Prologue

Gaul
532 AD

Deidre of the Languedoc leaned back against the sun-warmed rocks on the bank of the river Garonne and closed the ancient book, careful not to break the brittle velum pages. Her fingertips traced the Latin letters tooled into the smooth old leather. Locus Vocare Camulodunum: “A Place Called Camelot”. Deidre’s cornflower eyes lit with excitement. Unlike the never-ending squabbles of the deceased King Clovis’ four sons, Camelot was apparently a place of peace across the Narrow Channel where courtly gentlemen honored and revered women as in the days when the Goddess fully ruled. If only she could go there.

Deidre frowned, remembering how furious her mother, high priestess to Isis, had been to find the book—or The Book—as Deidre liked to call it, lying in place of the Philosopher’s Stone in the grotto deep inside a hidden cave. Her mother had accused the old magician that had ensconced himself near the shrine of stealing it and searched his goods, only to find nothing. But the next morning he was gone. Deidre’s burgeoning gift of Sight had not been able to find him. For the past two years, the magician had cloaked himself and the Stone well.

The Stone was one of Solomon’s lost treasures: the symbols of the Sacred Geometry that defined all life and the sum of all wisdom were embedded in it. Deidre had not actually seen it for she was too young at two-and-ten to be initiated into the Ways, but it had been her mother’s duty and honor to protect the Stone, as it had been with her people since the Magdalen brought it with her when she fled Judea with her daughter, Sarah. The holy family’s bloodline traced through the Stone as well for in Goddess circles, the Magdalen was believed to be descended from Isis herself.

Now the Stone was gone and so was her mother, who, in despair that the Stone would remain hidden forever, had jumped recently from a cliff high above the warm waters of the Mediterranean, never to surface from those lapis depths. And Deidre was being sent to her cousin, Childebert, to the Christian king’s castle in Paris. She wrinkled her nose and tossed back her long, blonde hair defiantly. From what she had heard of the austere Christian court, there would be no ritual mating at Beltane—and this was to have been her first at four-and-ten—nor any other festival that held true to the Goddess. Just her luck when she was finally about to find out what all the young priestesses in her mother’s care giggled about the morning after such celebrations.

Deidre had always dreamed that when she came of age, she would be allowed to choose her consort according to the Old Ways as her mother had done with the Celtic-born Caw of Pictland. The Book had filled her adolescent head with even grander ideas. Her young man would be handsome and strong and pledge his faith completely, like the knights of the Round Table did.

Deidre hugged the volume to herself as she stood. She would hide it well within her trunk and re-read the stories of honorable Arthur, courteous Gawain, steadfast Bedwyr, and the irresistible Lancelot. The book would be a symbol of hope that one day, she, too, would find her true noble knight.

Chapter One - Beltane

Scotland
Ten years later

Scents of sex and musk permeated the cool night air, accompanied by deep grunts, soft moans, labored panting, and sharp gasps. Cautiously, Deidre pushed back the bracken and peered into the sheltered glade, canopied by a velvety black sky sprinkled liberally with diamonds. It seemed harmless enough, but she’d lost both her escort and coin and barely managed to escape abduction the night before. She wasn’t taking any chances. To her right, a banked fire sent slow spirals of blue smoke curling lazily into the air, interrupted only by an occasional crackle of yellow flame when the breeze fanned unburned wood.

Deidre squinted beyond the light of the smoldering embers and detected movement near a shrub. A giggle accosted her from the left and she shifted her gaze. A naked young man, his erection huge in the dim light, was coaxing the shirt off a girl who lay writhing on the ground beneath him. Well, maybe he wasn’t “coaxing” her clothes off. Tearing them off might be a better description. Deidre blinked. In her unfortunately still-virgin state, she’d never seen a naked man before. She gasped a little as he lowered himself over the girl and she heard the muffled shriek that told her he had not been gentle. Apparently, though, the woman was used to it for she was bucking enthusiastically, begging him for more.

Deidre surveyed her surroundings. The remains of a huge bonfire illuminated the shadows of trees near the glade. A road or track led off around a bend. As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she could now see more squirming couples beneath low bushes that spread toward the tree line. Quite a Bacchanalian sight.

