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  “You can’t do this. I will not allow it, Anna.”

  He stared at her in disbelief and caught the gleam of her eyes and the faint shine of her moist lips in the moonlight.

  “You cannot stop me! I am no longer your responsibility.”

  “I saved your life,” he said, losing his temper and pulling her into his arms. “While I am alive, I will always feel I bear some responsibility for you.”

  “Now who is talking nonsense?” She struggled to free herself, but it was as if she was a butterfly imprisoned in an iron fist. Suddenly she wondered why she was trying to escape when she was where she wanted to be. She drooped against him and rested her head against his chest.

  Her submission was so unexpected that Jack was at a loss as to what to do next. Really he should release her and walk away, but instead he wanted to go on holding her. Hatred and grief had held him captive far too long.

  Rebel Lady, Convenient Wife

  Harlequin® Historical #254—February 2009

  JUNE FRANCIS’s

  interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first five novels were set in medieval times. She has also written fourteen sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochie dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her Web site, www.junefrancis.co.uk.

  JUNE FRANCIS

  Rebel Lady, Convenient Wife

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and

  JUNE FRANCIS

  Rowan’s Revenge #214

  Tamed by the Barbarian #245

  Rebel Lady, Convenient Wife #254

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  My thanks and appreciation to my agent, Caroline Montgomery, and senior editor, Linda Fildew, for giving me a second chance to enjoy writing historical romance fiction for Harlequin Books again, as well as to my editor, Suzanne Clarke, for being so enthusiastic and encouraging about my writing.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  France, 1469

  Jack Milburn groaned, twisting and turning in the bunk. Perspiration dampened his dark hair as, in his dreams, he relived the nightmarish times again.

  ‘Go quickly! Allez vite!’ he ordered, ears alert to the sound of splintering wood.

  ‘Mais, M’sieur Milburn, où—?’ cried Hortense.

  ‘Ne pas demander aux questions,’ he interrupted, pushing the maid who was carrying his son in her arms from the chamber. He hurried her along the passage that led to the alley at the back of the house and opened the door.

  ‘Papa!’ screamed Philippe, stretching out a hand to his father.

  With tears in his eyes, Jack took the small hand and kissed it before turning to Hortense. ‘Courez! Courez vite!’ His expression was bleak as he closed the door quietly behind them. Taking a deep breath, he drew his sword and headed for the entrance hall to face the man who had killed his lover, Monique.

  The Comte de Briand stood in the doorway, a dark looming presence. Jack did not need him to step forward into the candlelight to recognise Monique’s bestial husband. The Comte’s lank hair was yellowish white and fell to his huge shoulders. His nose was a squashed blob of dough in the centre of his swarthy face and the black-and-white streaked moustache and beard almost concealed the plump lips that snarled, ‘Chien anglais!’ as he lunged forward with his sword. Jack parried the blow, aware that two other men had entered the chamber behind his enemy.

  Jack ground his teeth, experiencing a familiar fury as the scene played in his head. Odds of three to one meant that the chance of his surviving the conflict was unlikely. Still, he was determined to fight for all he was worth, so as to give Hortense plenty of time to get away with Philippe. It was too late to save Monique, but he was prepared to sacrifice his life to enable his son’s survival. His sword arm felt as heavy as lead each time he lunged and parried, and he felt as if he were wading through honey. Then came an agonising pain in his right cheek and, after that, a blow to the head that finished the fight.

  ‘Monique! Philippe!’

  He was vaguely aware that someone was bending over him and could hear the slap of waves against the hull of a ship. For a moment he was convinced that he was in his own cabin on the Hercules and it was the Comte de Briand bending over him. He could picture his smirking face, mouthing ‘Your son is dead.’ Jack felt the scream welling up inside him and he prayed for death. But his instant death was the last thing on his enemy’s mind.

  ‘Signor Milburn, wake up! The physician is here to see you.’

  Someone was shaking his shoulder and Jack struggled to escape the shackles that imprisoned him as he trudged on through the desert wasteland. It was sheer stubbornness that was keeping him moving, gripped as he was by an impotent rage. One day he would return to France and avenge the deaths of Monique and his son. He would seek out the Comte de Briand and kill him if it was the last thing he did.

  Chapter One

  England, summer 1475

  The air felt hot and humid. As she left the village, Lady Anna Fenwick could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. If she was to reach home before the rain came, then she was going to have to hurry.

  Something sharp hit her on the cheek and she heard a man’s whispering voice say, ‘Take that, witch! May God strike you down dead.’

