If the scuff of her boots on the road matched the pace of her thundering heart, Kathryn would complete the short walk to Langeais Keep in record time. Instead, she dragged her feet, her father beside her, his arm slipped through hers. Summoned by the Comte de Anjou! Nothing good could come of that.

“Are you tired, Kathryn? Did you not sleep well?” Her father’s concerned gaze focused on her.

She smiled, patting him on the arm. “Just the usual nightmare, Father.”

“Again? They seem to be increasing. You have not had so many in a row for several years now. Not since…” His jaw clenched. “Was it the same one?”

Kathryn avoided her father’s eyes. “Always.”

The scar on her arm burned, and she resisted the urge to rub it. It remained a constant reminder of the attack, of the darkness that now resided within her, finding release only in her sleep. For eleven years, the same nightmare had plagued her—a clearing, a pond, a woman with red hair and a man, but not a man. A man with no face, who morphed into a terrifying combination of man and wolf, fangs and fur. Snarling, snapping, it came for her, again and again and, without fail, her body would refuse to move.

Eleven years and it had never deviated. Not once. Until last night. With eyes the color of blue flame, chevalier Aimon Proulx, looking like one of God’s warrior angels, had invaded her nightmare. Long, white-blond hair loose about his shoulders, his blue surcoat with its white dove insignia rustling in the breeze and his hand on the pommel of his sword—he’d drawn her to him, made her heart race and her body quiver.

She had awoken this morning feverish, with a desperate longing for Aimon Proulx. Her body thrummed with remembered heat. She blew out a breath. Aimon had occupied her waking thoughts a lot of late. She could only presume that to be the reason for his presence in her nightmare, but it unnerved her all the same. Most likely, she was one of many young women who dreamed of Aimon Proulx, but only her dreams contained monsters.

“Do you know why Comte Lothair has summoned us, Father?”

Farren Beauchene shrugged his shoulders. “I do not. They gave me no indication as to the nature of the comte’s request. It is most likely a minor matter.” His frown betrayed his true thoughts. Her father was worried.

“Perhaps it has something to do with Mademoiselle Erin Richardson.”

They passed through the gate into the outer bailey, dodging a chevalier on horseback as they joined the crowd of people making their way to the keep hall. The comte would hear all public matters today, and the outer bailey had begun to fill with people—peasants, merchants, farmers, chevaliers and noblemen. Most would wait in line to petition the comte. Some, like Kathryn and her father, were responding to his summons. She spied Manette Chapet with her two friends, Odila and Lisette. She scowled. They had come for the spectacle, the chance to gossip and the opportunity to forge connections above their current station.

“Mademoiselle who?” Her father guided her around a group of farmers who had paused to discuss the likelihood of rain.

“Oh, Father, you must stay abreast of things. Mademoiselle Erin Richardson is all the talk in the keep.”

He grunted. “I do not hold much for gossip. Too much trouble can come of it.”

“I agree. You are lucky you do not have to endure hours of it like I must, but Erin Richardson is not gossip, Father. She is Gaharet d’Louncrais’ newly betrothed.”

“What? You say Gaharet d’Louncrais is taking a wife?”

They stepped aside for a Baron and his wife to pass.

“Yes, and a woman no one has ever heard of. Rumor has it, and it is purely rumor,” she said, as they trudged up the hill toward the keep, “Comte Lothair is unimpressed. Gaharet did not consult him when choosing his bride to be.”

Her father grunted again. “Gaharet is only the most powerful chevalier in this county. Lothair would want to be secure in Gaharet’s allegiance. A bride not chosen by him, or at the very least vetted by him, would not have pleased the comte at all.” He narrowed his eyes. “His father did much the same when he wed your aunt, marrying a woman far beneath his station.”

“He married her for love?”

Her father’s gaze drifted away from her and over the people moving through the gate into the inner bailey. When he finally answered, his voice was soft and his eyes distant, caught up in his memories.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe Jacques did marry Elise for love, God rest their souls. Much as I did with your mother. I guess some of us are born with that inclination.”

Kathryn gave him a sad smile. Her father’s stories, his memories, were the only things she had of her mother, and he infused his words with the depth of his love for his wife. He still missed her, even after all these years. Would that she could find a match such as her father, such as her aunt.

Her mind turned again to Aimon Proulx. She quashed the childish notion. She might fancy Aimon, but with a plethora of appealing options to choose from, would he even consider her? She had never fit society’s expectations of a demure, proper lady. Less so since her attack. No self-respecting man would find those attributes appealing.

Still, Kathryn clung to her father’s promise she could choose the man she wed. If she could not have love, then at the very least she would marry a man she did not despise. One she hoped would accept some of her wayward behavior.

