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guarded by a retinue of knights bearing rippling pennons adorned with their lord's standard—a magnificent red stag rearing up against a field of gold. She was the one racing toward the arms of the man who had made her his bride. Her heart thudded in time with the horses' hooves as she leaned out the window to embrace the crisp autumn afternoon.
      As they had traveled north, the towering trees of Bedlington Forest had given way to the rolling hills and sharp crags of Northumberland. A hint of snow laced a distant peak.
      "Fig sweetmeat?" Sir Hollis leaned forward to wave the delicacy beneath her nose, as if hoping to tempt her with its rich nutmeg scent.
      She shook her head, tempering her refusal with a polite smile.
      He returned to pawing through the hamper, muttering something that sounded curiously like, "Mount my head in the great hall, won't he?"
      Willow's world tilted as the chariot began to climb a steep and winding hill. She settled back into her seat and drew the hood of her fur-trimmed cloak up over her hair, shivering with a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension.
      All she knew of the mysterious lord who was now her husband was that he was a generous man. As soon as his steward had sent word by one of his men-at-arms that she had agreed to become his bride, he had dispatched not only the chariot and knights, but a wagon bearing two massive chests filled to overflowing with exquisite gowns woven of velvet, sendal, and damask; half a dozen pairs of shoes stitched from the softest beaten doehide; and several vials of precious perfumes and rare spices.
      The sight of all that bounty spilling across the great hall had made Blanche sick with regret, Stefan sick with jealousy, and Beatrix sick with envy. Blanche had bemoaned the fact that she hadn't demanded a higher bride-price, while Stefan sulked and Beatrix fled up the stairs, wailing that Willow had stolen the man who should have been her husband.
      Willow stroked the supple mink tippets trailing from the sleeves of her kirtle, smiling wryly. If not for her husband's extravagance, she would have arrived at his castle with her scant belongings tied up in a rag bundle on the end of a stick. Perhaps he thought her the sort of woman who could be wooed by the caress of silk against her skin or the tantalizing aroma of myrrh. She hoped he would be pleased to discover that her affections could be bought far more cheaply, costing him nothing more than his devotion.
    "Sugar comfit?"
      "No!" Willow said sharply, growing ever more perplexed by the knight's persistence. "I'm not the least bit hungry."
    Her curt refusal made his thick mustache droop with despair. For the first time, Willow caught the brief downward swipe of his lashes and followed it with a questioning glance of her own. The kirtle hung loose on her, almost as if it had been fashioned for a much larger woman. She'd always felt lacking next to her robust siblings. Stefan had oft mocked her for being as skinny as a willow wand and twice as knobby. Perhaps Lord Bannor preferred strapping wenches with ample hips, and breasts as buxom as young Beatrix's were already promising to become.
    The poor child cannot help her looks. Blanche's pitying murmur was so clear that Willow wouldn't have been surprised to find her stepmother perched on top of the chariot like some malevolent harpy.
      Still glaring, she snatched the sweet from the knight's hand and wolfed it down in a single bite. He looked so mollified that she also accepted the fig sweetmeat he timidly proffered. But when he fished the mutton leg out of the hamper and waved it at her, she abruptly lost what little appetite she had.
      Her doubts made her feel like a child tugging at her father's hand once again.
    Will the lady Blanche love me?
    Of course, pet. How could anyone not love Papa's little princess?
      She'd been naive enough to believe such a lie once. If she'd deluded herself again, she would have a lifetime to repent her