Lawrence glanced up at Royce just in time to catch his smile. "Will you fight for her?" he asked.

Royce didn't answer him.

Nicholaa followed the guards over to the fireplace. When they stopped, so did she. Then the two soldiers moved away, and she was all alone. She stood several feet in front of the giant hearth, a fair distance from the crowd and the king.

God's truth, she felt as though she'd just been led into a den of lions. And she was their supper. She hoped her expression didn't betray her fear. Her heart was pounding such a wild beat it was almost painful, and her stomach seemed to be on fire. Thank God she hadn't eaten any of the nooning meal she'd been offered. She'd have been throwing it up now if she had.

It didn't take long for her to start feeling like a freak. Everyone was staring at her. She could feel their rude gazes on her, like bugs crawling up her arms.

Three little girls sneaked away from their mother's skirts and rushed over to stand directly in front of Nicholaa. They looked up at her, mouths gaping open, eyes wide with curiosity. They reminded her of little birds waiting to be fed.

"Are you a princess?" one whispered.

Nicholaa looked down at the child. The dark-haired little girl couldn't have seen more than four or five summers. There was innocent curiosity in the child's expression. Nicholaa couldn't be rude to her. She slowly shook her head. Then she turned her gaze to the far wall, determined to ignore everyone.

Baron Guy stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by his vassals. He'd been relating an amusing story when Lady Nicholaa entered the hall, and he had lost his train of thought then and there. He feared he might have lost his heart as well, for though he wasn't given to fancy, he was certain he was in love. The vast holding King William offered as dowry added to the Saxon woman's appeal, of course, but Guy was smitten by her beauty, too.

He decided he would have her.

Guy took a step forward and broke the silence in the hall with an arrogant boast: "I'll challenge anyone for her hand in marriage, and I'll win, too."

"You'll win only if Baron Royce doesn't enter the games," a bold knight shouted.

That remark didn't go unappreciated. Laughter echoed through the crowd. Guy kept his composure.

He turned to face the king, bowed formally, and then stood with his legs braced apart and his hands at his sides while he waited for the other knights to enter their bids.

Guy had fought beside William for nearly ten years. The scars on his arms were ample testimony to his battles. By sheer luck, his face had remained unblemished, and the ladies at court considered him quite handsome. He had golden hair and clear hazel eyes. He was almost as tall as his king, though he lacked both the bulk and the advanced age.

Royce was Guy's opposite. He was as dark skinned as Guy was light and towered over his friend. He wasn't considered the least bit handsome, either. The right side of his face was marred by a jagged scar that ran from the top of his ear to the base of his neck. He had earned the sickle-shaped mark years before when as a squire he'd put himself in front of his leader's wife, Matilda, to protect her from attack. Needless to say, that noble act hadn't gone unrewarded. Royce had been given his own contingent of men as soon as he'd finished his training under William's personal supervision.

Royce had proved his value early. Because he'd become so skilled in battle tactics, William began to send young, unseasoned knights to him for instruction. Royce was always patient, though ruthlessly demanding, and it was considered a privilege to train under his tutelage. His troops were the elite, invincible core of William's mighty army.

Guy considered himself a true friend to Royce, but he was still consumed with jealousy at what he considered Royce's good fortune. The leftovers were sent to Guy for training, for he'd also become known as a trainer of men. Guy had been fiercely competitive with Royce ever since their squire days together, and he often thought to himself that he would have become the more favored knight in William's eyes if he'd been the one to save Matilda's life.

Royce recognized the fever of jealousy in Guy's character, acknowledged it as simply a flaw he would surely eventually overcome, and then dismissed the insignificant matter from his mind.

"I, too, shall fight for her hand," another knight shouted. He strutted forward to stand before his king.

And then another and another stepped forward to join in the bids.

Nicholaa had never felt such stark humiliation before. She straightened her shoulders in reaction as she tried to block the shouts and fuel her anger at the same time. She needed to stay furious inside so she wouldn't break down and weep. But the humiliation, the degradation, was making her too sick to concentrate on much of anything.

The three little girls, all dressed like ladies, in long, flowing gowns, were now chasing one another in a spontaneous game of tag. They ran in wide circles around Nicholaa.

Where was Royce? Why was he letting this happen to her?

She forced herself to block any thoughts of him and tried to picture little Ulric in her mind. Royce had told her to keep Ulric's future in her thoughts whenever she was tempted to do something foolish.

She thought she might like to kill the king of England. Was that foolish? William alone was responsible for the disgrace she was now suffering. If he'd left England alone, none of this would be taking place.

It was a foolish plan. She couldn't kill the king. She'd never get away with it. She didn't even have a weapon. She was a good distance away from the platform where the king and his wife were seated, a good distance, too, from the gawking crowd bidding for her.

She still hadn't heard Royce's distinctive voice enter into the bidding. Was he even in the crowd or had he already left for Normandy? God's truth, she wanted to kill him, too.

An ear-piercing scream turned Nicholaa's attention. It was a child's voice. Nicholaa turned just in time to see one of the little girls screaming in agony. The child's gown had caught on fire. The flames were licking their way up the backs of her legs.

Nicholaa pulled the child up against her own gown and used her skirt and her hands to beat the flames out.