“What would Gaharet’s betrothed have to do with us?” her father asked, guiding her around a group of nervous young men waiting to be considered for training to become the comte’s newest chevaliers.

“I met her in the keep this week past. She certainly brightened up the monotony of embroidering flowers and talking of the latest young man to pledge investiture.” Kathryn rolled her eyes. She loathed those days. When she must behave as any well-bred daughter of a chevalier should. “I like her and I mentioned I would be very appreciative if she could put in a good word for me with Gaharet.”

Her father jerked to a halt, pulling her out of the flow of people entering the keep. His brow furrowed as he rounded on her. “Why would you wish to do that?”

Kathryn raised her eyebrows at the gruffness in his voice. “Father, you may not have noticed, but I am not a little girl anymore. In a few months I will be a score and three years. I need to find a suitable match. People are beginning to talk.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that. But how is it Gaharet can help with that? Why would you want Gaharet to help with that?”

“Apart from him being my cousin, and the most influential person in the county after the comte?”

Her father shook his head. “It is not wise to court attention from the d’Louncrais.”

“Why ever not? Half the people in the court are vying for his attention. Why not us?” Her father would not meet her eyes. “Father, all Gaharet’s men are unwed, and any of them would be a much better prospect than those who have indicated their interest in me. So far, most of my suitors are twice my age, fat, balding, mean, illiterate, unwashed or a combination of all the things I find abhorrent. Through Erin, I may have a chance to once again move in the same company as Gaharet and his vassals, perhaps secure the attention of one of them.”

All Gaharet’s vassals were a power unto themselves. No one questioned them or defied them. Would a wife of such a man be allowed certain liberties?

Her father’s brow furrowed further. “It appears you have given this some thought, Kathryn. Have you set your sights on a particular vassal?”

Kathryn’s cheeks heated. She had given the matter much consideration. Gaharet had six vassals—Lance, Ulrik, Godfrey, twins Aubert and Edmond, and Aimon Proulx. Lance was older than her father, despite looking no more than two score years, and he had a reputation for being stern and hard. He would want to discipline her and bring her under his rule. Definitely not an option.

Aubert and Edmond were huge with forbidding countenances. Not once had she witnessed a smile grace either of their faces, and they nary said a word that was not accompanied by a scowl. Kathryn found them rather intimidating. Ulrik had a reputation with the ladies, so Kathryn would steer clear of him, and Godfrey was a quiet, reserved, scholarly man. People often described her as willful and untamed. Not a good match. That left Aimon Proulx.

Like all Gaharet’s men, he was as impressive physically as he was in his position in society. The second son of a baron from an old, noble family, his reputation, unlike Ulrik’s, was above reproach. Neither studious like Godfrey, stern like Lance, nor as unapproachable as the twins, he had an aversion to political intrigue and showed a fervent loyalty to Gaharet. If gossip were to be believed, Gaharet had saved his life.

Barely a few years older than her with bright blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, he set the hearts of many a young woman aflutter, including Kathryn’s. That his presence made her thoughts jumble, and her body tingle only added to his attraction. Whether his lack of a beard would signify better personal hygiene, Kathryn could not be certain, but it did appeal to her. Many of her would-be suitors had little familiarity with bathing. Sitting in the same room with them had been repugnant. Agreeing to wed them was out of the question. She could never marry a man she did not respect, and she could never respect a man whose stench made her stomach churn.

“I have to marry somebody, Father, despite my…” Kathryn cast her gaze around “…problem.”

Problem? More a curse. The darkness within shifted, as if merely thinking of it roused it from its slumber. She forced it down.

Her father offered her a weak smile. “I know, but—”

“You wish to see me marry someone for love, like you and Mother.” She gave him a wan smile. “Believe me, Father, I would like nothing more than to have what you and Mother had, but I must be realistic. The chances of that happening are not good. I must choose soon or risk the comte’s attention.” Her chest tightened. “Could this be why he has summoned us?”

Her father considered it. “It is possible, but unlikely. If, as you say, Gaharet has announced his betrothal to a woman the comte does not approve of, I think we would garner little attention by comparison.”

“I hope you are right.” Comte Lothair would not take her feelings into consideration when deciding who she should wed. Indeed, he would not care what she needed or wanted in a husband, nor would her father have any influence. “Marrying someone of Comte Lothair’s choosing could prove disastrous.”

Her father nodded, leading her into the hall. “Do not fear, Kathryn. We will find you a man you can trust and, with any luck, one you like.”

A nervous flutter stirred in her stomach. She must marry, she had no other option, but she must also be careful. For should anyone find out her secret, should the church or the comte become aware of the beast she hid inside her, it would cost Kathryn her life.