THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER by Blythe Gifford, released TODAY 1 Oct 07 by Harlequin Historicals

Betrothed to a man she must betray.

She is the illegitimate daughter of the dead king, returned to Court, desperate for the King’s favor to save her family. He is determined to stop the new King’s reckless spending on his favorites. But her vulnerable gaze reminds him of someone long ago . . .

Read an excerpt after the cut.

CHAPTER ONE

Windsor Castle, England, Yuletide, 1386

The shameless doxy dragged the rings right off his fingers before the King’s body was cold.

They used to whisper that and then look sideways at her, thinking that a ten-year-old was too young to understand they slandered her mother.

Joan had understood even then. It was all too clear the night the old King died and her mother, his mistress of thirteen years, gathered their two daughters and fled into the darkness.

Now, ten years after her father’s death, Joan stood poised to be announced at the court of a new King. Her mother hoped Joan might find a place at court, even a husband.

Foolish dreams of an aging woman.

Waiting to be announced, she peeked into the Great Hall, surprised she did not look more outdated wearing her mother’s made over dress. It was the men’s garb, colorful and garish, that looked unfamiliar. Decked in blues and reds, gold chains and furs, they looked gaudy as flapping tournament flags.

Except for one.

Standing to the left of the throne turned away from her, he wore a simple, deep blue tunic. She could not see his face fully, but the set of his jaw and the hollow edge of his cheek said one thing: unyielding.

For a moment, she envied that strength. This was a man whose daily bread did not depend on pleasing people.

Hers did. And so did her mother’s and sister’s.

She pulled her gaze away and smoothed her velvet skirt. Please the King she must or there would be no food in the larder by Eastertide.

As the herald entered the Hall to announce her, she heard the rustling skirts of the ladies lining the room. They whispered still.

Here she comes. The harlot’s daughter. No more shame than her mother had.

She lifted her head. It was time.

Amid the whispers, Lady Joan, twenty summers, illegitimate daughter of the late King and his notorious mistress and the most unmarriageable woman in England, stepped forward to be presented to King Richard II.

Lord Justin Lamont avoided Richard’s court whenever possible. He had braved the crowded throne room only because he had urgent news for the Duke of Gloucester.

Last month, Parliament had compelled the reckless young King to accept the oversight of a Council headed by his uncle, Gloucester. Since then, Justin had been enmeshed in the business of government. He was only beginning to uncover the mess young Richard and his intimates had made of the Treasury.

Thrust upon the throne as a boy when his grandfather died, Richard had inherited the old King’s good looks without his strength, judgment, or sense. Instead of spending taxes to fight the French, he’d drained the royal purse with grants for his favorites.

When he demanded more tax money, Parliament had finally balked, installing the Council to gainsay the King’s outrageous spending.

Now, the King had put forth another of his endless lists of favors for his friends, expecting the new Council’s unquestioning approval.

He would not get it.

“Your Grace,” Justin said to Gloucester, “the King has a new list of gifts he wants to announce on Christmas Day. The Council cannot possibly approve this.”

Distracted, the Duke motioned to the door. “Here she comes. The doxy’s daughter.”

Justin gritted his teeth, refusing to turn. The mother’s meddling had near ruined the realm before Parliament had stepped in to save a senile King from his own foolishness. This new King needed no more misguidance. He was getting that aplenty from his current favorites. “What do they call her?”

“Lady Joan of Weston,” Gloucester answered. “Joan the Elder.”

Calling her a Weston was a pleasant fiction, though the old King’s mistress had passed herself off as Sir William’s wife while she bore the King’s children. “The Elder?”

Gloucester smirked. “There were two daughters. Like bitch pups. Call ‘Joan’ and one will come running.”

Wincing at the cruelty, Justin reluctantly turned, with the rest of the court, to see whether the daughter carried the stain of her mother’s sin.

He looked, and then could not look away.

Her mother’s carnality stamped a body that swayed as if it had no bones and her raven hair carried no hint of the old King’s sun-tinged glory. “She looks nothing like him,” he murmured.

Gloucester whispered back. “Maybe the whore simply whelped the children and called them the King’s.”

He shook his head. “She moves like royalty.”

Head high, she stared at a point above the King’s crown, walking as if the crowd adored instead of loathed her.

But then, just for a moment, she glanced around the room. Her eyes, violet, brimming with pain, met his.

They stopped his breath.

