Chapter 1
THE SOUTH OF ENGLAND
August 1502
ELIZABETH CHATWORTH STOOD ON THE VERY EDGE OF THE steep cliff, gazing toward the sea of tall barley grasses. Below her, seemingly tiny men walked with scythes on their shoulders, a few rode horses and one drove a team of oxen.
But Elizabeth didn’t really see the men because her chin was held too high and it was locked into place so rigidly that nothing was going to bring it down. A warm gust of wind tried to force her away from the edge but she braced her legs and refused to move. If what had already happened to her today and now what she faced did not sway her, no mere wind was going to break her stance.
Her green eyes were dry but her throat was swollen shut with a lump of anger and unshed tears. A muscle in her jaw flexed and unflexed as she breathed deeply, trying to control her pounding heart.
Another gust of wind blew her tangled mass of honey blonde hair away from her back and, unbeknownst to Elizabeth, one last pearl disentangled itself and slid down the torn, dirty red silk of her dress. The finery she’d worn to her friend’s wedding was now shredded beyond repair, her hair loose and flowing, her cheek smudged—and her hands were crudely tied behind her back.
Elizabeth lifted her eyes toward heaven, unblinking at the bright daylight. All her life, she’d had her looks referred to as angelic and never had she looked so delicate, so serene, so much like a celestial being as she did now with her heavy hair swirling about her like some silken cloak, her ragged gown giving her the look of a Christian martyr.
But the farthest thoughts from Elizabeth’s mind were ones of sweetness—or of forgiving.
“I will fight to the death,” she murmured skyward, her eyes darkening to the color of an emerald on a moonlit night. “No man will best me. No man will make me submit to his will.”
“Pleadin’ with the Lord, are you?” came the voice of her captor from beside her.
Slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, Elizabeth turned to the man, and the coldness in her eyes made him take a step backward. He was a braggart like the hideous man he served, Pagnell of Waldenham, but this underling was a coward when his master wasn’t present.
John gave a nervous cough, then boldly stepped forward and grabbed Elizabeth’s upper arm. “You may think you’re the great lady but for now I’m your master.”
She looked him squarely in the eyes, showing none of the pain he was causing her—after all she’d had more than enough physical and mental pain in her life. “You will never be anyone’s master,” she said calmly.
For a moment John’s hand released its pressure on her arm, but the next second he pulled her forward and pushed her roughly.
Elizabeth nearly lost balance, but by a supreme concentration she managed to stay upright and began to walk forward.
“Every man is any woman’s master,” John was saying from behind her. “Women like you just haven’t realized it yet. All it’ll take is one good man slamming away on top of you and you’ll learn who’s your master. And from what I hear this Miles Montgomery is the man to give you what you need.”
At the name of Montgomery Elizabeth tripped, falling to her knees.
John’s laugh was disproportionately loud as he acted as if he’d succeeded in some great feat. He stood by, watching insolently as Elizabeth struggled to stand, her feet tangled in her skirt, her bound hands making her awkward.
“Excited about Montgomery, are you?” he taunted as he jerked her to her feet. For a moment he touched her cheek, the soft ivory skin, running a dirty fingertip over her delicate lips. “How can a woman as lovely as you be such a termagant? You and I could be nice to each other and Lord Pagnell would never know. What would it matter who’s first? Montgomery will take your virginity anyway, so what difference does a day or so make?”
Elizabeth gathered the saliva in her mouth and spit it all into his face. It cost her a great deal of pain in her sore body as his hand came out to strike her face, but she ducked expertly and began to run. Her tied hands made speed impossible and John caught her easily, grabbing what was left of her skirt and causing her to fall, face down, on the ground.
“You vicious little slut!” he gasped, turning her over, straddling her. “You’ll pay for that. I’ve tried to be fair with you but you deserve to be beaten.”
Elizabeth’s hands and arms were pinned under her and in spite of all she could do, the pain was causing tears to gather in her eyes. “But you won’t beat me, will you?” she said confidently. “Pagnell would find out what you’d done and he would beat you. Men like you never risk harm to their own precious selves.”
John put his hands on her breasts and his lips on hers, grinding his mouth against hers, but Elizabeth s
howed no emotion whatsoever. In disgust, he moved away from her and angrily walked back toward the horses.
Elizabeth sat up and tried to regain her calm. She was quite good at not showing her inner emotions and now she wanted to save all her strength for the ordeal to come.
Montgomery! The name rang in her head. Of all her fears, of all her terrors in life, the name Montgomery seemed to be the cause of them all. A Montgomery had caused her sister-in-law to lose her beauty and most of her sanity. A Montgomery had caused her older brother’s disgrace and her brother Brian’s disappearance. And indirectly, a Montgomery had caused her own capture.
Elizabeth had been an attendant at a friend’s wedding and by accident she’d overheard an odious man she’d known all her life, Pagnell, planning to turn a pretty little singer over to his corrupt relatives to be tried as a witch. When Elizabeth tried to rescue the girl, Pagnell had caught them and, as a joke, had decided to have Elizabeth delivered to her enemy, a Montgomery. Perhaps things wouldn’t have been so bad if the singer, in a generous but not wholly intelligent gesture, had not given the information that she was somehow connected with a Montgomery.