  Shock brought her to a halt as blood trickled from a cut on her face. Only recently had she become aware
of the servants looking at her askance and whispering in corners. Her heart was heavy as she recalled a couple of village women holding out horn-shaped amulets, believed to be effective against the evil eye, as she passed by.

  ‘Murderess! Adulteress!’ hissed the voice.

  Anna wanted to shut her ears to the accusations. But what good would that do? She found it difficult to believe that anyone who knew her could speak of her in such a way. It was a year since her four-year-old son, Joshua, had died of the whooping cough. Her grief had been almost unbearable, worse than when her husband, Sir Giles, had died a year earlier. During the last few months she had felt ill at ease in her own home with just the servants and Giles’s nephew, the son of his dead sister, and his wife, Marjorie, for company. Whilst Giles had been alive, Will’s manner towards her had always been circumspect but she knew he resented her. He had lived with Giles since being orphaned as a youth and had been his heir until, at the age of forty, Giles had fallen in love with Anna and married her. On his death bed her husband had told her about the marital agreement that he and her eldest half-brother, Owain ap Rowan, had drawn up on the eve of Anna and Giles’s wedding.

  ‘You’ll burn in hell,’ said the voice, forgetting to whisper this time.

  She recognised the voice and a shudder passed through her. Will! What a fool she had been to trust him this past year, but her sorrow had blinded her temporarily to his devious ways. He had believed he would inherit Fenwick Manor on Joshua’s death, but he had been mistaken. A codicil in Giles’s will had left all to Anna should aught happen to their son.

  After Joshua had been laid to rest with his father, she had been emotionally exhausted and hoped that the goodly sum of money that Giles had left Will would suffice to keep him happy. She’d had reason to believe that was so, for the following day he had been so caring that she had willingly accepted his suggestion that he and Marjorie continue to live with her to keep her company. Feeling numb after this second terrible blow, she had been glad of his help in running her manor. But slowly she had come alive again and shown a determination to manage her own affairs. It was then that Will had begun to reveal a much darker side to his nature and Marjorie had become less than friendly. Yet if Anna had not overheard the gossip whispered behind her back, it would never have occurred to her that they might wish her dead.

  ‘Murderess,’ whispered the voice, again.

  Her heart beat rapidly. ‘Come out of there and face me if you dare!’ she cried.

  There was a rustling in the hedge that bordered the field of ripening corn. ‘You’ll get your deserts. Like mother, like daughter, you’ll meet the same fate as she did,’ called the voice.

  The words puzzled her and she turned full circle in an attempt to pinpoint Will’s location. ‘My mother died in childbirth. Explain yourself!’

  ‘They lied to you.’

  ‘If you’re referring to Owain and Kate, I don’t believe you, Will,’ said Anna firmly, peering through the thicket of hawthorn, but unable to see him. ‘Anyway, I’ve had enough. I’m for home before the storm breaks. You and Marjorie can pack your bags and leave Fenwick.’

  A flash of lightning and a crash of thunder almost drowned out her voice, warning her that the storm was nigh. Picking up her black skirts, she raced for home, wanting to be indoors before the rain came.

  She took a shortcut through the herb garden where the fragrance of lavender, thyme and gillyflowers filled her senses. The air was stifling and the earth was thirsty for moisture. She tore open the wicket gate and ran towards the back of the house. Once indoors she expected to find some of the servants in the kitchen but it was empty. She searched the ground floor, but there was no one there. Had they all decided to desert her whilst she was out of the house? What about Marjorie, who had still been abed when Anna had left to walk to the village an hour or so ago? Perhaps she and her maid were upstairs.

  Anna took the stairs two at a time to the first floor but she saw no one as she made her way along the passage to her bedchamber. She felt hot and sticky and decided to change her garments as soon as she was in the safety of its confines. She pushed open the door and froze as a figure stepped out of the shadows. There was a crash of thunder and it seemed to echo the pounding of her heart as she gazed at the demonic red face with horns protruding from its head. A red cloak swirled about the black-clad apparition as it moved towards her. She backed away and would have turned to run if the door had not slammed behind her.

  ‘Have your way with her quickly and then I’ll see she burns,’ said Will’s voice behind her.

  Terror overwhelmed her as she felt a shove in her back that catapulted her towards the gruesome figure. Black-gloved hands seized her, holding her in a vice-like grip. She was aware of heavy breathing and averted her face. On doing so, she realised that a couple of inches of flesh showed between glove and sleeve. This creature was no devil, but human. Anna sank her teeth into his wrist and drew blood. A curse issued from beneath the devilish mask and then he was tearing at her clothes. She struggled violently, aware of Will’s laughter in the background.