Wide-eyed, still looking at him, she did not complete her step. Tangled in her gaze, he forgot to breathe.

Then, she gathered herself, lifted her skirt, and approached the throne.

He shook off her spell and looked around. No one had noticed that her eyes had held his for an eternity.

She dipped before the King, head held high. Justin thought of the lad on the throne as a boy, though at twenty, he had been King for half his life. Yet he still played at kingly ceremony, instead of grappling with the hard work of governing.

“Lower your gaze,” the King said to the woman before him.

A flash of fury stiffened her spine. Then, she bent her neck ever so slightly.

“Kneel.”

She dropped gracefully to her knees as if she had practiced.

Justin took a breath. Then another. Still the King did not say ‘rise.’ A smothered cough in the crowd breached the silence.

Her hands hung quietly at her sides, but her fingers twitched against the folds of her deep red skirt.

He squashed a spark of sympathy. The woman’s glance had been enough to warn him. Her mother had bewitched a King. He would be on guard.

He had been deceived by a woman’s eyes once. Long ago.

Joan had known the King would test her. Kneel. So she did. Her mother had taught her well. Read his needs and satisfy them. That is our only salvation. This one needed deference, that was obvious. She would give him that and whatever else he asked if he would grant them a living from the royal purse.

At least there was one thing he would not ask. The blood of the old King flowed through both their veins. She would not have to please a King as her mother had.

She heard no whispers now. Silent, the court watched as the King left her on her aching knees long enough that she could have said an extra Paternoster for her mother’s sins.

Eyes lowered, she looked toward the edge of the wide-planked floor. The men’s long-toed shoes curled like a finger crooked in invitation. She stiffled a smile. Men and their vanities. Apparently, they thought the longer the toes, the longer the tool.

Yet when her eyes had met those of the hard-edged man at the edge of the crowd, she had nearly stumbled. His severe dress and implacable gaze sliced through the peacocks around the throne sharply as a blade. For that instant, she forgot everything else. Even the King.

A thoughtless mistake. She had no time for emotion. Only for necessity.

Finally, the King’s high-pitched voice called a reprieve. “Lady Joan, daughter of Sir William of Weston, rise and bow.”

With no one’s hand to lean on, she wobbled as she stood. Forcing her shaking knees to support her, she curtseyed, then dared lift her eyes.

Tall, thin, and delicately blond, King Richard perched on the throne overlooking the hall. A golden crown graced his curls. An ermine trimmed cloak shielded him from the drafts. She wondered whether his cheeks were clean-shaven from choice or because the beard had not yet taken hold.

His slope-shouldered wife sat beside him. Her plaited brown hair hung down her back, a strange affectation for a married queen. Of course, Joan’s mother had whispered, after six years of childless marriage, she wondered how much of a wife the Queen was.

“We hope you enjoy this festive time with us, Lady Joan,” she said. Her eyes held a gentleness that was missing from the King’s.

Joan, silent, looked to the King for permission.

He waved his hand. “You may speak.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

He sat straighter and lifted his head. “Address us as Your Majesty.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” She bowed again. A new title, then. “Your Grace” had served the old King, but that was no longer adequate. This King needed more than deference. He needed exaltation.

The Queen’s soft voice soothed like that of a calm mother after a child’s tantrum. “I hope you will not miss Christmas at the Weston Castle too much, Lady Joan.”

She suppressed a laugh. A Weston in name only, she had never even visited the family estate. It was her mother and sister she would be thinking of during the Cristes-messe, but no word of them would be spoken aloud. “Your invitation honors me, Your Majesty.”

Queen Anne said. “Perhaps you might pen a short poem for our entertainment.”

“Poem, Your Majesty?”

“Not in French, only in English. If you feel capable.”

She swallowed the subtle insult. The Queen’s words denigrated not only her mother, but Joan’s ten years spent away from Windsor’s glories. Still, as a daughter of the King, she had been taught both English and French. “Your Majesty, if my humble verse might amuse, I would be honored.”

The King spoke. “Of course you would, Lady . . .what was your name?”

“Joan, Your Majesty.”

He frowned. “I do not like that name. Have you another?”

“Another name, Your Majesty?” Odd, she thought, then she remembered. The King’s mother had been called Joan. And his mother had been a bitter enemy of hers. Of course she could not be called by the name of his beloved mother. “Yes, Your Majesty, I do.” It would not be the Mary or Elizabeth or Catherine he expected. “My mother also calls me Solay.”

