Prologue

“Push, Millicent! Push for your new king and country!” Millicent’s glare was like a forge, framed and emphasized

by the sweat coursing her face. “Curse this wretched country,” she spat, the thick accent adding more fire to her words. “And curse the king ten-fold!” She let her head fall back, a groan rolling into a shout as her womb dared to expel that which

the king had planted there. She would deny him if she could, but the urge too mighty to do anything but what the midwife demanded of her.

In another moment, she was free of it, and the wail of the intruder filled her ears, as well as the drafty castle that had been her prison for these long months of isolation.

“’Tis a girl, my lady.”

There was no mistaking the sad edge to her voice that echoed in Millicent’s heart. She would not be a satisfaction. She would but curl the king’s fingers into fists and his lips into a scowl. This was promised to be the end, but nay, now certes, ‘tis just the beginning.

Chapter 1

Thank the heavens the fog was lifting. Sir Hawk Grimwald looked over the tents of his unit that he could finally see clearly. With a peace treaty signed with Usara, war—at least on the northern border of Roan—was at an end, and those tents were coming down. Celebration and laughter rose above the noise of dismantling and loading. Many, like Hawk, had done little other than war for three years.

A horse and rider dared to maneuver through the mayhem, and Hawk strode toward him, a hand raised. “Hold! Now is not the time—”

He held up a sealed missive. “From the King!”

Hawk finished the trek to his side and took it from his hand. “My thanks.” Before opening it, he noticed the open pack on his horse held several more—no doubt one for every unit leader in this valley’s encampment.

He popped the wax seal as the man rode on, and fellow warrior and friend Leoric came to his side. Neither spoke as Hawk read the missive. It began with congratulations, well- wishes, and instructions for their return to Castle Roan for both an Armsmen Parade and a Knight’s Tourney but took an unexpected turn at the end.

At the unconscious lifting of a brow, Leoric could no longer hold his peace. “Please tell that we go not from this war to another.”

Hawk turned his brown eyes on his blond friend, a hint of a smile on his lips. “The king makes a grand gesture to the knights who have served long in this conflict, offering

land, castle, and title to the one who would wed his daughter, Terese.”

Leoric snorted. “The offer made because those already with land, castle, and title will not have her.”

Hawk’s forehead drew lines. “As I recall ere we were drawn into this ‘skirmish’ that was to last no more than a month, a young woman, fine of features with golden hair the envy of all at court. What has changed that she is not already wed?”

Leoric took the missive from his hand to read it for himself. “If you did not spend all your time with the horses, you would have heard what the whole country speaks of—that Princess Terese is a harridan who cares not for men. Indeed, she is called Terese, the Terror of Roan.”

That gave Hawk a moment’s pause, but only a moment. “Certes the lady has yet to meet one to turn her head.”

Leoric chuckled. “If princes, dukes, and barons have yet to turn it, why think you will do so—a battle-scarred knight?”

Hawk thought on his appearance. It was true he now bore scars he’d not had three year’s past, including one on his temple, but still he did not seem to overly offend the fairer sex. He rubbed a hand around his bearded jaw that sported a lighter brown than his hair, then shook off his ponderings as that of a simpleton. “Since she has cast down the attentions of nobility, ‘tis plain she cares not for political games the king plays. The one to turn her head will likely be in accord.”

Leoric followed as Hawk tucked the missive in his belt and gave instructions for loading a nearby wagon. “So you would have me believe that the title sways you not. The land is nothing to you.”

Hawk shook his head. “Only a fool considers not every word of a contract, but no one who holds the land in higher regard than the woman will turn her head.”

“Me thinks the time for head-turning is past. The king will now choose.”

Hawk watched Squire Greige as he worked to collapse the tent they’d shared for nigh on a year, his last squire taking
an arrow in the back. “I believe my work with the horses has given me favor with the king.” He looked around at the chaos of disassembly. “At least as much as any man here.”

Leoric clapped him on the shoulder. “Think on this ere you make a leap you may regret.”

Hawk was nearly offended. “When have you known me to ‘leap’ without thought?”

