It should be Lothaire come to Owen, but it was Simon. And Lady Maude, who had been so happy to see her long-absent son, had cried last eve when he snapped at her for treating him as if he were still a child.

Her fault, he had said. Had she allowed him to be fostered five years earlier at an age most noble boys left home to begin training for knighthood, he would not suffer the humiliation of being a young man less skilled at weaponry than many far younger than he.

Then he had turned on the lady’s stepson and said it was his fault as well, that when the father they shared had passed, Joseph ought to have known it was too late for his youngest brother to be fostered and seen him trained at home the same as Laura’s betrothed.

Last, he had turned on Laura and demanded to know if her long-haired Lothaire could swing a sword better than he could sling a stone.

She could only stare, and he had muttered that Michael—only Michael—had a care for him, then run from the hall.

This morn as they broke their fast, he had appeared and apologized for behavior he excused as being born of frustration with mastering wrestling at which he often found himself pinned by younger opponents.

Lady Maude had cried again as they embraced, then entreated Joseph to spend the morn on the training field with his brother. With obvious reluctance, the Baron of Owen had agreed.

Now, having missed the nooning meal, Simon entered the kitchen that was vacant except for Laura. Dirty and perspiring, a bruise at his jaw, he halted at the sight of her where she sat on a stool near a cooking fire.

“Laura,” he said with some of the smile of the boy he had been. “What do you here?”

She summoned some of the smile of the girl she had been and closed her psalter. “I am early for my lesson.”

He put his head to the side, causing damp blond hair to shift across his brow. “What lesson?”

“In the workings of a kitchen.” She stood, hooked the psalter on her girdle, and clasped her hands at her waist. “As I shall not be long in wedding”—she watched his eyes for anger distinguishable from the reflection of the cooking fire—“my lessons began in earnest last week. Each day I observe the preparation of a meal in its entirety. This day, ’tis supper in which Cook shall instruct me.

He looked around the room. “It looks to me those preparations are hours away. You must be an eager pupil.”

“I am, but ’tis only an hour ere Cook returns. There is much more than you can imagine that goes into feeding so many. When I have my own household, I shall be prepared.”

“And make your husband proud.”

Again, she watched his eyes, again saw only the flicker of the cooking fire. “I pray so.”

He nodded. “My mother has been very good to you.”

“Like the mother I have not, and for which I am grateful.” She gestured to the table where a dozen cooling loaves sat. “You must be hungry. May I cut you bread and cheese?”

He dipped his head, scratched the back of it. “Actually, what I am is thirsty. As you see, my brother took seriously the task forced upon him.”

“Then I shall pour you ale.” She started toward the sideboard where a pitcher sat.

“Too warm, but wine straight from the cool cellar…” He sighed. “That would quench.”

She hesitated. Though Simon and she had played there whilst children, and in its dark corners witnessed the birth of kittens destined to become rat catchers, she did not like to venture alone into the chill, musty depths. But she supposed she ought to since, on occasion, it would be expected of a lady of the castle.

She indicated the table again. “Sit and rest whilst I fetch cool wine.” She retrieved a torch and crossed to the cellar. As she set a hand on the door, a feeling she should not go down into the dark made her look around.

Simon raised his eyebrows. “You are too kind,” he said and crossed to the table.

She smiled. “I shall not be long, but do eat something.” Carrying the torch before her, she stepped onto the landing and descended the steps.

She had to pass through the room that held the dry stores and traverse a long corridor to reach the place where casks of wine and ale were kept. She fixed the torch in a wall sconce alongside the doorway, retrieved one of several ewers turned upside down on a shelf, and crossed to the nearest wine cask. As she reached to its unsealed lid, a sound turned her head.

Was it the closing of the cellar door? Nay, more likely a cat stalking its next meal. Or the rat trying to avoid becoming that.

Laura pushed at the lid, but it was heavy and she had to set down the ewer to add the strength of her other arm to the effort. The lid yielded, and the torchlight that swept into the opening revealed the cask’s contents were nearly down to the dregs. Knowing she must disturb the wine as little as possible when she dipped into it were Simon not to gag on stirred up sludge, she reached to the ewer at her feet.

“You are so pretty, Laura.”

She spun around, saw he stood with a forearm braced against the doorframe. “Simon! What do you here? I said I would bring you wine.”

He stared.

Something in his eyes causing alarms to sound through her, she forced a smile onto her lips and lightness into her voice. “Mother of Mary, are you really so impatient?”

He straightened. “As told, I am thirsty. Very thirsty.”

She snatched up the ewer. “Then go, silly. I shall be close on your heels.”

He continued forward, and as she closed her other hand around the ewer’s belly and raised it like a shield before her chest, he halted over her.

“Silly.” He turned his mouth down. “Once I was, but I am no longer the boy Mother and you think me. I am a man—like your Lothaire Soames.” He frowned. “I am right in thinking him a man, am I not?”

All of her jangling, she wished herself on the other side of him and gasped when he brushed his fingers down her cheek and across her lips.

“You like him, hmm?”

She unstuck her tongue. “He is a good man, will make a good husband.”

