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French, but his gaze still rested upon Mariette’s face, with its translucent, milk-white flesh and delicate bones. “Take your mistress inside,” he said. “There, the servants will do your bidding.’”
    Fabrienne, despite her lovely name, was a plain and halting creature, with pale, lashless eyes, protruding teeth, and hair the color of a mouse’s pelt. Nevertheless, she was obedient and uncomplaining—for the moment, at least.
    “Yes, my lord,” she replied, with a slight curtsy. Then she took Mariette’s arm and squired her carefully up the stone steps that led to the gallery. Beyond was the great hall.
    Lingering in the courtyard, Dane watched the women out of sight, absorbed in thought.
    Maxen, still mounted on his squat Welsh pony as he bent to claim the reins of Dane’s prized stallion, interrupted. “I do not envy you, my friend,” he said. “To put aside a wife for the love of another is an undertaking fraught with danger.”
    Dane scowled at Maxen, the only man on earth hewould have trusted so unhesitatingly with his temperamental horse. “What,” he asked, “makes an ugly knave like yourself an authority on the fair and fragile sex?”
    Maxen countered Dane’s expression with a placid smile. “Experience,” he answered, reining his mount toward the second bailey, where the stables were. “I’ll see that the stallion is fed and groomed. If you want sympathy later, or balm for scratches and tooth marks, look for me in the tavern.”
    “Scratches and tooth marks, indeed,” Dane muttered, turning his back on the Welshman and starting, with resolve and a certain well-concealed trepidation, for the stone steps. Gloriana would be
happy
to be set at liberty, he promised himself. She was twenty by now, and well past her prime. Such women often welcomed the peace and solace of the convent, where they might read and sew and reflect upon seemly subjects, untroubled by the attentions of a husband.
    The great hall was in a state of chaos—the floor had been cleared of rushes and swept. All around, servants knelt, scouring the ancient stone as though to rid it of some deep-settled stain. Clearly, a celebration was planned, but Dane knew he was not to be the guest of honor—he had not announced his return to Hadleigh Castle, having made the decision to come home in some haste.
    A youthful, arrogant voice echoed from the musicians’ gallery, high overhead, causing Dane to pause in mid-stride and look up.
    “And so the hero has at last bestowed himself upon us. Pray—will you tarry?”
    Resting his hands on his hips, Dane assessed the speaker, a lad of tender years, and recognized Edward by his resemblance to their lost mother. The boy hadbeen a small lad when Dane had seen him last, eager to take up the duties of a squire and forever underfoot. Letting the first comment pass, he addressed his reply to the question. “Yes,” he said, “I mean to restore Kenbrook Hall and live there.”
    Even from that distance, the flush that suffused Edward’s patrician features was clearly visible. “With your wife.”
    “Yes,” Dane said. He would ignore his young brother’s disdain; boys of that age had contentious humors in their blood and were ofttimes testy and sullen.
    “And this mistress you’ve brought home from the Continent? Where shall she be kept?”
    Dane did not reveal his irritation, which was instant and intense. He was damned if he would explain his personal affairs to a stripling calling out impudent questions from a minstrel’s perch. “Go and have a swim in the lake, Edward,” he counseled evenly. “Perhaps the waters will cool your overheated disposition.” With that, Kenbrook dismissed the boy and started for the stairs. Fatigue had settled deep into his bones, like an aching chill, and he required strong ale, food, and an hour of solitude.
    Edward said nothing, but by the time Dane had gained the second floor and found his way to his own chambers, the boy was waiting in the