“Soleil?” he said, with the French inflection. “The sun?”

“Yes.”

“Why would she give you such a name?”

She hesitated, fearing to speak the truth and unable to think of a way to dissemble. “She said I was the daughter of the sun.”

Whispers ricocheted around the floor. I was the Lady of the Sun once, her mother said. The Sun who was King Edward.

The King dismissed her with a wave. “Your name matters little. You will not be here long.”

Fear twisted her stomach. She must cajole him out of anger and gain time to win his favor.

“Your use of the name honors me,” she said quickly, “as much as the honor of knowing I share the exalted day of your birth under the sign of Capricorn.” She knew no such thing, but no one cared when she had come into the world. Even her mother was not sure of the day.

He sat straighter and peered at her. “You study the stars, Lady Solay?”

She knew little more of the stars than a candle maker, if the truth be told, but if the stars intrigued him, flattery and a few choice phrases should suffice. “Although I am but a student, I hear they say great things of Your Majesty.”

He looked at her sharply. “What do they say?” he said, leaning forward.

What did he want to hear? She must tread carefully. Too much knowledge would be dangerous. “I have never read yours, of course, Your Majesty.” To do so without his consent could have meant death. She thought quickly. The King’s birthday was on the twelfth day of Christmas. That should give her enough time. “However, with your permission, I could present a reading in honor of your birthday.”

“It would take so long?”

She smiled and nodded. “To prepare a reading worthy of a King, oh, yes, Your Majesty.”

The King smiled, settling back into the throne. “A reading for my birthday then.” He turned to the tall, dark-haired man on his right. “Hibernia, see that she has what she needs.”

She released a breath. Now if she could only concoct a reading that would direct him to grant her mother an income for life. “I will do my humble best and be honored to serve Your Majesty in any way.”

A small smile touched his lips. “I imprisoned the last astrologer for predicting ill omens. I shall be interested in what you say.”

She swallowed. This King was not as naïve as he looked.

Done with her, he rose, took the Queen’s hand, and spoke to the Hall. “Come. Let there be caroling before vespers.”

Solay curtseyed, muttering “Thanks to Your Majesty” like a Hail Mary and backed away.

A hand, warm, touched her back.

She turned to see the same brown eyes that had made her stumble.

Up close, they seemed to probe all she needed to hide.

The man was all hardness and power. A perpetual frown furrowed his brow. “Lady Joan, or shall I say Lady Solay?”

She slapped on a smile to hide the trembling of her lips. “A turn in the caroling ring? Of course.”

He did not return her smile. “No. A private word.”

His eyes, large, heavy lidded, turned down at the corners, as if weighed with sorrow.

Or distrust.

“If you wish,” she said, uneasy. As he guided her into the passageway outside the Great Hall, she turned her attention to him, ready to discover who he was, what he wanted, and how she might please him.

God had blessed her with a pleasing visage. Most men were content to bask in the glow of her interest, never asking what she might think or feel.

And if they had asked, she would not have known what to say. She had forgotten.

Yet this man, silent, stared down at her as though he knew her thoughts and despised them. Behind him, the caroler’s call echoed off the rafters of the Great Hall and the singers responded in kind. She smiled, trying to lift his scowl. “It’s a merry group.”

No gentle curve sculpted lips that formed an angry slash in his face. “They sound as if they had forgotten we might have been singing beside the French today.”

She shivered. Only God’s grace had kept the French fleet off their shores this summer. “Perhaps people want to forget the war for awhile.”

“They shouldn’t.” His tone brooked no dissent. “Now tell me, Lady Solay, why have you come to court?”

She touched a finger to her lips, taking time to think. She must not speak without knowing whose ear listened. “Sir, you know who I am, but I do not even know your name. Pray, tell me.”

“Lord Justin Lamont.”

His simple answer told her nothing she needed to know. Was he the King’s man or no? “Are you also a visitor at Court?”

“I serve the Duke of Gloucester.”

She clasped her fingers in front of her so they would not shake. Gloucester had near the power of a king these days. Richard could make few moves without his uncle’s approval, a galling situation for a proud and profligate Plantagenet.

She widened her eyes, tilted her head, and smiled. “How do you serve the Duke?”

“I was trained at the Inns of Court.”

She struggled to keep her smile from crumbling. “A man of the law?” A craven vulture who never kept his word, who would speak for you one day and against you the next, who could take away your possessions, your freedom, your very life.