“Even the most philosophical can be stripped of reason in the presence of a comely face and curves.”

Hawk hefted the trunk containing his armor. “As we have a four-day journey ahead, I will have much time for thought.”

Leoric was hailed by one of the cooks, in a panic over the transportation of foodstuffs, so Hawk turned and carried his trunk to the wagon nearby. Once it was seated securely in the bed, he turned and leaned, crossing his arms. Were the lady averse to him as husband, he would not bind her to him—better no land than shared land with contention within its borders— but until she spoke of such herself, he would continue to believe that all could be well. He pushed off from the wagon

as the rising sun dispelled the last of the fog. And surely the rumors of her bad disposition be exaggerated by those she did not approve.

***

The vase hit the door with such force, there would be only splinters to sweep up. Long ago, valuable treasures had been removed from the receiving rooms, as they had a habit of bursting in the presence of the Princess. Albeit, their demise hurried by her hand and deadly aim when a suitor appeared, lavishing false compliments.

A removal of all ceramics, however, found the furniture in peril, which more angered the king, so she made a bargain with an artesan who no longer disposed of his less-thans but sold them to the Princess to continue her campaign to remain unwed.

The voice that had dripped condescension a few moments earlier now rang through the halls in a fury, no doubt railing about a long journey ending with little reward.

The King had vowed his presence at this ill-conceived meeting with an emissary of Castor, who stood four inches shorter than Terese and several feet wider, but a serious dispute had called her sire away in the middle of what could only be

called a well-flowered, and likely exaggerated, view of the man’s country that was south of Atrinia, bordering Roan in the west.

Ismeria, Terese’s maid, had slipped in, looking stern after the King’s exit, likely told to keep the Princess under control. Terese had listened politely to the one whose overindulgence threatened his seams, her practice of sitting as still as a statue unnerving the man, who mopped his forehead with a cloth more than once during his discourse.

After expounding on Castor’s mining capabilities to what seemed a disinterested audience, finally, he had halted mid- sentence, pawed through his satchel and pulled out an ornate box. He moved to stand in front of her and opened it, revealing a pile of precious gems.

Terese moved naught but her eyeballs, taking in that which was intended to move her to accept a proposal from a nobleman she’d never met in a country not her own.

After the man had turned his gaze to Ismeria, pleading in his eyes, Terese spoke. “These are from your master’s land— your master’s business?”

He breathed out as if in relief. “Aye, Princess. All from the lands of Miguel Serrano, the Duke of Belois in the Valley of Shalamais in the country of Castor.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes at that long title delivered yet again. “And this is the one who wishes my hand joined to his?”

His smile grew. “Aye, Princess. You will want for naught. Though his castle is not as grand as Castle Roan, he—”

“And what of the rumors that your mines are filled with the poor and orphans, digging their lives away to unearth this cache of colorful rocks?” She raised one eyebrow and waited, glad her sire had been called away.

The man’s lips twitched as he closed the box, plainly searching for an answer to please. Before he could find it, Terese continued. “We have heard that though you claim they work their way out of debt, in reality, only do they leave when they are but a corpse adding to the stench below. Is that the right of it?”

His exuberant smile faded. “Princess, rumors only.” At her unyielding expression, he went on. “’Tis. . . ” –he mopped his

head again—“’tis true that some never leave due to their own sloth or thievery, but all are fed. All clothed. All sleep. All—”

Terese rose and looked down her nose at the man. “None receive the coin due them for a life underground. None feel the sun. None breathe fresh air. None—”

“Princess,” he dared to interrupt, “each is brought to the surface. . . periodically,” he sputtered. He reached for another bag. “Castor is also known for its Hickory trees that make the very best. . . ” –he struggled to get the oddly-shaped object out of the bag— “crossbows,” he said, finally freeing it from the cloth. He held it up, beaming with pride. “This one has been made especially for you.”

Terese’s eyes widened as the man handed it to her. It wasn’t the worst gift she’d ever received from a suitor. That prize would go to a stuffed ferret mounted on a golden stand. Her youngest sister Dannyelle had taken that one off her hands a moment before she could throw it on the refuse heap.

