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think it is too soon for you to make such a decision. Perhaps after your prayers you will be more composed.”
    “’Tis my intention to become a sister of the Gilbertine Order, Lord Blaecston. Oxwich ceased to be my concern five years ago.”
    “Your commitment here is not final, and your duty to Oxwich and your family is clear.”
    “You are wrong in that. I have no duty to Oxwich,” she snapped at his unemotional words. Then she calmed herself. “’Tis true that my vows are not yet taken. But my decision is made.” Once more she smiled at him. “Now, if you will leave me to my prayers.”
    The tension that gripped him was obvious as he towered over her, and she felt a momentary twinge of panic. But then he bowed, a brief perfunctory display of manners.
    “As you would have it, Lady Joanna. However, I would discuss this matter with you once more on the morrow, if you would be so kind.”
    “I shall not change my mind.”
    His gaze narrowed. “Even though Oxwich go to the vilest of the king’s lackeys?”
    “King John and his lackeys are not my concern. Just as Oxwich is not yours,” she answered. Then her hard-won composure slipped and her voice trembled with emotion. “I would not care even should the king level Oxwich Castle to the ground!”
    For another long moment their eyes clashed across the tense span of the little clearing. Then he nodded curtly, turned, and left her to her unhappy prayers.
    A scowl darkened Rylan’s brow when he vaulted over the stonework fence and into the horse pen. He strode toward the small group of war-horses without hesitation, unfazed when most of them shied away, for the one horse he sought did not move. He leaped onto the animal’s back, then with only his knees he began to put the steed through its paces around the inner perimeter of the compound. Over and over they made the rounds, at a trot, at a canter, and at a death-defying gallop, given the moderate size of the pen.
    The lowering sun had touched the horizon and glinted gold off the dark-forested hills to the west before Rylan and his destrier ceased their determined exertions. Though the air was crisp in the breeze off the sea, both man and beast were damp with sweat from their drills. Around and around the irregularly shaped enclosure he walked, leading his horse as he went.
    By the time his destrier had cooled down, Rylan’s mood was much lightened, considering the black temper he’d been in after his discourse with Lady Joanna Preston. That difficult minx had in one easy breath upset his well-laid plan, and in so doing had thought herself finished with the subject. But she sorely underestimated him if she thought he would so easily allow Oxwich—and thereby Yorkshire—to slip into John Lackland’s corrupt hands. The king had cost him his father and two brothers in the wars with France for Normandy. His mother had not survived even a month when the news of the slaughter at Valognes had reached her.
    He had thought he would also die from his wounds. Only his bitterness had sustained him. That and his vow to see England wrested from John’s incompetent hands. Yorkshire at least stood firm now against the king. And his own coming marriage to Lady Marilyn would strike a serious blow to John, for John thought to wed Egbert’s sole heir to his own cousin Robert of Short.
    Yes, everything was coming together. There was no way he would allow this slip of a girl to ruin everything.
    He rubbed his destrier’s velvety muzzle absently as he considered Oxwich’s reluctant heiress. She had been adamant about becoming a nun and forsaking her inheritance, he was convinced of that. He’d thought that after five years in the dreary surrounds of St. Theresa’s she would be eager to leave. Then when she’d laughed so uncontrollably, he’d been sure of it. But her laughter had been hysteria, not delight. She had vowed to stay at the priory and, moreover, had displayed a considerable temper—especially when he’d let his