As pink dawn tinted the silvering sky, Rosamund followed the guard sent to escort her to the great hall.

Every story she had ever heard of the rapine that followed the conquering of a castle had kept her company through the endless dark hours. Thus, when the time had come for her to prepare herself to meet the conqueror, she had taken care in her appearance, using it as a warrior used his armor. Without a puissant male to protect her, a woman's only defense was the world's perception of her. Rosamund had done what she could to make that perception one of power. To that end, a wimple of white silk swathed her chin and throat, a fillet of stiffened azure linen embroidered with gold thread held her while silk veil in place. Over her good yellow kirtle she had donned the azure tunic, then her girdle of gold links set with amber.

She was Rosamund Bourton of Wynnsef, daughter of a powerful baron. During the four long years since her father's death, despite her older brother's lavish spending, she had managed to keep Wynnsef profitable. All, that is, but the year the crops had failed.

Rosamund rubbed her thumb over the small scar near her bottom lip, as she had a thousand times before. Catching herself, she dropped her hand and straightened her shoulders.

As she and her guard entered the hall, she was struck by the quiet. No raucous masculine laughter, no feminine cries of anguish assaulted her as she had expected. Indeed, there was no sign of many females, which was alarming in itself. Instead, there was the occasional snap from logs burning in the fireplace. Three men unfamiliar to her, dressed in good woolen tunics and hose, sat by the hearth, scraping the blades of their swords with wet stones, which they periodically dunked in the bucket set on the floor. Two others, not far from them, sat over a game of chess, her brother's ivory-and-ebony board and pieces on a small table between them. Within easy reach of every man was a cup, so Rosamund guessed the servants were up and working, but making themselves scarce.

Her attention was captured by the man on the dais before her.

Tall and dark, he sat on the thronelike lord's chair as if it had been made for him. Unlike the previous men who had occupied that chair, he was not dwarfed by its size---an observation Rosamund found disturbing.

He was clean-shaven, and his raven hair was cut in the short style favored by knights. The fitted sleeves of his black tunic came to his wrists. Over them, he sleeves of his surcoat were wider and ended just below his elbows with a frieze of silver embroidery. A black kid belt fastened with a buckle that formed a silver disk. The hem of his ankle-length surcoat was expertly dagged and skillfully worked with more silver thread. He wore boots of soft black leather. As Rosamund came closer, she saw a wide cuff of silver set with four polished moonstones on each of his wrists. Draped over the arm of the chair was the invader's sword belt, keeping within easy reach his black leather-worked scabbard and the long, heavy sword within.

Her escort stopped at the foot of the dais. Quietly, he withdrew, leaving her in the middle of the hall, alone with the conqueror of Wynnsef.

Deliberately continuing to examine the sword, Rosamund did not look up to meet her captor's gaze. Willing herself not to react to the heavy silence, or the magnetic pull of his attention, she noted that the quillons of the weapons were masterfully wrought to resemble a falcon's wings. Set into the round pommel was an orb of flawlessly clear rock crystal.

With a sinking feeling, she realized this was no ordinary weapon. She had heard it described several times, each in a different chanson de geste. Lo longer could she deny that this man was indeed Tancred de Vierzon.

A large hand dropped into her view. It grasped the haft, then swept the sword from its scabbard with a metallic hiss. Startled, she looked up, directly into the face of the Moon Lord.

Black slashes slanted over eyes of such pale, brilliant gray that one could only comprehend them as silver. One high, prominent cheekbone bore a brand. The size of a seal made by a large signet ring, a circle containing two stars scarred the smooth skin in strange perfection. His nose was straight. Below it, his mouth formed a strong bow that invited a second glance, but it took Rosamund a moment to discover why: The superbly sculpted top lip was slightly fuller than the bottom.

"The damoiselle is interested in my sword," he said. To her chagrin, it was not spoken as a question. She recognized the deep, masculine voice from last night.

He held the weapon out for her inspection, the flat of the deadly blade resting on one palm. Clearly he did not fear that she might wrest it from him.

"It is a sword," she said coolly, resisting the urge to touch the gleaming thing. "I have seen many of them."

Without comment, he slid it back into its scabbard, but she suspected she had not fooled him. The unique sword was almost as famous as the man. Doubtless he had fools gaping at it all the time. How annoying that she could now be counted among them.

"Wynnsef is mine," he said bluntly. "I have already released those who came here for safety; they are in no danger. Fitz Clare will be a while in recovering."

"My brother is a baron," she said tightly. "Do you truly believe the king will not come to his aid?"

"Your brother can expect not help from Richard."

A prickle of alarm went down her back. But then, she thought, what else would such a clever fellow say? Would he admit he was a rogue knight? Not likely. "Oh?" she said, not bothering to conceal the skeptical note that leaked into her tone. "Pray, tell me why a baron cannot expect his liege lord's aid?"

