LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      England—1174

      ‘You cannot ask this of me.’ Rosamund de Courcy stared at her husband in disbelieving shock. ‘It is a sin.’

      Alan de Courcy, the Baron of Pevensham, leaned back against the pillow of their bed. His brown hair hung limply against his face, and his grey eyes were shielded with unending pain. He had grown weaker over the past three months, and though Rosamund prayed each night for his recovery, the shadow of death lingered over him. It terrified her to imagine him gone, for he had been a true friend through her darkest nightmares.

      Now he wanted her to lie with another man to conceive the child they so desperately needed. The very idea was unthinkable.

      ‘We need an heir, ma petite. And I am incapable of giving you one.’ Her husband spoke of the proposition as if it were a business arrangement. ‘I will not let my brother inherit everything I have built. Owen would ruin Pevensham within a year.’

      Rosamund paced before the hearth, her heart racing at the very thought of Alan’s command. How could he even imagine she would betray him in that way? She was a woman of honour, not an unfaithful wife.

      Whispers of guilt pulled at her conscience, reminding her of the mistakes she had made as a young woman. But Alan knew nothing of them, and she had always been true to him during their marriage. She had paid the price for her sins, but the heartbreak haunted her still.

      ‘I have been nothing but loyal to you,’ she insisted to Alan. ‘For three years, I have obeyed you. Why would you ask this of me?’

      ‘Because you do not want Owen to inherit, either. You know what he would do to you when I am gone.’ His voice held a trace of ice, and she understood his unspoken words. If Owen took possession of Pevensham, he would force his unwanted attentions upon her. She suppressed a shiver of revulsion.

      ‘But...to lie with another man when I am married to you? You ask too much of me. I could never do such a thing.’ She closed her eyes, gripping the edges of her skirt. The union between a man and a woman was not painful, but she had never enjoyed it with Alan. He had been so careful, treating her with such gentleness. But there was no thrill of passion between them, hardly more than a gesture of marital comfort.

      Alan had tried to please her, though he’d sensed her distance when he had claimed her body. Because of it, he had not asked that she share his bed often. And in the half-year since he’d fallen ill, she had not lain with him once.

      ‘I have asked Warrick de Laurent to come to Pevensham. He will be here within a sennight.’

      An icy chill suffused her skin, and she felt light-headed for a moment. Warrick was the man she had loved since she was a maiden. Tall and strong, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, she had wanted him desperately. Never had she forgotten the fierce warrior who had haunted her dreams. Or the way his kiss had awakened her body, arousing her blood.

      ‘I cannot lie with him,’ Rosamund insisted. For if she did, it would threaten the very foundation of her marriage. Her throat constricted with a flood of memories she couldn’t face. She had closed off her heart to what would never be, accepting Alan and becoming a proper wife.

      For him to ask this of her evoked such a fury, she could hardly speak.

      Alan knew what this would mean. He knew it, and yet he was forcing her to confront the past.

      If she let Warrick touch her, she would no longer be able to trust herself. It would be impossible to guard her feelings and behave as if the union meant nothing. Even the memory of his touch made her pulse quicken and her body tremble.

      For a time, Alan was silent. She heard only the sound of his laboured breathing and the rustle of sheets. ‘I know you did not want to marry me, ma petite. I was never the man you wanted.’

      No, he wasn’t. Everyone had known it, though she had obeyed her father’s command and married the man of his choosing. There had been no other way.

      The pain in Alan’s voice weighed upon her, cooling the anger. She remained beside the hearth, closing her eyes as she chose her words carefully. ‘You have always been kind to me. I could not have asked for a better husband.’

      But the arranged marriage had forced her to put aside the broken dreams and start anew. Warrick had joined the king’s forces, fighting in Normandy, and she had not seen him again. Instead, Rosamund had accepted this new life with a man who cared for her, and it should have been enough.

      He expelled a sigh. ‘The words do not make it true, Rosamund. I know you wanted to wed Warrick de Laurent.’

      It was far more than that, she thought, but didn’t say so.

      ‘That was a long time ago,’ she said quietly. She couldn’t understand why Alan was bringing up the ghosts of the past. ‘When you took me as your wife, I tried to be everything you wanted.’

      ‘And you have been, Rosamund. But I was never what you wanted.’ His voice was quiet, rimmed with sadness.

      She hated to hear it, for this man had become her friend as well as her husband. Alan had never raised a hand against her, and he had given her dominion over the castle and household. ‘You have always been good to me.’

      ‘But we have no children,’ he said softly. ‘And now, we will find another way. There must be a child to keep Owen from inheriting Pevensham.’

      She didn’t stop the tears now, for it had been nearly three years since she had delivered a babe that was stillborn. It was a resounding ache in her heart, and time had never diminished the emptiness. Perhaps the loss might have faded if she had carried a child to term, but after the death of her daughter, she had never conceived again. It was as if God were punishing her for her disobedience as a young maiden.

      A part of her was grateful that she had not become pregnant again. The idea of bearing another child terrified her, for she had given birth too soon. All the pain and blood had resulted in nothing but death.

      ‘Look at me, Rosamund,’ Alan demanded. When she turned, his expression held apology. ‘It was my fault, never yours. I was not a virtuous man before we wed. I had my share of women, maids, and willing serving girls. Not once did any of the women bear a bastard child. And there were many opportunities.’

      He was trying to blame himself, and she didn’t want that. ‘Both of us share the failure.’

      ‘You have already conceived a child once before, and you will do so again. But I know that the only man you would take into your bed is Warrick de Laurent.’

      The

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