ection>
“I will marry you, Mistress Clare.”
She stared at him incredulously. “Are you quite mad?”
“Not at all. You are a wealthy heiress. The proposal seems perfectly fair to me.”
“I shall never consent to become your wife,” she said through clenched teeth. “You cannot force me.”
“Mistress Clare, may I remind you that you are in my power—totally within my power?”
“Then I must do as you say,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
Stolen Heiress
Joanna Makepeace
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
JOANNA MAKEPEACE
taught as head of English in a comprehensive school before leaving to write full-time. She lives in Leicester with her mother and a Jack Russell terrier called Jeffrey, and has written over thirty books under different pseudonyms. She loves the old romantic historical films, which she finds more exciting and relaxing than the newer ones.
Contents
Chapter One
Clare Hoyland stood near the glazed window of the solar, looking out over the herb plot. It had snowed three days ago, but there had been a partial thaw and most of the snow had melted. However, last night there had been a hard frost and the remainder had iced over so the brown earth was iron hard. It would be difficult going for the men on this foray.
Clare shrugged her squirrel-lined cloak round her shoulders for it was still cold within the solar, despite the logs burning brightly in the hearth and an extra brazier near the side window. She had put on the cloak for extra warmth, yet perhaps it was her misgiving for this venture which caused her to shiver so violently. In this winter of 1461, who could know what the future would hold?
Certainly the hopes of the Duke of York had foundered at Sandal only weeks ago. Her uncle, Sir Gilbert Hoyland, and her brother, Peter, had crowed over the Lancastrian victory which had given Queen Margaret the day and allowed her the vindictive pleasure of having the unfortunate Duke’s head placed high on Micklegate Bar in York and topped with a crude paper crown some wag in her train had made for her. In such a fashion was the Yorkist victory of St Albans overturned and, to Sir Gilbert’s and Peter’s joy, the death of her father avenged.
Clare could not be glad of these tidings. The wars had continued for so many months now and so many unfortunates slain both in the several battles and skirmishes and also within the constant armed sallies of companies on both sides. She had mourned her father deeply, of course, but nothing could bring him back to them. This useless quarrel with their neighbours, the Devanes, in her estimation, could do no good whatever.
She sighed as she returned to her chair by the fire and leaned forward to warm her chilled hands at the blaze. This latest feud had started in so senseless a fashion: a sucking pig stolen from one of their sties, meant for the final feast of Twelfth Night. Their steward had investigated and determined that one of the men-at-arms from the Devane manor had been responsible.
Certainly there were tales that a roasted pig had been enjoyed by the Devane retainers on the last but one night of the Christmas festivities. A man-at-arms had boasted of the plunder to some village wench and a skirmish had broken out between armed men from both manors. A Hoyland sergeant had died and Sir Gilbert had declared his intention of demanding satisfaction and compensation.
Sir Humphrey Devane had sent back an insulting reply and, early this morning, a company of Hoyland men-at-arms had sallied out, breathing threats of fire and slaughter against their habitual rivals. It was all so pointless. Clare prayed that no other soul paid with his life for such senseless folly, nor any man be badly wounded as a result of this ceaseless wrangling between the manor lords.
She could not believe the Devanes in any way responsible for her father’s death at St Albans. The Devanes were declared Yorkists. It was said that the younger son, Robert, served in the train of the Earl of Warwick, cousin to great York. Sir Humphrey and his son, Walter, had fought at St Albans on the Yorkist side but many men had done so. The death of her own father couldn’t be laid at their door. But the feuding had continued.
Now, since the Yorkists had been driven from their stronghold of Ludlow Castle by Queen Margaret’s force and York’s widow, Proud Cecily, taken prisoner with her two youngest sons, the fortunes of the Yorkists had declined and, with the death of York at Sandal near Wakefield, were at their lowest ebb.
Clare could not dismiss the thought that it was this very notion that had prompted her uncle to risk an unprovoked attack upon his neighbour. Sir Humphrey was unlikely to complain to the King’s justices, whatever the outcome, as many Yorkists had been proscribed and their estates and property seized by the vengeful Queen.
Throughout Clare’s eighteen years of life she had had to listen to her father’s, her brother’s, and now her uncle’s constant carping complaints about their neighbours. She sighed again. Since the death of her mother, almost five years ago, she had been forced to gradually take into her own hands the management of the manor. She knew, well enough, her father had been wealthy enough to harbour no feeling of envy towards the Devanes, whose prosperity could never match their own.
Now Peter, at twenty-one, had inherited and she wondered how soon it would be before he brought a bride home, to oust Clare from her position of authority within the household. It was a moment she both dreaded and welcomed. She would be glad to be rid of the responsibility, for her endeavours were rarely praised by her brother. Since childhood he had bullied and despised his younger sister, resenting the love their father had had for her, and now he made no secret of the fact that he considered her a decided encumbrance.
‘Sweet