"The king did tell me that, were I to take Wynnsef, it would be mind." He spread his arms, indicating his men comfortably in residence about the hall. "As you can see, I have taken Wynnsef."

The prickle of alarm returned. Had Arnaud done something to displease King Richard? "I don't believe you."

Tancred shrugged.

Why would King Richard say such a thing to a mere knight?" she demanded. "'Take this barony from my loyal man, and it shall be yours'? I cannot credit such a thing."

"Believe what you will."

"My brother will be back," she declared.

His lips curved slowly upward. "Lady, I am counting on it."

The man was insane. Absolutely, irrefutably insane. Rosamund had heard the stories brought back by crusaders. The heat of the Holy Land could cook a man's brain. Obviously it had seared Tancred de Vierzon's to a crisp.

"Why my brother returns, he will take Wynnsef from you," she said stoutly. "He will give you cause to wish you'd never been born." She hoped.

"That he has already done."

What had Arnaud done? What could he do that would be terrible enough to make a man such as this wish he had not been born?

Ha, said a clear voice at the back of her anxious mind, but of course this man would say something to cause you doubt, anything to make you less loyal to Arnaud.

Rosamund regarded him down her nose---no mean feat considering his height advantage. "You speak in riddles. If you have something to say, sirrah, do so now. Soon Arnaud will be upon you, and you'll find it difficult to speak after he mounts your head on a pike."

He settled back comfortably in the chair. "My head on a pike? Sounds painful."

The wretch was amused! "When he does retake Wynnsef, he won't have to sneak around like a snake to do it."

His amusement vanished, and in its place she glimpsed something else, something he quickly shuttered from her. "Lady Rosamund, your brother's cunning imitation of a snake astonished many in Outremer."

His reaction confused her. She frowned. "What---"

"I will attend to your brother when he arrives," he said flatly. "Until then, you will see to it that those who live on the demesne, the fees, and the village go about their work and cause me no trouble."

"Must I remain here? Am I to be your captive?" she asked indignantly, outraged, but not naive enough to believe women were never held against their will.

One black eyebrow lifted. "Captive? That is too harsh a word. Rather, let us say that you cannot bear to leave Wynnsef when the things are in such a state of uncertainty."

Furious blood beat in her cheeks. "You think me a traitor to my brother? Well, I will not aid you, Chevalier Tancred. I will not make smooth the way for you as you try to take over my home!"

He leaned forward in the chair, his hands resting on the carved-oak griffins that formed the arms. Alarmed by the potency that radiated from him, Rosamund took a step back before she caught herself.

"Would you rather I settle unwanted distractions with a whip?" he asked softly, his voice the more menacing for its control.

She shook her head.

His compelling starlight eyes held her gaze in thrall. He leaned nearer. "Believe me, lady, when I tell you I have little time for treachery or petty disputes. Normally I am a patient man, but not now."

Rosamund stared at him for several heartbeats more before she remembered to breathe in. She wanted nothing more than to wipe her damp palms on her kirtle, but refused to give him the satisfaction of letting him know how well he intimidated her. "I....I will do as you ask, up--upon one condition."

He straightened, both eyebrows lifting this time. "You issue terms?"

"One." She cleared her arid throat. "For now."

Absently, a forefinger smoothed back and forth over the rock crystal in the pommel of his sword. "I would heard this condition of yours."

By now they had the attention of every man in who had been sitting in the great hall when she had arrived and several more who had come in after.

"Leave the females of Wynnsef alone," she said.

In the silence that swallowed the great hall, Rosamund's words seemed to boom. The murmur of masculine voices that abruptly carried an indignant edge. Tancred held up a hand, and silence returned to the chamber.

"You insult us, damoiselle," he said softly. "The conduct of my knights is of the highest standard."

"Women ever suffer for the ambitions of men, Chevalier Tancred," she said, again denying him the title of "lord". "Therefore, if I have misjudged you and your knights, I beg pardon. Are you then all chaste?" she asked sweetly. Improbable, unless they had been made eunuchs during their captivity by the Mussulman. But that was too much for which to hope.

He frowned. "We are not monks, Lady Rosamund, but neither are we beasts. No man of mine will force a maid. However, if she bats her eyes at him in flirtation, I much doubt she will be disappointed."

Male laughter filled the hall, accompanied by nods of approval and a bit of back-slapping.

"We know the difference between invitation and rape," he finished bluntly.

"Will your knights know the difference when they have drunk deeply?"

"You may ask that of any man."

"But you are new to this place. Neither you nor your men are familiar with our ways. How easy it would be to misread intentions when not only the woman, but her customs, are unknown to you."

