Spring's Fury Read Free Page A

smile. Now that was an understatement. Although she valued the stuff as her most feminine feature, it had a life of its own. Like her, it hated to be bound even in something as sensible as a plait.
    Tilda once again placed her body between Nicola and the guards. "I have a new life outside of Ashby," she whispered. "Join me in it."
    Nicola drew a quick breath of surprise and looked up at Tilda in consternation. But Ashby was their home. There was nothing for her to read in Tilda’s face; all her questions would have to wait until she was free and free she would be once she had her pack.  Pilfered last July from Graistan's overloaded coffers, it included everything she needed to transform herself. Once she had her new identity, she could even run anywhere without attracting the slightest attention. If de Ocslade would not come to her, then she would go to him.
    Tilda stood back to admire the far more sober tresses. A guard called to her, "You are finished now. Go."
    "At your command," the commoner replied in English as Nicola came to her feet, then continued in French to the noblewoman. "My lady, I have always enjoyed weddings. Are you not marrying this day at Terce? Might I come to witness?"
    As she spoke Tilda smiled, the lilt of her mouth saying she could not wait to taste danger's spice, then angled her head to one side, displaying her even features to their best advantage. This was a blatant taunt. The exchange of marriage vows was always a public event, held where any and all could witness. Tilda meant her words to stick in the guards' minds, stinging them after the fact for not recognizing what went forward beneath their noses.
    "Of course you may attend," Nicola replied, "but the abbot has delayed the ceremony until midday. It will please me to look for you in the crowd, for yours is a friendly face and I am among enemies here."
    "I will be there. Still smiling, Tilda walked out the door. The men stepped swiftly from the room and shut the door quietly behind them.
    Nicola crossed the room to the door, where she stared at the latch. Pride demanded she try. The latch would not lift; it was locked.

Elbows braced on his knees, Gilliam FitzHenry sat on a bench before the farthest of the twin hearths in Graistan's empty hall. He stared into the flames leaping on the raised stone platform. Firelight gleamed off the fine golden embroidery trimming the sleeves of his best blue gown. It also marked the damage done by yesterday's wrestle with the vixen.
    Anger was hardly the sign of a happy bridegroom. Nor was so hurried an affair the mark of a love match. That thought made the corners of his mouth lift slightly. No one doubted that this would be a marriage made in hell, but fate and pride left him no other choice.
    His thoughts returned to his bride's claim of betrothal. An obvious lie. Now, why did she do so when all she could win was a delay? Gilliam blinked. Of course. She sought an opportunity for escape.
    His worry eased. This he could prevent. Aye, no complaint or threat could stop him from becoming Lord Ashby in name as well as deed. At long last, he would gain the one thing a youngest son never dared dream to have: a home of his own.
    A winner's howl of success rose from the depths of the hall behind Gilliam's back, echoing into the high roof. The few men he'd brought from Ashby had joined Graistan's off-duty garrison at the other hearth in a friendly game of dice. Winter was the keep's period of rest, time spent replenishing its stores during the season. When the wedding was done, these soldiers would be the keep's only occupants.
    "Lord Gilliam, Lord Geoffrey comes." The porter's call came from the door at the room's opposite end, floating over the shouts of the losers on the last roll.
    "Better late than never, my mother's oldest son," Gilliam muttered to himself.
    Where Rannulf occupied a father's place in Gilliam's life and Temric that of a disapproving uncle, Geoff was a friend and the sibling least likely to