He took her arm and led her out of the Great Hall and into their courtyard, still engulfed by roses. When they stood in the bower, beside the bench, he released her, and she raised her gaze to his face, saddened by the suspicion she found there. “I would have our conversation private, lady. ’Twill be brief, but I would speak plainly.” She waited, trying to remain composed, to restrain the tears summoned by the understanding that she had displeased him once more. Although how was almost as big a mystery as Geoffrey himself. The man she had come to care for deeply remained an enigma—one moment the ardent lover, the next a fearsome warrior. As if two men live in one body. “We are to wed in little more than a week, Alyse. I must have your oath that you will cleave only unto me. I am your betrothed. I will be your husband. Not Lord Braeton. Not Sir Guy. Unfortunately, I cannot change what has been decreed.”
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