Samara stood by her bedroom window for the better part of the day, after she had recovered from her initial shock over the events of the night before. She took her evening meal in her chamber, and avoided her sisters by telling them the ache in her head had persisted and she was not up for their company. The sun had long vanished and the black sky was peppered with stars by the time she finally saw her father ride into the courtyard. Straightening her skirt and making an attempt to smooth her wild curls, she fled down the stairs into the Great Hall to greet him.

He was handing Howell his cloak when Samara found him.

“Welcome back, Papa,” she said, taking his arm and leading him into the small family dining hall. “All of the servants have gone to bed, but I saw that they left out for you what remains of the evening meal. I will serve it to you.”

“Thank you, Samara,” her father said slowly. She was up to something. This wild eldest daughter of his was never so sweet and accommodating, unless she desired her own way in something.

He took a seat at the high board and waited while Samara warmed up his dinner by the kitchen fire. In only a few moments she carried out a trencher of steaming rabbit stew and a pewter goblet, which she filled with ale. Lord Haughton dug in hungrily, realizing that but for a few stale oatcakes in his saddle bag, he had not eaten since the morning meal before departing for Easton Castle.

Samara hovered nearby, filling his goblet when he drained it and making sure he had everything he needed. When her father’s hunger was finally slaked, he looked at her expectantly.

“Well, out with it,” he said. “I’ve never known you to be so docile unless you wanted something.” His indulgent, loving smile belied the harshness of his words.

“I want to go to court, Papa!” Samara blurted out, then winced. That was not how she wanted to broach the subject – she’d had a speech carefully prepared, and was ready to use all of her feminine wiles to get him to agree to let her go.

The earl’s brow furrowed.

“Court, Samara?” he asked. “Queen Mary’s court is not a happy place right now. The news filtering from London says that she is very ill, and I don’t believe you’ll have much fun there. What on earth could you want with court?”

Samara sat beside him on the bench and summoned all of her patience, of which there wasn’t much, even on a good day.

“It is not fun I seek, Papa,” she said. “I want a husband.”

Lord Haughton’s eyebrows drew even closer together. “A husband, Samara? You are still so young.”

“I am not young. I am seventeen years old. Most girls are long wed and have at least one child and another started by the time they are my age. But I am not even betrothed. We are fairly isolated here, and please forgive me, Papa, but you have barely left our lands since Mama died. You do not even know most of our neighbors, Papa, many of whom may have eligible sons.”

Lord Haughton sighed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to quell the rush of hurt he felt, because he knew she spoke the truth.

“You are right, of course, my daughter,” he said after a moment, opening his eyes and looking at Samara. “I have not seen to your future and in that I have failed you, failed at my main duty as a father. For that I shall never forgive myself. I have allowed myself to wallow in the pain your mother’s death caused me, and because I was so selfish, you are facing spinsterhood. Whatever I must do to correct that, Samara, I will. You may go to court. But you must have an escort, and you must wait until spring. And while you are gone, I shall cast about the county in case you find no suitable prospects at court.”

Samara blinked, shocked. She had not expected to get her way without some kind of battle. Had her father really just told her she could go to court? She looked hard at him, saw the tears in his faded blue eyes, and knew that she had heard him correctly.

“Oh, thank you, Papa!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms about his neck and hugging him tightly. He hesitated a moment before hugging her back, but when he did, his arms were strong and loving.

“Whatever I may have done wrong, remember that I always loved you and your sisters more than life itself,” he said softly into her hair. She responded by hugging him even more tightly, knowing instinctively that any words from her would only have embarrassed him.

He patted her awkwardly on the back, ending the embrace.

“Run along now,” Lord Haughton said. “I know you are dying to brag to Josephine and Gemma.”

Samara laughed and slid gracefully from the bench, bending to kiss her father’s weathered cheek before flying from the dining hall.

The earl of Bolingbroke sat alone at the high board for a few more moments, pondering the situation he had just gotten himself into. He had told Samara that she would need an escort. Of course she would bring Betty, her lifelong maidservant, with her, but Betty was just as sheltered as Samara, having been raised at Bolingbroke Hall the same as her mistress. They would need a man to go with them, but he could not leave his lands in the spring – it was too busy and important a time – and the men he trusted most were at Easton Castle, helping the earl of Easton repair his home. Besides, his rough men would know nothing about smoothing Samara’s way into court.

