To that end, she took the message about the earls’ refusal to answer King Edward’s call to her contact in the village under the pretense of purchasing some new fabric for a bridal gown. Avoiding blue—the traditional color of purity for a bride—she found a beautiful ivory brocade with an intricate scroll design in silk gold thread.

It was silly to buy it. It had cost a small fortune and a good portion of her meager savings. There was every chance she would never wear it. Still, she hadn’t been able to resist. One of Margaret’s attendants was a masterful seamstress, and Joan knew she could make her something beautiful at a fraction of the cost of a dressmaker in the village.

She’d stayed in the Hall to discuss it with her after the evening meal and had gotten so caught up in the excitement of all the details, hours had passed before she realized it was getting late.

No doubt Alice would be furious that she hadn’t been there to help her ready for bed—again—but Joan was too happy to care. Nay, not just happy, she was giddy.

Good Lord, she was acting like a besotted young bride-to-be with no other care than a wedding to plan, not a highly valued spy in the enemy camp with the biggest battle in Bruce’s eight-year war just around the corner. But there was no reason she couldn’t do her duty and carve out a few moments of happiness for herself—while she could. Even a wedding that could well be pretend was still fun to think about for a woman who’d never expected to have one at all.

She’d just entered the corridor when the bell rang for compline. She had lingered a long time. It must be half past nine or so. Outside the last vestiges of daylight were fading streaks of gray beneath the cloudy night sky, but inside where light had a hard time penetrating thick stone walls, it had been as dark as night for hours.

The bell from the chapel tower was still reverberating in her ear when she sensed a movement behind her and turned just as someone grabbed her.

“Hello, sweeting,” he said, pulling her against him from behind and breathing down her neck. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Joan froze. Licorice and brandy. Even as her stomach rolled, the sound of Sir Phillip’s voice conjured up the darkest memories of her worst nightmare—one that had been real—and filled her with an icy, mind-numbing terror.

Taking advantage of her shock, he pulled her into the storage room where he must have been waiting for her to pass by.

In one move, he closed the door, spun her around, and pinned her to it with his body.

“That’s better,” he said, wedging himself between her legs. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?”