The Tenth Suitor

by Laura Strickland

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Tenth Suitor

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Praise for Laura Strickland

  “The imagery is beautiful, the world building is phenomenal, and the descriptions…are extraordinary. You will undoubtedly wish you could walk barefoot through her rejuvenating soil for just a moment and feel the connection to the beautiful repertoire of souls she harbors within her midst.”

  ~Daysie W. at My Book Addiction and More

  “Laura Strickland creates a world that not only draws you in, but she incorporates it…seamlessly…. Throw in a love triangle that has you flipping the pages, and you have the kind of book that keeps you awake well into the wee hours, and sighing with satisfaction when you've finished the very last page.”

  ~Nicole McCaffrey, author

  “As I read I became so involved with the story, I found it difficult to put down the book.… Definitely a series and an author to watch.”

  ~Dandelion at Long & Short Reviews, (5 Stars)

  ~*~

  Other Books by Laura Strickland

  DEVIL BLACK

  MRS. CLAUS AND THE VIKING SHIP

  and

  The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy:

  DAUGHTER OF SHERWOOD

  CHAMPION OF SHERWOOD

  LORD OF SHERWOOD

  All are available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The Tenth Suitor

  by

  Laura Strickland

  Twelve Brides of Christmas Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Tenth Suitor

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Laura Strickland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First English Tea Rose Edition, 2014

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-481-7

  Twelve Brides of Christmas Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  North Yorkshire, England, December 1554

  “Ten lords, all vying for my hand in marriage,” Edwina said gloomily to her cousin, Gertrude. “Somehow I thought ’twould be much more exciting.”

  She looked out over her father’s hall from her place at the head table on the dais. Feasting, drinking, and revelry reigned supreme, as they had for the last fortnight, ever since her erstwhile suitors began arriving in answer to her father’s invitations. Each day and evening had been full of noise, merriment, and mayhem. How could mayhem turn so swiftly into boredom?

  “Nine lords, in truth,” Gertrude returned ruefully. “Do not forget one has, as yet, failed to arrive.”

  “How could I forget?” Edwina shrugged, and her thick braid of golden hair slid over one shoulder. “I scarcely know what is worse, these nine empty-headed nobles fawning about the place, or knowing there is one who could not even be bothered to show himself.”

  Her gray-blue eyes narrowed as she watched two of her suitors at the far side of the hall draw their swords and begin sparring together. That kind of thing happened so often it no longer even turned a head. So far, though a bit of blood had been drawn, no one had been slain.

  Unfortunately. It would be nice to reduce the number down to at most eight.

  Gertrude, secure in her own happy marriage last fall and with her first babe safe beneath her kirtle, gave a chiding smile.

  “Why did you agree to all this, if you are so set against it?”

  “I did not agree to all this.” Edwina waved an eloquent hand. “It sounded well enough when Father proposed the idea.” It had, in fact, sounded like something from one of the ancient tales Edwina’s nurse used to spout: the beautiful princess whose suitors must perform impossible tasks in order to win her favor. All of them invariably failed save one, and to him the princess gave her heart.

  Aye, the idea had seemed wonderfully romantic when her father declared he’d sent missives to ten carefully chosen lords from the north riding and beyond. They would come for an extended Christmas feast and demonstrate their worth.

  It had, however, proved anything but romantic. For it soon became evident Edwina’s suitors were eager to win not her favor but her father’s, and along with that his vast and wealthy holding, which would be settled upon Edwina—his only surviving child—upon his death.

  Edwina sighed and propped her chin on one hand. Unlike the princesses in the tales, she was no beauty—too tall, too big-boned, and showing all too clearly her Viking heritage and peasant ancestry. Her father had been a common man, once, who married for love and then set out to gain his wealth by benefit of hard work, diligence, and sharp bargaining. Now, though, he wanted to see his family elevated—through Edwina’s marriage to one of these lords.

  The good God save me.

  “My father has surely lost his senses,” she murmured, and turned her gaze toward her parents, who stood in conversation with one of the lords—she thought he might be called Ronald of Coldwell, but she could well be mistaken. No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember all their names. To be sure, at the start she had tried. She had tucked names and faces into her memory as she met each new arrival. But for the life of her she could no longer keep them straight.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Gertrude as she folded her hands on the mound of her belly.

  Edwina merely shook her head. A full month ago her father had begun planning this entertainment—no expense spared. Edwina suspected he wished, or perhaps needed, to show he possessed wealth to spare and that despite the family’s humble beginnings his daughter made a rich prize. He had brought in cooks from the south, a small herd of troubadours and musicians, a troupe of traveling players, acrobats and jugglers, even a jester. Music played all day and half the night, and the din and confusion of whirling batons and constantly raised voices had given Edwina a permanent headache.

