Free Catherine Coulter by The Valcourt Heiress Page A

so few days? This could be a disaster.” And he crossed himself, twice.
    Garron nearly jumped a foot off the ground. “Nay, she is not my wife, sir, she merely resides here at Wareham. I am told she is the daughter of Wareham’s priest who was killed. She”—Garron paused a moment—“is smart.”
    Burnell studied the strong young face, the intense blue eyes, the dark red eyebrows. Her skin was as white as the snow he’d seen three winters ago in York before human boots had blackened it.
    “But priests do not wed, Garron.”
    “No, they do not.”
    This girl was a priest’s byblow? So, he was wrong, there was simply no way he could have seen her before. There was nothing in this girl to alarm him. His mind was getting rusty with the years. She was smart? What a thing for a warrior to say. Burnell never looked away from her. “Ah well, these things happen, do they not?” But it gnawed at him. Who did she remind him of?
    “So I have been told, sir, many times.” Merry searched his face, knowing from the way he’d looked at her, that somewhere in the depths of his brain he remembered her.
    Burnell waved at the men behind him. “Our dear king, our bountiful lord, sent these soldiers to protect the mules, Garron, and mayhap his lowly secretary as well. Four of the men are yours if you decide you can use them. The king said you could pay them since his, the king’s, ah, generosity, does not extend that far.” Actually, it was simply a timely accident that had brought Sir Lyle of Clive and his three men to London, so, in truth, the king had done very little, but Lord Garron need not know that. Actually, he had done nothing at all, merely nodded when Burnell told him what should be done. He said now, scrupulously honest as a man could be when he served a king, “It was our gracious queen who had household goods packed for you. As I recall, our king snorted a bit when he counted the number of bundles and the number of mules required to bring you all this bounty, but he allowed it as you served him well for three years. The queen had also just presented him with another royal princess, and that softened him. He, ah, has demanded that you return the mules to him.”
    Garron managed to quash the insane desire to laugh. He’d fallen into despair and now King Edward himself had seen to his salvation, or rather he hadn’t quibbled overly when his queen had seen to his salvation. He doubted such a thing would occur again in his lifetime.
    Burnell introduced him to Sir Lyle of Clive, a younger son born without lands, just as Garron had been until three weeks ago. He was Garron’s senior by at least ten years, dark as a Spanish Moor, hard and lean as the whip he carried in his wide leather belt, its leather-wrapped handle twisted around his sword hilt. His eyes were set close beneath heavy black eyebrows, eyes as black as a sinner’s soul. Why had he thought that?
    Sir Lyle bowed. “I was knighted eight years ago by Lord Alfred of Crecy when I saved his life in battle, but there was naught to go with the title. I was at his side until his death two years ago.
    “Last month I nearly died in a battle fought over a putrid swamp near Kettlethorpe. The mangy baron who hired me then refused to pay me and my men. He had ten soldiers surrounding him so I couldn’t kill him. When I met with the king to air my grievance, he had just heard of your troubles here at Wareham. My men and I are looking for a home, my lord, and the king said you needed men. There are four of us. We fight well and we can work just as well.”
    Garron studied Sir Lyle a moment longer. His life depended on making the right decision about a man’s character. It was odd, but he simply wasn’t certain about Sir Lyle, those black sinner’s eyes of his. Was he honest or was he a villain? At the moment, it didn’t matter. He’d brought three men, strong men by the looks of them, well fed, and that meant more hands to build and repair. He clasped Sir