The bow was polished to a high shine with intricate carving. “Do arrows come with the gift?”

He reached into the bag still in his hands. “Of course, Princess, although the shorter arrows for a crossbow are called bolts.” He handed over a small handful, looking wary. “I think you will agree that it is more a work of art than something you. . . Perhaps you should not load it now.”

Terese continued setting the bolt in place and nocking it. The man took a hesitant step back as she brought the crossbow up. “Get out,” she said with quiet intensity, “and do not come back.”

“Terese!” Ismeria scolded, but the Princess ignored her, holding the crossbow steady.

“I could never wed one who would allow such ill treatment of those under his care, and I would not move to your foul country were it the last bit of green on earth.”

“Princess,” he pled, hurriedly gathering the box of gems along with the now-empty sack.

Terese fired over his head, lodging a bolt in a ceiling crossbeam near the wall. The man jumped and fled to the door.

The plump Ismeria scurried toward the table holding two vases of flowers, but Terese was faster, dropping the crossbow

to the settee before reaching for the glassware. “Out!” she yelled, holding both and raising one above her head.

The man barely had time to sweep up his satchel and turn tail for the door before one crashed into the wall beside it. Ismeria jumped at the splintering crunch but was not foolish enough to get in the way. “Terese, stop!”

The next hit the door before it fully closed behind the portly man from Castor.

Ismeria sank to a chair with an exhale of air. “That is the last of the last, Terese. Your last chance.”

Terese’s eyes flashed, heavenly thanks frozen on her tongue, before the door flew open with such force, the stonework cracked where it hit the wall.

Terese didn’t have to look to know that the King had returned.

Chapter 2

“Do you wish to cut me in two, you could not do better with a sword!” Terese thundered as her maid, Ismeria, cinched the corset over her chemise.

“It would be faster,” her maid avowed, “but would spoil the carpet that was just refreshed with a good beating this morn.” Ignoring Terese’s obvious plea for less restriction—a plea she made every day—she tied the ends. “Not to mention this fine embroidery. Once you are wed, you can loosen your laces.”

Terese spun, her waves of golden hair flying. “So you say with every sunrise, but as I also say, I do not wish to be wed, Issie, and my sire does me wrong with his most recent, oh so generous, offer.”

Ismeria swept up the gown laid out on her bed. A gown far too precious for an armsmen parade. Ismeria gathered the skirt up and faced her, and though more words were waiting behind Terese’s lips for what was expected of her, she held her arms up to allow the gown onto her body.

After it was tugged into place and laced up the back, she ran a hand over the fitted, embroidered bodice that ended in a point below her naval. Ismeria fluffed out the sheer sapphire fabric that topped the green skirt, and Terese scowled at the long sheer sleeves that trailed nearly to the floor. “I look a peacock.”

Ismeria, whose slightly graying dark hair was plaited and wrapped around the crown of her head, smiled. “Just what the King ordered.”

With her sire’s new proclamation—the one that made her seem but a pesky dog to be included with the

promised demesne for anyone willing to collar that dog into submission—came new knights salivating over land, title, and castle. Her sire was obviously hoping that those coming back from a long war would not know her reputation for cutting a man in half with her tongue or freezing his constitution to the point of snapping with her ice blue eyes.

Ismeria pointed to a chair. “Now sit while I plait your hair.”

Terese placed a hand to her waist. “I doubt I can, so tight you have cinched me.”

“Then remain standing.” She turned her so she could work a plait across the side, leaving much of her hair free from constraint.

The woman seemed as piqued this day as Terese. “Issie, would you have me wed to someone with a lust for power, who only wants me for the land I drag with me?”

She looked out of the corner of her eye to see Ismeria’s expression soften. “Nay,” she confessed, “but ‘tis the way
of the world. You can be happy with it or let it grind that happiness to dust, but you can change it not. Men have lorded over women for centuries, and your mother’s grand ideas of a more equal society only earned her the tower for her final years.”

That brought a deeper scowl to Terese’s face. Her mother had even been denied her children, who the King said would fall victim to her incendiary words and opinions. Too late for me, and Opal, as well, she thought. She lit the fire in us ere she went to the tower.