Then an idea began to worm around in Lord Haughton’s mind. Had the earl of Easton not said he would do anything in repayment for the loan of Bolingbroke’s men? Perhaps it was a bit soon, but Lord Haughton could not think of any other favor he may ever need. He knew of no one better to escort Samara across England to London than Cade Badgley. Perhaps – just perhaps – another thought crossed Lord Haughton’s mind.

Leaving the empty trencher on the high board, Ronan Haughton moved off to his library to write the letter.



“I will not!” Samara screeched. “No! I should rather stay here and die a spinster, barren and alone, than traverse the English countryside with that scoundrel! No, Father! How could you have asked him to escort me?”

Stunned by the unexpected, angry passion in Samara’s outburst, Lord Haughton took a moment to collect his wits before answering her.

“I could think of no one better suited to the task,” he answered slowly. “He is familiar with the court, and with the route you must take to get there. He is known to the Queen and her courtiers, and will be able to smooth your entry. I do not understand, Samara. Did he do something to insult you while he stayed here? He was not here very long, and you only saw him at the evening meal.”

Samara bit her lip, knowing full well that she could most definitely not tell her father why she didn’t want to be in Cade Badgley’s charge.

“He did not insult me, Papa,” she said finally. “I just found him extremely arrogant and irritating, and not at all the sort of man I would want to travel with.”

“Well, please try and control your temper on your trip, Samara,” Lord Haughton said. “I trust the earl of Easton. If you can but get over your aversion I’m sure he will prove to be a most suitable companion. He has even been so thoughtful as to offer to send for a London seamstress to see that your gowns are in fashion.”

“He probably just does not want to be seen with a poorly-dressed country bumpkin,” Samara muttered. “He only thinks that I would be an embarrassment to him, and seeks to avoid being the subject of teasing.”

“Samara!” Josephine cried from her seat by the fire, where she worked diligently on her embroidery. “Stop it. You know that is not true. The earl of Easton was nothing but pleasant to us after he scared us so badly. You are the one who continued to bad-mouth him. And then you flirted so shamelessly with him at supper!”

Lord Haughton’s eyes widened at this revelation as he glanced from Josephine to Samara.

“I never said a word to him,” Samara said defensively.

“You did not have to,” Josephine countered. “Your eyes said enough. Oh, Samara, please. You know as well as I do that Papa will not allow you to go to court without a proper escort. The earl of Easton is as proper as they come.” Samara fought the urge to laugh at these words of her sister’s. If Josephine only knew! she thought. “And,” Josephine continued, “until you find a husband, there will be no husbands for Gemma and me. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us. Please, Samara. We are nothing but what our husbands make us, and without them, we have nothing.”

Josephine’s golden eyes were so sad and beseeching that Samara caved. She darted to the other side of the room and wrapped Josephine in a tight hug.

“Of course I will,” she said into Josephine’s cloud of soft hair. “Oh, forgive me, Josie. You know how my temper is. I promise to try and keep a close rein on it so I do not disgrace the family.”

“There,” Lord Haughton said, obviously satisfied and deciding to ignore what Josephine had said about Samara flirting with Lord Badgley. “I shall write a message to the earl letting him know that you are grateful for his assistance. Can you make it back to Easton Castle today, man?” he said, turning to the messenger Samara had not noticed until then.

“Y-yes, my lord earl,” stammered the little man. Lord, but that red-haired girl had a mouth on her! Her father ought to have taken a stick to her. The messenger decided not to tell his master what Lady Samara had said about him. It wasn’t worth the loss of his job.

Cade chuckled when he received Bolingbroke’s reply. So, the wench had consented to letting him accompany her to London, had she? He was not surprised. He could imagine her outrage when her father told her he was to be her escort. Her fiery curls shaking in fury, her small hands balled into fists, that angry little pulse jumping erratically at the base of her creamy throat…Cade groaned, letting the parchment flutter to the ground. What in hell was he getting himself into?

They were scheduled to leave on June first, which was later than Cade had expected, but more convenient. The repairs on his castle would be long finished by then, and he felt comfortable leaving everything in the hands of his bailiff, Rogers. The man had more experience at running the manor than he did, anyway. He did not expect to be at court for very long. Samara was an earl’s daughter, and a staggeringly beautiful one at that. She would be snapped up quickly, and after paying his respects to the queen and seeing Samara successfully settled, he would be free to return to his estate to learn how to run it. He would see her only when he had to, and it would be her husband’s responsibility to bring her home to her father. He would be safe from Lady Samara Haughton and whatever sorcery she may try to use on him.

“Hayden!” Cade called, knowing his cousin was in Cade’s old chamber down the hall. “We are going back to court!”


