cure it.

“Just remember to soak it in vinegar water, keep it dry, and use that cream I gave you,” she instructed the woman as she walked her to the door. Six people were seated outside on the firewood she used as stools. Ceylon nodded to them. “Sunset’s coming, so you’ll be my last patients for the day. Tell whoever comes next to take a marker to be in line tomorrow.” She gestured toward the peg in her wall that held the tin vouchers indicating the morning line-up.

His ogress of a mother was the reason he’d been forced to travel nearly every road in the land, through sleet, storm, and fog in search of a bride. He’d found dozens willing, had brought home five, only to have them run squealing back to their fathers in mortal terror of his mother. At this point, even a witch for a wife was beginning to sound appealing.

But was it too much to ask, he thought wistfully, that his wife be attractive? The women he’d brought home were average, but he’d been in search of a sweet temper to counteract his mother’s poison. Having failed, he’d settle for a woman who had all her teeth.

It would have been easier if he’d stayed a farmer’s son, he thought bitterly. Elevation to the mistress of Wormhurst, a post his mother had appropriated after he was awarded the lands and title of baron, had only deepened her vanity and need to control. Nor was she in a hurry to give up her position to Uric’s wife; the woman he married would have complete control over his household.

His only choice was to marry a woman strong enough to stand up to Maude, yet with character enough not to become a dictator. As his buck’s quick stride ate up the distance to the castle, Uric wondered if such a woman existed.

***

“If you want to get a husband, you’ve got to learn to flirt.”

Ceylon rolled her head and favored her friend Calisto with an amused stare. “I don’t flirt.” The deep window seat she occupied had an excellent view of the courtyard. The day was grim, the wind chill. Those outside walked quickly, their heads bent against the brisk fall winds.

Unperturbed by Ceylon’s negative attitude, Calisto raised her brows. “You don’t flirt, you dance like a drunken farmer, and you own more leather than dresses. Still, I have hope for you.”

Ceylon snorted and drew up a knee. “I’m quite the woman, aren’t I?” She smiled in self-mockery. “So pure, so radiant…” she quoted some of her suitors, the same men who hadn’t noticed her before her face healed. Amazing how they saw her now.

“Purity is overrated.” Calisto jabbed a pin into the birthday dress she was sewing for Ceylon and yelped. She shook her hand and grimaced. “I should have commissioned you a letter opener. Something less painful.”

“Something more likely to be used,” Ceylon agreed helpfully.

“You’ll wear it or eat it.” Calisto tossed aside the green velvet and considered her friend. “You need to be nicer.”

Here it comes. Ceylon widened her eyes in mock interest, even though she’d heard this speech before. With flawless red hair and a ladylike walk, Calisto was constantly surrounded by admiring suitors. She was also determined to mold Ceylon into her image. “I really should, shouldn’t I?”

Calisto ignored the sarcasm and put her sewing things away. “For your own good, if not theirs.”

Ceylon stiffened. So Calisto had decided to heal the healer, had she? Well, good luck! “And flirting is good because…?”

The seamstress sighed. “This coldness of yours does you no good.”

Annoyed now, Ceylon sat up. “And how is it my fault that men are stupid? If they want to be shallow, I see no reason to encourage them.” Ever since her face had healed and men had seen what was underneath, their attitudes toward her had drastically changed. Men who’d barely noticed her suddenly watched her with hungry eyes. A few of the boys, now men, who’d grown up taunting her had reversed their tune and now attempted to court her. Old men, youths barely old enough to leave their mamas; all of them watched her. Raven was the only one who didn’t drool, but then he was vocal about his preference for buxom blondes.

Some of those men had been more than cruel. Gilroy had actually held her down and rubbed dung on her face when they were children. Dung face, he’d called her. That’s the kind of men who wanted her now.

Her chest squeezed. She was the same person behind the flawless skin, the same green eyes. Her smile was white, when it showed, and hadn’t her dark hair always been glossy? It was her face they wanted now, not the woman she’d always been. If she were scarred tomorrow, they’d want nothing to do with her.

Their hypocrisy sickened her.

Ceylon looked beyond the leaded glass at the gray day. A red bird flew by as she watched, a bright flash of color against the rain-swollen clouds. She wished she could fly away, too.

Instead, she tried on the dress her friend had made.

“I’m not sure about this.” Ceylon tugged at the square bodice of the green gown. Air danced across her exposed skin. A gold-embroidered belt draped her hips and highlighted her figure, but it didn’t feel natural. “It needs more cloth.” A lot more. If Gilroy ever saw her in this, she could kiss her virtue goodbye.

“It needs nothing,” Calisto retorted and helped her down from the stool. “Let me help you. We don’t want to disturb the hem pins.”

Ceylon threw on a loose peasant top and carelessly knotted the matching skirt at her waist as she waited for her clothes to be finished. The loose shirt was far too big and kept sagging, but Calisto was nearly finished.

Calisto had snatched Ceylon’s leathers when Ceylon changed, determined that she would walk out of here looking like a lady. In light of Calisto’s excitement, Ceylon let her have her moment.

Ceylon doubted she had the personality to carry off the makeover. In the past, because of her marked face, she’d faded into invisibility when men caught sight of Calisto; hardly surprising, for she was a true beauty.

That was no longer a problem, and she didn’t want Gilroy or his brothers drooling over her. She would have gladly skipped the dinner Lady Tennyson was giving, but she’d been commanded to appear. Ever since she’d cured her daughter’s vicious pimples, Lady Tennyson had fawned over Ceylon, spreading the word of her daughter’s cure far and wide. Now she was intent on securing Ceylon’s exclusive services as her private beauty consultant. Leery of being trapped in the castle on a daily basis with Lady Tennyson’s pig sons, Ceylon had been quietly fighting her fate. Only her position as an important healer had kept her safe, but she wasn’t sure how long she could resist without invoking her ladyship’s disfavor.

Oblivious to Ceylon’s thoughts, Calisto gave her a brilliant smile. “You look wonderful! Now you just have to keep away from Gilroy, and you’ll have a great evening.”

“That’s a fun thought,” Ceylon said grumpily. “But thank you for your hard work. The dress is very nice.”

About to respond, Calisto shrieked in outrage and darted after her white monkey. It was dragging one of Ceylon’s favorite boots out of the bedroom. “Hey, you! Stop!”

Caught up in his favorite game and thrilled to have an audience, the monkey flashed her a wicked grin and darted through the door flap, screeching.

“Stupid monkey!” Ceylon shouted. Last time it took a week to find her boot, and it had been in the stables, covered in muck. Furious, Ceylon hiked her borrowed skirts and dashed after him.

