ontrary to Burke’s hopes, Margaux de Montvieux was not in a charitable mood. He was ushered into the hall by her thin-lipped chatelain, that man’s gaze barely flickering in recognition. He was not offered even the courtesy of his cloak being removed, Moonshadow was left wet in the stables, and Burke did not doubt his mother’s anger.
Indeed, her eyes snapped like jewels. She sat in her great wooden chair, its arms carved in the shape of snarling griffins, her hands braced upon the knob of the cane she needed to walk in these days. Her hair had silvered completely since he last saw her, every vestige of ebony gone. But there still was a force of will that emanated from his mother, and ’twas one with the impact of a buttressed wall.
“You will ensure that my steed is brushed and dried,” Burke informed the chatelain.
That man had the audacity to lift his brows. “Will your squire not see to it?” he asked mildly, knowing full well that Burke had arrived alone.
“This quarrel is between my mother and myself,” Burke declared tightly. “There is no need for the beast to suffer.”
The chatelain glanced to his mistress.
“Do it,” she said tightly, her hearing obviously as sharp as ever. “ ’Twill not be said that Margaux de Montvieux is unkind.”
The chatelain scurried away, leaving mother and son. Burke was hardly in the state he would have preferred, but he shook off his sodden cloak and laid it over a bench as if untroubled.
Then he crossed the floor with leisurely steps to meet his mother. She rose as he drew nearer, bracing herself on her cane, lifting her chin. Though she stood on the dais, they were eye to eye, for Margaux had never been tall.
“If you come to beg my forgiveness, ’tis past time you fell on your knees,” she said coldly.
Burke smiled at the very thought. “And why would I seek forgiveness?”
Margaux’s eyes flashed with fury. “For your disregard! Your father told me of your foolish choice and, indeed, I expected to see you much sooner than this! On your knees, chevalier, and I might consent to grant you your inheritance once again.”
“I have no desire for Montvieux,” Burke said with a shrug.
“What nonsense is this?”
“As I told Father, the price of your approval comes too high. I surrender Montvieux for the chance to follow my own will.”
His mother sat down heavily. “You will think little of the merit of your own will when it compels you to watch that woman starve.”
Burke’s surprise must have shown, for his mother smiled coldly. “Naught happens on this holding without my knowing of it. You should know that.”
“Indeed, your grip has tightened since last I was here.”
“ ’Tis naught but a reflection of my concern for you.”
Burke smiled sadly at his mother. “ ’Tis Montvieux alone that concerns you. Do not pretend that this fury is born of anything else. My rejection of Montvieux leaves your beloved estate without an heir apparent, and that is the only issue between us.”
She eyed him for a long moment, her anger fading slowly from her features. “You truly believe that,” she commented finally.
Burke shrugged. “I have spent my life fulfilling the dreams of others. I have a dream of my own and you will not undermine it.”
“Then why have you come?”
“I believe ’tis courteous for a man to introduce his bride to his family.”
“Courtesy.” Margaux snorted. “You have had women before and they have never filled your head with such nonsense.”
“This is different. I love her.”
“A fine claim to make without a denier to your name.” His mother rolled her eyes. “You could come back to Montvieux and offer this woman a finer life than you will win otherwise.”
“And be subject to your every whim once more?” Burke shook his head. “I shall take my chances at the tourneys.”
“The tourneys will see you dead!” Margaux snapped. Her lips pinched tightly together. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Alys.”
“And her parentage?”
Burke smiled, knowing his answer would not win approval. “Is obscure.”
His mother caught her breath and swore softly. “A bastard. You throw all away for a bastard, who is probably no better than a whore. Did I raise you with no more wits than that?”
“I would expect you to have the wits to refrain from addressing my betrothed in such terms.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed anew. “You mean to wed her.”
“Of course.”
Margaux straightened. “You have a lineage that makes you worthy of wedding royalty. You would have an inheritance to back any such claim, if you were not so stubborn as to accept it. Yet you would discard all to marry some woman born of naught. I assume she brings you naught.”
Burke folded his arms across his chest. “She brings me happiness, and that is no small thing. I shall wed her, with or without your approval, though I had hoped that you might stir yourself to welcome her to the family.”
Margaux laughed, a chilling sound that echoed in the empty hall. “Welcome her! Have you taken a blow to the head?”
