The Notorious Knight. Margaret Moore
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be no mistaking the effect of that security.
Yet according to Armand, the late lord of Averette had been a terrible, vicious, mean man who’d abused his wife and ignored his daughters, except to chastise them for not being sons and threatening to marry them off to increase his wealth and power.
The sense of security he’d felt today must be due to Lady Gillian’s governance. Having seen her dispense justice, he could believe that. She’d listened carefully to the complaints—even the incredibly ridiculous ones—and given everyone her full attention. He was impressed with her decisions that were based not on emotion, as one would expect from a woman, but on the facts and evidence provided and, he suspected, a very deep understanding of the people involved.
Yet the fact still remained that she was a woman and while women certainly had their place, to use her words, governing an estate was not one of them, not even if the woman was intelligent and perceptive and just.
Such a woman should certainly be in charge of a noble household, though, and Lady Gillian would no doubt make some lord an excellent wife. She’d surely be a better mother to her children than his own had ever been.
But then, most women would be a better mother than his own had ever been.
And it wasn’t as if he was in need of such a wife, or any wife at all. He was in no great rush to tie himself down to domesticity and the responsibilities that adhered to it.
There would be time enough to take a wife later and when he did, she would be pretty and pleasant, merry and sweet, amenable and charming, with just a touch of spirit to make life interesting.
She wouldn’t stand before him like an enraged empress, her eyes gleaming, her whole shapely body vibrant, her full lips quivering with emotion.
Why, then, had he felt a nearly overwhelming urge to kiss Lady Gillian d’Averette?
BAYARD FOUND FREDERIC in their chamber polishing his armor and decided, once he had his mail off, that Frederic could do with some practice with a lance. He’d noticed a quintain dummy in the outer bailey, and since the wooden replica of a man with a bag of sand tied to one outstretched arm and a shield on the other wasn’t in use, Frederic might as well take a few passes. Instructing Frederic would occupy his wayward mind, too.
Surely they wouldn’t have to ask permission for that; The practice area was still within the castle walls, after all.
Whether he was supposed to or not, he wouldn’t. He was tired of feeling more like a prisoner here than he had in the Duc d’Ormonde’s castle.
He told Frederic his decision, and the lad’s eager grin stretched from ear to ear. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“It’s not too late in the day?”
“I don’t think so.”
Bayard almost regretted his suggestion as he helped the lad into his hauberk. It was like trying to get clothes on a wiggling fish.
When the lad was finally attired in his armor, surcoat, and swordbelt, and with his shield over his left arm, Bayard said, “Go to the armory and get a tipped lance. I’ll have your horse saddled and waiting in the outer bailey.”
“Yes, my lord,” Frederic said as he proudly—and unnecessarily—straightened his swordbelt.
After Frederic hurried from the chamber, Bayard followed more slowly and permitted himself a chuckle. God’s blood, to be so young and carefree again!
That red-haired serving wench whose name he could never remember passed him on the stairs leading to the yard. She squeezed against the wall, lowering her eyes and blushing as if he were about to make her a lewd offer.
Obviously rumors about his past had reached the household. Lady Gillian had likely heard them, too, although she was acting no worse than she had before. No better, either.
When he reached the stable and his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he spotted the senior groom, a tall, broad older man. “I’d like my squire’s destrier saddled.”
The groom shuffled his feet and didn’t meet his gaze. “Where, um, where might you be off to, my lord?”
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