Free No Choice but Surrender by Meagan McKinney Page B

I am French. These things are a way of life for a French girl. But for you at least there is such a man! I have heard he is kind and generous —and a true Adonis. What more could one ask for? To be taken in and cared for by one such as he is more than—"
    "No! It is not like that! I am not his mistress! You see, he is holding me . . ." Here, Brienne thought abruptly to herself, her voice trailing off. You see — she recited the speech to herself —be is holding me here against my will for some reason that I do not yet know. And even though he may pay you well and is obviously one of the most virile and handsome men a woman could ever desire, he is really an ogre, and . . .
    She gave a heavy sigh of despair. There would be no point in telling the sweet little Frenchwoman any of this, she knew. Either Vivie would think it a ghastly lie to cover up her role here as Avenel's mistress, or the little maid would believe she was as crazed as Annie did.
    Vivie brought her a tray with her dinner, but Brienne found her appetite diminished by the strange circumstances in which she found herself.
    "Please try to eat something, my lady." Vivie watched over her like a mother on her daughter's wedding night. "It will not be good if you get too thin." The maid gave her a sage look and then went into the dressing room to unpack Brienne's worn and muddied bag.
    Brienne tried some of the roasted tripe but found the heavy red wine more to her liking. Finally she sat back in the settee, which had been moved nearer to the fire with a full wineglass in her small hand. It did not take long for her to become drowsy. All day she had worn herself out with futile planning.
    Thinking back to the morning, she recalled that she had paced furiously in the little stable block room, trying desperately to come up with a means to leave. She had considered using one of the horses as a means of escape, but she'd known she wouldn't get far, since she didn't know how to ride.
    Later that afternoon, she'd tried just walking away, descending the steps to the stableyard and then, bag in hand, sauntering to the back of the house to head due west toward the woodlands. It was not a complete failure; no one had physically tried to stop her from going. But doubts had seized her when the cold winter wind whipped at her petticoat and reddened her cheeks with their sting. Where would she go? She had no money for even the most meager of lodgings; even returning to Tenby would cost her coach fare.
    In that second of indecision she had turned around to look back at the house; its immense brick structure had beckoned her with at least a fireside and some food. Then she had seen him staring at her from the gallery windows that lined the entire back of the house. Avenel's face had had a hard expression on it as he watched her, and his mouth had formed a grim line. Their eyes met, and then she knew exactly why he was merely staring out the window at her and not coming forth into the cold to bring her back. It was not that he had suddenly been taken with a fit of compliance. He had simply known even before she had that she would not go. She was trapped at Osterley, more because of her lack of means than because of locks and threats and giants guarding the gates. She couldn't go anywhere without her comb. He had not doubted that she would come back to get it.
    Scalding tears had burned her raw cheeks. In frustration she had turned from the house so that he would not see her defeat. She'd never been prone to tears and emotion. But then that had been before this man had shown up at Osterley. In one day her very insides had been turned inside out from the wonder, worry, doubt, and fear associated with his arrival.
    All alone in the great field behind the house, she had stood rigidly still. When her tears had passed, with her head held high despite her feelings of hopelessness, she had returned to the stable block room, noting on her way that he had moved from the gallery windows. But