Listening to gasps and groans of pleasure was really more than a reluctant virgin of four-and-twenty could take. She should have lost her accursed maidenhood and been wed long ago were it not for her gift of Sight that kept her practically a prisoner at Childebert’s court. Her cousin needed her talent, he said, even though his Christian mother, Clotilde, frowned on anything pagan. Sometimes Deidre thought the only reason Clotilde tolerated her was for the large dowry she’d inherited from her mother which Childebert had access to as long as she remained a maid. Between her cousin and his mother, they’d managed to discourage any and all suitors.

Suddenly, Deidre became aware of other sounds. Boots. Male voices. Laughter. Drunken laughter from the sound of it. Quickly she stepped back, intending to seek shelter in the trees. Too late. She had been seen.

“Begorra! There’s a fine lass,” someone shouted. “Doona let her get away!”

Deidre tripped and picked up her long skirt. Dratted thing. Traveling clothes were always heavy. The skirt alone had to weight near a half-stone. Deidre hiccupped hysterically, stifling a scream. She ripped the headdress off; the ungainly thing was hindering her sight as she raced toward the trees.

A big burly arm caught her roughly around the waist, expelling the air from her lungs. She gasped as she fought to free herself, kicking and scratching.

“Och, a feisty lass. I like that kind.” The man laughed, and with one huge paw on her shoulder, spun her around.

He wore a kilt and sash and his breath reeked of liquor although he was not drunk. Barrel-chested, big and bulky with gray hair and a bushy bread, his eyes glinted like steel in the moonlight. He grabbed her face in one beefy fist and leaned close, his mouth slack and drooling. As much as she resented her virginity, she was not about to lose it to this lecher. The thankful young stable lads she’d slipped forbidden sweetmeats to at Childebert’s court had taught her a few things. Deidre bought her knee up hard to meet the lout’s groin.

A surprised look crossed his face as he doubled-over. She lost no time in pushing back and sprinting away, but the man lurched for her and she landed on the ground with a hard thud. He rolled her over, his considerable weight pressing her down, leaving no room for air in her lungs.

“Ye’ll pay for that, lassie, but I like it rough,” he said, fisting her long, flaxen hair and pulling her head back painfully. He pushed her skirts up and thrust a knee between her thighs, the wayward kilt obligingly out of the way.

Deidre struggled, but her arms were pinned. She fought to keep her knees together, but he only laughed and spread her legs further. All those years spent dreaming of giving herself willingly to one of the gallant knights from The Book were about to disintegrate into her worst nightmare. Desperately, she snapped at him with her teeth, drawing blood from his chin.

He raised a fist and she turned her head, bracing herself for the blow. Perhaps being knocked unconscious would be the best thing that could happen to her. As if he read her thoughts, he brought his hand down and roughly flipped her over.

“Ye can’t do much damage like this,” he said, “and I can go deeper.”

Deidre tried to push against him, and then realized she was probably helping him more than herself. She gritted her teeth. Bâtard. Then, suddenly the weight was lifted and she could breathe. She rolled to a sitting position, hands protecting her face, and gulped for air.

“I’m thinking the lass might not be wantin’ to play yer game, Niall.”

The voice of an angel. It had to be. A soft, rich Scottish burr, not menacing, but authoritative still the same.

Deidre opened one eye and peered up. By the saints. It could have been the archangel Michael himself, complete with flaming sword. Righteous indignation flashed across his face as he towered over her abductor, claymore at the ready. Relief flooded her and she couldn’t help but notice the muscular, leather-clad thighs that were at nose-level. She forced herself to look up past a flat belly and narrow waist. Firelight reflected off a finely-chiseled face with high cheekbones, a straight nose and a sinfully sensual full mouth. The wind rippled through her rescuer’s shoulder- length dark hair and caused the flowing white shirt he wore to flatten against a broad chest and powerful arms. A whimper escaped her. No angel should look like this. If they did, she was definitely going to start attending more of those boring Masses she hated.

“It’s Beltane, mon!” Niall said churlishly. “What’s she doing out, if she doesn’t want to be taken?”