  Yet her father looked so amazingly sane. A big, bluff man, he had been busy quizzing each of Edwina’s suitors with a skill that bespoke his many years of negotiating—precisely, Edwina thought unhappily, the way he might negotiate on the services of a prize bull for his favorite heifer.

  How could Edwina admit even to Gertrude that at the start of this escapade she had hoped for love? She had dreamed of taking a single look at one of these men, falling into his eyes, and never again surfacing. But with each introduction her heart sank a bit further, until it now weighed in her breast like a stone.

  Gertrude leaned closer. “Be of good cheer, cousin. Perhaps the tenth lord will yet show his face, and he will be the one.”

  ****

  “My lady, if you will do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  Edwina gazed into the eye
s of her suitor and tried desperately to recall his name. Edelbert, she thought it was, or possibly Englebert. Edwina could not gaze up into his eyes, for he stood a good measure shorter than she, which made her feel very much like a clumsy ox on the hoof.

  And he had a squint. That, of itself, meant little—Edwina, well aware of her own shortcomings, judged no one solely on appearance. But surely a woman should find something attractive in the man she would one day take to her bed.

  She struggled to smile as Edelbert took her hand. His skin felt hot and sweaty. The musicians struck up a tune, and she curled her toes in anticipation of pain. Her feet had already been stamped on by any number of lords. Everyone wanted to dance with her, so it seemed. Only one or two could actually perform the activity with any measure of grace.

  She blew out a gusty breath and stepped lively, just saving her instep from the stamp of Edelbert’s right foot. At least dancing with him was far and away safer than being paired with Lord Angus, her sole suitor from north of the Scottish border. Edwina turned her head and located the man—a precautionary gesture—as if that might ward off his presence. A wild crop of orange hair and a booming laugh made him easy to find.

  She shuddered slightly. Lord Angus always made her feel as if he might toss her over his shoulder like a pilfered sheep and bear her off to Scotland for leisurely plundering.

  “Sorry,” said Edelbert, having just sidestepped onto her toe. “I fear dancing is not my strongest talent. I assure you I am much more comfortable with a sword in my hand.”

  “Really?” Edwina widened her eyes at him in frank disbelief. She knew all men of his station underwent training at arms, but surely a man as clumsy as this, given a sword, would have long ago decapitated himself.

  “Or hunting,” he asserted, beginning to perspire still more heavily. “I like nothing better than a good chase.”

  “You are in luck, then. My father has planned a hunt for his guests tomorrow morning.”

  “Truly?” He momentarily lost his squint in a look of alarm.

  “Aye, I believe he plans to track the ancient and extremely savage boar living in the woods not far from here.” Her father seemed to have some notion that prowess in the hunt proved something. Edwina thought not; her money was on Lord Angus to throttle the boar with his bare hands. That would not convince her to allow the behemoth between her sheets, however.

  Edelbert gave her a barefaced lie. “I will look forward to that.”

  Edwina wagered he would have some excuse, come morning, for not being able to ride.

  The music mercifully ended, Edelbert bowed himself out of her presence, and Edwina’s mother appeared at her side.

  “Having a good time, dear?” she asked Edwina with a smile even as Edelbert stepped away. She lowered her voice, and her blue eyes swept the room. “Well? See anything you like?”

  Edwina gave her mother an incredulous stare. Marta seemed to have acquired all the happy excitement Edwina lacked. Her round cheeks, so like the ones Edwina had inherited, glowed pink, and her eyes sparkled.

  “Nay,” Edwina managed to say, “not yet.”

  “Well, I am sure you will. Such a lucky girl,” Marta enthused, making Edwina stare harder. “All these men throwing themselves at your feet.”

  And stamping on them.

  Marta put her head close to her daughter’s. “Tell me, which do you find the most handsome?”

  That went without question; were she to judge merely by appearances, Lord Julian of Grimsby must win hands down. In fact when first he arrived, Edwina had become quite interested. But upon being introduced to him she saw how his cold, gray eyes looked through rather than at her. If the man smiled, she suspected his beautiful face would crack.

  She hoped the boar gutted him before Angus throttled it.

  “I can only consider Lord Julian comely,” she said acerbically. “But he would not throw himself at my feet were he afire and I held a pitcher of water in my hands. I do not know why he bothered to come.”

  “Because you are a very great heiress, my love. That makes you as valuable as any jewel.”

  “Which in turn means I am not at leave to choose my own husband?”

  Marta looked shocked. “But you are to choose. What do you think all this is about? Your father and I might have selected one of these fine bucks for you. We might have ordered you to marry and expected you to obey. But we raised you to be a strong woman, and we are determined to let you have your will.” Marta winked. “Just so long as the wedding takes place at Christmas. Can you imagine anything more romantic?”

