Lord of Lyonsbridge Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Ana Seymour

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Copyright

  How could this man kiss her that way?

  How could be make her lose all sense of the world around her, and then simply let her go and step back with nothing more than curt, chiding words? Ellen had overlooked it once, back in the forest, but this time he’d pay for his knavery.

  “You underestimate me, Master Brand. You think I’m powerless to punish you for your offenses.”

  He seemed to wince, but his voice was strong as he answered, “Milady, ‘twas an error, a grievous one. I ask your forgiveness.”

  She’d not expected that, When he’d kissed her in the forest he’d not appeared in the least sorry, nor had he apologized. “I could forgive once…”

  He nodded firmly. “But twice is unpardonable. My only defense is that the first kiss was too pleasurable to leave it at one.”

  Dear Reader,

  Ana Seymour’s new medieval novel, Lord of Lyonsbridge, marks her twelfth Harlequin Historical title! Critics have described her books as “superb,” “heartwarming” and “wonderful,” and Lord of Lyonsbridge follows suit. It’s the charming tale of a spoiled Norman heiress who is sent to her father’s new estate, Lyonsbridge, to set up household. There she falls under the spell of the sinfully handsome Saxon horse master, Connor Brand, and sets tongues wagging!

  And if you enjoy Western romances, we have two very different selections for you. The first, Heart of the Lawman by Linda Castle, proves that love can heal even the deepest wounds when a widow falls for—and forgives—the man who mistakenly put her in jail. And don’t miss Plum Creek Bride by Lynna Banning. Here, a German nanny travels to Oregon to care for a baby girl, and arrives to find a grieving single father whom she teaches to love again.

  Finally, we have The Captive Bride by Susan Spencer Paul, who also writes mainstream historicals as Mary Spencer. This medieval novel features Senet Gaillard, the tortured brother from The Bride Thief, who’ll stop at nothing to reclaim his father’s estate—even marriage!

  Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Lord of Lyonsbridge

  Ana Seymour

  Books by Ana Seymour

  Harlequin Historicals

  The Bandit’s Bride #116

  Angel of the Lake #173 Brides for Sale #238

  Moonrise #290

  Frontier Bride #318

  Gabriel’s Lady #337

  Lucky Bride #350

  Outlaw Wife #377

  Jeb Hunter’s Bride #412

  A Family for Carter Jones #433

  Father for Keeps #458

  Lord of Lyonsbridge #472

  * * *

  ANA SEYMOUR

  has been a fan of English history since her childhood, when she devoured the historical epics of Thomas Costain, Rafael Sabatini and Anya Seton and spent late nights up watching the swashbuckling movies of Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power. She spent a number of years working in the field of journalism, but she never forgot the magic of those tales. Now she is happy to be weaving some of that magic herself through Harlequin Historicals. Ana loves to hear from her readers at P.O. Box 47888, Minneapolis, MN 55447.

  The Lyonsbridge Brands were named in honor of my Brand descendant cousins: Kathy Brodniak, Beverly Killiam, and Brand and John Frentz, who have all said such nice things about my books!

  Chapter One

  England, 1130

  It was a rare day. Around the stable yard a crystalline lace of hoarfrost outlined the trees and fences in white. Connor’s breath showed in puffy clouds as he struggled against the big man in his grasp.

  “I trow, you’ve put on another stone since last sennight, Martin,” he gasped.

  Father Martin, friar of St. John’s, shoved his shoulder against the slighter man, sending them both tumbling to the frozen ground. “’Tis you who’ve grown weak, big brother. Best you lay aside your lute and spend more time with the quarter staff.”

  Connor gave the priest a great heave to roll his considerable bulk off to one side, then sat up. “Not too weak to snatch you up and set you right-side down on your bald pate, Martin, if I were a mind.”

  Father Martin grinned. “Try it,” he challenged.

  Connor returned his baby brother’s smile. “I’ve too much respect for the holy church.”

  The priest snorted. “Now there’s a tale. When was the last time I saw you at vespers, brother? Or in confession?”

  Connor stood easily, offered his hand and pulled his brother upright. “I’ve a reason for avoiding the confessional.”

  “As your spiritual advisor, my son, I’d like to hear it.” Father Martin’s words were solemn, but there was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

  “You’re my brother by blood, Martin, not my father. No church vows can change that.”

  “Well, I’ll hear the reason, for all that. Why’ve you been neglecting the sacraments?”

  Connor brushed at the frost that clung to his leather tunic. “By the saints, Martin. If I gave a true confession, I’d have to sully the reputation of half the maids in Lyonsbridge. Is not chivalry a virtue in the church’s eyes?”

  Connor thought he detected a slight blush on his brother’s round face. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like if he, Connor, had been the third Brand son, destined to give his life to the church, instead of the firstborn. He gave a little shudder. Of course, if the gossips were correct, the vows of celibacy sat lightly on some members of the holy orders. But Connor suspected that his brother, for all his jovial nature, took his vocation seriously.