Beltane. The ancient pagan fertility festival held on May 1. She’d forgotten after last night’s narrow escape.

Her personal god turned a discerning gaze on her. “I don’t know why she’s here, but I’ll make sure the lass gets back to where she needs to go.” Niall gave him a challenging look. “Safe and unmolested,” he added as he met the older man’s gaze.

Niall stared at him sullenly and then gestured to his men that they were leaving. He looked down at Deidre ominously. “Ye haven’t seen the last of me, lass. No woman gets the best of me.”

She shuddered slightly as he strode off straightening his sash. And then, her divine savior was offering her his hand.

She slipped hers into his. Strong, warm fingers closed over her hand, sending tiny tingles coursing up her arm. He put a steadying arm around her waist as she stood and those sparks ignited into full flames that shot deeply through her belly. She wanted nothing more than to press her suddenly achy breasts against that hard chest. Even her wildest flights of fancy with Camelot’s knights hadn’t evoked such passion.

“I’m Gilead. Are ye all right? He didn’t hurt ye?”

Gilead. Perhaps the comparison to the arch-angel Michael hadn’t been such a wild flight of fancy after all. Gilead was one of the names of the Bloodline that traced through Kings Solomon and David all the way back to Abraham. The original Gilead’s father had been named Michael. Did this Gilead have aught to do with the Stone that she had come to find? Sometimes the Sight worked in strange ways. She wished her gift were more reliable.

For certes, he had the most brilliant blue eyes she had ever seen. Even in the near darkness, she could see they were fringed with thick, black lashes that any female would kill for. His clean soap and leather scent seared her brain; the man was intoxicating. He might have stepped right off the pages of The Book, even if he wasn’t wearing shining armor. He DID have a sword. Here he was, all six foot plus of solid, muscular, good-looking male—exactly the kind of man Childebert had kept away from her—and all she could do was stare at him like a dimwit.

“I’m Deidre. Yes. I’m fine.” Éclatant entretien! Brilliant conversation, that!

“Dee? Of Dundee?” He looked puzzled that her name sounded like a town.

Dee. She liked the Gaelic pronunciation, or maybe because it was coming from HIM. He really could make Adonis weep in envy. “No. My name is Deidre, but you may call me Dee if you wish.” She added, hoping he’d respond in true knightly fashion, “Thank you for rescuing a damsel in distress.” Even with all the personal defense skills she’d covertly learned, she HAD been in need of rescuing this eve. Like it or not.

He nodded curtly. “I’d best be getting ye to the hall then.” He turned abruptly and headed back up the path.

Not quite the answer she wanted, but… “Wait!” She ran to the bush where she’d dropped the satchel that held The Book and a few other necessities. “I’ll need this.”

He gave the small bag a curious look, but said nothing as he began to walk.

Deidre started after him and tripped again on her heavy skirt. Merde! Did her celestial deity have to take such long strides? She was a lot shorter than he was, barely coming to his shoulder. AND, he seemed annoyed with her. Hurt swept over her and then she raised her chin defiantly. It wasn’t HER fault she’d nearly been raped by some brute. She inhaled quickly as realization hit her. Certainement. It was Beltane. Her fabulous man had probably been on the way to rendezvous with some wench and she’d ruined his plans. She felt a ping of jealousy at her unknown competitor. He was HER knight, right from The Book. Mon Dieu, to feel Gilead’s full sensual lips on hers…

Her fantasy paused. “Are ye coming?”

Her mother, rest her soul, always told her she was a dreamer but just looking at him and hearing that delicious brogue…hmmm. The partial scowl on his face brought her fanciful notions back to reality. Really, he didn’t have to spoil the moment and be rude. Swains who rescued damsels were supposed to pledge faith or something. That’s what it said in The Book.

She stuck out her chin, picked up the skirt, and hurried to catch up. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from an… appointment.”

His glance swept down to her bared legs and she thought she saw his mouth twitch. “Ye are a Sassenach, an outlander. It’s a strange accent ye have.”

Deidre thought quickly. Her cousin was powerful and the Franks always a threat to the Isle. If Gilead found out she’d escaped from Childebert’s clutches, no doubt she’d be returned for a ransom and incur not only king’s wrath, but his dungeon as well. She couldn’t take that chance, not now when the mists surrounding the hidden Stone were finally lifting. If the Stone were found by the wrong person… Well, the fewer people who knew about her mission, the better.

