Praise for Joanna Fulford:
‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages
is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’ The Flame and the Flower. A suspenseful plot, well-developed characters and a passionate romance combine to keep readers engaged from start to finish. The authentic depiction of the historical setting adds to the enjoyment of this short but evenly paced story.’ —RT Book Reviews on THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
‘The sequel to THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
is a well-crafted portrait of the era, combining strong characters with the classic romance elements of a battle-of-wills love story. Fulford’s keen awareness of the time period allows her heroine to be a woman of her time as well as a character who appeals to modern sensibilities.’ —RT Book Reviews on THE VIKING’S TOUCH
Her heartbeat quickened. The courteous greeting was at distinct variance with the boldness of his manner and his present state of undress.
Darting a swift look around her, she became more acutely aware of her present isolation and the remoteness of the stream. If she screamed no one would hear. Besides, it was a mistake to show fear.
Ban saw the dainty chin tilt. Far from being embarrassed or afraid, the look in her eyes was bold—challenging, even. It satisfied him. His gaze travelled downwards, mentally removing the cloth again. When she saw this, the colour rose in her face.
‘How long have you been watching me?’
‘Long enough.’
The blush deepened and the hazel eyes sparkled with anger. ‘How dare you spy on me?’
‘Unforgivable, I know,’ he admitted, ‘but impossible to look away.’
About the Author
JOANNA FULFORD is a compulsive scribbler with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles. Visit Joanna’s website at www.joannafulford.co.uk
Recent titles by the same author:
THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
(part of the Mills & Boon Presents … anthology, featuring talented new authors)
THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS
THE LAIRD’S CAPTIVE WIFE
THE COUNTERFEIT CONDESA
THE VIKING’S TOUCH
THE CAGED COUNTESS
REDEMPTION OF A FALLEN WOMAN
(part of Castonbury Park Regency mini-series)
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
His Lady of
Castlemora
Joanna Fulford
Prologue
Isabelle threaded her way among the trees and came at length to the wall at the far end of the orchard. It afforded a fair view of the wood and the hills above Castlemora, though in truth it was not these she saw. All she could think about was the last interview with her mother-in-law …
‘Had you fulfilled your wifely duty and produced an heir, you would have retained your place among us. As it is, my son’s death removes any requirement for you to remain.’
Isabelle stared at her in stunned disbelief. Alistair Neil’s demise in a hunting accident had been shock enough, but this was beyond everything. ‘But this is my home.’
If she hoped to appeal to Lady Gruoch’s compassion the notion was wide of the mark. The blue eyes regarding her now were cold, the stern face pitiless.
‘Not any longer. A barren wife has only one future open to her: to take the veil and disappear from the world of men.’
Isabelle’s stomach knotted. ‘It is not my fault that I am childless. My late husband must share the responsibility for that.’
The furrows in Gruoch’s brow deepened. ‘How dare you attempt to cover your own failings by besmirching the name of the dead? My son was eager for an heir. I have good reason to know that he never neglected his duty to you.’
Isabelle’s hands clenched at her sides. So they had discussed this behind her back. She could well imagine what spiteful and lying tales her late husband had told to cover his own ineptitude. Mortification vied with anger.
‘Since he was assiduous in undertaking his part,’ Gruoch continued, ‘it is only reasonable to expect that you should have done yours.’
Isabelle bit back the heated reply that leapt to her tongue. Alistair was dead; what use to recount the embarrassed fumbling that had blighted the marriage bed in the early part of their relationship; fumbling that became frustration and, eventually, violence when he took out his failure on her?
Seeing her hesitation Gruoch nodded. ‘I note that you do not deny it. The shame is doubly yours. You were married a year. Any self-respecting wife would have a babe in arms and another in her belly by now.’
‘I wanted that as much as my husband did. How can you doubt it?’
‘It may be so. However, that does not alter the fact of your failure as a woman and as a wife. You will go back to your father and he may dispose of you as he sees fit. If he has any sense he will place you in a convent as soon as possible.’
Isabelle didn’t care to think about her father’s response to this development. Quite apart from the insult, her return would be a burden that he would scarcely welcome. Nevertheless, it would have to be faced. Knowing that further argument was useless, she lifted her chin. ‘In that case I demand that my dowry be returned to me.’
‘You are in no position to make demands. It is our family that has been wronged. We made a bargain in good faith and we were cheated.’
‘This isn’t just.’
‘Do not speak to me of justice.’
The words created the first fluttering of panic. ‘Keep part if you will, but return the rest.’
‘We will keep what is ours.’
Isabelle swallowed hard. With no dowry, and a reputation as a barren woman, she would have no chance of remarriage. Sick with repressed shame and fury she made a last desperate attempt.
‘It is not yours to keep. The Neils have wealth enough; they have no need of more.’
‘Do not presume to tell the Neils what they need.’ Gruoch’s voice grew quieter. ‘You may count yourself fortunate to leave here at all, my girl. There are those at Dunkeld who favoured a quicker and neater end to the embarrassment