“You dislike the law, Lady Solay?” A twist of a smile relaxed the harsh edges of his face. For the first time, she noticed a cleft in his chin, the only softness she’d seen in him.

“Wouldn’t you, if it had done to you what it did to my mother?” Shame, shame. Do not let the anger show. It was over and done. She must move on. She must survive.

“It was your mother who did damage to the law.”

His bluntness shocked her. True, her mother had shared the judges’ bench on occasion, but only to insure that the King’s will was done. Most judges could not be trusted to render a verdict without an eye on their pockets.

Solay kept her brow smooth, her eyes wide and her voice low. “My mother served the Queen and then the King faithfully. She was ill-served in the end for her faithful care.”

“She used the law to steal untold wealth. It was the realm that was ill-served.”

Most only whispered their hatred. This man spoke it aloud. She gritted her teeth. “You must have been ill-informed. All her possessions were freely given by the King or purchased with her own funds.”

“Ah! So you are here to get them back.”

She cleared her throat, unsettled that he suspected her plan so soon. “The King honored me with an invitation. I was pleased to accept.”

“Why would he invite you?”

Because my mother begged everyone who would still listen to ask him. “Who can know the mind of a King?”

“Your mother did.”

“A King does as he wills.”

A spark of understanding lit his eyes. “Parliament turned down her last petition for redress so she has sent you to beg money directly from the King.”

“We do not beg for what is rightfully ours.” She lowered her eyes to hide her anger. Parliament had impeached one of the King’s key advisors last fall, then given the five Lords of the Council unwelcome oversight of the King. It was an uneasy time to appear at court. She had no friends and could afford no enemies. “Please, do not let me detain you. My affairs need not be your concern. You must have many friends to see.”

“I’m not sure that anyone has many friends these days, Lady Solay. You asked about my work. Among my duties is to see that the King wastes no more money on flatterers. If you try to entice him into raiding the exchequer on your behalf, your affairs will become my concern.”

The import of his words sank in. She risked angering a man who had power over the very purse strings she needed to loosen.

“I only ask that you deal fairly.” A vain hope. She had given up on justice years ago.

She stepped back, wanting to leave, but he touched her sleeve and moved closer, until she had to tip her head back to see his eyes. He was tall and lean and in the flickering torch fire, his brown hair, carelessly falling from a center part, glimmered with a hint of gold.

And above his head hung a kissing bough.

He looked up and then back at her, his eyes dark. She couldn’t, didn’t want to look away. His scent, cedar and ink, tantalized her.

Let them look. Make them want, her mother had warned her, but never, never want yourself. Yet this breathless ache, surely this was want.

He leaned closer, his lips hovering over hers. All she could think of was his burning eyes and the harsh rise and fall of his chest. She closed her eyes and her lips parted.

“Do you think to sway me as your mother swayed a King, Lady Solay?”

She pushed him away, relieved the corridor was still empty, and forced her lips into a coy smile. “You make me forget myself.”

“Or perhaps I help you remember who you really are.”

Her smile pinched. “Or who you think I am.”

“I know who you are. You are an awkward remnant of a great King’s waning years and glory lost because of a deceitful woman.”

Gall choked her. “You blame my mother for the King’s decline, not caring how hard she worked to keep order when he could not tell sun from moon.”

When he did not know, or care to know, the daughter he had spawned.

“I, Lady Solay, can tell day from night. Your mother’s tricks will not work on me.”

Then I must try some others, she thought, frantic.

What others did she know?

He had made her forget herself. She had been too blunt. Next time, she must use only honeyed words. “I would never try to trick you, Lord Justin. You are too wise to be fooled.”

Muttering a farewell, she turned her back and walked away from this man who lured her into anger she could ill-afford.

Shaken, Justin watched her hips sway as she walked, nay, floated away. He had nearly kissed her. He had barely been able to keep his arms at his side.

He had been taken in once by a woman’s lies. Never again.

Still it had taken every ounce of stubborn strength he could muster not to pull her into his arms and plunder her mouth.

Well, nothing magical in responding to eyes the color of purple clouds at sunset and breasts round and soft. He would not be a man if he did not feel something.

“There you are.” Gloucester was at his elbow. “What possessed you, Lamont, to whisper secrets to the harlot’s daughter?”

