Captured by the Warrior. Meriel Fuller

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      About the Author

      MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past, and has made her research a special treat.

       Novels by the same author:

      CONQUEST BRIDE

      THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

      THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

      Chapter One

       Shropshire, England 1453

      ‘Sweet Jesu!’ Beatrice Matravers moaned with her usual peevishness, raising a quaking white hand to her high, unlined forehead. ‘This infernal bumping will be the death of me!’ As if acknowledging her curse, the cart lurched violently, causing Beatrice to reel against the padded interior. There she stayed, supported by the side of the cart, her eyes shuttered, her mouth twisted into a forbidding expression of grim dissatisfaction. Her maid, Joan, lolled at her side, deep in a comfortable sleep.

      ‘Take heart, Mother, try to rest.’ Alice Matravers leaned forwards, smiling, patting her mother’s knee by way of encouragement. The elaborate gold embroidery decorating Beatrice’s gown rasped against her fingertips. Alice sat back, raising one small hand to part the thick velvet curtains that covered the opening, trying to establish their location. Stifled by the warm, tense atmosphere of the cramped interior, she pushed her face out beyond the curtain, relishing the fresh morning air on her skin. Outside the day was clear, bright; the beech trees, dressed in their gaudy autumn colours, towered up and over the narrow track that ran through the forest, their trunks smooth boles of dark grey wood.

      A thin trail of annoyance threaded Alice’s veins, the result of this long journey coupled with her mother’s continuous whining since they had left Bredon earlier that morning. She sighed. Her mother would have been far happier if Sir Humphrey Portman had found Alice more amenable, more fitting as a potential bride. There was no question that he had found her distinctly lacking in all the qualities needed to become the lady of a manor; why, he had positively scowled when Alice had marched confidently up to the top table, greeting him with a broad smile. The day had lurched downhill from then on.

      ‘We should be home by the four o’clock bell.’ Alice sagged back against the feather cushions, blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the dim, shadowed interior once more.

      ‘That is some consolation, I suppose,’ Beatrice replied faintly. Her wide blue eyes, the image of her daughter’s, swept over Alice with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement. ‘Of course, we would still be there if Sir Humphrey had found you more accommodating. I had hoped…this time…after our little talk…’ Beatrice’s words drifted off, disappointed.

      ‘I am sorry, Mother,’ Alice apologised. Guilt scraped at her insides. Her parents only held her best interests at heart: to see her happily married to a wealthy husband, a brood of smiling children clutching at her skirts. She wished for that as well, but with a man she could truly love, someone who would give her the freedom and independence to which she was accustomed, not some elderly suitor twice her age who would curb her ways in an instant!

      ‘Well, there’s always Edmund.’ Beatrice smiled wanly. ‘He’s keen to marry you, and he’s due to come into his inheritance quite soon. Although it will be less than all your previous suitors possessed.’ The blue shadows under her mother’s eyes seemed deep, heavy, evidence of countless nights without sleep. Even now, with the war in France at an end, there had been no news of Alice’s brother, who had left to fight for his country two years previously, and had still not returned.

      ‘Edmund’s a good man,’ Alice agreed. ‘It’s just that…’ How could she tell her mother that the prospect of marrying Edmund filled her mind with insipid pictures of unending dreariness? Comfortable, aye, but dull. She had known Edmund since childhood; she liked him, he was a good companion, but she did not love him. But her mother’s ravaged face forced her to reconsider; it would make both her parents so happy if she married.

      ‘…it’s just that, I don’t love Edmund,’ she blurted out finally.

      Beatrice fixed her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ve told you before, my girl, love does not, should not, come into it! We need coin, coin that your useless father fails to provide, and a rich marriage for you is the only way to acquire it.’

      Alice bit her lip, frowning. In comparison to Sir Humphrey, Edmund appeared a far better prospect. And maybe, if they married, love would blossom between them. The weight of responsibility dragged at her shoulders. Abruptly, she stood, clinging on to the curtain for support. ‘I’m going to ride for a bit; I need some fresh air.’

      As Alice swung down from the lumbering cart, her soft leather slippers sinking into the spongy ground, she half-expected her mother to call her back, to entreat her not to ride in the elaborate, fashionable dress that she had worn especially for this visit. But Beatrice seemed subdued, forlorn even, caught up in her own thoughts, and Alice was happy to leave her to them.

      Seeing her spring down lightly from the moving cart, one of the escort soldiers shouted a brief command for the entourage to stop. Alice smiled gratefully up at him, picking her way carefully through the muddy ruts to the back of the cart where the soldier led her dappled grey mare. She knew, without looking down, that the long sweeping hem of her gown dragged through the mud; as she stuck her toe into the stirrup, the claggy earth smeared the bottom three inches of the beautiful green silk.

      ‘May I be of assistance, my lady?’ The soldier leaned forwards as if preparing to dismount, the smooth metal plates of his armour gleaming in the filtered sunlight.

      ‘Nay, no need,’ Alice reassured him hastily, swinging herself up into the saddle to sit astride. The soldier turned his face away, hiding a smirk; the lady Alice was well known for her tomboyish ways, which never ceased to cause amusement among the many members of the royal entourage.

      ‘Er…you may want to…’ The soldier indicated the vast bundle of skirts bunched around her slight figure.

      ‘Oh,