Brushing her maid’s efforts away, Iliana hurried anxiously to Lord Rolfe’s side as Angus Dunbar headed for the doors of the keep.

“My lords!” Her gaze slid toward her would-be husband. He sat where she had left him, but was turned toward them, obviously listening to the conversation. Beseeching the king’s emissaries, she hissed, “I do not think I can go through with this.”

“Praise the Lord,” Ebba murmured behind her.

Lord Rolfe was a little less moved. Expression blank, he shook his head. “Go through—?”

“Have you not looked about you?” she asked with bewilderment. “How could you expect me to live here? How could you expect me to marry him?” She gestured toward the man seated at the table. “He smells. This whole place smells. They are drunken louts. They reek of spirits. It fair oozes from their very flesh.”

Rolfe took a look about, appearing to notice for the first time the frayed edges that seemed to grace every strip of material in the place, from Duncan’s less-than-pristine clothes to the stained tapestries on the walls. A glance down showed him bones and gristle mixed in with the rushes on the floor, along with several other things she did not care to identify. “Well…aye, ’tis a bit messy,” he agreed slowly.

“Messy? ’Tis a pigsty, and these people are pigs!”

“Mayhap it just needs a woman’s touch, Lady Iliana,” the bishop began, but Iliana was not in a mood to be soothed.

“My dear lord bishop, the touch of ten thousand women could not set this keep to rights. These people are barbarians and I will not stay here. Look at my gown from simply sitting on that bench. ’Tis ruined! ’Tis simply impossible. I will not marry him.”

There was silence for a moment as Lord Rolfe and the bishop exchanged helpless glances, then the younger man sighed. “What of your mother?”

Iliana stiffened. A vivid image of her mother’s bruised and tear-streaked face filled her mind and she sagged unhappily, beaten. She had no choice. She was in dire straits. She needed a strong husband, far from Wildwood, who could keep her safe from her stepfather. ’Twas the only way to free her mother from the troubles that had descended on them with her father’s death.

“Is there no one else?” she asked dismally.

The bishop’s expression was sympathetic. “I fear not, my lady. No one so far north. Besides, the claim has already been made to Greenweld that this contract was arranged by your father ere his death. ’Twas in the letter bearing the king’s seal. We could not claim another betrothal now.”

“No, of course not,” she agreed miserably, then sighed. “I suppose I really have no choice then?”

“I fear not,” Lord Rolfe agreed gently. “The contract was signed by both Lord Dunbar and the king. ’Tis done.”

Chapter Two

“You look lovely.”