She let her gaze go to the looking glass as Ismeria moved to her other side. On this day of celebration, the King planned to keep his daughter right by his side, the threat of sending her to the Keepers of the Shrine meant to keep all uncivil words off her tongue. She was to be displayed as though she were a work of art—not a real woman with a beating heart—and woe to anyone caught speaking of her with anything other than the attributes of a saint. He’d made it very clear after her mother passed that he wanted Terese and her invective gone, and he rued the day he’d accepted her mother in a trade with Croy to provide the heir that his queen could not.

Although that heir had come after three girls, all of which had been schooled to despise the country, the kingdom, and the men who ruled it. If it weren’t for a promise in writing, given to the Keeper for safekeeping, he’d probably have sold the lot of them to a passing merchant years ago.

Ironically, if her mother told true, he was trying to rid himself of Terese in similar fashion to those peace talks of long ago. The smooth-tongued King of Croy had offered Terese’s mother, Millicent, as a pre-emptive peace offering—the king unaware that though there would be peace between nations, with the introduction of Millicent to his home, peace would flee that space. After his heir, Cyril, was of an age to no longer need his mother’s skirts to hide behind, she had been moved to a comfortable room in the tower—cared for, but not loved—her voice in the kingdom silenced.

Ismeria interrupted her thoughts as her fingers worked through Terese’s hair. “Not all men are tyrants. Why, think on your beloved Alaric. A kinder soul you could not find among men or women.”

“Aye,” she said, her eyes aflame, “and look what they did to him. Kindness is not rewarded among men.” Friend Alaric had been so “different,” most men said he was not a man at all, and one day bullying among young knights had turned deadly. “I am grateful for my point made, Issie.”

Ismeria huffed, then pursed her lips. “What of Cassian? Had he not died in battle—”

“Aye, the good ones die, leaving us with the war-hardened men of no patience, no kindness, and no desire to think on anything new. War and winning war is all they want. ‘Tis a bloodlust that taints their very bones.” Since Ismeria was now finished with her hair, Terese turned to face her. “And women are mere breeding stock to create more of these war-addled monsters.”

Ismeria’s lips pressed together, as she placed a hand to Terese’s cheek. “I only want your happiness, my dear Terese, and you will not be happy at the Shrine, which is just another type of tower confinement.”

“Aye.” Terese was so angry she had a tremble to her lips when she spoke. “So I will do my duty and marry a war-fouled knight, so my mother’s voice might live through me.”

Ismeria shook her head and backed up. “The King is waiting.”

Since a deep breath was impossible in the corset that threatened to steal all, she lifted her chin and strode toward the door.

***

The flutter of blue-green that settled into the lesser throne at the King’s left hand had Hawk Grimwald squinting from the back of his destrier. “She looks a peacock.”

Leoric put a hand over his eyes to shield the sun. “Aye, and naming her a cock rather than a hen be accurate as well.” Hawk chuckled as their horses moved slowly forward

toward the thrones, brought outside the castle walls for the purpose of honoring the armsmen. “Surely you believe not the tale bearers. Jilted men tell tall tales.”

The blond-headed Leoric looked behind them before leaning toward Hawk. “Her moniker, ‘Terese the Terror,’ was surely not born out of mere stories.” His voice went even lower. “Or that she has vowed to cut the heart out of any man that dares to bed her.”

“A challenge!” Hawk’s smile only grew. “I like her already.”

Leoric only shook his head. “So you plan to put in a bid.”

Hawk turned his brown eyes on Leoric and patted the parchment scroll slid under his belt. “I do.”

Leoric faced forward. “I suppose if the castle is of ample size, you might avoid the harridan, but a title bestowed will demand an heir.” He looked back to his friend. “And that requires proximity,” he understated with a lift of his brows.

Hawk had heard every rumor on their journey home of “The Terror” who scorned men and flayed them alive with her sharp tongue. He also knew that every dog that bites had been bit. Every ill-mannered horse had had an ill-mannered trainer, and he believed that every wrong done could be righted.