Her mockery angered Burke as her indifference had not. “Nay, I have not. But I have seen well enough what comes of a marriage wrought of fleeting desire and fitting circumstance.” His mother’s mirth faded abruptly. “And I will not spend my days and nights in a match such as the one from which I sprang.” He glared at her. “I do not care what I must sacrifice to ensure that end.”
His mother caught her breath. “You have set a price on welcoming your intended, unless I miss my guess.”
Burke straightened. “You have a choice to make, Mother. You may greet my betrothed appropriately, you may welcome her to Montvieux and embrace her as befits the mother she has never known.”
“Do not hold your breath on that account.” She surveyed him. “What of my other choice?”
“Bluntly put, spurn my lady and you spurn me.” Margaux sat up at this, but Burke did not cease. “Understand this, Mother. Alys and I have cleaved to each other as surely as if we had pledged before a priest. I love her and her alone, and naught you can say will change that. All you choose in this meeting is whether you will ever see me again.”
Burke watched the color drain from his mother’s features. She said naught and the stubborn set of her chin did not ease.
Well. He had said his piece, she had denied him. He should not have hoped for more.
’Twas time to leave.
“I wish you well, Mother, and many years of health and prosperity.” Burke turned on his heel and strode across the hall where he had played as a boy. Silence crackled in the air behind him, but he scooped up his cloak without a backward glance.
He and Alys could leave for Champagne as soon as Kerwyn and Edana arrived.
“Wait!” his mother shouted just before he left the hall. Burke turned slowly to find her once more on her feet, though she trembled with anger. “You cannot choose this woman over me. I will not permit it!”
“ ’Twas you who made the choice.”
Margaux de Montvieux swore thoroughly. When she had exhausted every expletive Burke had ever heard, she used her cane to descend from the dais and leaned heavily upon it to cross the floor in his wake. When she paused before him, her will blade-bright, Burke was stunned by how tiny she had become.
“Tell me of this obscure parentage,” she demanded. “Who is her mother?”
“ ’Twas Isibeal of Kiltorren.”
“And her father?”
“No one knows.”
Margaux inhaled and her lips nigh disappeared. But she did not stride away, and Burke was struck by a sudden idea.
“Indeed, Mother, you might be able to aid my lady in this.” His mother looked infuriated by the very thought, but Burke continued smoothly. “The tale is that Alys’s mother, Isibeal, met her lover in Paris, that her guardians did not approve of him as a match for he was a younger son with no holding to his name.”
“People of good sense do not permit men to wed when they have naught to their name,” his mother said testily. “What is amiss with this Isibeal’s wits?”
“She is dead,” Burke declared, and his mother made a sound that might have been construed as a halfhearted apology. “ ’Tis why no one knows Alys’s father’s name. This Isibeal was convinced he would treat her with honor, though he never came to claim her hand. ’Twas also said that he was likened to a unicorn and she the maid who seduced the beast with her sweet manner.”
“Romantic nonsense,” Margaux muttered under her breath.
Burke was undeterred. “Think upon it, Mother, for there is little that occurs in Paris without your awareness. Alys is twenty summers of age, her parents met at the king’s own court. Perhaps you might recall the man’s identity.”
Something flashed in his mother’s eyes before she abruptly turned away, and Burke knew ’twas anger at being denied her way. “I will not aid you in this course. You cannot wed this woman and shun Montvieux!”
“Then, ’tis farewell, Mother,” Burke said without apology. Indeed, she cared for him only when he did her bidding. Burke was finished with all such ties. “Be well.” He donned his gloves, pivoted, and stalked out of the hall, disappointed but not truly surprised by his mother’s rejection of Alys.
“You shall return on your knees, Burke de Montvieux!” she cried behind him. “You will come to your senses and know that Montvieux is all you desire. You will regret this course.”
Burke did not even pause, and he certainly did not look back. He went directly to the stables, mounted Moonshadow, and left Chateau Montvieux forever.
Margaux de Montvieux waited.
She stood in her hall, her hands braced upon her cane, fury alone keeping her upright. She knew Burke would come back, she knew he would reconsider, she knew he would not be such a fool as to turn his back upon the prize she had protected for him alone. He wanted only her agreement to meet some wench of whom Margaux knew she would not approve.
How could she approve of some lowborn bastard who had turned her son’s head, then turned his heart against her?