Uric looked up to see a woman dashing down the wooden stairs. The stairs were old and steep, leading to the upper room of a house built against the castle wall. They looked unsafe for walking, let alone running in skirts. Shouting threats at a monkey dragging a boot, she struggled to keep her loose clothes from falling off.

Her roar of outrage sounded across the yard as the monkey leaped from the stairs and into the nearest espaliered pear. “Bloody thief!” she yelled, oblivious to a dozen mounted strangers watching with fascination. “Come back with my boot!”

The monkey noticed the riders before she did and froze in indecision; a tactical error. With a whoop of triumph, the girl swooped down on him. As she snatched her boot, her skirt chose to surrender to gravity. In the confusion of the moment, she neglected to drop the boot, and as she sank in an attempt to keep the skirt around her hips, her shirt slipped dangerously.

Only then, when she was down on her knees and in danger of an involuntary disrobing, did she notice the hooves of Uric’s stag.

Uric watched as her brilliant green eyes tracked up Behemoth’s long black limbs. They skipped up Uric’s leg and finally settled on his face.

Her lips parted. For a moment, it seemed as if she wanted to drink him in.

A beautiful, hopefully available young woman. With all her teeth. He flashed her his best smile.

Instead of smiling back, she stiffened, and an expression of mortification crossed her face. Her hand tightened on her clothes. Hot color stained her fair skin, and she frowned. “I could use some assistance,” she informed him sternly.

He couldn’t prevent a grin. There she was, dressed like a peasant, sitting in the dust, and she ordered him around like a queen. Chuckles surrounded him as he swung down from his mount. “Anything for you, fair maid.”

And she was fair, he noted as he gathered her into his arms. More than fair with those snapping green eyes and pretty pink lips.

“Put me down!” she hissed as he hefted her easily, her panicked gaze swinging to his men as she gripped his leather armor. “I can walk.”

“True, but I doubt you can remain dressed,” he countered. “But if that’s what you want...” He pretended to lower her.

“No!” She clung to him, no doubt knowing that the act would expose more than her dainty feet. “I...” She glanced toward the stairs she’d descended in such a rush. “I need to go there.”

Obligingly, Uric strode up the steps. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She frowned forbiddingly at his endearment. “Doctor Ceylon,” she informed him, her mouth set in a firm line.

He smiled. Better and better.

She was embarrassed and prickly; he could understand that. He would like to see her in a better mood. A smiling, laughing Ceylon would be something.

Uric looked her over, already planning their first night. When was the last time he’d felt such an instant attraction to a woman?

“And what does your man call you?” he inquired, intensely curious. He prayed she had no such thing.

She looked away. “I have none, happily.” Her tone made it clear she liked it that way.

“That’s good news,” he said cheerfully as he pushed aside the door flap and set her down. Temporarily blinded by the shadowed interior, he could guess that her gasp signaled the loss of clothing. The image brought a wide smile to his face. “Until later, sweet Ceylon.”

“You left me on purpose!”

Calisto smiled smugly. “Of course I did.” She sighed dramatically. “Have you ever seen a face like that? So handsome!”

“I was almost naked!” Ceylon hissed. Her heart was still beating far too fast, and no wonder. The moment she’d laid eyes on the man she’d thought it might stop. With short golden curls and blue eyes, the man was handsome. He probably knew it.

“He seemed to like you.” Calisto laughed at Ceylon’s expression.

“It isn’t funny!”

Calisto smirked. “I couldn’t quite see; was that a diamond winking in his ear?”

Ceylon crossed her arms and looked out the window, determined to ignore her. She knew exactly what Calisto was up to.

Sly now, Calisto added, “And such broad shoulders! He carried you up here, wearing full armor, and wasn’t even winded.”

“I’m not that big.”

“Nor is he as tall as some knights, but that should be more comfortable when he kisses you.”

Ceylon’s body steamed; the man was the embodiment of her every midnight fantasy. “Don’t be foolish, Calisto! He’s a knight, which probably means he has an exalted opinion of himself and a bad case of the pox. If he comes to me, it will likely be for a cure.”

Calisto choked.

“Don’t laugh. You’d be surprised how many handsome men come to me for medicine when it starts itching.”

Calisto’s eyes bugged. “Like who?”

Ceylon crossed her arms and looked smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Just do yourself a favor and consult me before you choose a husband, would you? It might save you grief.”

Poxed or not, Ceylon’s knight was in the great hall that evening as Ceylon made her way to the table. He stood by the fireplace, outlined by its flames. There was nothing warlike about his formal attire, but with a man like that, it didn’t matter. His military stance told you who he was.

Lady Tennyson’s daughter Annette stood at his side, a trifle too close. Her breathy laughter carried across the hall. A man Ceylon vaguely remembered stood beside them, providing the young lady with another welcome distraction.

Gilroy was there, too.

“Healer Ceylon.” Lady Tennyson greeted her warmly, though she looked less than pleased by Ceylon’s improved appearance. Perhaps because her daughter was still unattached and flirting madly with her handsome guest? “Your dress is lovely, my dear.”

“A birthday gift from Calisto the Seamstress.” Ceylon smiled. “She feared I might wear my boots to the table if she didn’t prevent it.”

“She might have been right.” Gilroy appeared at his mother’s side, a drink in hand. Judging by his red eyes, it wasn’t his first. Dressed in scarlet, he looked Ceylon over boldly and with less restraint than usual. It made him ugly. “I wonder how the queen will take our little Ceylon?”

Ceylon frowned, uncertain what the queen had to do with her.

“Oh, so you haven’t heard?” Gilroy’s crooked teeth flashed in a nasty smile. “Baron Uric has stopped here on his quest to find a noble bride. The queen told him to fetch you while he’s at it.” The smile became a sneer as he visually raked her up and down. “Seems the queen is in need of a witch to brew her sisters’ beauty potions.” His gaze on the approaching Uric, he continued in mock dismay, “What a pity the queen’s command is law. I was looking forward to retaining your exclusive services, sweet Ceylon.”

Lady Annette’s hand flew to her mouth as she tittered.

Ceylon felt the blood drain from her face. Shock at the queen’s command was bad enough. She wasn’t a beauty consultant! What was with these spoiled women?

“Gilroy,” Lady Tennyson murmured, but the damage was done. Even worse, by the chilling of their expressions, the strangers didn’t know whether to believe his insinuation or not.

She looked at the dark knight and a mental gong sounded. Uric! She went rigid, all her silly fantasies instantly burned to ashes. He was Uric the Berserker? The man who was rumored to have traveled a thousand days in search of a bride to please his beastly mother? The mother that was said to have shaved one maiden bald when she refused to clean her chamber? That Uric?

She wanted to hide. How could she have been so stupid? Of course, he would be looking for a bride, a woman far above Ceylon’s station. Some blue-blooded lady with more hair than brains. The most he would ever offer Ceylon was the position of mistress.

