The Baron's Quest

The Baron's Quest
Margaret Moore

The Baron DeGuerre Had Finally Met His Match Though famed for prowess in tourney and war, Etienne DeGuerre now found himself at odds in the Battle of the Sexes. For his opponent, Gabriella Frechette, was a woman of singular beauty… and single-minded resolve. One who had easily stormed his defenses, and laid siege to his unsuspecting heart.

“If you take me against my will, you will be guilty of a crime,” Gabriella warned. (#u0cccd7ab-31b6-50fe-8292-1535a8b684e2)Letter to Reader (#u8fa29846-fd31-5159-b635-2b010cd26061)Title Page (#ub7b8b8d5-dadf-56dc-954b-15051289c780)About the Author (#ue5acb399-dfd1-53d0-b405-1b4f3b925bb0)Acknowledgments (#udc9a829f-65c3-5bc5-b180-eb159afce463)Chapter One (#u7bde0e70-59d4-5b3f-8fdb-0b79d99561d2)Chapter Two (#u48e3417a-14cd-5feb-b14e-42ed5dbe6a06)Chapter Three (#u0eadcec8-9ea1-518a-a835-f2ced6d61a45)Chapter Four (#u21a4c351-0328-531c-ae8d-cf431b5af5f9)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“If you take me against my will, you will be guilty of a crime,” Gabriella warned.

“I have no intention of taking you against your will,” the baron said truthfully. Then another need that had been so vital for so long arose inside him. He must be in control, of himself, of her, of everyone around him.

“You cannot deny that you want me, Gabriella,” he continued. “I could taste your desire. I could feel the excitement in your body. When you come to my bed—and you will—it shall be of your own free will.”

She stared at him with horrified disbelief. “The only way I shall go voluntarily to any man’s bed will be when I am married, and I can assure you, Baron DeGuerre, that if you were the last man in the kingdom, I would not marry you!”

Dear Reader,

Whether you’re a longtime fan of Margaret Moore, or meeting her for the first time, her new medieval novel, The Baron’s Quest, is sure to please. This captivating story of a rough-edged Saxon who falls in love with the refined gentlewoman whom he has inherited as part of his new holdings is full of the warmth and humor readers have come to expect from this very talented author. We hope you enjoy it

Badlands Bride from Cheryl St.John is the story of a newspaper reporter who goes west pretending to be a mail-order bride, only to find herself stranded in the Dakotas for one long cold winter. Pearl, from Ruth Langan, is the next in her new series, THE JEWELS OF TEXAS, featuring four sisters who are brought together by their father’s murder.

Liz Ireland rounds out the list with Millie and the Fugitive, a lighthearted Western about a spoiled rich girl and an innocent man on the run.

We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

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The Baron’s Quest

Margaret Moore

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

MARGARET MOORE

confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that it explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

To the readers,

my humble and hearty thanks.

And to those who wish to write romance,

for the goal is worthy.

Chapter One

Warwickshire, 1223

The anxious servants of Castle Frechette and the tenants of the surrounding estate should have been about their business this sunny September day, either preparing for the harvest, sowing the winter gram, laying in a store of wood, or any of the other tasks associated with Michaelmas. Instead, the large crowd gathered in the castle’s inner ward stood as silent and subdued as if they awaited a public execution. Considering the true reason for their presence, the comparison was not so farfetched.

The Earl of Westborough had been dead only four weeks, but already the young king had contrived to strip the Frechette family of their land and give it to an upstart noble of no great family, the infamous Baron DeGuerre. He was to arrive after the noon.

Standing motionless in the inner ward of her family’s castle, Lady Gabriella Frechette attempted to convey an aura of calm serenity that was not completely successful, for she had heard many things of Baron DeGuerre, few of them good.

Men called him the devil’s spawn and a host of other unflattering names. He had appeared out of nowhere and risen to prominence by winning every tournament he entered. He had been awarded a title when he allied himself to William Marshal. Two very advantageous marriages to older women of wealth and title had enriched him. His vaulting ambition was no secret, nor was the rigor of the rule he exerted over his many tenants.

It was said women found the combination of Baron DeGuerre’s physical strength and aloof arrogance nearly irresistible. A widower now, he had for his mistress the most beautiful woman in all of England, and he lived openly with her in mortal sin.

Gabriella clasped her hands tightly within the cuffs of her simple homespun gown to still their trembling when a loud cry went up from the battlements. The baron’s entourage had been spotted on the ridge.

What was going to happen to her people with a man like Baron DeGuerre for their lord? she thought as she surveyed the murmuring crowd.

Her lip curled with slight scorn as she watched Robert Chalfront, the bailiff, hurry about excitedly, making sure all was in readiness for the baron’s men, troops and servants. No doubt some would feel no ill effects. Chalfront would surely do whatever was necessary to retain his privileged position here, and she wondered how the baron might respond to Chalfront’s obsequious manner—or if he would see the dishonest rogue lurking beneath the fawning mask.

Unable to bear the sight of the bailiff, she looked at William, the village reeve, who stood with Osric the hayward and Brian the woodward, the men speaking in hushed and wary voices with an occasional glance in her direction.

Her father had always impressed upon her the necessity of taking care of the tenants, and the peasants had appreciated the kindness of their lord and his family. Both her sweet, long-dead mother and her generous father had been truly mourned by everyone on the estate, from the knights in his service to the poorest peasant begging alms at the castle gate.

The knights were gone now, of course. They had taken their leave singly at first, then in greater number after her father had died. They needed to find some other lord to feed and house them, for apparently that was the only basis for their loyalty.

The outer portcullis rattled upward and the large gates swung inward. The crowd looked expectantly toward the entrance as a boisterous cortege rode into the courtyard of Castle Frechette.

Despite her resolution to be strong, Gabriella’s knees started to tremble and her mouth went dry, her attention immediately drawn to the man sitting upon a prancing black stallion at the front of the company. She had heard of the baron’s long hair and handsome face, and this tall, commanding man could be no one else.

His chestnut locks brushed his muscular shoulders, and no beard covered his cleft chin. On another man, such a fashion might have conveyed an aura of effeteness. Not the baron. His hair gave him a savage air, like one of the barbarian Celts who still roamed the far reaches of the land, and he had the broad shoulders and posture of a born warrior.

He wore a cloak completely black, and underneath that she could see an equally long black tunic. His boots were plain leather, as was his sword belt. The only ornament he sported was a simple brooch to fasten the cloak about his throat, although the hilt of the dagger stuck through his sword belt was of finely wrought gold.

All in all, Baron DeGuerre emanated invincibility and complete control.

Behind Baron DeGuerre came his knights, their horses adorned with colorful accoutrements. The metal of their armor and weapons shone in the sun. Numerous banners, carried by mounted squires, floated in the slight autumn breeze. Then the foot soldiers and hounds, and finally several baggage carts entered the inner ward, which was rendered as noisy and overcrowded as a marketplace.

The baron swung down from his prancing horse as if it were the calmest, mildest mare in Christendom and strode to the center of the courtyard. Surprisingly, he did not seem pompous or proud, but removed and aloof from the commotion behind him and the castle servants before him. To Gabriella, he looked completely, utterly alone, even in the midst of this chaos.

Just as she had felt the day her father had died.