  Chapter Two

  Just look at them all. Thorstan watched from his place in the shadows and experienced a flash of disgust he sought mightily to conceal. They capered and fawned around her like—well, like fools, and not a drop of sincerity in any of them. It made him long to whip out his sword and challenge them, one by one, for her hand.

  But he was here devoid of sword, and the tactics by which he usually lived his life would not serve in this situation. Why else had he come in disguise?

  Yet he wondered as he stood there amid the clamor and merriment, with the music beating at him like a second heartbeat, had even one of these sorry excuses for suitors truly looked at the lass? Did none of them want her, rather than her father’s lands?

  Aye, he did.

  But to turn it all about, she had not seen him—not yet.

  She stood now speaking to her mother, towering over the older woman. Aye, a fine, tall lass, but full of grace as well, like a Nordic queen. He admired the strength with which she moved, the certainty with which she held herself, and the bold light in those incredible gray-blue eyes. And aye, that golden hair—he ached to see that unbraided and hanging around her, tangled about the both of them as they…

  Steady on, man, he told himself. Do not get ahead of yourself. He had yet to get near the woman, and she would never choose him if she knew who he was.

  Then again, she might. He was willing to bet her mind was her own. In fact, he had already bet on it.

  He thought back to the first time he had seen her out riding with her father, straight and supple as any man on the back of her pony. They had swept by his holding just north of here and never spared so much as a glance for him or the place. Thorstan frowned to himself. His dwelling might be humble, but he had earned every stone of it, along with a hard kind of pride. Even coming here clad in a jester’s suit could not dent that pride. So much did a young man learn after making his own way in the world on the strength of his sword.

  Aye, he had wanted Edwina from that moment he beheld her with the sun in her face and her glorious hair hanging down, tumbled free of her head covering in a wild fall of brightness. He wanted her in his life and in his bed. But a man such as he—self-made, at best—did not present himself at her father’s door with such a request on his lips.

  Yet perhaps he might approach her, unnoticed, amid all this commotion.

  Even upon the thought, another of the worthless lords stepped up to Edwina and requested a dance. This one—a weedy specimen of surely no more than fourteen—looked like he would bend under the weight of a decent sword, or a decent woman. An abomination to think of proud Edwina bedded by that.

  She made some excuse to the stripling and shook her head. Saints be praised, she did not wish to dance with him. She took her seat on the dais where, the other girl so often in her company having stepped away, she was momentarily alone.

  Thorstan adjusted the hat of bells on his head, steeled himself, and scampered forth.

  ****

  “You do not look merry, my lady. Would you like the fool to help you smile?”

  Edwina’s head jerked round as yet another voice spoke near her ear. This one did not belong to a suitor, thank the holy heaven. The jester stood beside her in his preposterous costume and with the ridiculous, jingling hat on his head.

  She relaxed slightly. Surely she did not have to be on guard with this absurd creature.

  “Can you cu
re headache with your nonsense?” she asked.

  “To be sure I can.” Light-footed, he leaped and performed a cartwheel in the air, then landed on his hands. He tapped his shoes, also decorated with bells, three times before flipping upright once more. His hat fell off, revealing a thatch of thick, brown hair not unpleasing to the eye.

  “Very amusing, Sir Fool, but my head still pains me.”

  “All due to the noise and confusion, no doubt.” He leaned closer, and she looked into his eyes. Dancing, bright eyes they were, as brown as his hair. “Fool suggests a dose of fresh night air. You should step outside for a moment.”

  “That sounds like heaven. But I doubt much I will be allowed to slip away on my own.”

  “Not on your own, my lady.” He clapped his hat back on his head and offered his arm. “Only allow Fool to accompany you.”

  “A gallant escort, indeed.” Edwina found herself arising and looping her arm through his. “But I am no lady, not yet. That is the point of this farce.”

  “Farce, lady? How can you say so?” He lifted both brows, which were strongly marked and darker than his hair. “The way I understand it, you have the very finest of noble manhood from which to select a bridegroom.”

  Edwina snorted in a decidedly unladylike fashion and steered their linked steps toward the side doorway that led to the east gate. “You call that manhood?”

  “Do you not, my lady?” They passed through the doorway, and no one called them back. Had their departure even been noticed?

  Edwina quickened her steps, and the jester drew her arm more closely against his side. Oh, highly improper, but at the moment she did not care.

  She nodded to the guard at the gate, and they passed into the chill of the evening and a wash of moonlight. Urging her escort toward the stone wall at their left, she drew a deep draught of air. “You are right, Lord Fool. Much better.”

  “ ‘Lord Fool’?” he questioned, his mouth beside her ear.

  “If you can call me ‘lady,’ I can call you ‘lord.’ ” She turned her head and found her face very near his. Aye, most improper—but such luxury to be with a man taller than she. Too bad he was only a traveling jester.