In the moment of silence, Ceylon heard herself say with detached calm, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Sir Gilroy. I’m quite certain another doctor will have medicine to cure your particular affliction. Have the sores burst yet?”

Gilroy turned red. Before he could say a word, Baron Uric stepped forward, effectively blocking Gilroy’s path of retaliation. “Mistress Ceylon.” He gave her a slight bow, his gaze steady. Ceylon had the feeling that his attention was on his back, in case Gilroy attacked. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Ceylon’s jaw locked. She imagined what Gilroy had said. By now, he probably thought the worst of her. “Have you?”

“The queen is eager to make your acquaintance. She promises to make the journey worthwhile.” His smile was practiced, one he would give a business acquaintance. He wasn’t trying to woo her, which told her he expected her to go with him; that’s what one did when the queen commanded.

“Winter is coming, my lord,” she said icily, still mad at Gilroy. “I despise being cold. Even the gift of an entire castle would not entice me outdoors in such weather.”

His eyes narrowed. “You would refuse the queen’s invitation?”

Ceylon looked away, sorely tempted, but knowing she had no choice. “No.”

The single, tight word broke the tension. “Shall we?” Lady Tennyson said with a weak smile. “Dinner is ready.”

Since Lord Tennyson was away at the moment, Gilroy took his place at the head of the table, leaving Ceylon seated between his two brothers.

Uric was stuck between Lady Tennyson and her coquettish daughter.

“Tell me about life at court, my lord.” Annette placed her hand lightly on his arm and stared deep into his eyes. “I want to know all about it.”

Beautiful, Uric thought, already regretting his journey. He was growing tired of women who could think of nothing but wearing silks and jewels and being presented to the queen. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” he asked with a hopeful smile. It was the right question, for she immediately launched into a discussion, freeing him to subtly watch the healer.

Gilroy had filled his ears with many things, centering on her prowess in bed and general bitchiness when she didn’t get her way. Although Uric had his doubts that the obnoxious youth had ever touched her, he wondered. It wasn’t an uncommon arrangement, and both times he’d seen her she’d been in a foul mood. What did he know about the girl, anyway?

Pity, he thought as he watched her over the rim of his goblet. She was pretty, and there was a straightness to her spine he liked.

Suddenly Ceylon’s eyes widened. Clearly outraged, she shot a swift look downward. Her hand disappeared beneath the table, and her shoulder jerked. The young man next to her—Boyd, Uric thought—smirked.

Uric’s eyes narrowed as Ceylon stabbed a piece of peacock and chewed viciously. He had a good idea of the brother’s game and didn’t like it. No matter what she had or hadn’t done, the girl clearly didn’t enjoy being pawed.

Ceylon stiffened again, and this time her fork disappeared underneath the table. The fat man on her other side, Amherst, gave a sudden squawk.

“Are you all right, Amherst?” his mother called.

He gave her a tight smile. “Perfectly. Just had a piece of meat go down wrong.” As soon as his mother looked away, he shot Ceylon a killing glare.

All was quiet until Ceylon’s eyes skewed around to fix the weasel-faced Boyd with a poisonous scowl.

“Quite the weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Boyd asked innocently.

Ceylon gave him a fierce smile and dumped her wine in his lap.

He howled and jumped up, his chair falling to the floor behind him. “Witch!”

Uric didn’t wait for Boyd to raise his fist. He leapt the table and thrust Ceylon behind him. Roland was instantly at his side. “Hold, Boyd! She’s under the queen’s protection.”

Boyd kicked aside his chair. “I don’t care! I’ll have her hide!” He charged.

He found himself pinned and Uric’s knife at his throat. “Then maybe you’ll care about this?” Uric calmly pressed the razor edge into Boyd’s neck. A bead of red trickled from the light cut.

Nobody moved.

Uric waited a long moment to make his point and released him.

Boyd stepped back, rubbing his throat. His expression was mutinous, but he didn’t attack Uric again.

Uric gave Lady Tennyson a slight nod, ignoring her offspring. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lady. Dinner was excellent. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll escort my charge home before she causes any more trouble.” He grasped the healer’s arm, not surprised to find her stiff and unresponsive. It didn’t slow him down as he half-dragged her from the hall.

“I can walk,” she told him coldly the minute they were outside.

“Go ahead.” He released her, glad to see she kept up. She seemed as eager to leave that place as he was.

“What’s wrong?” A scrawny youth with wild black hair and a scruffy beard jumped up from a bench in the entryway as they approached. He handed Ceylon a coat and eyed the tall warriors suspiciously. “Do you need assistance, Mistress Ceylon?”

“Not from you, pup,” Roland said, barely glancing at him as he opened one of the massive double doors.

Ceylon ignored him and gave the wary boy a tight smile. “Thank you for waiting, Raven. Of course, I’d like you to walk back with me.”

Roland blocked Raven from following her. “No, Crow, she wouldn’t.”

Ceylon stopped and gave Uric a frosty look. “Are you forbidding me to bring my servant?”

Uric considered the scruffy lad. If this ragged urchin was her servant, then she didn’t pay well. “Very well. Let him alone, Roland.”

Raven eyed the intimidating Roland like a young wolf as he moved to Ceylon’s side. Roland stood his ground, forcing the young man to walk around him as he turned his head to keep Raven in his sights.

“And Calisto wants to know why I never married,” Ceylon muttered as she extracted her gloves from her coat pocket.

“Let me help you.” Raven hurried to take the coat from her and settled it around her shoulders.

Surprised, she blinked at him until she remembered that it was the sort of thing a servant would do. “Er, thank you.” She caught Uric looking at her and averted her eyes, hurrying out into the storm.

Few people walked the dark streets. Occasionally a bundled person would hurry by the brick houses, only to disappear behind a door at the first opportunity. Frozen mud made an uneven walking surface, and the tiny frozen puddles crunched under her shoes, wetting her feet. “I knew I should have worn my boots,” she muttered.

“Wear them tomorrow,” Uric suggested. “You’ll be traveling by coach, but it pays to dress warm.”

“Coach?” Raven said guardedly.

Ceylon waved a silencing hand. “I need at least two days to settle my affairs. If I’m not going to be back until spring, I need to find a caretaker for my house and pack my things. Day after tomorrow is the best I can do.”

“Fine.” Uric stopped at her door. “In the meantime, I’ll have some of my men keep watch on your house. I didn’t like the look on Boyd’s face tonight.”

About to protest, Ceylon shut her mouth. The man had a valid point. “Fine. Raven, there’s a plum tart in the house if you’re hungry. Just take the whole thing home. Widow Godfrey made me two.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Ceylon waited until Raven found the pie and came outside. The candle Raven had lit illuminated her unsmiling face as she nodded to the men. “Goodnight.” She shut her door, leaving them out in the cold.

