She eyed him from under her lashes, her gaze skimming over him from the top of that dark head, down past those arresting blue eyes, past those high cheekbones and well-sculpted mouth, past that strong jaw…Goodness, he was a handsome man. She had only to look at him and her cheeks were on fire!
Impersonating the Princess had flung her deep into uncharted waters. She was utterly out of her depth here in more ways than one. Surely he could sense it? Her hand was shaking so much she was likely to tip wine over her gown. Does he know that I am quaking inside? Does he suspect that I am misleading him?
Will I be safe if he learns the truth?
A new thought caught her by surprise. For the first time in an age, Katerina was not sure she wanted to be safe.
About the Author
CAROL TOWNEND has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers …
Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk
Previous novels by the same author:
THE NOVICE BRIDE AN HONOURABLE ROGUE HIS CAPTIVE LADY RUNAWAY LADY, CONQUERING LORD HER BANISHED LORD
Look for further novels in
Carol Townend’s mini-series
Palace Brides Coming soon
BOUND TO
THE BARBARIAN
Carol Townend
To the Romantic Novelists’ Association
on your 50th Anniversary.
With thanks for so many years of good friends,
lively meetings and writerly support.
May the next 50 years be as golden!
And to my daughter, with all my love
Acknowledgements:
I should like to thank Professor Judith Herrin
for her helpful answers to my questions
on the male and female forms of Greek names,
and on forms of address in medieval Byzantium.
I have used Greek versions of names where possible,
but in a couple of cases I have shortened
the names of real people to avoid confusion.
Chapter One
Ashfirth was unable to keep the shock from his voice. ‘The Princess is in here?’
‘Yes, Commander.’
Shooting a disbelieving glance at his captain, Ashfirth dismounted. He was careful to hide the twinge of pain in his leg. Lord, it felt no better, despite the rest he had given it. The ride from the port on the other side of the salt marshes had not been arduous, but his leg felt as though it was being gnawed by wolves. Surely broken bones mended more quickly than this? Removing his helmet, he hooked it over his saddle bow, surreptitiously easing his aching limb. He wanted his men to think he was fully recovered.
‘What did you say this place was?’ He shoved back his mail coif.
‘It’s a convent, sir.’
It didn’t look much. The dome of the church was barely visible above the convent walls. It was cracked like a broken eggshell and someone had attempted to repair it. A botched job. Weeds had taken root in the rendering.
‘I’ll lay odds that roof leaks,’ Ash said.
Captain Brand grinned and shook his head. ‘Only a fool would take that bet on, Commander.’
Ash made a non-committal sound and completed his survey of the walls and buildings. Why on earth would the Princess take refuge in a minor convent outside Dyrrachion? To the military eye, the walls were also in dire need of repair. One section was little better than a tumble of stone; it was splotchy with yellow lichen and clearly had been that way for some time. Even as Ash looked, a bell tinkled and a brown-and-white goat leaped into view in the opening. The goat stood for a moment on top of the stones, its slanty eyes unearthly in the morning light. Then, the bell at its neck a-jangle, it leaped down and wandered into the scrub. Ash lifted a brow.
What the devil was Princess Theodora doing here? The answer flashed back in an instant. Tucked away at the northern edge of the Empire, this convent was to her mind probably ideal. The woman—Ash eased his leg again, he would strangle her when he finally got his hands on her—most likely thought this was the last place anyone would look.
‘It is the last place,’ Ash murmured, realising with a sense of surprise that he was closer to England, his homeland, than he’d been in years. The thought brought no pain, which was less of a surprise. Ashfirth had long ago come to terms with his new life, but come to terms he had, thank God.
‘Sir?’
‘If the Princess thinks that wall will keep us out, she can think again.’
Brand eyed the low wall and grinned again. ‘Yes, sir.’ The sunlight bounced off the razor-sharp edge of his battle-axe. Brand was a good captain, and an excellent scout. Once they had arrived in Dyrrachion, he had been quick to make contact with someone who had mentioned a nearby convent that offered shelter to ladies from all walks of life.
‘Does this ruin have a name?’
‘St Mary’s.’ Captain Brand cleared his throat, opened his mouth, appeared to think better of it and closed it again.
‘There’s more, isn’t there? Come on, man, out with it.’ Brand was struggling to keep a straight face. Like Ash, Brand was an Anglo-Saxon from England and Ash could read him as he might read a brother, particularly when, as now, they were speaking in English.
‘Yes, sir. St Mary’s is renowned hereabouts.’
‘St Mary’s doesn’t look as though it would be renowned for anything except the wretched state of its masonry.’
‘It takes in women, sir…women who choose to leave the world because they repent of their former way of life.’
Ash raised an eyebrow. ‘The Princess has taken refuge in a convent for fallen women?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The Princess must be desperate.’
‘Sir?’
‘Why else run to Dyrrachion, to a convent for fallen women—she really doesn’t want to marry Duke Nikolaos, does she?’ Briefly, Ash spared a thought for the woman they had tracked to this remote outpost.
‘Why should marriage to the Duke of Larissa be so repellent, sir?’
‘Lord knows.’ Ash had never met Duke Nikolaos, he knew him only by repute. Accounts spoke of a fine soldier, a brilliant commander. A man of honour. ‘The Duke of Larissa’s holding is at the heart of the Empire; he is of the old elite, the military aristocracy. She could hardly hope to do better—her reservations about marrying him are odd, to say the least.’
‘Wasn’t