Claire Delacroix Read Online Free PDF

knowledge more willingly to a farmer than to one of your ilk.”
    He is not insulted, as I might have hoped. He laughs aloud, the rich sound tempting me, among others, to join his merriment. “Do you not imagine that a nobleman could pay a finer price?”
    “Oh, undoubtedly he could, but I doubt that he would do so.” Certain our parlay is done, I walk on.
    He clicks his tongue and the beast strolls after me.
    A crowd of villagers begins to follow us, clearly enjoying our wordplay. Their interest makes me realize that my conquest has become a spectacle. I do not take kindly to being the butt of a jest. The fact of my neighbors’ entertainment steals the pleasure of matching words with this handsome nobleman’.
    And truly, I know what he wants and I know what he will do once he has it.
    “Why would you think as much?” he asks, his low voice making a part of me tingle in a most unwelcome way.
    I have never been shy and my next words prove as much. “Village women are so much chattel to noblemen,” I declare.”They plough our furrows and plant their seed, then abandon the fruit to others.”
    My fellow villagers roar with laughter.
    The nobleman’s lips twitch. “And what man, fair damsel, will win the right to plough your fields? Would you choose him solely for his experience at farming?”
    The crowd jostle around us, all certain that we do not truly speak of fields tilled.
    “Of course not.”
    “No?”
    “It is my suspicion that all men are born with the knowledge of farming, so there is no merit to be found in considerable experience.”
    His smile puts a dimple in his chin. My heart skips a beat, though I try to hide any response from that bright gaze.
    “What then?” His tone is teasing, though his eyes are solemn. “What then are your terms, my lady not-for-you-to-know?” He dares me, but he does not guess that I will rise to his challenge.
    I smile, feeling my pulse quicken at his proximity, even though I know he will not accept my demand. “My virgin fields, of course, shall solely be the right of my rightful husband to furrow.”
    The villagers alternatively gasp and roar, thinking the matter resolved by my audacity. I turn away, certain of that myself.
    But the nobleman seizes my elbow and pulls me to a halt. His gaze burns with unexpected avidity. “Then marry me,” he says and I cannot summon a word to my lips for shock.
    Does he mock me? Certainly, there is a reckless gleam in his eyes.
    “But bed you first, I am certain,” I scoff. “Or take vows before your priest, who will be revealed to not be a priest with morning’s light.”
    I pull my arm from his grip and turn away. “You make a jest at my expense, sir, and I need not linger to hear more of it. Unlike you and your kind, I have labor enough to fill my waking hours.” I march blindly across the market with the unwelcome sense that amusement has been provided at my expense.
    “I make no jest.” He speaks with such volume and resolve that the marketplace falls silent.
    I glance back in surprise.
    He stares fixedly at me, the merry glint in his eyes gone and his smile banished. He is the image of a man resolved, if inexplicably so. There is a majesty about him that draws every eye, that compels every voice to silence. We all stare, knowing we have never seen the like of him.
    And I understand suddenly that such men are different from those I know. This resolve, this commanding presence, is why men follow other men, even to their deaths.
    He holds my gaze for a long moment, then he raises his voice to address all in attendance.
    “My name is Merlyn Lammergeier, newly pronounced Laird of Ravensmuir by my father’s own dictate. I seek a bride to grace my home.”
    “Merlyn,” I whisper, trying his name upon my tongue though I know I should not.
    He turns his horse that he might address all of the rapt crowd, the creature arching its neck as it circles in place with perfect composure. The wind lifts the ends of Merlyn’s cloak