Nay, Margaux would wait. Burke would return, contrite; he would surrender this nonsense and make a suitable match. Burke had always been a good son, after all. He had always done what he was bidden, he had never disappointed.
But Margaux stood there long and her son did not return. Her back began to ache. She recalled what Gavin had confided, that he had never seen such defiance in their son, that he had waited outside Tullymullagh’s gates for Burke’s return, but to no avail.
She did not like to have even this in common with the foul man who still held the empty title of her spouse.
Margaux heard the fading of a destrier’s hoofbeats and her heart chilled. Burke mocked her, he played a game, he would see her fretful when he returned. She would not weaken.
Though ’twas Rowan who oft teased her thus, never Burke. Margaux gritted her teeth.
But as the silence stretched longer and longer, Margaux began to tremble. She closed her eyes and ’twas Burke she found in her mind’s eye, Burke insisting that she cared only for Montvieux.
’Twas typical of a man to completely miss the point. Margaux cared for Montvieux only because ’twas destined to fall under the hand of her beloved son.
Her only true son. The sun, the moon, and the stars, the very fixture of the firmament, the only child of her own womb, ’twas Burke alone she cared for.
Margaux had raised him to be a man of honor, a prince among knights, a man who granted women an appreciation his own father could not. She had raised him to understand responsibility and to hold his head high. She had raised Burke to be an exemplary example of knighthood and all she had ever believed in.
And he would cast it all away on a worthless woman of mysterious lineage. Margaux was not about to let that happen.
Though it seemed she would have little choice. As she stood there, ramrod straight, Margaux began to think of what her son had said. Romantic drivel, to be sure, though that name was not readily dismissed.
Indeed, the name Isibeal was sufficiently uncommon that it struck a chord within Margaux’s mind. Her memory was not what ’twas, but she remembered a knight seeking a woman of such name. She could fairly see his visage, but could not think of his name.
She was almost certain his standard bore a unicorn rampant.
“Arnaud!” Margaux bellowed with a volume that might be unexpected from a woman of her size. The chatelain scampered into the hall.
“I want half a dozen runners dispatched this very moment,” she instructed crisply, quickly summoning the names of all the finest gossips she knew. “I want them to go to Agathe d’Orcy, to Magdalene de Nonces, to Constance who joined the nunnery of Des Lumières …”
“The Mother Superior will not permit conversation …”
“Then tell her that she can expect no contribution to her coffers from my harvest this year!” Margaux snapped. “She will permit one question or I shall withdraw my support. You may be certain that she will be persuaded.” She frowned in thought. “There is also Marie, the one who aids the queen herself …”
“And the Bishop of Sainte-Madeleine, of course,” Arnaud suggested, obviously seeing the direction of her thoughts. “He has a great memory for scandal.”
Margaux snapped her fingers and spun to face her chatelain. “The Bishop! Aye, Richard d’Annoceaux was of a good family, and he had a younger brother. They bear a unicorn on their standard, as I recall. Do you remember the younger brother’s name, Arnaud?”
“Let me see.” The chatelain tapped his finger upon his lip. “The elder brother and heir was Michel d’Annoceaux, who of course wed the Roussineau heiress in that vulgar display of wealth that had all talking for a year …”
“The younger brother was Millard!” Margaux crowed with triumph. “ ’Twas Millard! They were the sons of Theobald d’Annoceaux.”
“A much-esteemed warrior and crusader.” Arnaud frowned. “This Theobald wed Alys de Blois, did he not, and she bore him those three sons?”
“Alys!” Margaux hissed through her teeth, knowing the name could be no coincidence. She pointed a finger at her chatelain. “Find Millard d’Annoceaux, Arnaud. I do not care where he is or what he has become, I do not care for excuses, I do not care if he is dead. Bring him here, with all haste, or I shall have the head of every runner who fails.”
Arnaud bowed. “Your will, as always, shall be done, madame.”
“Alys!” Burke’s call echoed through the miller’s abode in a most unsettling way. Indeed, even the miller did not seem to be about, though Mass was over. Burke called again, to no response, and continued up the stairs.
His sense of alarm grew as the quiet of the house pressed around him. He ran to the chamber Alys had used and stopped short. The abandoned shoe in the midst of the floor taunted him.
It would seem Alys was gone.
And she had abandoned his gift, the shoe she had pledged never to remove without his aid. Something was clearly amiss.
