Free Dark Champion by Jo Beverley Page B

called her; and yet, stretch her mind as she could, she could see no alternative until the king sent her aid.
    And when the king sent aid, he would almost certainly send it in the form of a husband. Her life was twisting out of her control, and no matter how she tried she wasn’t able to stop the process.
    She lay down on her back with a sigh and pulled the heavy cloak over her. It smelled of wool, horse, and sweat, but also of lavender and sandlewood. It was a strangely comforting blend of aromas, mingling as it did hard work and elegance.
    The only trace of power she had left was to choose a husband before the king made his wishes known. But who should be the man of her choice?
    She began another depressing review of her suitors. They hadn’t improved. The two most favored by her father had been Lord Richard of Yelston, and the Earl of Lancaster.
    The Lord of Yelston was a gruff, no-nonsense man of forty who had already buried two wives. One had died of some wasting disease, and the other of fever, so the deaths could hardly be laid at his door, but it was not a reassuring history. Lord Richard had been favored by her father for his courage and unflinching honor, but even Lord Bernard had been forced to admit that the man’s attitude to women was not kindly. As far as Lord Richard was concerned, women were to be seen and not heard, and their main purpose in life was to breed sons, even though he already had three, one of whom was older than Imogen.
    The Earl of Lancaster was a little younger and a great deal more sophisticated. He was a man of wealth and power, and under the previous king he had been a valued royal adviser. As a suitor he had proved to be a much more congenial companion than Sir Richard. Imogen still had those doubts, however, about his personal courage and competence. She was convinced that he was not, at heart, a strong man.
    She ran through her other suitors without finding better.
    The leaves above her were black against the gray of the cloudy sky. Though it wasn’t cold, there was a dampness in the night air and Imogen pulled the cloak closer, wishing for another, better choice, wishing for her father’s guidance. Perhaps she should let the king choose her husband after all.
    But she did not know Henry Beauclerk, and the thought of being handed over, body and soul, to a stranger terrified her.
    She pulled her mind away from that distant problem to the more immediate. How long would it take de Lisle and the dozen men who’d accompanied him to reach the castle and make their way in? They’d go cautiously, for those in the castle would maintain close watch, and there was a three-quarter moon to light the scene. Mostly the moon was muted by the clouds, but every now and then it would sail out, and clear white light would flood the castle and the open slopes leading up to it.
    She guessed it would take them hours.
    Hours for her to wait with only the occasional soft voices from the soldiers, the scurry of night creatures, and the screech of a hunting owl. Hours during which her recent experience of violence grew larger in her mind until she would almost give up her land and abandon her people not to have more blood shed in her name.
    Then her scurrying mind threw up a fact. She sat up with a jerk. “Oh, Sweet Jesu!”
    FitzRoger heard and came over. “You are sick?”
    “No!” She grabbed the cold metal which covered his arm. “I forgot. How could I have forgotten?”
    He twisted out of her hands and took his own ungentle grip on her shoulders. “Make sense! What did you forget?”
    “The trap!” she gasped, thinking of smiling de Lisle, who would surely be in the lead. “The trap. My father had a trap installed two years ago after he felt knowledge of our secrets had escaped.”
    “What trap?” he asked in a voice like a blade on her heart.
    “A swinging stone. If not stepped on right it tips the person down into an oubliette.” She felt him stiffen. “But that is not all! It triggers