So much for hospitality.

CHAPTER 2

Uric walked away from the healer's house, shaking his head. "That has to be the strangest woman I've ever met. She dresses like a lady yet talks about wearing boots. Her servant wears rags, yet she feeds him like a king. Gilroy swears she's his mistress..."

"Yet she defends her honor with silverware," Roland finished. They'd reached the stables, and he sent the stable boy to fetch two of their men. He crossed his arms and leaned against a post. "Gilroy's lying."

"He's the type." Uric propped one boot on a bench. "Maybe we should investigate before we leave. I'd like to know what kind of woman I'm traveling with."

Roland's grin was sly. "You want her to be a virtuous maiden."

Uric spread his fingers, palm up. "What's the alternative? That she sells herself for the occasional coin? I'll spend the entire journey fighting to keep her from impregnating herself before she's presented to the queen."

"Hm." Roland withdrew a coin from his pocket, walking it through his fingers. "My gold says she's never gone near Gilroy's bed. How about yours?"

"Only oafs bet on a lady's virtue."

"Speaking of which, if we're leaving in two days, I guess that means we'll not be having a wedding first?"

Uric frowned at him.

"The fair Annette? The woman you came to see? Were you planning to offer for her before we leave, or was this another wasted trip?"

Uric looked aside as two of their soldiers entered the stables. "We had to come for the healer anyway." He sent his men to guard the healer's house.

Roland's eyes narrowed on the back of Uric's head. He was growing weary of tramping around the countryside just so Uric could reject bride after bride. Uric swore it didn't matter, but Roland suspected Uric was holding out for love.

Who could blame him? Still, at this rate, they would be old and gray before Uric decided on a match.

It was time he took a more active hand in this romance business. He'd be home by spring, toasting his feet by the fire and drinking ale even if he had to sink to playing matchmaker.

Cupid would shoot straight at Uric's heart, even if he had to stab him in the back.

"Healer Ceylon? Are you daft?" The sooty blacksmith wrinkled his brow and spat. The heat from the forge warmed his work shed, and daylight shone through the cracks in the door. "Beg pardon, milord, but that girl wouldn't cozy up to Gilroy if he offered her the castle. Never could stand him, what with their history." He thrust the teardrop-shaped elk shoe back into the coals to heat. It took two shoes on each foot to shoe the divided hooves, and strong glue attached them to the hooves' thin walls.

Roland polished an apple on his shirt while Uric tried not to look too interested. "What history?"

The blacksmith looked both ways and crooked his finger.

They leaned forward.

"It's rumored he's her half-brother, and a cruel one. Used to delight in tormenting her. Even held her down once and smeared dung in her face."

Roland and Uric exchanged glances.

Anticipating their next question, the blacksmith continued, "No one knows if the squire or Lord Tennyson fathered her, but the entire village knew that Ceylon's mother was bedding his lordship. Used to flaunt the gifts he gave her right under the squire's nose. There were those who called the squire a coward for doing nothing about it, but never to his face. No one dared, for he was a mean fighter. But he loved little Ceylon, kept her happy with books after her mother died."

"Does Gilroy know who Ceylon might be?" Uric asked, sickened by the thought.

The blacksmith abruptly turned and picked up his hammer. "If he knows, he doesn't care." The grim set of his face revealed his feelings.

Much enlightened, and deeply disturbed, the men left the shed.

"It seems you'll be doing the woman a favor by taking her away." Roland squinted at the gloomy sky. "Can't imagine why she hasn't already left."

"Her friends are here. It's not easy for a woman alone to give up everything she knows to go to a strange place."

Roland smiled. "Ah, but she's not alone anymore, is she?"

Uric shot him a sharp glance. "Don't be matchmaking, Roland. I don't need your help."

"Who said I was planning to help you?" Roland raised his brows and swaggered away.

As his meaning sank in, Uric hurried to catch up. "Wait a minute! Since when do you want her?"

Roland batted playfully at an awning. "What do you care? I won't get her pregnant." He was considerate that way, taking precautions where others wouldn't bother.

Uric's brows drew together. "That's not the point."

"What is?"

"A woman like that will demand marriage."

"So? With a little taming, she'll make a fine wife. Cuddly, too," Roland added as an afterthought.

"I didn't see her fawning over you last night," Uric snapped.

"I wasn't at my best. I'll have to try harder." Roland surveyed the merchant shops. "I wonder what sort of gift she might fancy?" He started toward a jeweler's sign.

Uric grabbed his arm and corrected his course. "Don't be an ass! If you start bringing her gifts, she'll think you're trying to buy her favors." On second thought, maybe he shouldn't have warned him. A quick rejection would get the idea out of Roland's head.

Roland eyed him. "You're probably right," he said slowly. "I suppose we should see about supplying our journey."

The tension drained from Uric. Maybe Roland was coming to his senses. He clapped him on the back. Hard. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said in an hour."

Roland just smiled.

Now that she was actually moving, Ceylon had overcome her initial resistance and was efficiently settling her affairs. The priest’s spinster daughter agreed to watch over the house. In fact, she was delighted.

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to spend some time away from mother and father,” she confided to Ceylon as she helped pack books. “And don’t worry about your patrons; I’ve always had a penchant for medicine. With that copy of your book and what I know about herbs, I think we’ll get on just fine until the new doctor arrives.”

Ceylon sent her a grateful smile as she sorted out a few packets of essential herbs and medicines for her travel kit. “Thank you, Ermine. I’m very grateful you could help on such short notice. It eases my mind.”

Ermine flipped her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about anything. We’re all so proud of you! Why, it’s not everyone who gets a summons from the queen.”

Ceylon gave her a weak smile. Yes, lucky her. Instead of staying inside her cozy cottage, she got to ride into the teeth of winter with a berserker and his barbarian friend.

She was still in the middle of packing when visitors knocked on the door.

“I just heard,” gasped the balding carpenter. Apparently, the news had alarmed him. “No one can believe it, least of all me.” He took her hand and looked imploringly into her eyes. “Surely you weren’t planning on leaving without giving me an answer to my marriage proposal?”

She glanced helplessly to the side. Uric’s guards, stationed at either side of the door, listened with unabashed interest.

“I’m not sure this is the time,” she began but stopped in frustration when he sighed mournfully. Obviously, her attempts to let him down easy hadn’t gotten through. Very well, it was time for bluntness. “Oleander, I’m sorry, but no.”

His face fell.

“I’m truly sorry.” Loath to prolong the spectacle, Ceylon shut the door in his face. She hadn’t gotten two steps away when another knock sounded. With a groan, she turned back.

The tailor’s wife, Natty, had brought her a new pair of wool socks. “I know you must be busy, but I couldn’t forget all you did for our little Timmy,” she said as she pressed the parcel into Ceylon’s hands. “God bless you, miss.”