The famous red rocks of Roan had been used to build the formidable Roan Castle, contrasting this morn with the green provided by a wet spring. He took in the royal crest in sapphire and gold flying on the many flags posted along the castle walls for the occasion, coordinating with every knight’s tunic.

Each one had fought for a place at the baths a day prior, and barbers were reported to have cramps in their hands after cutting so many heads and shaving so many faces. He preferred a beard but let the barber trim it short to showcase his strong chin and squarish jaw. He’d seen this group at their worst— sometimes wondering at humanity lost—but home tends to the heart shredded by war. Soap and the barber turn beasts back into men.

As they grew closer to the royal family, he realized that there was one way in which the rumors deceived. The Princess wasn’t merely beautiful, she was resplendent. “By the gods, she is one of them,” he muttered, unable to take his eyes off of her, even when they grew close enough to see the cold in her blue eyes.

Terese’s siblings sat the other side of the Queen, stairsteps in height from another golden-haired beauty to a fiery one with freckles to the heir, Cyril, who seemed as if his hair had been washed in the water of the two older and received a color in between.

As they drew near the royal family, Leoric reined his destrier in, letting Hawk go ahead of him. Hawk pulled up
and pivoted his stallion to face the thrones set on a raised platform. As he bowed his head, he tapped his horse’s flank, who lowered his nose toward a lifted bent knee. When he straightened, he was rewarded with smiles from the king and queen, as well as the three birthed of the king’s minor wife, but not a muscle moved on the face of the Princess.

The King, who had turned gray in Hawk’s absence on the battle front, clapped. “Bravo, Sir Hawk! Now that you are returned, eager am I for you to begin training all the King’s horses.” He waved a hand toward the “peacock” at his side. “It has been a long time since you fixed your eyes on Princess Terese.”

Hawk turned what many called a handsome face on the woman, but her expression revealed naught of her mind’s inner workings. With a tap of his heel on his horse’s left, along with a short whistle, his horse side-stepped until he was in front of her. Once again, he inclined his head. “Princess.” He knew better than to compliment her beauty. Such words she had undoubtedly heard since she had begun to bloom. “Would that

we could share words. One in your position has seen much that these eyes have not.”

She gave him barely a noticeable nod, but a tiny twitch of her lip told he had at least given her a new thought on which to chew. After a blink, she looked to Leoric coming up behind
by way of dismissal. Hawk, however, was not finished. He looked down at the golden bowl at her feet, already half-filled with scrolls that would plead the lady’s hand. By her joyless expression, he’d wager she’d killed each one in her imagination who had dared.

Hawk turned his stallion to add his own. “Princess Terese, ‘twould be my honor to ask for your hand.”

Her lips formed a thin line, and not a word passed them.

“Though more follow you, Sir Hawk,” the King interjected, “know that you are certainly a prime contender.” He leaned forward with a knowing look. “The last was given by Sir Orvyn.” A man Hawk recognized to be older than the king himself. “And a man with horses needs land, does he not?”

Though no words came from the Princess, a slow release of air through her nose told all. Hawk gave her a smile. “Land is of no consequence if the lady is not pleased.”

The King chuckled, and even the Queen pulled her lips in, as if halting mirth of her own. Then, as if he realized he was spoiling his own charade, he formed his lips into a serious pose and said, “Of course. Wise words, Sir Hawk.”

Hawk could have stood there all day taking in this sullen beauty, knowing if she smiled, the whole kingdom would bow at her feet, but he had halted the parade long enough. With another nod, he pivoted his horse and took off at a trot to catch up with those ahead.

Leoric, who, not under the spell of the Princess, was by his side again momentarily. “I hope you have considered the cost,” he said grimly.

“Life of any kind has always had, and will always have, a cost. The only question is whether she is willing to pay mine.”

“And what price do you ask her to pay?”

Hawk had thought on this at length. “All I want—indeed, all I need—is for her to give me a chance.”

Leoric laughed. “Well, good luck, my friend. I have heard her throwing arm is exceptional and all pottery in danger for any seeking but a ‘chance.’ ”

Hawk had heard too, but he was also pretty good with a catch.