Gloucester’s harsh words grated, although Justin had thought near the same. “Such a little difference, between one side of the blanket and another,” he said, turning to look at the duke. “You share a father. You might call her sister.”

Gloucester scowled. “You are ever too outspoken.”

“I’m just not afraid to tell the truth.” But about this, he was. The truth was that he had no idea what possessed him to nearly take her in his arms and he did not want to dwell on the question. “The woman sought to tempt me as her mother did the old King.”

“You looked as if you were about to succumb.”

“I simply warned her that she would not be permitted to play with King Richard’s purse.”

Gloucester snorted with disgust. “My nephew is a sorry excuse for a ruler. The French steal my father’s land and all the boy does is read poetry and wave a little white flag to wipe his nose. As if a sleeve were not good enough.” Gloucester sighed. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

Justin brought his mind back to the King’s list. “He wants to give the Duke of Hibernia more property.”

“And what of my request?”

Justin shook his head.

Gloucester exploded. “First he gives the man a Duke’s title that none but a King’s son has ever held. Then he gives him a coat of arms adorned with crowns. Now he gives him land and leaves me at the mercy of the exchequer? Never!”

“I’ll tell him, Your Grace. Right after vespers.” To Justin had fallen the task of delivering bad news. He was not a man to hide the truth. Even from the King.

But he suspected that Lady Solay was. Nothing about her rang true, including her convenient birth day. As he and Gloucester returned to the hall, Justin wondered whether one of the old King’s servants might remember something of her.

If she believed she was going to tap the King’s dwindling purse with honeyed kisses, she would be sorely disappointed.

He would make sure of that.

CHAPTER TWO

In the hour after sunset, Justin strode toward the King’s chamber, dreading this meeting. The King expected an answer on his list of grants. He wasn’t going to like the one he got.

But Justin would deliver it, and quickly. He had another mission to accomplish before the lighting of the Yule Log.

Entering the solar, Justin saw Richard on his knees, hands clasped. He paused, thinking the King at prayer, but when Richard dropped his pose and waved him in, Justin saw an artist, squinting over his parchment, sketching.

As Justin forced a shallow bow, the artist left the room, handing his drawings to the King.

“Aren’t these magnificent, Lamont?” The man had drawn Richard, kneeling before a group of angels. “The gold of heaven will surround me here and my sainted great-grandfather will stand behind me.”

Only young Richard would call the man a saint. “Your great-grandfather died impaled on a poker for incompetence in government.” And sixty years ago, most had cheered at his death.

The King narrowed his eyes. “He was deposed by ruffians who had no respect for their King. Do you?”

Justin clenched his fingers, his sergeant-at-law ring digging into his fist. “I respect the King who respects his realm and the advice of his barons.”

Years ago, Justin had respected this King. Then, the young boy bravely faced rebellious peasants and promised them justice. That promise, like so many others, had been broken many times over.

Frowning, the King put down the sketches. “It’s abominable, having to go to the Council every time I need the Great Seal. Give me the list.”

“The Council has said no.”

The King, stunned, merely stared at him. Only the crackle of the fire broke the silence.

“Even to Hibernia?” he asked, finally.

“Especially to Hibernia. The man tarries at court with his mistress while his wife waits at home in embarrassment.”

“You go too far!” The King shook his fist. His voice rose to a squeak. “That’s not the Council’s concern. These are my personal gifts, not governmental ones.”

Obviously, the King did not understand the new order. “They affect the Treasury, so they come under the Council’s purview.” There might be a legitimate grant or two on the list, but in the end, he suspected, he would be serving summons to the lot of them. “Until we complete a full review of the household expenses, there will be no new grants.”

“Is this the legal advice you gave the Council?” The King spat “council” as if he hated the very word.

“Parliament made the law, Your Majesty.”

“And by that law a Council can rule a King?”

“For the next year, yes.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “You tell your Council that by Twelfth Night I want the seal affixed to this list. The entire list.” A wicked smile touched his lips. “And add a grant of five pounds for the Weston woman.”

He clenched his jaw. The amount would barely keep a squire for a year, but the woman had done nothing to earn it. The King was simply trying to flaunt his power. “I will convey your message,” he said. “I do not expect them to change their minds, particularly for the woman.”

Barely suppressed fury contorted the King’s face. “Remember, Lamont, according to your precious law, by this time next year, I will be King again.”

The King’s very softness of speech caused him to shiver. This was a man who never forgot wrongs.

Well, that was something they had in common.

