Free A Flame Run Wild by Christine Monson

far. The way north to the Aquitaine was still farther. How easy it would be to turn the stallion's head north!
    With a sigh, Liliane brought her attention back to the problem at hand. She knew the perimeters of the Brueil demesne, for Jacques had shown her maps. Except for the encroaching Signe fief which bordered perhaps fifteen miles from Castle de Brueil, Alexandre's fief ran northeast in a finger from the sea nearly to the French Alps, east beyond the village of Cannes and west over a day's ride toward the Italian kingdom of the Lombards. Squabbles with the city-states of Italy had many times changed the western border, but the Brueils, who were invariably fighting someone, had always retrieved their own. Scrappers, she judged, and Alexandre de Brueil was the worst!
    During her ride, Liliane tallied up repair costs in her head. Due to Alexandre's absence in Palestine, many of the fields were overgrown, the vineyards were parched and one of the nearby village wells had caved in. He had made a valiant beginning, but all the work would cost a fortune: a generous share of her fortune. Oh, he needed money badly enough. From a practical standpoint his marriage investment would be a good one. The greening land which swept to the seas was lovely and fertile, the forests were thickly timbered and not too much depleted from centuries of wood fires. Most of the serf gardens were plowed for planting. The villagers, like the castellans, were reasonably well fed and not surly from mistreatment, although they were naturally wary of her. They had heard that their master had married a Signe, and like him, they had no love for their predatory neighbors. Anxious to assure herself that Alexandre was a humane ruler, she had greeted them pleasantly and introduced herself. While the serfs were polite, she received few smiles and a good many sober stares. She was sure that the news of her visit would soon reach the castle.
    Indeed the news of her roving reached the castle before she did. Tired and dusty, Liliane went to her chamber with just enough time for a bath before dinner. The maids were disgruntled. All these baths were a bother. The master had acquired the habit of excessive scrubbing in the Bast; must they now lug water for their new mistress, as well? Perhaps when the novelty of her honeymoon wore off, she would be back to a sensible schedule of one or two a year.
    Tossing off her riding clothes, Liliane ignored their muttering as they placed a yellow cloth screen between the copper tub and drafty windows. She was relieved that Alexandre kept sufficient provisions for bathing—she had expected no more man a wooden keg and lye soap. Both the patterns stamped on the tub and the one woven into the screen fabric were Moorish, and the fine soap was scented with sandalwood. He had probably found these things in the Crescent markets. In a castle where she had seen little furniture other than the great hall's carved chairs, benches and truncheon tables, to have such splendid bath equipage was a great luxury. However, she now noted that Alexandre's bed was big and comfortable with a few scattered Eastern pillows. Two Roman-style chairs rested by the fireplace, and a wonderful Damascus rug covered the floor's cold stones.
    In truth, Liliane thought as she settled into the water, the gray stone set off the bright Eastern colors beautifully. The room exuded a sophistication that she had long ago discovered in Andalusia with its wonderful architecture and splendid mosaics. She missed Malaga's pine-softened crags and surf-pounded beaches. She missed the lemon-scented vales and twisted olive trees; the dark-eyed, ivory-skinned people with their flowing Moorish robes and intricate customs. Sniffing Alexandre's lovely soap made her remember the scents of the bazaars and perfumes of veiled women and . . . Dio , she wanted to go home.
    Wishing the serving women would go away, Liliane closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the women had left and