The London seamstress arrived in mid-April laden down with bolts of luxurious cloth and two assistants. All three girls, though daughters of an earl, had never seen such an abundance of colors and fabrics. Samara longingly fingered a bolt of silk the soft blue-green color of sea foam while Josephine and Gemma cried out with delight over rich scarlet and silvery-blue taffetas. The seamstress produced beautifully delicate ivory lace, buttons made of bone and brilliantly-colored paste jewels, satin ribbons and scented kid gloves. There were silk slippers, both plain and encrusted with beads and jewels, in a rainbow of colors, and silk stockings, plain and embroidered, to be held up with fetching little garters.

Samara silently admired the sea of silk and satin around her, unable to speak for fear that it would all disappear before her eyes and she would find that her upcoming trip to court was naught but a dream. Josephine and Gemma, however, were not quite so careful.

“No one has ever rendered my sister speechless before,” little Gemma told the seamstress seriously, and Josephine giggled.

Samara stood patiently in her chemise while the seamstress measured her, marking the numbers down as she worked. Her assistants were busily selecting fabrics for Samara’s wardrobe. With her dark coppery hair, creamy pale gold skin and green eyes, they decided she was one of the lucky few who would look her best in both bold jewel tones and certain pastels. They set aside bolts of satins and silks in gold, lilac, sky blue, and buttery yellow. Samara rejoiced inwardly when she saw the beautiful sea-foam silk go into the pile, followed by bolts of turquoise, emerald green, amethyst and sapphire. Finally, they selected black and white silks to finish the pile.

“I shall never have opportunities to wear so many gowns,” Samara protested.

“Then I will wear them!” Gemma piped up, wrapping herself in a swath of lilac silk and twirling about the room.

“You will not,” Josephine said, taking the silk from her. “You would drown in one of Samara’s gowns. She towers over you.”

“You both may have all of my gowns if you can convince Papa not to send me to court with the earl of Easton,” Samara said.

Gemma was busy entwining herself in a deep blue velvet and did not hear, but Josephine looked at Samara curiously, realizing that Samara’s aversion to the earl was not merely because she found him annoying.

“What did he do to you?” she asked.

Samara shrugged, realizing she shouldn’t have spoken and not wanting to tell Josephine that it was not what the earl had done to her, but what she had in fact done to him. Practical, sensible Josephine not only wouldn’t understand, but she would probably judge. Samara did not feel it was something she could explain in such a way that Josephine would approve, and so she said nothing.

Samara was measured and then the seamstress and her two assistants disappeared into their guest chamber, where they did not emerge for nearly three weeks. Their meals were brought to them on trays and were eaten, but nobody saw the three women until Samara’s court wardrobe was completely done. When it was, Samara possessed more beautiful gowns than she ever thought possible, and more accessories than she had ever hoped. She had silk gowns and velvet capes, sheer stockings and fetching little hats. The only thing she didn’t have was jewelry, a situation her father, exhibiting unusual foresight, remedied the night before her journey.

He knocked softly on her chamber door and entered after Samara called out for him to do so. He held a long, slender black velvet box in his hands, which he quickly held out to her.

“It belonged to your mother,” he said almost shyly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to court, but I remember that a lady needs jewelry.”

Slowly, Samara lifted the lid of the box to reveal a strand of perfectly matched, creamy white pearls interspersed with sparkling pink diamonds set in pale gold.

“Papa,” she gasped, and stood, running to her looking glass. Her father followed her, standing behind her as he took the necklace from her hands and dropped it over her head.

“It is perfect, just as I thought it would be,” he said. “There are matching earbobs as well.” Samara put them on and then turned herself from side to side in the mirror, admiring the glittering stones at her throat and in her hair. Then she turned and flung her arms around her father’s neck.

“Oh, thank you, Papa,” she said rapturously. “They are beautiful, and to have something of Mama’s will make her feel close to me when I am alone. Thank you.”

“I will miss you, Samara,” Lord Haughton said. “But you were correct when you said you must go.”

“There were few options left open to me,” Samara agreed.

Holding Samara by her arms, Lord Haughton leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her smooth forehead.

“Go to bed now,” he said. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. I shall tell Betty to wake you up shortly before sunrise.”

“Yes, Papa,” Samara said obediently, and her father left her. She reached up and removed the necklace and earbobs, placing them carefully back into their velvet boxes, which she then put into the trunk she would be bringing to court with her. Then she climbed into her bed, blowing out the candle on the bedside table.

She tossed and turned for a few moments, too excited to sleep. But when it finally came, she slept long and deep, not even remembering if she dreamed.

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