Yorkshire, May 1282, one league from the former Dreyford Castle

“Rumor says that the bottom of a privy is more attractive than Roger’s widow.” Privately, Sir Haven De Sessions wished the widow to the devil, along with the incessant rain.

“No noble woman could be that ugly. I hear the women of Wales are very comely.,” Soames, Haven’s second-in-command, protested.

Haven felt his jaw clench as he thought of the execution he’d witnessed a month ago and his part in it. “If God is just, Genvieve Dreyford’s face will expose every coil and stain in her black soul. ’Tis only right that the true nature of the woman who led my best friend to treason show on her face.”

Soames shook his head. “Do you suppose that is her?” He slanted his head in the direction of six sodden figures huddled some distance from the byway.

Haven followed Soames’s glance. “Possibly. We have come almost a league from the castle. That is the distance the bailiff claimed he had taken the widow and her entourage when the new lord threw her out. But…” He peered through the downpour at the figure that stepped to the front of the pitiful group.

The woman stood tall and straight. Shoulders back, legs braced. She anchored herself, as if by sheer will she could defend the others. A young boy clung to her skirts.

Could this be the suspected traitress who caused the downfall of his best friend, Roger Dreyford? Haven wanted to see her face, to see if she appeared as evil as he believed her to be. Distance and the obscuring rain defeated him.

“But what, sir?”

Soames’s question shook Haven from his musings. “But I doubt a woman like Roger’s widow would stand out in the rain or tolerate such a humble abode.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Of what? That she led Roger to treason? Or that she is proud and greedy as any woman who would wed away from family and country.”

“Either or both. Even before his marriage, Roger was ever looking for adventure. Methinks King Edward believed marriage to a wild Welshwoman would provide enough adventure to keep Roger home and out of trouble.”

“Aye, but the trouble was harmless for the most part.”

“Marriage should settle a man,” Soames commented.

“He told me in his letters how unappealing he found his wife. Such a marriage is not like to settle a man of Roger’s stamp.”

“Odd, Roger never met a woman who didn’t attract him in some way.”

“He claimed he most disliked her incessant praying along with her constant nagging. Her unceasing demands drove him from home.”

“Of course, Roger would never lie,” Soames said dryly.

“We both know he loved to embellish a story,” Haven said, recalling the many nights as squires when only Roger’s tales had relieved the loneliness.

“And never to his disadvantage.”

“Aye.” Haven had to admit to his friend’s failings. Roger had been a charming rogue, never serious, often without two coins to rub together, but always dependable in a fight. What else but a woman could drive a loyal friend to betray their king?

Haven signaled his men. They turned their horses from the muddy track and came to a halt before the group crowding around a fire.

The woman bent, spoke to the child, and sent him to a stout, buxom servant near the small blaze. Then the tall woman resumed her defensive posture.

“Who are you, and what do you here?” Dark and rich, her voice first bit the ear like the smoke in a sultan’s chamber, then licked and soothed with sweet rasping strokes that somehow matched his rising pulse. He felt the tremors of that voice all the way to his groin.

“I asked what you do here?” the woman repeated her challenge.

Haven shook his head free of her siren’s call. “I seek the widow of Roger Dreyford.”

She studied him.

The noisesome smoke from the peat fire made his eyes water. Rain drizzled down his back and off his chin. The jingle of harness and creak of leather issued from his troop as it fanned out around the people on the ground. Bitter resentment toward this woman and his own part in his friend’s death urged Haven to trample her into the mud. But he held still, unwilling to lose control. Despite his feelings, he would keep his vow to Roger and protect his family.

“I am Lady Genvieve Dreyford.”

Did that dusky voice tremble just the slightest bit? Haven looked her over and swallowed the satisfied gasp that tried to escape his throat. Sweet Jesu, she’s hideous.

Purple-black splotches ringed her eyes. Her skin paled to chalk against dark, colorless clothing. Deformity stamped her features. Her face pushed out on one side. Odd streaks hollowed the opposite cheek. A lump decorated her forehead over one eye. As much as her appearance gratified him, something about it bothered him also. It was that lump, he decided.

“Come closer.”

She hesitated but evidently felt that compliance was the better part of valor.

When she stood by his mount’s shoulder, Haven removed one glove and grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. The softness of her skin shocked him. The impulse to stroke her twitched in his hand. Instead, he turned her face up to his.

His eyes widened.

She was far from ugly. He had seen lumps and bruises like those that adorned her face on battle-weary men. Beneath the swelling and discoloration lay a bone structure that Aphrodite would envy. Eyes that blazed green lightning glared out at him from beneath delicately arched brows. God created wide, bow-shaped lips like hers for only one purpose.

Haven ignored the hardness forming below his waist. He glanced downward. Her shapeless, soggy robe hid any hint of her figure. For all he knew her face was her only asset, and someone had done that serious damage.

“What happened to you?” He growled the question, angry with himself that he cared even the tiniest bit about this woman’s pain.

“I was stoned,” she said flatly.