Her erratic “gift” really was a curse, she thought again. Had the rumor not reached Paris that Bishop Dubricius of Britain claimed to have had a vision of a spectacular golden jeweled cup from which the Christos had drunk at his last supper—and had not that greedy holy man issued a reward for its discovery—Childebert would probably never have remembered the stolen Philosopher’s Stone.

But he had and he’d called Deidre in to question her about it. The familiar light-headedness that heralded a Sighting had engulfed her immediately. After more than a decade of the Stone being hidden from her Sight, her senses stirred. An image of the sea and craggy hills spotted with heather had told her the Stone was no longer in Gaul, but if Childebert sent men to Scotland and he found the Stone, he would turn it over to the ever-needy hands of the Roman church in exchange for Rome’s powerful backing. The wisdom of the Goddess would be lost to history. When found, the Stone must be returned to its grotto in the Languedoc and the priestesses recalled. It was her duty to see that it was done.

She couldn’t deny the Sighting, but she had misdirected her cousin’s men toward Rome instead, while she made plans to visit the father in Pictland that she’d never met. When Childebert traced her escape—and he would—to a fishing vessel that left from Calais, he’d assume she had gone to the closest port in Londinium. He’d not, she hoped, look for her this far north.

But what to tell the darkly brooding Eros standing in front of her?

“I come from Armorica, across the sea.”

He frowned. “Ye’re a long way from home then. How came ye here?”

What to say? Twenty to thirty red-cloaked cavalry, looking for all the world like a turma from the old Roman legions, had surrounded her small escort and taken them away last night. Dion, the sturdy captain of her loyal guard, had rallied their defense, but he had been wounded badly, slung over a horse and taken along with the rest of the men. If Deidre hadn’t wandered a little too far into the cover of the trees to ensure privacy for her personal ministrations, she would have been abducted too. She clutched her satchel with The Book inside; thank goodness it had contained items she’d needed to use and she’d taken it with her. It was all she had. She hated having to lie, but she had no idea whose troops those were…perhaps even her hero’s. Until she reached her father’s lands, her identity would have to remain a secret.

“I...uh…was traveling and our coach was accosted by highwaymen. I just barely managed to escape.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “My da willna be pleased to hear that. Were ye coming to Culross? Do ye have family near?”

Culross on the Firth of Forth was close to her destination. Or at least where she thought Caw’s lands would be. “Yes.”

Gilead stopped and was apparently waiting for her to continue. “My mother is dead.” No need to tell him how long ago or that she thought her father’s holdings would be a good place to search from. “I am kin to Caw of Pictland,” she said. “I was hoping he’d take me in. Do you know him?”

“Aye. His wife is a distant relative of my mother’s.” His face softened momentarily. “But lass, Caw was long banished to the West. He was killed in battle not long ago.”

Deidre drew her breath in sharply. Since her visions of the Stone had begun again, her goal had been to reach Caw. Childebert did not know who her father had been and she would have been safe. She swallowed hard to keep the threat of hysteria from bubbling up. She’d need food and lodging now that she was on her own and somewhere to start finding out what happened to her escort. “I guess I’ll need to find employment.”

He looked skeptical as he turned back to the path. They continued to walk even more briskly. Deidre hiked her skirts up farther to match his stride and again his glance swooped down. A small smile flitted briefly across his face. Enough to get that delicious tingle started again.

His voice was gentler when he spoke. “My mother will find ye something. Mayhap as a lady’s maid.”

“A maid?” Deidre nearly bumped into him as they turned a sharp corner and he abruptly stopped. They had left the trees behind and the path they were on converged with a wider road that led up a steep hill to a stone castle. Well, perhaps more of a fort, she realized, as she studied it. She saw how earthwork banks were laid out defensively as they climbed the incline. It was steeper than she thought and she saved her breath for exertion, for Gilead had quickened the pace, not slowed it. Did that devastating bulk of muscle never get winded? Apparently not.