Had she left him?
Did she leave suddenly, afraid of his future? Of Margaux?
Where was she? Burke surveyed the chamber again and saw something he had not noted sooner.
A tuft of cloth clung to the latch of the door.
He crossed the room, freed the cloth, and recognized its distinctive color immediately. ’Twas a piece of the wool from Alys’s new kirtle, the violet one that she loved so very well.
Burke’s fist closed over the thread. Alys loved this kirtle. She would not see it torn, she was not careless with her treasures. He bent and looked closer, the tinge of blood on the latch making his heart stop cold.
Alys had not left by her own choice!
The shoe was a message, and he was a fool for doubting his beloved.
Burke swore, lunged out the door, and thundered down the stairs, his hand on the hilt of his sword. How long since Alys had been dragged from this place?
Only now did he find the miller lying behind a trunk in the room below. Burke touched the man’s pulse and bruised temple and suspected he would have no more than a headache to show for his experience.
The miller stirred and opened his eyes, clutching Burke’s hand when he recognized him. “Chevalier! Your lady was taken!”
“Who? Who did this thing?”
“He said his name was Talbot d’Annoceaux. They took a knife to me and he called her a whore.” The miller frowned. “Her manner changed then, but ’twas not right. She is no whore, your lady, and she did not feign it well.”
Burke shook his head. “Ye gods, that would be Alys.”
“She said she desired him from the first moment they met, that she did not favor you for she had had better from an ostler.” The miller frowned. “I think he believed her, but many a man sees only what he desires to see in a woman.” The miller clutched Burke’s arm worriedly. “Chevalier, he means to injure her, I am certain!”
“Not if I have anything to say of the matter,” Burke said grimly, and pushed to his feet. “Will you be well enough?”
“Go, sir, go!” the miller urged. “Do not waste a moment! They have been gone nigh as long as you.”
Burke needed no further encouragement to bolt from the room. He sprang into Moonshadow’s saddle, cursing the rain. Aye, if Burke were so fortunate as to see Alys safe, he would ensure there was not a single doubt left between them.
Better from an ostler. Burke snorted beneath his breath. He could only hope he had the chance to demand a toll for such an impudent remark.
Burke reined in when Moonshadow reached the road, uncertain which way to go. He spied something red in the mud far to the right. Burke urged his steed closer, dismounted, and picked up the mate to the shoe he still held. Relief surged through him, for clearly Alys meant to leave him a trail.
Ye gods, but he was glad his lady was a woman of good sense!
Alys had discarded everything except her chemise and kirtle, taking care to mark each turn Talbot made even while she tried to do so unobserved. She feigned a desire to relieve herself as often as she dared and broke great quantities of growth when she did so.
Yet it seemed that Talbot deliberately took a circuitous path, and Alys’s hope faded that Burke would truly be able to follow.
The rain halted just as they drew into a clearing occupied by a lone, dilapidated hut. They were miles from the village, the horses were steaming, and Alys could hear naught but distant birds. The sun was obscured behind the thick veil of clouds.
“ ’Tis here we have awaited news of you,” Talbot declared with pride. “For I knew that your knight would ultimately return to his home estate. What good fortune that we checked the village this very morn.”
He dismounted, then tugged Alys from the saddle when she did not move quickly enough to suit him. He caught her against him and kissed her hard, the move so surprising Alys that she did not manage to hide her revulsion.
Talbot trapped her between himself and his steed. “Am I not good enough for you, whore?” he whispered.
“I did not expect your embrace to be so passionate.” Alys tried to sound coquettish and knew she failed. She smiled despite the fearful clamoring of her heart and reached to kiss Talbot of her own volition. “You are indeed handsome,” she whispered, hating how her voice trembled over the lie.
“Liar!” Talbot cried. “You think of him!”
“Nay, I …”
“Lying bitch. I shall make you forget him.”
“ ’Tis done!”
“Get the rope,” Talbot bade his squire tersely. “See she cannot escape.”
This would be her last chance. Alys screamed and slammed her knee into Talbot’s groin. He roared in pain, his grip slackened, and Alys tore free of him. She ran, her wet kirtle and the tall growth conspiring against her. Her breath came in desperate gasps as Talbot’s footfalls echoed behind. Alys ran as fast as she could, even knowing she could not flee to freedom.