His thumb continued to stroke the jewel. "Perhaps."

"You say you hold yourself to the highest standards." She shrugged. "I have seen no sign of it."

"We have not sacked this castle," one knight pointed out loudly enough to be heard by all. The hall rumbled with tenor and baritone voices muttering agreement.

Rosamund heard, but when she spoke, it was to Tancred. "All that proves is that you are not the lowest of barbarians. . .and not completely stupid. Only a fool destroys his gain."

Tancred's lips curved faintly. "True enough."

"You entered Wynnsef in the manner of thieves, not knights," she continued, still rankling over what she considered a low action.

A growl of dissent vibrated off the stone walls from the growing number of knights.

He regarded her with hooded eyes. "I gave you fair warning, damoiselle. You refused to comply. Would you have been better satisfied if I had spent the lives of your men and mine in battle?"

She seethed over how easily he made her appear not only bloodthirsty and heartless, but in the wrong. "You would have lost."

"Spoken like the defeated."

Rosamund swallowed a hot retort. The deed was done; she feared Wynnsef had fallen into the hands of a knight whose heart might well be as black as his surcoat. Now she must extract from him what concessions she could as she waited for her brother and his force to arrive. Pray God the messenger rode like the wind to get to Arnaud.

"Yea, Chevalier---"

"I am your lord now," he said, his voice velvet-gloved iron.

She nearly choked on her resentment. "Yea, my lord," she managed. "You have defeated my attempt to hold this castle for my brother. Thus, I have only the hope that the songs about you are true."

"They are songs," he drawled. "Diversions for idle moments."

"Then. . . you were not fostered by three valiant knights chosen for their virtue?"

"Yea," he growled. "That part is true."

"Did they not teach you their virtuous ways?"

He did not reply immediately. "They did."

"Are you not the beau chevalier known far and wide for his virtue and noble conduct?"

Tancred scowled. "I am no saint."

"Yet you expect your men to rise above their base urges, my lord?" Those last two words nearly stuck in her throat.

"Come to your point," he demanded curtly.

"It is said that you are no ordinary knight, but what you have just said reflects a very ordinary outlook. Too often, women's bodies are considered booty by a conqueror and his men, chattel to be used like a bench, a quintain, or a . . . a---"

"A scabbard!" someone in the crowd shouted.

The laughter choked off at a quelling glance from Tancred.

"Are you truly so stark?" she flared. "Can you not understand how terrifying it is for women when their home is conquered?"

"You conceal your terror well, Lady Rosamund," he observed dryly.

She drew a deep breath and eased it out, wishing her heart would stop hammering. "I must. Many depend upon me."

These large strangers surrounding her were the victors, but the fact that they were not already forcing their attention on the women of Wynnsef suggested she might have a chance.

"They must learn to depend upon their new lord," Tancred said.

Rosamund saw the opening and pounced. "Then perhaps my request will serve us both. If you honor my request they will be less frightened of you."

Those in the great hall fell silent, expectation hanging in the air like a morning mist.

"One month is what I ask. Lord Tancred," she added.

He made no comment.

"In that month neither you nor you will take a woman until she expressly asks it. Not with the swaying of hips or the fluttering of eyelashes. Not with sighs. With words and words alone." Rosamund was certain only the boldest strumpet or the oldest wife could bring herself to ask that of a man. "Then there can be no mistaking intention."

Tancred remained still for a moment, his expression unreadable. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed outrage in the faces of his knights.

"Lady, do you toy with me?" he asked quietly.

Her nerves jangled under her skin. "I am not foolish, my lord." Only desperate. "But look around you. See you servants here? In truth, I thought to ease the fear of you among the people of Wynnsef. For two generations, they and theirs have known only the rule of my family. Such a dictate would go far to win their unreserved loyalty. And it is my experience, sire, that such loyalty among your people is like having additional eyes and ears against a very harsh world."

Tancred made an indeterminate sound in his throat. "Lady, these people do not know how harsh the world can be."

"But you do. Would you bring that harshness here?"

He didn't reply, but she drew her answer from his thoughtful silence.

"Why a month?" he finally asked.

"A fortnight is too little time for the high blood of conquest to cool, and a quarter perhaps too long. I'm not trying to be unreasonable. Unless you think there is not sufficient willpower among your host to last a month?" She slanted him a querying look.

"Do not think to manipulate me, damoiselle."

"I would not dream of it," she assured him with a meekness she did not feel.

"Hmph." The Moon Lord regarded her over steepled fingers. "I think you may have misjudged how charming these knights can be."

"My lord, no woman objects to true charm. But base lies are an offense before God."

He nodded slowly. "So they are. Very well. You shall have your month." A wolfish smile curved his lips. "And I shall have your cooperation."