Metal ratcheted wheels clacked and chains rattled as the massive, heavy oak gates slowly opened at their approach. Gilead looked down at her as they waited and a corner of his full mouth quirked up, giving him more the look of a fallen angel.

“Ye might be putting yer skirts down now. It’d be best if the men dinna think ye a wanton.”

She felt herself flush crimson. She knew that. Modesty had been drilled into her at the Frankish court under the strict tutelage of her prudish aunt Clotilde. Most of it hadn’t stuck, to her aunt’s frustration, but it was HIS fault she’d had to hike her skirt to her knees anyway. Furiously, she shook it out only to have the hem in back tangle itself. “If you’d adjusted your pace like a proper courtier to meet mine…”

The quirk widened to a slow, lopsided grin as he bent over to smooth the lower folds, his fingers just barely brushing her calf. The movement had been so light, Deidre wasn’t sure if he did it intentionally or it was an accident. Either way, the unfamiliar warmth zapped right up her leg to pulse at the juncture of her thighs, setting her active imagination into spirals. What would a real caress from him feel like? But his face was passive when he straightened and gestured her through the arch.

Deidre stared up at the bowmen standing on the battlements as they passed through the thick curtain wall. The palisade had to be at least fifty feet high. Armed warriors stood five paces apart on the battlements. The place was impressively fortified. Ahead of them, across the bailey, sat the Great Hall.

“What does your mother do here?” she asked tentatively when Gilead stopped at the solid wooden door and knocked.

For a moment, he looked puzzled. “She’s the lairdess,” he answered, “of Cenel Oengus.” When Deidre frowned, he sighed. “Cenel—a clan—my father is Angus Mac Oengus. Ye Bretons would call him a king.”

“You’re a king’s son?” Deidre began and then stopped when the door swung open and a maid bobbed a greeting. She didn’t have time to ask any more questions, for Gilead quickly explained that she was to be given a room for the night and his mother would see her in the morning. He gave her a slight bow and turned away.

Deidre stared after his broad, retreating back. Was he still so eager to meet his liaison? Her shoulders drooped. She had just met her knight—rightly a prince he was—and he thought she was a maid. Even worse, she couldn’t tell him that she, too, had royal blood, her lineage going back through the Merovingians to the Sicambrians and Arcadians and eventually to the Magdalen herself. Still another reason Childebert discouraged suitors. He didn’t want her to bear an heir more royal than himself.

Gilead dripped sensuality, in that charming, unaffected way of acting honorably and seemingly not knowing he was the most erotic fantasy that ever trod through her fertile mind, thanks in part to the escapades The Book gave of Lancelot and Gwenhwyfar. Had Gilead shown any interest at all? Her emerging libido conjured up the image of her sex god in a kilt. Those strong, well-muscled thighs exposed… she wondered what a “mon” wore under a kilt anyway. Clotilde would need more than smelling salts if she ever knew that all of her Bible-thumping chastity only served to whet Deidre’s appetite for the forbidden pleasures a man might give. Now that she had broken loose from her aunt and cousin’s restraints, Deidre was more than ready to find out exactly what those pleasures were.

Deidre giggled and then sobered. She’d have to show some decorum and act like a lady or she’d end up as a scullery maid instead. As she had seen this evening, those women were commonly tumbled. Somewhere on this side of the Channel was a land where knights abided by a code of honor and respected women. They were supposed to pledge themselves to a lady. Did Gilead already a lady? She panicked a moment and then released her breath in a whoosh. Probably not, if he were out rutting like everyone else. How could she get him to notice her without behaving like the wanton that he would not respect? She sighed. Judging from Gilead’s hasty departure, she doubted she’d impressed the laird’s son at all.

*

Gilead cursed softly as he quickly made his way down the road from the fort. For

certes, his father’s trail would be cold now. He’d lost him taking the lass back to the hall, but what else could he have done? Clearly, Niall Mac Douglas was bent on raping her. He gritted his teeth. Their neighbor was a ruthless laird, but his lands were strategically located between Culross and the infernal, war-mongering Fergus of Cenel Loairn to the northwest. His father needed Niall as an ally, not an enemy.