She almost made the encircling trees when Talbot’s weight landed upon her. Alys fell, but she fought the entire way down. She managed to scratch the knight’s face, she bit him, she kicked his privates more than once.
But in the end she was bound hand and foot, and ’twas Talbot who stood over her, one booted foot braced on her belly. He took a deep breath and glared at her, hatred shining in his eyes.
“I shall make you pay for that,” he declared softly. “But first I shall let you imagine the worst.”
He whistled to his squire and stepped away, brushing his tabard as he strode toward the shack. “See that she is silent and helpless,” he bade the boy. “I have need of a rest before I see this matter resolved.”
Alys screamed with all her might as the squire wound a length of linen between his hands, though she knew ’twas to no avail. When she was silenced and frightened, there was only one thought in her mind.
Where was Burke?
Burke was on all fours in the undergrowth, in a frenzy to discern the direction his lady had gone. He had found her embroidered girdle in the midst of the road and knew they had made a turn, but could not be certain whether ’twas to the left or the right. He sought some hint in the wet grass, painfully aware that each passing moment could be critical.
Indeed, it might already be too late.
He was so absorbed in his task that he barely noted the canter of hoofbeats on the road and he did not look up before he was called.
“Sir!”
Burke straightened in shock at the familiar voice. “Kerwyn! And Edana. How did you find me?”
“The miller told us of your lady’s fate and your direction,” the younger man declared. “We thought you might need help.”
“But I have taken a twisted course.”
“And there were a multitude of signs of your passing along the way,” Edana said.
“Signs?”
“In the grass, on the road, in the branches of the trees,” Kerwyn said easily. “A steed such as Moonshadow does not pass without making a mark. I assumed there were few of his ilk running alone on the same course.”
Edana smiled at Burke’s astonishment “Anyone who has ever tracked an errant goat knows how to read the land.”
Truly ’twas a godsend to have these two find Burke now.
“Then aid me!” he cried. “They made a turn here, but I cannot guess which way.” The pair dismounted and strode toward Burke.
“That way,” Edana declared.
“There are two steeds,” Kerwyn affirmed, “a palfrey and one slightly larger.”
“Talbot’s mare,” Burke concluded.
Kerwyn studied hoofprints so faint that Burke could barely discern them. “ ’Twould be the right size. She is tired, by her gait.” He walked a dozen steps onward, then peered at the line of forest not far away. “The undergrowth is broken there,” he said, indicating one point.
“Why would they cut through fields like this?” Edana mused. “No one of sense would take shelter in the forest when it rains. And all the dwellings are along the road.”
Burke bit back a comment about Talbot’s lack of intellect as he made a sudden and intuitive guess. He had followed this trail blindly and only now sought to discern his precise location. Burke spun in place, calculating the distance to the village, the particular copse of trees that must lie before him. It had been years since he had travelled this small road.
But he knew it well.
“The woodcutter’s cabin,” he concluded. The pair looked to him in surprise. “There was a woodcutter once who lived as a hermit in the hunting forest, despite all attempts to evict him. He was reputed to be a madman, though he is long dead. I visited him once, on a childhood dare from my brother Rowan. His cabin lay this way.”
He turned and mounted Moonshadow. “If I am right, ’tis not far.”
“I shall come with you, for you may need aid. They are two, after all,” Kerwyn decided quickly. “Edana will remain behind.”
“But …”
“But naught,” the squire said savagely as he mounted his own palfrey. “I would see you safe.” He bent and kissed her soundly, the move effectively silencing Edana’s protest.
When he turned his horse, the goatgirl bit her lip, wringing her hands together. “God be with you,” she whispered.
But Burke had already ridden toward the trees. The branches were indeed broken and a single golden hair hung like a beckoning thread from one branch.
He would peel Talbot alive for that hair alone.
The rain eased as they made their way through the woods, the horses’ footfalls muffled by the ground’s cloak of fallen leaves. Kerwyn pointed to each broken branch of significance, and soon Burke, as well, could discern the path. Anxiety dogged his steps, for the time since Alys’s abduction dragged long.
What if he were wrong? What if they had ridden hard beyond the woodcutter’s hovel and, even now, were racing beyond his reach?
But when they paused in the shadows of the last trees surrounding the clearing Burke recalled, he immediately spied a familiar mare lazily grazing. A smaller palfrey was tethered beside her, the pair still saddled and damp from their exertion.