The door had barely closed behind her when another caller showed up at the door. This time it was a villager with a feverish baby, and there was no question of not helping.

Temporarily abandoning her packing, Ceylon prepared herself for a very long day.

It was after two o’clock, and Ceylon simply had to get out of the house. One more caller would be one too many. Tossing a coat over her shoulders and pulling on her woolen mittens, she sneaked out for a brisk walk.

A light snow was falling. Flakes like white rose petals fell along the shingled roofs. Only the constant traffic in the streets prevented the snow from covering the frozen mud.

She hadn’t gone far when the sound of trumpets announced the return of Lord Tennyson and his company. Ceylon cleared the street with the others and stood at the side while his party rode through.

“He’s back from another pilgrimage,” she heard one man say.

Another man spat. “Aye. He’s become quite the holy man, our lord.”

Ceylon snorted softly. Yes, their lord had become quite the spiritual wayfarer after Ceylon’s mother had died. Guilt could do that to a man.

She cast her eyes downward as she always did and waited for Tennyson to pass.

This time his gelding’s dappled legs moved into view and stopped.

“Mistress Ceylon,” Lord Tennyson said quietly. He waited until she was forced to look at him.

Ceylon dragged in a breath, rigid with rebellion. It had been a year since she had seen his light brown hair and neatly trimmed, pointed beard. At least twelve months since she had been forced to acknowledge the strawberry-sized red mark revealed by the receding hairline. Sick heat roiled in her stomach. A year wasn’t long enough.

“My lord,” she managed.

Eyes as green as hers studied her solemnly. “I’ve heard the queen has sent for you.”

Ceylon jerked her head in a short nod.

His hands worked the reins. “I’m pleased she has acknowledged your skill. You’re certain to bring Marksheath honor in her service.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ceylon looked through him.

He hesitated a moment more, then nodded. He spurred his elk, and his party moved on.

Ceylon pulled her hood lower and hurried home, miserably aware of the staring crowd.

Her head ached.

It didn’t feel better the next day after wrestling with the sheets all night. It didn’t help that Raven was determined to follow her to Queenstown.

“I’m your bodyguard,” he insisted, tossing his feed sack of belongings on the table. The room was still lit by the fire and oil lamp. “You need me.”

Loath to contradict him, she bit her tongue and tried to think of a way to reason with him. “It’s cold. You have no elk, so you’ll have to ride in the carriage. It’s bound to be a long, boring trip.”

“Hardly,” he quickly assured her. “You’re going to visit the queen! You’ll be traveling with real knights.” His gaze desperately held hers.

Ceylon shut her eyes. Of course, the knights. Raven’s dream. “You can come,” she said, massaging the bridge of her nose.

Jubilant, Raven swept her up in a crushing hug. “You’ll never regret it, Ceylon!” He gave her a fierce grin.

“Yes, yes.” She disentangled herself, feeling to see that nothing was broken. “Just try to remember that when your feet are numb and your nose is frozen.” She wasn’t nearly as happy as he was. He was one more responsibility, for she’d worry about him the whole way. How was she supposed to look after a boy old enough to shave?

She eyed him, looking for clues, and found them in his bedraggled appearance. “Well, come on then.” She headed up the stairs. “I’ve got some of my father’s old things in the attic. Bound to be small on you, but they’re in good condition, and I can modify them on the way.”

Small was an understatement. Ceylon hadn’t realized how tall Raven was until she saw his wrists sticking three inches out of her father’s coat. She stared at the pants with equal dismay. Those barely went past his calves. “I can do something about the shirts, but we’ll simply have to buy more pants.” And boots, she added silently. His shoes were cracked and close to falling apart.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t buy them yet.”

She waved a hand. “Call it an advance on your wages, but we’d better hurry if we’re going to get you anything. It’s almost dawn, and the baron is sure to be annoyed at the delay.”

Sure enough, when she opened the door, Uric was there, his hand raised to knock. A steam powered carriage waited. Black and silver, it had four fat wheels and a trail of steam coming from a pipe on the roof. People stopped to stare.

Uric smiled at her astonishment. “Glad to see you’re ready.”

Momentarily distracted by her first sight of the new invention, she said, “Er...not quite.” Ceylon tipped her head at Raven. “My servant will be coming, and I need a few minutes to buy him some warmer clothes. It was a last minute decision,” she added when he scowled.

Uric sighed. “Make it quick, then. We have some hard riding to do.” Her escort would be riding elks, it seemed.

He looked at two of his men. “Get her bags and put them in the coach.”

Ceylon gave him a grateful nod and strode off, glad that she wore long underwear under her pants. Today was no day to be fashionable.

“Wouldn’t you like to ride?” he called, leading his elk.

“I’ll be riding all day,” she threw over her shoulder. “Besides, it’s only a few doors down.”

Lights were on in the shoemaker’s house, though doubtless he wasn’t expecting business so early. “Boots, you say?” he muttered, adjusting his spectacles to peer at Raven’s feet. “For him?”

“If you have them. We’re in a hurry.” Ceylon stepped in, pulling off her gloves as she went. “I’ll pay, of course.”

There were boots at hand, fortunately. They were a little big, but that was fine since Raven was growing. It also allowed room for a felt liner and another pair of wool socks, a plus in cold weather.

But when it came time to pay, Uric handed the old man a coin. He looked at Ceylon, whose hand was still in her pocket. “The queen is paying your expenses now.”

He was just as fast to pay the tailor, who fortunately had a few things ready. This time Uric had Ceylon wait in the coach to save time. Moments later, he sent the beaming Raven out with a large bundle. Nodding to the coach driver, Uric mounted his own stag, and they headed out.

“What’s all this?” Ceylon asked in surprise as Raven tossed his new bag into the coach. He opened it up and showed her his new clothes. Amazed at Uric’s generosity, and a little alarmed, for surely the queen hadn’t meant for the baron to be that generous, she watched Raven spread out his loot.

Raven grinned and held up a garment. “I know! I couldn’t believe it.” He noticed what he held and flushed. He stuffed the underpants back in the bag.

Ceylon grinned.

More subdued, Raven held up a linen shirt. “Look at this! He got me three! And this coat, and socks, pants...” He showed her each item with the enthusiasm of a small child. “He barely even looked, just checked for fit and tossed it on the pile. Didn’t even blink when he heard the price.” His voice was awed.

Ceylon let out a breath. Raven was too occupied to notice.

She stroked the furs that covered the leather coach seat, taking in the rough texture of black bear. There were softer fur covers folded on the floor, as well as a blue and yellow velvet quilt. There were orange and red brocade cushions, complete with gold cording. An unlit lantern hung from the ceiling, and it was surprisingly warm, thanks to the steam engine. There was even a basket of fancy snacks.