As Justin left the room, laughter laced the halls as the court gathered for the lighting of the Yule Log. He did not slow his steps. The Lady Solay had to be stopped. Quickly.

Scolding herself for speaking harshly to Lamont, Solay took her small bag of belongings to the room she was assigned to share with one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, wondering whether the choice was an omen of the King’s favor or a sign that he wanted her watched.

She unpacked quickly as Lady Agnes, small, round, and fair, hovered in the doorway. “Lady Solay, hurry. We mustn’t miss the lighting of the Yule Log.”

Shivering in her outgrown, threadbare cloak, Solay crossed the ward with Lady Agnes, who had not stopped talking since they left the room.

“The Christmas tableaux for His Majesty tomorrow will be so beautiful. I am to play a white deer, His Majesty’s favorite creature.” Agnes had come to England from Bohemia with Queen Anne and still trilled her ‘rs.’ “And for the dinner, the cook is fixing noodles smothered in cheese and cinnamon and saffron. It’s my very favorite.”

Solay’s mouth watered at the thought. Her tongue had not touched such extravagant sweetness in years. As they entered the Hall, Solay looked around the room, relieved when she did not see Lord Justin.

All her life, she had ignored the prejudice of strangers, yet unlike all the others, his condemnation had unearthed her long-banked anger, exposed it to the air where it threatened to burst into flame, stirring her to fight battles long lost.

Worse, he had touched something even more dangerous. Close to this man, she felt want. The unruly emotion threatened the control she needed if she were to control those around her. And her ability to influence others was her family’s only hope.

Lady Agnes left to attend the Queen, who was touching the brand to the kindling beneath the Yule Log. Solay looked for another woman companion, but each one she approached drifted out of reach.

The men were not so reticent. One by one they came to study her face and let their eyes wander her body. Feeling not a speck of desire, she turned the glow of her smile on each one, circling each as the sun did the earth.

She learned, as she smiled, that the King had bestowed a new title, Duke of Hibernia, on his favorite courtier.

The men did not smile as they told her.

“Congratulations, Lady Solay,” Justin’s words came from behind her. “The King has put your name on his list already.”

Only when he heard his voice did she realize she’d been listening for it. Yet surely the excitement she felt was for the news he brought and not for him. “His Majesty is gracious.” She wondered how gracious an amount he’d given.

“The Council is not. It will not be allowed. The Council cares not that you pick a birth date to please the king.”

Her cheeks went cold. “What do you know of my birth?” Few had known or cared when she came onto this earth. The deception had been harmless. Or would be unless the King found out.

“One of the laundresses served your mother twenty years ago. She remembers the night of your birth very clearly. It was the summer solstice and all the castle was awake to hear your mother’s moans.”

She bit her lower lip to hold back a smile of delight. Her birthday. She finally knew her birthday.

But she must cling to the tale she’d told. “She must have mis-remembered. It was many years ago.”

“She was quite sure she was right. And so am I.”

Fear swallowed her reason. If the King were to believe her reading, he must have no doubts about her veracity. “Would you take the word of a laundress over that of a King’s daughter?”

“The laundress has no reason to lie. The King’s daughter apparently does.”

She raised her eyes to Justin’s, forgetting to shield her desperation. “You haven’t told the King?”

“No.”

Relief left her hands shaking. “He need not know.” Surely a few light words and a kiss would cajole this man to silence. She touched his arm and leaned into him, pleading with her eyes. Her lips parted of their own accord. “It was harmless, really. I thought only to flatter him.”

The angry set of his lips did not change as he stepped away. “When next you think to flatter the King, remember that for the next year, the power belongs to the Council.”

Fear smothered her joy. Now that he knew the truth, he held a weapon and could strike whenever he pleased. This man, so able to resist a woman’s persuasion, must want something else.

She had a moment’s regret. She had thought he might be different. “I see. What is it you want for your silence?”

He raised his brows. “Don’t confuse my character with yours, Lady Solay. I do not play favorites.”

“So you will hold your tongue and then call the favor I owe you when it’s needed.”

Seemingly surprised, he studied her face. “Do you trust no one?”

“Myself, Lord Justin. I trust myself.”

“Surely someone has given you something without expecting anything in return?”

Her thoughts drifted to memory. All those courtiers who had fawned over her mother while the King lived disappeared the night he died. All their kindnesses, even to a little girl, had only one purpose—access to his power. “Not that I remember.”

