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Besides, there was an air about Athelstan, an unconscious swagger that she found infinitely appealing. At sixteen years old he was the heir to the throne of all England, and no one knew it better than he did.
    She had watched from the hall steps as he rode through the gate, and he had lifted his eyes to hers and snared her in an unsettling blue gaze. She had seen it then, that awareness of just exactly who and what he was. He had worn it like a mantle, and from that instant she had wanted to wrap herself in it.
    One day Athelstan would be the most powerful man in the realm, and her destiny, she was certain, must be bound to his. For two weeks he would be her guest—time enough, surely, to make him desire her, and to convince him that he must have her for his wife.

Chapter Four
    December 31, 1001
    Aldeborne Manor, Northamptonshire
    I t was the seventh night of Christmas feasting, and Athelstan stood with his brothers amid a throng of revelers near the central fire of the great hall at Aldeborne. The bad weather had finally broken, and it appeared that every estate holder in the hundred of Northampton had ventured out of doors to join Lord Wulfheah and his sister Elgiva at table. The timbered hall, its carved rafters garlanded with greens, was redolent with succulent aromas, and the haunches of roasting meat above the coals made his mouth water. The high table at the top of the hall had been laid, as it had been every night since he’d arrived, with a snowy cloth, silver plates, and fat candles. Tonight numerous extra tables had been set up in the hall as well, and the noise from the crush of guests was almost deafening.
    As Athelstan turned to say something to his brothers, the hall quieted, and he saw that Elgiva and Wulf had appeared on the dais to begin the business of formally greeting their guests. They made a striking couple. They were both black-haired and handsome, although Elgiva’s petite figure and small features gave her an elfin grace that was missing from her brother’s taller, warrior’s frame. They were both clad in deep scarlet, and Elgiva’s shimmering gown clung to her in a way that was guaranteed to make every man in the room uncomfortable inside his breecs. Her hair was dressed in loose, wanton curls that framed her face and cascaded down her back, and when her voluptuous lips curved into a beguiling smile, a man would have to be made of stone not to smile back.
    He ought to know. She had been favoring him with that smile—and somewhat more—from the moment he’d ridden through Aldeborne’s gate a week ago. On Christmas night she had welcomed him with the ale bowl that was traditional and a molten kiss that was anything but. It had surprised the hell out of him, but he had not been fool enough to take it seriously. Not at first. She had placed him by her side at the table, though, and the casual grazing of knee and shoulder and hand all through the long meal had nearly driven him mad with a desire that food would not satisfy. By then he had caught on to her little game, and although he’d been playing it for seven nights now, it had lost none of its allure. She aroused him still, and he would find relief again tonight with the pretty blonde he had plucked from the kitchens—a girl who expected no reward beyond a few silver coins.
    And that was the difficulty with Elgiva, he thought, watching her as she made her way through the hall with the brimming ale cup. Bedding her would cost him far more than a little silver. If he got her with child—even without a Christian marriage or a handfasting—it would have political repercussions that would further shift the weight of power in England to the northern lords.
    Elgiva’s brother Wulf had to know that. He was five years older than she was, and he had a place on the king’s council. Since he was making no effort to curb his sister’s little game, he must approve. Did her father know of it? Had he even put her up to it? The ealdorman was not here