All of this for a country doctor? The queen had certainly gone all out...

Her unease only increased when she spied the neatly wrapped package under Raven’s seat. It was done up in brown paper and tied with a string. The large tag had her name on it.

Raven helped her drag it out. “What is it?”

Ceylon gasped as the paper fell away. It was a blue velvet coat lined with sheared beaver.

Really worried now, she laid the coat aside and opened the window. The first thing she saw was Roland. “Sir Roland?”

“Yes, Mistress Ceylon?”

“Have you seen the princesses?”

He frowned. “Yes.”

“And are they...” There was no way to put it delicately. “Just how ugly are they?”

His brows rose.

She sent a wild look inside the carriage, alarmed anew by her surroundings. “I can’t do miracles.”

Roland stared at her for a moment with the strangest expression, then threw back his head and roared.

Uric dropped back to see what was so funny. In spite of the chill, his head was bare, and he barely seemed to notice the wind ruffling his curls. “What’s the joke?”

Ceylon glanced behind her again. “Is all of this on loan?” The idea relieved her. “That is, I know the coach is, and of course everything in it, but will we have to return the coat and Raven’s clothes?”

Uric exchanged a glance with Roland, his eyes twinkling. “I doubt the queen will want to wear Raven’s clothes.”

Ceylon flushed. “You know what I mean!”

He shrugged, still in good humor. “What are a few clothes and one coat? Of course, you may keep them.”

She ducked back inside. How ugly could the princesses be? What would the queen do to her if she failed to make them more attractive? Callion was said to have an even temper, but she had also placed more than one charlatan in the stocks.

She stuck her head back out, interrupting Uric and Roland. “I want you to witness that I never claimed to be able to help the princesses,” she said forcefully. “I’ve never made any claims at all.” When they stared at her with expressions of incredulity, she added, “It might keep me out of the stocks if you would remind the queen of this if I fail.”

Uric looked puzzled. “She’ll hardly send you to the stocks, Ceylon.”

“Just in case, please remember.”

Roland squinted when she ducked inside. “Do you think she’s been sipping one too many of her own potions?”

Uric only shook his head. Who knew what went on in a woman’s mind?

They stopped to rest the elk at noon. Ceylon had been dozing in the carriage, but was quick to take advantage of the stop for a jaunt into the woods. On her way back, she noticed Raven returning from a similar errand and decided to begin breaking in her new “servant.” It only took a moment to retrieve her crossbow.

She selected a tree and moved away from the others. “Raven, come here!” She handed him a woven coil target the size of a saucer. “Hang this on that tree, would you?”

Raven frowned at the huge oak at the edge of the clearing. “All right.”

When he returned, she handed him the crossbow. “You once said you wanted to learn how to use a crossbow. Now’s a good time.”

Faint color came into his cheeks as he darted a glance at their escort, who were watching them with idle interest. “I know how to use one,” he informed her scornfully.

Her brow rose at his tone. The boy had better watch it, or she’d let him walk to Queenstown. “Show me.” As expected, her frosty stare took some of the starch out of him.

Lips compressed, he fired at the target. And had to jog to retrieve the red flagged quarrel. He returned it sheepishly.

Ceylon accepted it, reset the weapon, and shot a quarrel into the target’s heart. She raised her brows in cool expectation. “Now will you pay attention?”

Raven scowled and darted a glance toward the men. “I can’t let a woman teach me such things.”

That annoyed her. She’d had just about enough of his fragile pride. “Then don’t tell anyone,” she retorted. “Besides, no one will care as long as you can shoot the eye out of a rabbit. Get on with it.” She handed him the bow and gestured for him to walk closer to the target.

“Who taught you to shoot?” Uric handed her a mug of hot soup and sipped his own as they watched Raven run after his quarrel.

She accepted the mug with a nod of thanks and curled her chilly fingers around it, inhaling the savory steam. “My father felt a woman would be hopeless with a heavy sword, so he trained me to use a crossbow and hunt. He didn’t want me to starve if anything ever happened to him.” She was silent a moment. “He knew I would never marry.”

“Why not?”

Ceylon frowned. “My face, of course.”

“It looks nice enough to me.”

“It didn’t always.” Uncomfortable, she focused her attention on the boy. “Get your arm up, Raven! Use the sights, don’t guess at your target.”

Uric fingered his ragged ear. The tip had been sheared off in battle. “I know how you feel. I think this is the reason I have a hard time finding a bride.”

“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. What a stupid comparison. “Who would notice?”

His lips turned into a sly smile.

Her eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re doing. But my face was ten times more marked than yours will ever be. They called me…” Her mouth snapped shut.

“Dung face?” he asked softly.

She flinched.

“They were fools.” He gently lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t let my friends treat a girl like that.”

She pulled away. Seeking a distraction, she watched Raven.

“When do you think he’ll discover that’s a repeating crossbow?” Uric murmured, close enough to tickle her ear.

She couldn’t help but smile. More reliable than a pistol, the repeating crossbow could hold six bolts at a time. “When his attitude improves.” She saw the men putting out the fire and quickly finished her soup. It was time to leave.

Ceylon spent the rest of the day playing travel chess with Raven. The board was specially made with pieces that pegged into the board to prevent jostling. Raven was terrible, but he was learning.

The windows were too foggy to see out, but occasionally Ceylon rubbed the glass with her fist and peered out at the white world. Mostly there were trees shrouded in ice. Occasionally they passed a snow covered field, but there were more trees on this stretch of road than anything else.

Then there were the ruts. Ceylon winced as another one jolted her. By the time they entered a village of log houses and pulled into the yard of the town’s only inn, Ceylon was more than eager to get out. She looked askance at the faded paint on the wooden sign. “The Quaking Robin?”

A boy of eleven or twelve ran up to them with a slightly older girl at his heels. “Yes, mistress! Named in honor of our grandmother. Da says a minute with that old blabbermouth and you’d be quaking like a robin.” He leaned closer confidentially. “Ma’s got her tongue.”

His sister slapped his shoulder, jostling the gap-tooth grin from his face. “Hold yours, John-Wesley! You know better than to bother the guests with stupid chatter.”

Her plain, pimpled face smiled up at Ceylon, an unusual occurrence. She really was a tiny thing. “Welcome, mistress! Are you to stay the night? Just tell me how many and I’ll run straight away to prepare the rooms.”

Ceylon glanced at Uric for direction.

He smiled at her. “Go inside and warm up. I’ll handle this.”

She nodded and mounted the steps, admiring the spruce burrow logs that held up the porch roof. It was the first time she’d seen a log dwelling, much less one of this size. It even had two wings. The common room window was glass, but the others were oiled paper.