They were here.
The woodcutter’s shack was more decrepit than Burke recalled; there was a sizable hole in its roof, and the forest had advanced. The clearing that had once been stamped clear of growth was now hip deep in wild grasses and meadow flowers.
A measure of them moved and Burke stiffened, his eyes widening when a figure separated from the darkness beneath the far trees. Talbot’s squire sauntered to the wriggling grasses and spat.
“Save your strength,” he advised. “You shall have need of it when my master awakens.”
The grasses moved with great agitation and the squire laughed. Outrage rolled through Burke at this treatment of his lady, then settled into a cold kernel of resolve.
Talbot’s unsuspecting squire strolled back to his place, leaving Alys safely undisturbed—whatever her state—in the middle of the clearing. Burke surmised that Talbot himself must be within the hut.
“Yours,” Burke mouthed, indicating the squire.
Talbot would be Burke’s.
Kerwyn nodded, and his eyes narrowed. Mercifully, the hut was too simple to sport even a window and it had only one door, which faced into the clearing. Its back was nestled against the forest.
Burke conferred quickly with the younger man, mapping a plan in near silence with his hands. The squire nodded understanding. They parted, slipping from their steeds and disappearing into the shadows of the forest on silent feet.
Burke eased around the hut, straining his ears for some sound from within. He focussed on the task at hand, not daring to let himself be distracted by looking for Alys. She was alive, he knew that much, she was unscathed enough to struggle. She was silent, which meant she must be gagged, her very inability to move indicating that she was bound.
He could only hope that that was the worst of it.
Burke drew his sword as he eased around the last corner and let it flash in the wan light.
Talbot’s squire bounced to his feet, his mouth working in shock. He pointed across the clearing at Burke.
“You! What in the name of …” He got no further, for a lean shadow loomed behind him and raised a hand. A single blow sent the squire crumpling to the ground.
But Talbot had heard his squire’s cry, as Burke had planned.
“What is amiss?” Talbot roared from within the hut. Burke stepped quickly along the wall, his timing perfect beyond belief.
“Can I not trust you to do a simple task …” Talbot bellowed as he threw open the door.
The bite of Burke’s sword at his throat silenced his words.
“Good afternoon, Talbot d’Annoceaux,” Burke said smoothly. “You have rendered an insult to my lady fair and I am here to take an accounting from your own hide.”
Talbot blanched, his gorge worked beneath the blade’s point.
Burke divested the knight of his dagger with one hand, his sword never wavering. “Perhaps you might do me the courtesy of unfastening your belt,” he suggested amiably. “But be warned, my patience runs thin on this day.” He pushed the tip of the blade a little more heavily against Talbot’s flesh.
The man’s fingers shook as he shed his belt, the scabbard attached falling to the ground with a clatter. “You do not understand, I simply could not allow her to ruin all I have labored to win.”
“Nay, I do not understand any man’s desire to abuse a woman.”
Talbot closed his eyes, whimpered, half recounted a prayer memorized by children. “She is unharmed, I swear it to you.”
“By virtue of my timely arrival alone.” Burke traced a path across the man’s neck with the tip of his blade, drawing a thin line of blood, and Talbot paled. “I am guessing that your abduction would not have ended well for my lady otherwise.”
“I shall do penance.”
“Indeed, you shall. I shall ensure it.” Talbot’s eyes widened, but Burke cared little for the man’s fears. “I did not hurt her!”
Burke spoke with all the conviction he felt. “I shall kill you slowly if you did.” He ignored the other man’s dismay. “Kerwyn?”
“Aye, sir?”
“How fares the lady?” Burke could guess his squire’s progress by the movement of Talbot’s eyes. He heard Alys gasp and knew her gag was removed, heard her murmured thanks as Kerwyn aided her.
“Burke, I am fine,” she called, her voice the only sound that could have reassured Burke so well.
“Nay, there are chafes upon her wrists and ankles from the rope, sir,” Kerwyn corrected.
How like Alys to understate the indignities served to her. Burke wanted this sorry excuse of a knight to taste a measure of the fear he had forced upon Alys.
“What bad fortune for you, Talbot,” he said deliberately. “For I have a great fondness for the perfection of my lady’s ankles.” Burke shrugged as Talbot swallowed with horror. “It seems that I shall have to kill you, after all.”