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  “I am not their future anything!” Alexandra said, hanging on to her shaky composure with an effort. “I loathe Will Helmsley and for your information,” she finished, pushed to the point of forgetting about her mother’s fragile hold on sanity, “Mary Ellen says Will Helmsley prefers young boys to girls!”

  The horror of that statement, which Alex only partially understood herself, sailed right over Mrs. Lawrence’s greying head. “Well, of course—most young men prefer other young men as companions. Although,” Mrs. Lawrence continued, getting up and beginning to pace with the fevered awkwardness of one who has been an invalid for a long time, “that may be exactly why he hasn’t shown a strong reluctance to wed you, Alexandra.” Her gaze was riveted up on Alexandra’s thin frame clad in threadbare, tight brown breeches, a white, full-sleeved shirt opened at the throat, and brown boots that showed she’d attempted to shine them. She looked much like a once-prosperous young lad whose family had fallen on hard times and who was forced to wear clothes he’d outgrown. “You must begin wearing gowns, even though young Will doesn’t seem to object to your breeches.”

  Hanging on to her temper with an effort, Alex said patiently, “Mama, I do not own a gown that is not inches above my knees.”

  “I told you to alter one of mine for you.”

  “But I’m not handy with a needle, and—”

  Mrs. Lawrence stopped pacing and glared at her. “I must say you’re putting every obstacle you can think of in the way of your betrothal, but I mean to end this mockery of a life we’ve been living, and Squire Helmsley’s son is the only hope we have.” She frowned darkly at the stubborn child-woman standing in the doorway, a shadow of bitter regret crossing her pale features. “I realize that we have never been truly close, Alexandra, but it is that man’s fault you’ve grown into the wild, unruly hoyden you are today, gallivanting about the countryside, wearing pants, shooting that rifle, and doing all manner of things you ought not.”

  Helpless to keep the angry embarrassment from her voice, Alexandra retorted stiffly, “If I were the demure, vapid, helpless creature you seem to want me to be, this household would have starved long ago.”

  Mrs. Lawrence had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “What you say is true, but we cannot go on this way much longer. Despite your best efforts, we’re in debt to everyone. I know I’ve not been a good mother these three years past, but I’ve come to my senses at last, and I must take steps to see you safely married.”

  “But I don’t love Will Helmsley,” Alexandra burst out desperately.

  “Which is all to the good,” Mrs. Lawrence said harshly. “Then he can’t hurt you as your father hurt me. Will comes from a steady, solid family. You won’t find him keeping an extra wife in London and gambling everything away.” Alexandra winced at this cruel reminder of her father’s perfidy, as her mother continued, “Actually, we’re very lucky Squire Helmsley is so very pushing—otherwise, I daresay he wouldn’t have you for a daughter.”

  “Just what is my attraction as a daughter-in-law?”

  Mrs. Lawrence looked shocked. “Why, we are connected to an earl, Alexandra, and to a knight of the realm,” she said as if that answered everything.

  When Mrs. Lawrence fell into a pensive silence, Alexandra shrugged and said, “I’m off to Mary Ellen’s. It’s her brother’s birthday today.”

  “Perhaps it’s better if you aren’t present at supper,” Mrs. Lawrence said, absently picking up her hairbrush and running it haphazardly through her hair. “I believe the Helmsleys mean to broach the subject of the marriage tonight, and it wouldn’t do to have you here frowning and looking mutinous.”

  “Mama,” Alexandra said with a mixture of pity and alarm, “I would rather starve than marry Will.”

  Mrs. Lawrence’s expression made it clear that she, for one, did not prefer starvation to her daughter’s marriage. “These matters are best left for adults to decide. Go along to Mary Ellen’s, but do wear a gown.”

  “I can’t. In honor of John O’Toole’s birthday, we’re going to have a jousting tournament like in days of old—you know, the sort of tournament the O’Tooles always have on birthdays.”

  “You’re entirely too old to go parading about in that rusty old suit of armor, Alexandra. Leave it in the hallway where it belongs.”

  “No harm will come to it,” Alex assured. “I’m only taking a shield, the helmet, the lance, and the breastplate.”

  “Oh, very well,” her mother said with a weary shrug.

  Chapter Four

  MOUNTED UPON OLD THUNDER, a swaybacked, eviltempered gelding who was older than she was and who had belonged to her grandfather, Alexandra plodded down the rutted road toward the O’Tooles’ sprawling cottage, her rifle in a scabbard beside her, her gaze sweeping the side of the road in hopes of spying some small game to shoot on the way to Mary Ellen’s. Not that there was much chance of surprising any animal this afternoon, for the long lance tucked under her arm clanked noisily against the breastplate she wore and banged against the shield she carried.

  Despite her unhappy confrontation with her mother, Alex’s spirits rose, buoyed up by the glorious spring day and the same sense of excited expectation she’d tried to describe to Sarah.

  Down in the valley on her left and in the woods on her right, spring flowers had burst into bloom, filling her eyes and nose with their rainbow colors and delicious scent. On the outskirts of the village there was a small inn, and Alexandra, who knew everyone within the eight-mile circle that encompassed her entire world, shoved the visor of her helmet up and waved gaily at Mr. Tilson, the proprietor. “Good day, Mr. Tilson,” she called.

  “Good day to you, Miss Alex,” he called back.

  Mary Ellen O’Toole and her six brothers were outside the O’Tooles’ rambling cottage, a rollicking game of knights-of-yore already in full progress in their yard. “Come on, Alexandra,” fourteen-year-old Tom called from atop his father’s ancient horse. “It’s time for a joust.”

  “No, let’s duel first,” the thirteen-year-old argued, brandishing an old saber. “I’ll best you this time, Alex. I’ve been practicing day and night.”

  Laughing, Alexandra awkwardly dismounted and hugged Mary Ellen, then both girls threw themselves into the games, which were a ritual reenacted on each of the seven O’Toole children’s birthday.

  The afternoon and evening passed in exuberant games, cheerful rivalry, and the convivial laughter of a large family gathered together—something that Alexandra, an only child, had always longed to be part of.

  By the time she was on her way home, she was happily exhausted and nearly groaning from the quantity of hearty food she’d eaten at the insistence of kindly Mrs. O’Toole.

  Lulled by the steady clip-clop of old Thunder’s hooves on the dusty road, Alexandra let her body sway in rhythm with the horse’s gentle motion, her heavy eyelids drooping with fatigue. Left with no other way to bring her suit of armor back home, Alexandra was wearing it, but it made her uncomfortably warm, which made her feel even drowsier.

  As she passed the inn and turned old Thunder onto the wide path that led through the woods and intersected the main road again a mile away, she noticed that several horses were tied in the innyard and the lamp in the window was still lit. Masculine voices, raised in lusty song, drifted through the open window to her. Overhead the branches of the oak trees met, swaying in the spring night, casting eerie shadows on the path as they blotted out the moon.

  It was late, Alexandra knew, but she didn’t urge her mount to quicken its walking pace. In the first place, Thunder was past twenty, and in the second, she wanted to be sure that Squire and Mrs. Helmsley had departed by the time she arrived.

  The visor of her helmet abruptly clanked down across her face again, and Alexandra sighed with irritation, longing to take the heavy helmet off and carry it. Deciding that Thunder was unlikely to feel either the energy or the inclination to try to run off with her, particularly after his exhausting day at the “lists,” Alexandr