“Then I am sorry for you.”

She saw a trace of sadness in his eyes, and steeled herself against it. “I don’t want your pity. You’ll want something someday, Lord Justin. They all do.”

“You are the one who wants something, Lady Solay. Not I.” He turned his back and left her standing alone in a crowded room.

She shrugged as the next man approached. What Lord Justin said did not matter. His actions would tell the tale.

Justin stomped down the stairs and out into the upper ward, glad to be free of her. The dark, her nearness, went to his head like mulled wine.

He should go to the King immediately with her deception, he thought, rubbing his thumb across the engraved words on his ring. Omnia vincit veritas. Truth conquers all. Just tell the king she had lied and she would be gone.

But all around him, the court was surging across the ward towards the chapel for midnight mass. It was hardly the time to interrupt one’s monarch to say . . . what? That the Lady Solay had lied about her birthday? What lady had not? The King, never too careful of his own word, might either take it as a compliment or as an affront.

Justin’s footsteps slowed. He could imagine the look on Richard’s face. After the King digested the fact, the cunning would creep into his eyes. Then, just as she predicted, the he would hold the knowledge as a weapon, waiting to use it until she was most vulnerable. And despite everything, Justin knew that the Lady Solay was vulnerable. When her violet eyes pleaded with him, they reminded him of another woman’s. A woman so desperate she—.

He blocked the painful memory as he walked by the Round Tower, looming in the center of the castle’s inner ward. There was no need to reveal Solay’s secret tonight. The threat alone would give her pause. Besides, the Council would never approve her grant, so what did it matter?

But as he entered the chapel and bowed before the altar, the knowledge of her lie, and the desperation that caused it, lay in his gut like an undigested meal.

Right next to the admission that for once in his life, he was holding back the truth.

Beside Lady Agnes, Solay walked out of the midnight mass with a stiff neck from craning to watch the King. She knelt when the King knelt, rose when the King rose, following his movements as closely as his shadow.

At least she did until Lord Justin blocked her view. He moved to his own rhythm, never glancing at the King, or at anyone else, except once, when he caught her eyes with an expression that seemed to say “Can’t you even be yourself before God?”

Who was he to judge her? she thought, shivering beneath her thin cloak. He did not know her life.

But he already knew a secret that threatened her. And her clumsy attempt to kiss him had made matters worse.

Everyone wanted something. If she could learn what he wanted, perhaps she could help him get it in exchange for his silence.

Agnes must know something. “Lady Agnes,” she began, “what do you—”

“I need the room to myself tonight,” Lady Agnes whispered back, not looking at her.

Craving the few hours of rest between the Christmas Eve and Christmas Dawn Masses, Solay opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. This was why Agnes had offered to share a room with her. Agnes needed someone to cover for her when she had a rendezvous.

Lady Agnes had chosen wisely. Solay murmured her assent,

As the crowd fanned out across the inner ward toward the residential apartments, she wondered where she might pass the night. Lagging behind the others, she slipped around the Round Tower and over to the twin towered gate her father had built before she was born. Perhaps it would shelter her tonight.

She slipped inside and started up the stairs, but halfway up, she heard a noise in the darkness below. She climbed faster. Another set of footsteps echoed hers.

Who could it be? Even the guards had been given a Christmas respite.

The man was gaining on her.

Holding her skirts out of the way, she tried to run, but he was faster. As the scent of cedar touched her, her heart beat faster, the fear replaced with something even more dangerous.

“Lady Solay, you must be lost.”

She turned, holding back a laugh at the very idea. “I cannot be lost, Lord Justin. I was born here.” The castle had been her play ground when she was near a princess. At the memory, her chest ached with loss long suppressed.

“Born here, yet you can’t seem to remember the day and you don’t know the difference between the gate tower and the residential wing.” He took her arm. “I’ll take you to your room.”

“No!” She pulled her arm free, and turned gingerly on the narrow stair. He was still too close. “Sleep is difficult for me,” she said. That, strangely, was true. She wondered why she had shared it with him.

“So you wander the castle like a specter?”

She grabbed an excuse. “I was going to study the stars to prepare for the King’s reading.” He would not know that a horoscope came from charts and not from the sky.

He moved closer. “Then I will accompany you.”

She released a breath, not caring whether believed her. At least Agnes was safe.