  As if affirming Connor’s thoughts, Father Martin frowned. “You should be shriven, Connor. The account of your sins would never leave the confessional.”

  Connor shook his head and began walking toward the stable. It was past feeding time. “’Tis safer if the account of my sins never leaves my lips, Martin. Do you have time to help with the animals?”

  Father Martin matched his brother’s long strides, undeterred by his clerical robe. “Aye. Brother Augustine will be giving compline this night.”

  “Mayhap we should resume our wrestling match, then. Let me seek revenge.”

  The priest laughed. “Give it up, brother. ‘Tis small wonder I can best you if the only wrestling you’re doing these days is with the fairer sex.”

  Connor studied his brother. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, making his eyes look bluer. The hair that was left around his tonsured skull was blond, identical to Connor’s own. Before Martin had taken his vows, the brothers had sometimes been thought twins, though they were four years apart
in age. Handsome and strapping, the three Brand sons had begun turning female heads when they were still youths. Their adventures had provoked outrage and awe in nearly equal measure. “Do you not miss it, brother?” Connor asked softly.

  Father Martin hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll leave the maids to you, Connor, and I’ll add you into my prayers each night, since you seem determined to risk your immortal soul.”

  They’d reached the door of the massive Lyonsbridge stable. When the Brands of Lyonsbridge had held dominion over the entire fiefdom, it was widely known that there were no finer horses in all of England. Connor’s father had had requests for Lyonsbridge bloodstock from as far away as Spain, a land that boasted proud stock of its own.

  “If the Lord finds objection in the pleasuring of a man and a maid, then he’s a cruel lord indeed,” Connor objected. “For he’s left us Saxons with little enough joy in our lives.”

  His brother grew solemn. It was true that life had not been easy for the Saxons these past few years. With the Norman king, Henry, firmly established on the throne, the fighting was ending. But the hardships continued.

  “Aye. Times have been hard, and I believe if the man and maid are both willing, the Lord might be willing to overlook a tryst or two outside of the marriage bed.”

  Connor clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Lucky thing for me. But might he not then also overlook one or two outside of your holy vows? Leofric the miller has two daughters that are among the tastiest morsels I’ve set eyes upon. I had a deal of a time choosing the elder. The younger is still ripe for plucking, but I have scruples about two sisters—”

  Father Martin interrupted him with an upheld hand. “I’ll be on my knees until midnight if you continue, brother. I’m asking you humbly to turn your conversation to more noble paths.”

  Connor grimaced. “They’ve made a holy man of you at last, I’m afraid,” he said. “Can I not interest you in at least hearing about the maid’s virtues?”

  “’Tis not of her virtues that you want to speak, brother, so leave it be. Did you not tell me that you’ve work to do aplenty?”

  Connor pushed back the sleeves of his surcoat. “Aye. They’re due on the morrow—our new masters.”

  “Lord Wakelin himself?”

  “Nay, it appears the new Lord of Lyonsbridge is too delicate to face the people whose land he’s usurped. He’s sending a nephew and, I hear, his daughter.”

  “The lady Ellen?” Father Martin asked in surprise.

  “Aye.”

  “Well, now.” The priest looked over at his brother, who had begun to curry a huge black charger named Thunder, one of the stable’s finest. “Are you not curious to see her?”

  Connor shrugged. “I doubt I shall. I hear that Norman maidens bathe in milk, sleep in silk and never let the light of day fall on their lily skin.” He gave the big horse a slap on its polished rump and gestured to his brother. “Are you going to help me or not? That holy life of leisure is padding you with lard.”

  Father Martin picked up a second brush and moved toward Connor, but stayed with the prior topic. “’Tis said the King of France himself wanted her. They sing of her beauty.”

  “Let them sing. I’ll take a robust, blooming English lass any day.”

  “Aye, I wager you would,” Father Martin said with a twisted grin. “But even I find myself curious about whether the lady Ellen does justice to the ballads they sing of her.”

  Connor laughed and gave the priest a gentle shove. “Curious, eh? Ah, brother, mayhap all hope is not lost for you yet.”

  “I knew England would be primitive, but I didn’t realize it would also be colder than the devil’s cellar,” Ellen of Wakelin said with a shiver.

  Sebastian Phippen grimaced at his cousin and hastily made the sign of the cross on his chest. “’Tis no wonder your father has exiled you, Ellen, with the tongue you wield.”

  Ellen sat straighter in her silver-tooled saddle, stretching her weary back. “It’s not exile. Father asked me to come to Lyonsbridge because it wants proper Norman management. He said he’d neglected it for too long.”