The fire was extinguished before any of the soldiers could give assistance. Nicholaa knelt on the floor, tore the remnants of the gown away from the little girl, and then hugged her tight, whispering words of comfort all the while.

The child clung to her savior, whimpering softly against her neck.

No one seemed capable of moving for a long minute. Then the child's mother let out a scream and came running across the hall.

Nicholaa stood up with the little girl still clinging to her neck. She transferred the child into her mother's outstretched arms. "She's still frightened," Nicholaa whispered, "but I don't believe she suffered any serious burns."

King William had bounded out of his chair as soon as the child's tortured scream reached him. His wife stood by his side with her hands clasped over her mouth.

They both watched as the mother accepted her daughter. The little girl turned back at the last second and loudly kissed Nicholaa on her cheek. "You are a princess," she whispered. "You saved me."

The child's mother wept with relief. "Yes, she did save you," she agreed. She hugged her daughter and turned to smile at Nicholaa. "I would thank you properly," she said. She started to bow low, then let out another scream. "Dear heaven, look at your hands. You've blisters already."

Nicholaa didn't want to look at her hands. If she saw the damage, she knew it would hurt even more. Her left hand and arm throbbed far more than the right did. 'Twas the truth the burns felt as though she were holding a burning log in her hands.

She glanced up and saw Royce making his way toward her. She spotted him through the haze of tears burring her vision.

It was about time, she thought to herself. He damn well should come to her. This was all his fault… wasn't it?

She couldn't seem to concentrate. The crowd swelled around her. Nicholaa took a step back. She hid her hands behind her back.

She desperately wanted Royce to get to her so that she could tell him to go away.

"Let me see your hands, Nicholaa."

He was standing so close to her; all she had to do was lean forward and she'd be touching him. He might put his arm around her shoulders and offer her comfort.

She vowed she'd smack him if he touched her.

Dear Lord, she wasn't making any sense. She shook her head and took another step back.

"Make way, make way."

The shrill feminine demand forced the crowd aside. Royce moved to her side, and Nicholaa suddenly found herself staring down at the king's wife.

Lord, she was short. The top of Matilda's head only reached Nicholaa's shoulders. The woman had the bearing of a commander, though. "Give me your hands. Now."

Nicholaa didn't argue. She showed the woman her burns. Determined not to look at her hands, she stared over Matilda's head while the queen examined her injuries.

"You must be in terrible pain, my dear. Come, I shall personally supervise your care. William?" she called out. "There will be no more talk of challenging until we return."

The king was in complete agreement. Matilda tried to take hold of Nicholaa's elbow, but ended up grasping air, for Nicholaa moved like lightning to get closer to Royce. She was literally snuggled up against his side before Matilda could blink.

The action was telling. Matilda looked at her loyal vassal, then at the Saxon woman and back at Royce again. "You may come along with us, Baron," she announced.

Nicholaa allowed the queen to take hold of her elbow then. Matilda tried not to smile. She noticed that when she led Nicholaa out of the hall and down the corridor, the lovely young lady kept glancing back over her shoulder to make certain Royce was following.

He was right behind her. Relief swept through Nicholaa, though she couldn't imagine why. Oh, yes, now she remembered. This was all his fault and she needed to tell him so.

He was only doing his duty by dragging her to

London. That logical thought popped into her mind all of the sudden. She pushed it aside. She didn't want to be logical now.

"You're a very courageous woman, Lady Nicholaa," said Matilda. "The little girl you saved is my dear niece. We're all in your debt." She paused to give Nicholaa a penetrating look, then added, "She's Norman, but that didn't seem to make any difference to you, did it?"

Nicholaa shook her head. She wished Matilda would quit being so solicitous. She looked back over her shoulder and gave Royce a wait-until-I-get-you-alone glare.

He winked at her.

"You're responsible for this, Royce," she whispered.

Matilda heard her. "No, dear, it was an accident," she said. She motioned for the guards to open the door to Nicholaa's chamber, then marched inside.

Royce had to nudge Nicholaa forward.

The next fifteen minutes were sheer agony for Nicholaa. While the king's bossy wife issued her orders, her personal healer-a wrinkled old man named Samuel who looked in dire need of a healer of his own-arrived with three servants. The women put their supplies down on the wooden chest, bowed to Matilda, and then backed out of the room.

Royce stood at Nicholaa's side, his hands clasped behind his back, when the healer began his ministrations. Matilda stood near the window, her arms folded across her ample bosom, her gaze as sharp as a hawk's as she watched the couple.

Nicholaa had refused to take to her bed. She sat on a stool. Her back was as straight as a lance, her expression devoid of all emotion as she stared off into space.

Baron Samuel sat on a stool facing his patient. He cleaned the burns with cool water and then spread a thick brown salve from her fingertips to her elbows.

The cleansing had hurt like fire, but the cooling salve had a soothing effect on her skin. Nicholaa didn't realize she was leaning against Royce's thigh. Matilda noticed, though, and she couldn't contain her smile this time.

"She'll have a few scars," Samuel told Matilda after he'd finished wrapping the injuries with soft white cotton strips.

Royce assisted the old man to his feet. Samuel's knees crackled louder than the logs in the hearth.