The Bought Bride

The Bought Bride
Juliet Landon

NORMAN KNIGHT…ENGLISH LADY CONQUEST, REVENGE AND…PASSIONLady Rhoese of York was an undoubted prize. A wealthy landowner, she would fill the king's coffers well if one of his knights were to marry her.Judhael de Brionne accepted the challenge. Desiring her land, the army captain was prepared to take Rhoese as part of the deal. After all, she was beautiful enough–albeit highly resentful–and surely he would be able to warm his ice-cold bride, given time….

She was to be married at the King’s discretion.

Rhoese was vulnerable, exquisitely beautiful, tempestuous, yet with a hint of fear, and not quite as ice-cold as she would like people to think.

Until now, Jude had only toyed with thoughts of marriage. The possibility of taking an Englishwoman to his bed permanently had never been more than a passing thought during his eight years in England. Until now.

This one presented more than a challenge….

Praise for Juliet Landon

The Knight’s Conquest

“A feisty heroine, heroic knight, an entertaining battle of wills and plenty of colorful history flavor this tale, making it a delightful one-night read.”

—Romantic Times

The Bought Bride

Juliet Landon

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Chapter One

Michaelmas, September 29th, 1088—York

A sneaking cold wind whipped the light woollen shawl off Rhoese’s head to reveal a rippling helmet of auburn hair the colour of ripe chestnuts. She snatched the scarf and tied it briskly around her shoulders, trapping the two heavy plaits that reached to her waist. A halo of spiralling tendrils fluttered around her face. ‘One cart of timber from Gilbert of Newthorpe,’ she called to the scribbling clerk at her side. ‘Mark that down, Brother Alaric. Two cows worth twenty pence each from Robert, brother of Thorkil.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the cleric. ‘Not too fast, my lady, if you please.’ With Robert’s goad to prod them, the cows were not inclined to wait in order.

‘Be quick, man. Master Ralph is here with his corn payment.’

Bundles of thatch, baskets of salted fish, live hens and fresh eggs, sesters of honey and rounds of cheese, sacks of malt and grain were carried into the fenced compound at Toft Green and accounted for by Lady Rhoese, her bailiff and her clerk. It was Michaelmas, a time for the payment of dues in her first year as a landowner in her own right. Men had been coming since early morning to hand over their shillings and pence as rent for ploughland, croft and meadow, for two mills and two town dwellings, all noted down on rolls of parchment that buckled beneath the cleric’s quill. Over his head, the canvas shelter began to flap and rattle with the first squall of rain.

‘How many more, m’lady?’ he said, throwing the quill down and taking another one from behind his ear.

Rhoese held back the wayward wisps of hair with one hand and strained her eyes towards the great stone archway where Micklegate passed through York’s city wall. The light was already fading and soon the gate would be closed for the night, though there were still stragglers who had walked all day to bring what they owed. A cart passed through, rattling and jolting behind two oxen, loaded high with sheep fleeces, and a party of riders surged behind, impatient and obviously in high spirits.

‘Who’s coming, Bran?’ she called to her bailiff at the gate.

‘They’re Normans, m’lady,’ he replied, frowning.

‘Close the gate after the cart. Quick,’ she ordered. Instinctively, she took a step backwards under the cover of the canvas shelter. The steady stream of wagons and animals passing along the track towards her demesne had attracted some heed, and several of the riders had stopped to watch the distant scene of organised chaos, their attention caught by bellowing steers and bleating ewes. Rhoese’s guess that the Norman party were huntsmen returning from a day’s sport would not be far wrong, with a spot of harmless trouble-making already in their minds. Damned Norman upstarts.

It was this unease, born of past experience, that kept her wary of what was happening beyond the stockade that surrounded her large compound, so that when two of the horsemen came as far as the gates to watch more closely, she backed even further into the shadowy recesses of the shelter. Since the last king’s great national survey of two years ago, the estates that she had inherited from her mother had gone largely unchallenged since, at the time, she was still living at home, the rents and dues from her estate merely augmenting those of her late father, a king’s thegn and wealthy merchant of York. Now, she was on her own, a target for property-seeking Normans, and vulnerable. One of the many risks of becoming independent.

Lowering her voice, she continued dictating to the cleric whilst trying to ignore the two inquisitive riders until some mysterious unseen force made her turn and look. One of them was watching the scene in the yard, but the other watched her, and only her. He was tall in the saddle and powerfully built, that much she could tell in one glance, not a man she had seen before in York, nor one she could have forgotten easily. His dark hair ruffled like thick silk in the stiff autumn breeze, and his eyes looked across at her like level daggers beneath straight black brows.

He saw her start, and beckoned to her, a signal she quickly decided that a servant would not ignore. Pretence was the answer. ‘My lord?’ she called, walking unhurriedly towards him. A sheep scuttled across, stopping her halfway.

‘Where’s your master?’ he called. His voice was abrupt and deep, used to command and to obedience, taking it for granted that she could speak French.

She shrugged. ‘Away, sir,’ she replied.

‘And your mistress? Where’s she?’

‘Away too.’

‘So who’s in charge here?’

Again she shrugged. ‘All of us. We’re trusted.’

‘Your name, girl?’

She took a deep breath, ready to lie. But the bailiff was not happy about the number of fleeces in the cart, and his loud query was meant directly for her. ‘Lady Rhoese,’ he called. ‘This load’s two short.’

A howl went up from the carter. ‘There ain’t, m’lady. They’re all there. Honest.’

The horseman dismounted and threw his reins to the man by his side, and Rhoese saw that he would be intent on an explanation. The deceit was already over, and she had not enjoyed even this short-lived attempt at subservience.

Defiantly, she faced him as he came towards her through the gate. ‘My name,’ she said, crisply, ‘is Lady Rhoese of York, daughter of the late Lord Gamal of York, and granddaughter of a former sheriff. Is that enough for you, or would you like me to quote my entire pedigree? I can, if you wish it, but I’m rather occupied, as you see.’