  ‘You’ll regret this,’ she panted, attempting to prise the man’s hands from her breast.

  As soon as she spoke those words a flash lit up the darkened sky outside her window and there was a violent crash of thunder that shook the whole house. Her captor jumped violently as there came a roar and a crackle from overhead. She looked up and saw smoke issuing from a break in the ceiling. He began to shake and released her abruptly.

  She glanced at Will and saw the fear in his face. She put out a steadying hand to the bedpost and clutched her torn garments so that they covered her nakedness. ‘How dare you lay hands on me! You will pay for this infamy,’ cried Anna, pointing an accusing finger at him. ‘Leave now or it will be you and your accomplice who will burn.’

  Will’s eyes darted from her to that devilish figure. Then he wrenched open the door and shot out of the chamber. Anna’s assailant quickly followed hot on his heels. She collapsed on to the bed. Her shaking hands still clutching her ruined gown of black linsey-woolsey. She could hear the thudding of their feet on the stairs as they made their escape. For a moment, she did not move and then the smell of smoke caused her to gaze upwards. More thin streams of smoke were issuing through other cracks in the ceiling and she realised the thatch must be alight. She had to get out of there!

  She sprang to her feet, thinking there were items that were precious to her in this room that she must save, in case the whole house caught fire. She changed out of her torn garments and into another gown. She hurried to pack a few clothes, legal papers, Giles’s precious parchments, as well as items essential for her toilet. Then she fastened a pouch, containing as much coin as she could carry, about her waist. The sound of breaking glass, as the window shattered, caused her to jump out of her skin. She must make haste. From the chest at the foot of the bed, she took out her tapestry work and then lifted her lute from the wall. The instrument had been a Christmas gift from her half-brother Owain, made in Venice and delivered into her hands by merchant venturer Jack Milburn. He had vanished whilst in France six years ago.

  Swiftly she wrapped the instrument in the folds of the tapestry and tucked it under her arm. She gave one last glance about the room. Here she had spent many contented moments, as well as heartbreaking ones. Giles had breathed his last and her son had died in her arms in this bed. With tears trickling down her cheeks, she hurried from the bedchamber. With a bundle held up to her nose and mouth against the smoke, she raced along the passage, only to pause when she reached the door of Will and Marjorie’s bedchamber.

  She could hear snoring and remembered that she had been going to look in on Marjorie. She banged on their door. ‘Marjorie! Is that you in there? Wake up! The roof is on fire and you must get out of the house.’

  There was no reply, but Anna thought she heard a break in the snoring. She lifted the latch, but the door did not yield so she banged again. ‘Marjorie, you must get up!’

 
; A sleepy voice called, ‘Go away!’

  ‘No! Rise and save yourself,’ said Anna, attempting to open the door once more.

  ‘I will not!’ Marjorie yawned. ‘Will said I must not listen to aught you say because you will cast a spell on me.’

  An exasperated Anna said, ‘It is not true! I don’t know why Will should say such things, but I am no witch. Do get up or you could die in your bed.’

  ‘I’m not listening,’ said Marjorie in a sing-song voice. ‘I have my hands over my ears.’

  Anna groaned. ‘Marjorie, don’t be a fool! If you do not leave now, it could be the end of you.’ When there was no answer, her heart sank. If she herself did not hurry, then she, too, could be trapped in the house by the fire. What was Will thinking of to leave his own wife possibly to die in her bed? And whose face was behind that devilish mask? She prayed to God to protect her from the pair if they were laying in wait for her somewhere downstairs, or in the grounds. She called to Marjorie again but she did not answer her.

  With a terrible sense of foreboding, Anna hurried downstairs. She went through the hall, but it was deserted. Cautiously, she entered the kitchen, but that, too, was empty. She went outside, but there was no sign of anyone. She placed her belongings outside the stable and then gazed up at her house. The whole roof was aflame. Pausing only to remove the veiling that covered her wimple, she soaked it in a water butt before running back to the house. She had to try to persuade Marjorie to leave one more time.

  Anna covered her nose and mouth with the wet veiling and hurried upstairs as fast as she could through the ever-increasing smoke. She found Marjorie lying prone outside her bedchamber door. She was still alive, but scarcely breathing. Anna wiped Marjorie’s face with the damp cloth, but still she did not stir. Anna felt a rising panic and struggled to lift the other woman to her feet, but she could not do it, so instead she dragged her along the passage towards the stairs.