Blood Price

mustard seed, the Bible, the crucifix-all spread out in plain, ridiculous sight. She snorted gently. "I was hunting a vampire."

    To her surprise, after one incredulous glance down at the contents of her bag, as if he, too, were seeing them for the first time, her captor, the demon-hunter, threw back his head and roared with laughter.

    * * *
    Henry, Duke of Richmond, had felt her speculative gaze on him all through the meal.
    Whenever he glanced her

    way she was staring at him, but every time he tried to actually catch her eye she'd drop her lids and look demurely at her plate, the long sweep of her lashes-lashes so black he was sure they must be tinted-lying against the curve of an alabaster cheek. He thought she smiled once, but that could have been a trick of the light.

    While Sir Thomas, seated to his left, prated on about sheep, he rolled a grape between his fingers and tried to figure out just who the lady could be. She had to be a member of the local nobility invited to Sheriffhuton for the day for surely he would have remembered her if she'd been with the household on the journey north from London. The little bit he could see of her gown was black. Was she a widow, then, or did she wear the color only because she knew how beautifully it became her and was there a husband lurking in the background?

    For the first time in weeks he was glad that Surrey had decided against journeying to Sheriffhuton with him. Women never look at me when he's around.

    There, she smiled. I'm sure of it. He wiped the crushed grape off against his hose and reached for his wine, emptying the delicate Venetian glass in one frantic swallow. He couldn't stand it any longer.

    "Sir Thomas."

    ". . . of course, the best ram for the purpose is. . . . Yes milord?"

    Henry leaned closer to the elderly knight; he didn't want the rest of the table to hear, he got enough teasing as it was. He'd barely managed to live down the ditty his father's fool, Will Sommers, had written about him; Though he may have his sire's face, He cannot keep the royal pace.

    "Sir Thomas, who is that woman seated next to Sir Giles and his lady?"

    "Woman, milord?"

    "Yes, woman." It took an effort, but the young duke kept his voice level and calm. Sir Thomas was a valued retainer, had been a faithful chamberlain at Sheriffhuton all the long years he'd been away in France, and by age alone deserved his respect. "The one in black. Next to Sir Giles and his lady."

    "Ah, next to Sir Giles. . . ." Sir Thomas leaned forward and squinted. The lady in question looked demurely at her plate. "Why that's old Beswick's relic."

    "Beswick?" This beautiful creature had been married to Beswick? Why the baron was Sir Thomas' age at least. Henry couldn't believe it. "But he's old!"

    "He's dead, milord." Sir Thomas snickered. "But he met his maker a happy man, I fancy.
    She's a sweet thing though, and seemed to take the old goat's death hard. Saw little enough of her when he was alive and less now."

    "How long were they married?"

    "Month . . . no, two."

    "And she lives at Beswick Castle?"

    Sir Thomas snorted. "If you can call that moldering ruin a castle, yes, milord."

    "If you can call this heap a castle," Henry waved a hand at the great hall, relatively unchanged since the twelfth century, "you can call anything a castle."

    "This is a royal residence," Sir Thomas protested huffily.

    She did smile. I saw her clearly. She smiled. At me. "And where she dwells, it would be heaven come to earth," Henry murmured dreamily, forgetting for a moment where he was, losing himself in that smile.

    Sir Thomas gave a great guffaw of laughter, choked on a mouthful of ale, and had to be vigorously pounded on the back, attracting the attention Henry had been hoping to avoid.

    "You should be more careful of excitement, good sir knight," chided the Archbishop of York as those who had hurried to the rescue moved back to their places.

    "Not me, your Grace," Sir Thomas told the prelate piously, "it's our good duke who finds his codpiece tied too tightly."

    As he felt his face redden, Henry cursed the Tudor coloring that showed every blush as though he were a maiden and not a man full sixteen summers old.

    Later, when the musicians began to play up in the old minstrel's gallery, Henry walked among his guests, trying, he thought successfully, to hide his ultimate goal. They'd be watching him now and one or two, he knew, reported back to his father.

    As he at last crossed the hall toward