By the Dagda! His father courted more than enough trouble by being besotted with the Briton King Turius’s wife. Ever since Gilead had come of age, nigh five years ago, he’d tried to keep them apart when the king and queen visited. It wasn’t easy, for Angus and Queen Formorian were like two long-drawn notes on a bagpipe melding with each other.

He groaned as he left the road and ducked into the forest, following a deer path that led to a secluded clearing near the Forth. Why did King Turius and that siren queen of his have to arrive on Beltane? If they had waited just one more day, Angus would have had to host a proper feast for them, and Gilead could have made sure there was no opportunity for his father to slip away with the vixen. But no. On Beltane, men got drunk and whorishness ran amok. And Angus had made sure Turius had plenty to drink, as well as the company of several curvaceous wenches.

Gilead cursed again when he found the clearing empty. What other niche could his father have taken her to? It would be dawn soon, and he wasn’t sure either of them had enough sense to be back in their own beds by then. It was why he had tried to follow them. He shook his head. He would never allow himself to become besotted over any woman—look what it did to his otherwise intelligent father. Even though Turius had fathered a son on a pagan priestess years ago, Gilead doubted that he’d appreciate being cuckolded by his Scotti friend and ally.

As he stepped out on the road, a hearty voice slurred at him.

“Aye, Gil. Huntin’ yer da again?”

He turned to see his friend, Drustan, walking toward him, an arm casually draped across the shoulders of a girl Gilead recognized from the kitchen staff. She giggled drunkenly as Drustan nuzzled her neck.

Gilead frowned. Did everyone know of this father’s indiscretion? “Certes, not. I was checking the grounds.”

Drustan lifted an eyebrow and grinned. “Well, then. There’re still plenty of lassies yonder that won’t mind a wee bit of wooing from ye. Might even be a fresh one if ye look hard.”

The thought of a woman with another man’s juices inside her was not exactly arousing. Now the bonnie lass he’d escorted to the hall and the sight of her well-turned, slender ankle… He pushed the thought away. Unbelieving as he was of her story, she was dressed as a high-born lady and her honor needed to be protected, just like his poor mother who pretended not to know what was going on. Still, he hadn’t been able to resist that one brief brush against the lassie’s flesh as he smoothed her skirt. Even now, he remembered how the heat of that touch had pricked his hand. Better not think about it.

“Not tonight, Drus.”

His friend shook his head as he pulled his willing wench toward some gorse. “Beltane. Even ye’re allowed to lower the barriers ye keep erected so high about ye.”

Gilead turned to make his way up the incline. Those walls were in place for a reason. Relationships with women were trouble. If they cared too much, like his mother, they got hurt and he had no wish to bring misery to a woman. What was worse, though, women used their wiles to befuddle a mon’s brain and made him throw caution to the winds. Like his da.

War with the powerful Briton king they didn’t need. Not when Saxons were raiding the northeasterly shores, much too close for comfort. Turius had managed to hold them to the Fens of eastern Britain and was here now to help Angus develop strategy for the North. Formorian could very well ignite something more explosive than scrimmaging with Saxon invaders. Bah. Better to stick to women who willingly took silver coin for their services. Certes, he’d never let a woman addle his wits.

Unbidden, Deidre drifted into his mind again. Dee. The lass with the odd accent was most comely with her pert nose, aquamarine eyes and long, moonlight-colored hair. He had to admit, he liked the way her chin came up defiantly when he’d pressured her to keep up the pace. Not to mention having a glimpse of shapely legs…wee thing that she was he could easily lift her and wrap those legs around his waist as he pressed her against a wall... With some surprise, he felt his member thicken and harden, jutting itself against his trews. He had no right to be thinking such lecherous thoughts about the poor lass. She was orphaned and alone and—if her story were true—had been waylaid by bandits, not to mention near-raped this eve. After what she’d been through, the last thing she’d want is for yet another mon to make unwelcome advances. No. He would not become his father. His duty as the laird’s son was to be sure she was safe from such things.

He sighed as he headed home. The thought of her lush lips, softly pressing against his, did nothing to diminish the bulge straining to be released.

