LITMIR.BIZ

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wasn’t difficult to note Jarrod, the father, riding at the lead. As he drew closer, my trepidation began to grow. He appeared in his late forties, tall and hawkish. His head was shaved. He wore chain armor over a faded black wool shirt that had seen many washings. My eyes dropped to the sword sheathed on his hip.

      My own father never wore a sword.

      As Jarrod pulled his frothing horse to a stop, I turned my gaze to the three men behind him. Again, it wasn’t difficult for me to name them by gauging their age.

      Rolf was the eldest, in his late twenties. Like his father, he wore his head shaved and he wore chain armor, but there the resemblance stopped. There was nothing hawkish about Rolf. He was muscular and wide-shouldered with broad features and a bump at the bridge of his nose. Every inch of him exuded hardness and strength.

      I shivered in the summer air.

      Next came Sebastian, in his mid twenties. He was smaller than either of his brothers, with neatly cut black hair. Noticing my attention, he flashed me a smile. He was handsome, and the only one not wearing armor. Instead, he wore a sleeveless tunic over a white wool shirt. I had a feeling Sebastian cared about his appearance.

      Last came Kai—wearing armor and weapons. He looked only a few years older than me. In many ways, he resembled his father, tall and slender with sharp features. But he wore his brown hair down past his shoulders. His gaze moved to the front of the manor, which was constructed of expensive light-toned stone.

      As Kai took in the latticed windows, whitewashed shutters, and climbing ivy vines, his features twisted into what I could only call an expression of resentful anger. If hardness rolled off Rolf and vanity rolled off Sebastian, it was anger that rolled off Kai.

      Jarrod jumped down from his horse and strode up to my father.

      “Chaumont,” he said shortly, not bothering with my father’s title or given name.

      Both men gauged each other in mild discomfort, and it occurred to me that this was their first meeting. All marriage negotiations had transpired in writing or by proxy. Under normal circumstances, a family as lowborn as the Volodanes would never be invited to Chaumont Manor—and they knew it.

      My father nodded and responded in kind. “Volodane.”

      Then Jarrod’s dark eyes swept the courtyard, stopping briefly on me before moving onward, and he frowned.

      My father leaned forward, speaking softly. I watched Jarrod’s expression flicker in surprise, and to his credit he said, “Oh . . . my condolences.”

      A few more quiet words were exchanged, and I heard my father say, “daughter, Megan.” Jarrod’s eyes turned to me again, this time in cold assessment. After all, he had never seen Helena and only heard the tales of her beauty. He had nothing with which to compare her. I struggled to look back and hold his gaze. After a moment, he nodded his assent.

      “Good, then,” my father agreed, sounding relieved. “You must be tired from your journey. We’ll all meet again at dinner.” He seemed equally relieved this initial meeting was over and he was now able to extract himself.

      But the knot in my stomach tightened at the thought of leaving my home and going with these men, with a warrior for a father and one of his sons for my husband.

      Trapped or not, I couldn’t do this.

      I would refuse.

      * * * *

      My father and mother both went to the room he used as his study, and without asking permission, I followed them in and closed the door. They were both taken aback by my boldness. This was certainly something Helena might have done, but not me.

      “I can’t do it,” I said instantly. “And I cannot believe you would force me.”

      Mother’s eyes narrowed in caution. I had never spoken to either of them like this. My father’s face turned red in anger, but my mother held up one hand to stop his tongue.

      “Megan,” she began slowly. “Of course I understand your reticence. It is beneath us to even have them in the house, but this must be done, and the middle son . . . Sebastian? He looks less savage than the others. Could you not consider him?”

      I stared at her. “Less savage? You would have me in his bed merely because he seems less savage than his brothers?”

      She flinched at the indelicacy of my question and then drew herself to full height. “And would you have our situation exposed? Our debts known publicly? Would you have bailiffs in the manor taking our paintings and tapestries and furniture? Would you have your father disgraced from his seat on the Council of Nobles?”

      Feeling myself begin to deflate, I shook my head. “Of course not.”

      The anger left my father’s face, and he stepped toward me. “Jarrod has already agreed to my provision that Helena choose from among his sons. He doesn’t care which of them marries into the house of Chaumont. He wants only the prestige of the connection and grandsons who carry our blood. You’ll have the same provision as your sister. You can choose.”

      “And if I don’t?”

      His eyes hardened. “Then I will pick one myself, drag you to the magistrate, and use my power as your father to answer and sign for you.”

      Breathing grew difficult as I realized he meant it. He would sell me off like a brood mare rather than face public humiliation and lose his seat on the council.

      In desperation, I played one last card. “But, Father, what will you do without me? In meetings with the other nobles, how will you know who’s honest and who is not?”

      This was something we rarely spoke of openly. I could do something no one else could, something that made me of great use to my father. Would he throw it away so easily?

      His expression flickered once and then steeled again.

      “Do you choose one for yourself, or do I?” he challenged.

      The room was silent for a long moment.

      I somehow managed to answer. “I’ll choose for myself.”

      What else could I do?

      * * * *

      A scant few hours later, I found myself seated at our table in the dining hall.

      Miriam put a great deal of effort into dressing me for dinner. The result was both awkward for me and a triumph for my parents.

      I looked nothing like myself. Miriam had arranged my hair even more elaborately and used a small round iron on the curls around my face. Then she’d put touches of black kohl at the corners of my eyes. I wore an amber silk gown with a low, square-cut neckline that showed the tops of my breasts.

      I don’t know where she’d found the gown. It wasn’t mine, and it was much too small to have fit Helena. I supposed my mother must have had it made at some point while anticipating its need.

      However, at the sight of me, my father beamed. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

      Seating at dinner was equally awkward with my father at the head of the table, my mother and I seated on one side, and all four of the Volodanes seated on the other—so I had no choice but to look at one of them when I raised my eyes from my plate of roasted pheasant.

      None of them had changed for dinner, and with the exception of Sebastian, they all wore armor and swords. Jarrod hadn’t bothered to shave his face and sported a dark stubble. I could almost feel my mother’s discomfort, but she smiled and made attempts at polite conversation.

      Only Sebastian responded to her questions about weather and wild flowers in the northern provinces. Rolf spoke only to his father or mine. Occasionally, he glanced at me as if I already belonged to him.

      I wasn’t listening to any of them. My heart pounded too loudly in my ears. But then I did hear Rolf say something about heading back north as soon as he and I were married.

      A long

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