  “Which is why he asked me to serve as castellan in his stead,” Sebastian replied smoothly. “I hadn’t expected he’d want me to bring you along.” At Ellen’s scowl, he added hastily, “Though ‘tis always a pleasure to be in your company, fair cousin.”

  “Don’t think I look any more kindly on the task, Sebastian. The sooner we can put some proper order into these estates and return to Normandy, the better.”

  Ellen looked out over the bright green countryside. Here and there it sparkled with frost in the waning sunlight. It was pretty, and she’d probably be enjoying the ride if she hadn’t lost all feeling in her fingers quite some time ago. She hadn’t complained, since it had been at her insistence that they had continued riding, even though it meant they might not reach the castle until dark.

  “We should have found lodging,” Sebastian grumbled, lifting his own hands one at a time to blow on his fingers. He turned around to address one of the six Wakelin men-at-arms who were accompanying them. “How much farther?”

  The man rode toward them, peering ahead and paying little attention as he crowded their big horses on the highway. “Have a care, man,” Sebastian shouted. His horse pranced nervously, but Ellen kept her mount perfectly controlled.

  “These infernal hillocks all look the same,” the guardsman said. “But I think we’re almost there.”

  “I hope you’re right. We’re coming hard on twilight.” Sebastian shot a look of disapproval at his cousin, then asked the guard, “Are there brigands abroad at night?”

  “Not these past five years. Before that, of course, the fighting was fierce. Lyonsbridge was one of the last territories to give over to Norman rule.”

  “Which is precisely why King Henry awarded the grant to Lord Wakelin,” Sebastian told the man with a smug smile. “He knew that he was a warrior who could control the people with a firm hand.”

  The guardsman shrugged. “As I say, milord, there’ve been no problems these years past. Lyonsbridge has been peaceful.”

  Sebastian spurred his horse to move ahead of the soldier. “I intend to be sure it stays that way,” he said.

  Ellen gave the soldier a smile and watched as it elicited the typical male expression of bedazzlement. At past twenty years, she was old to be still a maid, but her conquests numbered more than the old Conquerer himself. Her father had had offers for her hand from the four corners of Europe, though she’d not yet found the man she considered worthy. Her father had indulged her finicky nature, since, as she was his only child, he was, in truth, loath to give her away.

  Lord Wakelin probably would not have suffered her traveling as far from him as England if it hadn’t been for the minor skirmish she’d recently caused between two princes from rival principalities. They’d fought a joust for her favors, even though she hadn’t the slightest intention of granting them to either young man. One of the princes had been gravely wounded.

  The last piece of the sun disappeared behind a copse of trees, and immediately the cold bit harder. Ellen shivered again and tucked her hands up underneath her arms. She had no worry about letting loose the reins. She could trust Jocelyn to keep to the road without guidance.

  “I think I see it ahead,” Sebastian said, pointing.

  Ellen caught her breath. They’d rounded a bend in the road, bringing into view a small castle, the stone washed in scarlet from the fading sun.

  The structure was dominated by two imposing towers, a square one to the left and an octagonal one on the right. The dark towers and the jagged outline of the battlements against the pink sunset made an extraordinary sight.

  “That’s Lyonsbridge Castle?” she asked in awe.

  Sebastian also appeared impressed, but as usual, chose to make his comment with a negative slant. “’Tis not as large as they’d told of it,” he said.

  “’Tis nigh as large as Wakelin,” she argued. “And tw
ice as lovely.” She spurred her horse into a full gallop, leaving her cousin behind her in a cloud of dust.

  “Ellen!” he shouted after her. “Come back here! ‘Tis not seemly—” He broke off as Ellen and her big mare continued up the road, out of earshot.

  “Shall we go after her, milord?” the guardsman asked from behind him.

  Sebastian shook his head. “Nay. We’ll catch up soon enough.”

  “Pardon, milord, but will the vassals know who she is if she arrives in such fashion?” the man persisted.

  “If they don’t,” Sebastian answered with a cold smile, “you can be sure the lady Ellen will make them aware of it in short order.”

  Connor and Father Martin emerged from the stable arm in arm. Though the friar managed frequent visits with his brother at their childhood home, there was always a flicker of sadness at the moment of parting. They couldn’t entirely escape the memories of the carefree days when neither the inexorable encroachment of the Normans nor Martin’s inevitable fate with the church had dimmed their youthful enthusiasm for life. Much had changed.

  “When will I see you again?” Connor asked, taking his hand from his brother’s shoulder.

  Father Martin straightened, once again becoming friar of St. John’s, forbidden by holy decree from unnecessary fleshly contact with a living soul. “Mayhap soon if your Norman visitors send for me to say a Mass for them.”

  Connor frowned. “Will you tell them who you are?”

  “I’m Father Martin, their friar. That’s all they have to know.”

  Connor’s chiseled features hardened. “You won’t mention that their Norman compatriots killed your father and brother and as well as killed your mother?”