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      Award-winning author MARGARET MOORE began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed ‘The Red Sheik’. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

      Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com

       Novels by Margaret Moore:

      THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE

      COMFORT AND JOY (in The Christmas Visit) BRIDE OF LOCHBARR LORD OF DUNKEATHE THE VAGABOND KNIGHT (in Yuletide Weddings) THE UNWILLING BRIDE THE DUKE’S DESIRE HERS TO COMMAND HERS TO DESIRE THE DUKE’S DILEMMA MY LORD’S DESIRE

       And as a Mills & Boon® Historical Undone eBook:

      THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS

       In memory ofPatricia Probert and Holly Stemmler

      Chapter One

       England, 1204

      THE IRON RINGS of chain mail jingled as Sir Bayard de Boisbaston raised his right arm to halt his men.

      “Well, Frederic, what do you make of Castle Averette?” he asked his young squire, pointing across the wooded valley.

      Frederic de Sere squinted at the gray stone fortress on the low rise opposite and shifted nervously in his saddle. “Small, isn’t it?”

      “From what we can see, you’d think so,” Bayard agreed, “but not every castle is built in a circle. It could be that the barbican and towers facing the main road are at the narrow end.”

      He gestured at the towers at either side of the gate. “Archers have a clear view of the portcullis and good angles to shoot anybody approaching or getting close to the gate.”

      He’d also noticed that the trees and bushes had been cut back from the sides of the road, leaving a swath of bracken-covered ground between the road and the wood that was at least ten feet wide on either side. No enemies or footpads could ambush travelers before they had time to draw their swords and defend themselves.

      Frederic brushed a lock of light brown hair from his eyes. “Yes, I see, my lord.”

      “On to Averette,” Bayard said as he nudged his horse into a walk.

      Whatever else the late lord of Averette had been—and apparently he’d been a terrible man—he’d also been a man of some intelligence, at least when it came to defense, Bayard reflected as he and his men rode in silence along the river toward what looked to be a prosperous village. They passed a millpond and the mill, its wheel turning with a slow, steady motion. Cattle lowed from a nearby field, a few sheep scattered as they went past a meadow, and they could hear geese honking and chickens clucking in farmyards along the road.

      The village itself was not large, but the buildings were in good repair and the people appeared well fed. A few ragged children, with mongrel dogs yapping at their heels, ran out of an alley between a chandler’s stall and an inn sporting a sign depicting a stag’s head to stare at them, openmouthed. At the inn’s door stood an ample-bosomed wench who eyed Bayard and his men with avaricious calculation. If she thought she’d get any custom from him, however, she was sorely mistaken.

      Around the green, merchants at their stalls, as well as their customers, stopped to watch them go by. So did the group of elderly men seated beneath the large oak by the smithy that belched smoke even on this summer day, and the girls and women standing by the well.

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