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ahead of her if she ever hoped to join her angelic mother in heaven. However, this never stopped her from visiting the stream for what became a naughty ritual, a rite of spring.
    Further exploration with Stryker Bloodaxe had made it clear to her that she was in danger of becoming a wanton. She liked the touch of his fingers on her quinny and the gentle pinch of his lips around one reluctantly bared nipple. She’d even liked watching him handle his cock until it gushed creamy threads of seed, high in the air. But that was only once and as far as they went. This alone was enough to keep her on her knees at prayer for hours, repenting and begging the good Lord’s forgiveness. When she told Stryker that they could never do that again, he left in a rage, calling her a teasing hussy.
    Gudderth’s marriage to his lady wife had consolidated land and wealth, but in his words she was “made of too fine a cloth for everyday wear.” She provided him with children, as was her duty, and that was the last time they shared a marriage bed. Once, sitting up late and playing chess with Elsinora, he’d drunkenly explained to her that men needed swiving far more often than women did, so it was only natural they should hunt as many sources as they could find. It was expected for a man to sow his seed far and wide.
    Elsinora’s view of marriage therefore, was marred by the example of her father’s rampant sexuality. On the other hand, her ideas about men and the act of sex were formed by a fearful, devout mother, who had made her feel guilt for entertaining even the tiniest of lusty thoughts.
    All this considered, the giggling women in the cookhouse only confused her further. Rather than stay to admit this, or let herself feel any curiosity about the Norman and what those women might have seen, she left the cookhouse, her chin high, braid swinging. And who should she see but Dominic Coeur-du-Loup, crossing the yard, his hair still wet from bathing in her stream.
    He glanced her way, acknowledging her presence with a quirk of his lip and a very slight nod, but without pausing his stride. She ran after him, ready to fight. Like a runaway cart downhill, she almost tumbled into him.
    “I see you make yourself at home here already, filthy Norman scum.”
    He came to a halt and looked at her again, blinking solemnly, water dripping from his hair and eyelashes.
    “That stream is mine,” she exclaimed.
    His hair was dark, glossy with water. A definite curl was more evident today, although he’d slicked it back with his hand as she came toward him. The curl was a surprise. And he’d shaved off most of his beard. He looked ten years younger. When her gaze slid downward, the angry mist slowly clearing from her eyes, she realized he wore nothing above the waist. His tunic was slung over one shoulder. More surprises quickly followed as she took in the sight of his well carved chest. A line of dark hair trailed downward, disappearing beneath his breeches, which sat low on his hips. Very low, far enough to reveal the flat stomach and a defined inverted triangle of taut muscle, leading her eye downward. She thought again of what the women had seen that morning in her stream—something that made them blush and giggle like brainless hussies. “It is not for your filthy…” What was she saying?
    “Is your father up yet?” he demanded.
    “No. Why don’t you leave now, before he wakes, and save us all a great deal of—”
    “I wish to speak with him. Tell him so.”
    She drew back. “I am not your servant.”
    “I’m sure he’ll be glad to know I’ve decided to stay. I like this place and it is pleasantly situated. The fields are fertile I see, despite what you tried to tell me yesterday. The only thing disagreeable that I can find is you.”
    “You cannot—”
    “So I’ll stay and protect his manor as he would wish it.”
    “He was—”
    “But I am not certain you will suit me for a wife. I think I will find another woman here who