Their steps found the same rhythm as they climbed to the top of the Tower. Cold air rushed into her lungs as they emerged from the dark stairway onto the battlements. After the darkness of the tower, the night, lit by stars, seemed almost bright, although the half-moon shed only enough light to polish the strong curve of his jaw.

He waved his hand toward the sky, a gesture as much of dismissal as of presentation. “So, milady, look out on the stars and make what sense of them you will.”

She looked up and her heart soared, as it always did. How many sleepless nights had she spent trying to discern their secrets? Now, like familiar friends, their patterns kept her company when sleep would not come.

She hugged herself, trying to warm her upper arms. He moved behind her, his broad back cutting the wind, suddenly making her feel sheltered, though his voice turned cold. “Strange method of study. In the dark. Without notes or instruments.”

“I only need to watch them to learn their meaning.”

He snorted. “Then all soldiers should be experts on the stars.” Behind her, he took her by the shoulders, his breath intimate as he whispered in her ear. “Do you know any more of the stars than you do of your birth date?”

She swallowed. Was it his question or his nearness that caused her to tremble? “I know more than most.”

Yet of the stars, like many things, she knew only the surface. By memorizing the list of ascendants in her mother’s Book of Hours, she had gleaned enough to impress most people, but only enough to tantalize herself.

Thankfully, he let her go and leaned against the wall next to her. “You could not know what takes the University men years to learn.”

His dismissal rankled. “I had years.” Years after they left court and her mother was busy with suits and countersuits.

His dark eyes, lost in shadow, gave her no clue to his thoughts. “And did the stars give you the answers you sought?”

His question surprised her. She had studied the Heavens because she had nothing else to do. She had studied hoping they might explain her life and give her hope for the future. “I am still searching for my answers, Lord Justin. Did you find yours in the law?”

He turned away from her question, so silent she could hear the lap of the river out of sight below the walls.

“I was looking for justice,” he said, finally.

“On earth?” She felt a moment’s sympathy for him. How disappointing his life must be. “You’d do better to look to the stars.” The stars surely had given her this time alone with him. She should be speaking of light, charming things that might turn him into an ally. “Let me read yours. When were you born, Lord Justin?”

He frowned. “Do you think your feeble learning can discover the truth about me?”

She touched his unyielding arm with a playful hand. “My learning is good enough for the King.”

Her fingers burned on his sleeve. She swayed toward him.

He picked up her hand. All the heat between them flowed from his fingers and into her core. He held her a moment too long, then dropped her hand away from his arm.

“The King cares more for flattery than truth.” His voice was rough. “I would not believe a word you say.”

She waved her hand in the air, as if she had not wanted to touch him at all. As if his dismissal had not hurt her. “Yet you believe in justice on earth.”

“Of course. That’s what the law is for.”

Was anyone so naive? “And when the judges are wrong? What then?”

“The condemned always claim they’ve been unjustly convicted.”

Fury warmed her blood. Parliament had given her mother no justice. “Even if the judgment is right, is there never forgiveness? Is there never mercy?”

“Those are for God to dispense.”

“Oh, so justice lives on earth, mercy in Heaven, and you happily sit happily in judgment confident that you are never wrong.” She laughed without mirth.

“You believe your mother should be exonerated.”

Surprised he recognized a meaning she had missed, she was silent. Better not to even acknowledge such a hope. Better not to picture her mother back at court and revered for the good she had done. “She was brought back to court before the year was out.” Restored to her position beside the King for his last, painful year.

“Not by Parliament.”

“No, by the King himself. The Commons never had the right to judge her. And neither do you.”

“It is you I judge. You’ve lied about your birth date. I suspect you are lying about why you are not abed. It seems truth means nothing to you.”

“Truth?” He babbled of truth as if it were more valuable than bread. She held her tongue. She had already been too candid. If she angered him further, he would never keep her secret. “Perhaps each of us knows a different truth.”

“There is only one truth, Lady Solay, but should you ever choose to speak it, I would scarce recognize it.” His voice brimmed with disgust.

“You do not recognize it now. My mother was a great helpmate to the King.”

He shook his head. “Even you can’t believe that.” A yawn overtook him. “I’m going to bed. I leave you to your stars and your lies.”

“Someday when I tell you the truth, you will believe it,” she whispered to his fading footsteps.

Shivering and alone under a sky that seemed darker than before, she crossed her arms to keep from reaching for him as he descended the stairs.

Excerpt from THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER
Copyright © 2007 by Blythe Gifford
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. and Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved.
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