*

“I think ye’ll find everything ye need,” the young maid said as they climbed the stairs and she opened the door to a small corner room off the main hallway. “There’s peat laid in the brazier and the flint’s there.” She pointed to a tinder box. “Chamber pot’s behind the screen.” She paused, looking curiously at Deidre, as though she were not sure if she were a real guest or not.

Deidre smiled pleasantly and nodded. The girl sighed, apparently not ready to take the chance of insulting someone who might be important. She picked up the earthenware pitcher. “I’ll fetch ye some hot water for washing then.”

When she had gone, Deidre looked around the room. Heavy tapestries hung along the walls, blocking some of the damp that seeped through thick, grey stone. A small window was shuttered against the chilling breeze that came off the water she could hear rushing over stones far below. Next to the chest that held the Samian ware chamber set stood an intricately carved wardrobe. A polished wooden table and two chairs were along the opposite wall.

Deidre went over to the tinderbox tentatively. She had no clue how to strike enough sparks to get the fire going since her thin, waspish aunt was always cold and servants kept the fires burning at the Frankish court.

The little maid returned with the water and a bar of scented soap. Good. She thinks I’m an invited guest. She smiled at the girl.

“Would you mind lighting the fire, please? I’m afraid I’ve never had to learn…”

The maid bobbed her head and hurried to do her bidding. Deidre’s smile faded as she remembered that Gilead thought she was a maid too, and she’d probably be lighting these very same fires herself soon. Mayhap it would behoove her to pay attention.

“I know Gilead didn’t tell you this…” She stopped at the way the maid’s eyes had widened. “What is it?”

“Well, mum, ye’re to call him Master Gilead…that is, unless ye’re…ye’re…”

“I’m what?”

The girl colored deeply and looked away. “Unless ye’re his leman.”

Leman? Mistress? Now there’s a thought. The idea of Gilead coming to her chamber, baring those massive shoulders and chest as he ripped off his tunic before taking her down on the bed, his weight pinning her beneath him… “Yes, yes, yes,” the eager rescued damsel whispered to her. “No, no, no,” her aunt’s cold, authoritative voice rebuked her. The reluctant virgin pouted as her practical side took over.

“Ah. Forgive me,” Deidre said to the maid. “Master Gilead saved me from a boorish man this evening. My name is Deidre. I was waylaid by bandits a day ago and have gotten quite a bump on my head.” She forced a light laugh. “I seem to have forgotten my manners.”

The maid looked her over, more curiously than before. “I’m Anna. If it’s a bad bump ye have, ye should be seein’ our healer in the morning.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine by morning. I’m looking forward to the pleasure of meeting the laird and his wife.”

A closed expression crossed the young girl’s face as she walked to the door. “A pleasure?” she muttered as she closed the door behind her.

Deidre stared at the door. What did that mean? She was too tired to worry about it. She sat down on the coverlet, sinking into surprisingly soft feather down. The bed swayed slightly on its leather webbing.

She rubbed her temples, aware suddenly of how truly weary she was. With the news that her father was dead, she needed to find her escort and she needed to find the Stone before her cousin did. But part of her tension came from the fact that every nerve ending tingled in anticipation—of what exactly she wasn’t sure—whenever she was near Gilead. The air around them vibrated with the sharp, clear tang that she had smelled once just as a bolt of lightening split a mighty oak tree near her. Her hair had stood on end that time, too.

She quivered with excitement, her energy suddenly renewed. She was on the other side of the Narrow Channel now, where Camelot should be. She pulled The Book from her satchel and soothed herself with fingering the rich texture of the soft, worn leather. Did Camelot exist? Was it here? Tomorrow, would she find an idyllic place of peace and prosperity, of courtly feasts complete with bards and jesters? Unlike the drab dreariness and stark, cold walls of the Frankish court, would here be colorful pageantry and chivalrous knights sallying forth in tournaments to win favors from their ladies? She had always thought her own knight would be as noble and peerless as the legendary Lancelot and love her as fiercely as he did Gwenhwyfar. She wanted that with all her heart.

And she’d found him. Gilead was her knight. The only problem was that he didn’t know it just yet.

Get your copy today!

Amazon.com Kensington Books.com Barnes and Noble Romantic Times.com