Clean wooden planks thumped under their feet as Ceylon and Raven entered, making certain to wipe their feet on the rush mat. That is, Ceylon remembered and made certain to prompt Raven. The orderly atmosphere of the place demanded it. In spite of the antlers and hunting trophies on the walls, the place showed the mark of womanly care. Oil lamps and arrangements of dried flowers graced the mantel and even the tables. Wreaths decorated the walls and bouquets of dried herbs as well as neat rows of braided onions and chilies hung from the rafters. Judging by the mouth watering aromas coming from the kitchen, the innkeeper’s wife certainly knew how to use them.

“This is quite a place,” Ceylon told the stocky woman who was tending the fire. “I’ve never seen a house built of log.”

“Hmph! We make real houses here, not those straw and mud block-things they make over the border.” The homely woman punctuated her comments with significant jabs of her long wooden spoon. She plunked it in the pot and eyed Ceylon with frank curiosity. “And where are you from, mistress?”

Ceylon grimaced. “From over the border.”

The lady patted her shoulder. “Well, don’t you fret about it, mistress. Kate will feed you right and proper just the same.”

“Thank you.” Ceylon sat on a bench as Kate filled a mug from a kettle suspended over the fire.

“Spiced cider? I make the best in town. I’ve also bread from the morning’s baking, a kettle of barley soup, rabbit pie, and a lovely roast duck, nice and juicy.” She winked at Ceylon. “I’ve been expecting your party, though I worried about the roads.”

Cider and a mug of soup were set before her and Raven. The girl from the yard appeared with a tray holding two golden-crusted loaves and a pair of fat pies. She deposited them and then hurried off. Moments later, she reappeared with a stack of plates, mugs, and cutlery. The mugs she took to the tap and filled to the brim with frothy ale, returning just as Uric and Roland strolled in.

Uric smiled at the proprietress. “Fast service as always, Mistress Kate.”

Roland raised his nose, took a deep breath, and sighed with satisfaction. “And tasty cooking.” He winked at Kate. “For a penny, I’d run off with you.”

Kate waved her spoon. “Now none of that, you rogue! Sit down and eat your supper, my lord, and none of your teasing.”

Roland affected a glum air as he took the bench across from Ceylon. “She doesn’t respect me at all, love. What should we do with her?”

Ceylon shook her head at him and raised her mug. “Why ask me? You’re the ‘rogue’ here.”

He gave her a rakish smile. “So nice of you to notice.”

“Pay him no mind,” Uric advised between bites. “He’s just angling for a warm bed so he doesn’t have to share a room with Raven.”

“With Raven?” Ceylon looked between the scowling Raven and annoyed Roland. It didn’t seem like a good arrangement.

Uric grinned over his mug. “There were only two rooms with big beds left and one with bunks. I won the toss.”

Roland looked downright mean at that bit of news. To keep the peace, Ceylon offered, “Since they’re bunks, I could give him my room and share with Raven.”

“No!” Raven recoiled in horror. “You’re a girl!”

“Out of the question,” Roland announced sternly.

“You’ll stay where you are.” Uric’s stare brooked no refusal.

Ceylon drew back, surprised at their vehemence. “I was only trying to solve the problem.”

Mistress Kate clucked her tongue as she refilled mugs. “Where were you raised, mistress? Surely you know better.” When color rose in Ceylon’s cheeks, she added more kindly, “Your men are protecting your reputation, love. Anyone can see it. No need to get nettled.” She sniffed at Uric. “Though if you ask me, my lord, you’ll do better to hire a respectable companion for her if you want to do the job proper. It’s not fitting for her to travel alone.”

Ceylon frowned. “I don’t think so.”

The tavern keeper frowned but dropped the subject and started in again when Ceylon left the room.

She clucked her tongue. “That one’s been too long without a guiding hand. Too used to doing what she pleases, and never mind the gossip.” She shook a finger at Uric. “You’ll not let her get in trouble, will you? She seems a nice girl, if a bit green.”

“Don’t worry, Mistress Kate. I promised the queen I’d deliver her in good condition. She’s in good hands.”

He sighed and went back to his ale. Determined to take his mind off the girl, he settled into discussing their route with Roland.

***

“Mmm....”

Ceylon’s eyes opened.

“Oh yes,” someone moaned in a breathy whisper. The sounds were coming from the wall near her head.

“Oh, yes! Do it! Just like that.”

Ceylon tried to bury her head, but the sound got louder from what she hazily thought was Uric’s room.

The wall began to vibrate as the bedstead on the other side rocked.

That’s it! Ceylon tossed the pillow off and sat bolt upright. What Uric did was his business, but not when it disturbed her sleep.

She pounded on the wall. “Shut up back there!”

There was a short pause, a giggle, then a man called, “You can join us.” More snickers and a feminine squeal. The pounding began again.

Thoroughly irked, Ceylon tossed off her covers and pulled on a robe and shoes. It didn’t sound like they were going to stop soon, and the noise was getting worse. Making certain to slam her door, she trotted down the short hall and negotiated the stairs to the common room.

Uric was there, nursing a drink. One dark brow rose, and he stood politely. “They started about ten minutes ago,” he said sardonically. “I’m surprised you slept this long. My room is on the other side of them.”

Ceylon sat down, rolling her eyes. “How inconsiderate! Surely the deed can be accomplished quietly.” She yawned and eyed his drink, so he slid it over.

A dimple popped into Uric’s cheek. He couldn’t resist the chance to tease her. “You wouldn’t know?”

She glared at him. “You’re as bad as he is, inviting me to join them.”

That remark made him scowl, but only for a moment. He winked. “It’s probably Roland, seducing a widow so he wouldn’t have to share a room. Likely he’s drunk and won’t remember.”

She sighed and put her head in her arms.

“Sweetheart?”

“Why are you calling me that?”

He ignored her question. “I’m sorry if you were offended. None of us think you’re immoral.”

She propped her head on one hand. “I know. I’m just tired.” Her sleepy gaze moved over his face. “So were you born beautiful or were you one of those lanky youths with spots on his face and a scraggly beard?”

He laughed in surprise. “What?”

Eyes half-closed, she stifled a jaw-popping yawn. “You heard.”

He shook his head. “You’re something when you’re drowsy, sweetheart.”

A soft snore was her only comment.

“What?” Roland demanded over breakfast. “You’ve been glaring at me since you came down.”

Uric hid his grin behind his mug as Ceylon flicked a bit of lint from her sleeve. She didn’t look the worse for being carried upstairs and tucked into bed.

The memory made his smile grow. She’d snuggled in his arms like a kitten and made a soft protest when he withdrew the warmth of his arms.

It was a wonder he hadn’t joined her. He’d been tempted.

“I’d appreciate it if you kept your activities quieter in the future. Some of us were trying to sleep.” She held his gaze, stabbed a sausage link, and deliberately sliced it.