He sighed so heavily his breath moved the hairs on her brow. “You have forgotten something.”

“Have I?”

His hands closed over hers on the ewer. “That you belong to me. You promised.”

She had to clear her throat to regain her voice. “That was years ago, and we are no longer children. Soon you will be a knight and I shall become the wife of Lothaire Soames.”

“Nay, you will be my wife.”

“I am betrothed, Simon.”

“Easily undone.”

“I do not wish it undone. I love Lothaire.”

His nostrils flared, face darkened, then he wrenched the ewer from her and closed his hands over her upper arms. “You kiss him, do you not?”

She braved eyes she no longer knew. “You are frightening me. Pray, cease.”

“Aye, you do.” He slid fingers down her chin, beneath it, pressed them to the tops of her breasts.

“Simon!”

“What else do you with Lothaire Soames?”

She strained backward, came up against the cask. “Let me go!”

“More than kisses, eh?” He gave a short laugh. “Still, methinks not what you shall do with me.” He lowered his head.

She snapped her chin aside and his lips fell to her ear, the heat of his breath making her shudder.

“I vow you will like my kisses and touch better, Laura.”

She strained to the side, but in some ways he truly was a man, her strength no longer rivaling his.

“Bargain with me,” he rasped.

She returned her gaze to his. “What?”

“Let me kiss you, and you kiss me back. If you do not like it, I will let you go and bother you no more. We shall just be…friends.”

Not after this, Laura thought. “You would have me betray my betrothed?”

“He need never know, and ’twill hardly matter, for you will like my kiss. ’Tis me you shall wed, Laura Middleton.”

Perhaps she could wait him out, but what would he do? Strike her? She felt that violence in his hands. And the scream she held in was so forceful she could hardly breathe past it.

“Agreed?” he said.

It was a mistake, but his grip was so hard there seemed no other means of escape. “You promise you will let me go if I allow you to kiss me?”

“If you kiss me back.”

Though her stomach twisted at the thought of his lips where Lothaire’s had been, she said, “I agree.”

The tension in his face eased, and in his seemingly genuine smile she saw her old friend.

He released one of her arms, drew her to the wall, and settled her back against it. “I love you,” he said and tipped up her chin.

With the first touch of his lips, she had to swallow to keep her stomach from emptying itself.

He drew slightly back. “Our agreement is that you return my kiss.”

She leaned up, set her mouth on his, and tried to kiss him as she kissed Lothaire. But even with her eyes closed there was no pretending she was not revolted. And no denying it was wrong.

She dropped onto her heels, shook her head, and staring at Simon’s throat said, “I am sorry, but I do not feel what you wish me to feel. ’Tis the same as…when I kiss Michael’s cheek. Brotherly.”

His hands gripped her hard again, and she looked up. “The bargain struck is completed, Simon. I do not love you as I love Lothaire. I do not want you for a husband as I want him.”

His eyes moistened, lips trembled, and she thought he would cry, but he shook her, causing the back of her head to strike the wall.

“You are hurting me!”

“If you will not love me, I will not love you,” he spat, and once more she saw the boy in him—this time the one who had not liked that she could run faster and swim farther. “Hence, I shall simply desire you.”

Desire. Somehow he made the word Lothaire had also spoken sound foul. But Simon’s intentions were far different. Lothaire had used it to explain why he suddenly ended a kiss that had progressed to an embrace and tested the boundaries of their garments. Simon used it to tell what was to come. And moments later she found herself on the floor.

“Cease, Simon! You cannot—”

“’Tis my right!” She tried to turn from him, but he thrust her onto her back. “Lie still. That is all I require of you.”

She dragged her nails down his cheek, and he slapped her so hard her opposite cheek struck the floor.

“Be still!”

She punched and slapped and writhed, and he cursed and punched and slapped back. And when she lost her breath, his hands were all over her and she heard the tearing of cloth.

Then he howled and collapsed atop her.

Guessing her knee had struck him between the legs, she wriggled out from beneath him, but he kept hold of her—until she bit his hand.

She made it to her knees, sprang upright, stumbled toward the doorway, and stopped when she heard him sob, “Forgive me! I did not mean to do it. You know I did not!”

Leave him to his regret, instinct shrilled, and she meant to run as far as she could get, but her heart that had adored the boy would not allow her to distance herself. Peering over her shoulder, she saw he was on his knees, bowed back convulsing, head hung between his arms.

Thinking it strange only now she felt the true depth of the pain dealt by his blows and how in need of breath she was, she leaned forward and braced her hands on her thighs.

“Why did you do that?” she croaked. “Why, Simon? We grew up together. Were friends. Told our secrets to no others. We—”

“Because you promised,” he said, just above and behind her. Then he had her again, this time facedown, the grit of the floor raking at her face, his calloused palm capturing her scream and undeterred by the teeth she sank into it, even when his blood sprang onto her tongue.

As he did what he did to her, beyond struggling that proved as futile as prayer for the Lord to deliver her, she told herself she was asleep—only dreaming a terrible dream from which she would soon awaken.