Roland flinched. “What activities? The only thing I did last night was sleep.”

Unconvinced, she measured the bewilderment in his expression and then considered Uric. “So you weren’t banging the wall with the widow next door?”

Roland choked, and Uric snorted beer out his nose.

“What widow?” Raven demanded as Uric alternated between laughter and coughing. “I wish he had! The man snores like a herd of bison.”

That earned him a glare from Roland. “Watch yourself, cub!”

Before Raven could provoke him further, Ceylon demanded, “Then who...?” Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the couple walking down the stairs. The others turned to see what she was staring at. Could that be the lusty pair?

The wizened, short man with an enormous beak came just to his woman’s gargantuan bosom. He wore farmer brown, and the top of his scalp hadn’t seen hair in a very long time. He leered up at the woman, exposing the gaping holes that once held teeth, and squeezed her bottom.

Madam Twin Peaks squealed and smacked coyly at his hand. Her thin lashes batted as she rolled her substantial shoulder his way, and her smile lifted the large, hairy mole at the corner of her mouth. Her left eye twitched.

Roland drew back as they brushed by on their way to the door.

The fat lady winked at him.

Raven coughed. Uric snorted. Moments later, the entire table erupted in hearty laughter, all of it directed at Roland.

Even Roland had to grin. “I’ve never been that desperate for a bed.”

It was easy for Ceylon to forget her concerns while laughing with her escort, but once on the road, they came back.

“Describe the princesses to me,” she asked Uric when they stopped. “What exactly is wrong with them?”

He ticked the problems off on his gloved fingers. “Too fat. Warts. Spots the size of boils.” He grimaced. “Two of them are as bony as their sister is large. You won’t have an easy time.”

There was silence as she pondered his words. “Yet the queen expects her sisters to become beautiful. That’s why she sent for me.”

Uric kicked at the fire. “I doubt she expects anything. They’ve invited dozens of ‘experts’ to the castle, and none of them have helped. It’s probably the princesses’ pleading that made her send for you.”

Ceylon’s shoulders slumped. “Yet she sent for me, and I’ve no desire to be lumped in with the rest of the failures. I can cure the skin afflictions, and if the princesses will work with me, I can do something with their bodies, but I can’t make a woman beautiful who isn’t.”

“If you can do that, the queen won’t care. She’ll reward you handsomely simply for taking away the warts. She’s very fair,” he encouraged when Ceylon merely scowled. “She knows you made no claims.”

Ceylon climbed into the carriage, sending him a frustrated look just before he shut the door. “I despise doing things halfway.”

Raven slouched against the cushions, staring at the fogged windows. “I hate riding in this box. A man rides an elk.”

She raised a brow. The carriage was hardly a “box,” but he wanted to be outside with the men, doing manly things. “Perhaps I will buy one with the queen’s reward.”

That lightened his mood, and he was quiet for some time, likely dreaming of a war-elk.

Ceylon scratched her face, considering her problems. The dry air was causing her skin to flake and redden, but her winter face cream would soothe it. The only difficulty was that she had to use powder to keep her skin from shining, and it tended to leach all of the color out of her face. Short of applying cosmetics, there was no remedy for it, and she had never learned to use them...

She drew in a quick breath. Cosmetics! That was the other half of the formula. True, she’d seen them overdone, and nobility frowned on them, but surely there were women skilled in their subtle use. Such a woman could accomplish what she could not, if she could only find her.

Ceylon started searching that very evening, in an unpromising little hamlet called Two Dog.

It didn’t begin well.

“Would you know if there is a woman here who is skilled in the use of cosmetics?” she asked the scrawny innkeeper.

The man screwed up his dirty face and spit on the sawdust floor. “Only whores use face-paint,” he said, and went about his business, leaving her scowling.

“Why?” Uric wanted to know. “You don’t need any.”

A little embarrassed by his compliment, she dropped her eyes to her wooden mug. She shouldn’t have. It was filthy. A crusty unidentified food remnant fell off the rim and into the ale. “No, but the princesses might. Does the queen use cosmetics?”

“Few of the women at court do, and it would take more than face paint to hide bumpy skin.” He lifted his mug and inspected it critically. “Not that it hasn’t been tried. Innkeeper!” He caught the crabby man by his shirttail and dragged him back when he would have walked by.

Uric’s eyes narrowed. “I paid good money and expect clean mugs. Have your boy wash them, and don’t try to pawn your watered ale on us again.”

The innkeeper shrank back and gestured for his ragged serving lad to collect the mugs.

Uric signaled Raven with a tilt of his head to follow and supervise.

The innkeeper puffed up, but an icy stare from Uric deflated him. His complaint came out a whine. “I’m not used to serving such fine guests, my lord. That lot don’t care what they get so long as there’s plenty of it.” He nodded to the filthy group of patrons crowded into the rest of the tavern. Sure enough, they were stuffing their faces without complaint.

“They have their standards. I have mine.”

His cold tone made the innkeeper bow and back away. “Yes, my lord.”

Ceylon couldn’t help her shiver of fascination. This was a side of Uric she hadn’t seen. He didn’t even have to raise his voice to make someone quiver. Was a man born with that kind of authority, or was it something one learned?

He noticed her sideways glance. “What?”

“Is that sort of thing handed out with the title, or is it something you learned? It’s rather piratical.” She had a secret love of swashbuckling pirate romances.

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve never been to sea.” He leaned back and accepted a new mug of ale from the innkeeper’s boy. He slipped the lad a coin, which quickly disappeared.

His gaze traveled over her, frankly appreciative. “Though at the moment, I’m wishing I were a pirate.”

Fire flooded her cheeks, and Ceylon blessed the smoky, murky light as she looked away, pretending interest in the loud laughter at the next table. He’d fooled her these last days. She should have known better. Wasn’t he the queen’s champion, her leashed berserker? Men grew quiet at his name, and women shivered. He was a legend. Who was she to tease him as if they were equals?

Raven had just returned, so she tried to lighten the conversation that was growing deeper than she could handle. “I’m not worried. The gallant Raven will protect me.”

Her comment fell like a stone into an invisible pool. Raven’s look told her he didn’t enjoy being put on the spot.

Uric’s said she was a fool if she thought a boy could stop him.

The food arrived, providing a distraction. She bent her head and pretended great interest in the dark, heavy bread.

The sour rye didn’t hold nearly as much interest for Uric as the woman choking it down. He’d enjoyed it when she’d sparred with him; before she’d lost her nerve, anyway.

“Bread not to your taste?” Roland inquired of Uric in his native language. “Or do you crave something sweeter?”

Uric’s mouth curved wickedly. “Honey,” he murmured in the same tongue.

Roland smiled.