The words hung in the suddenly still air like drawn swords: a challenge. All motion and conversation ceased; eyes turned toward the slender blond woman standing in the center of the hall. She stood steadfast, chin firm, ice-blue gaze steady beneath a sweep of insolently long brown lashes. No errant thrum of lute or lyre by careless minstrel, no casual comment, could be heard in the hall awash with light from lamp and torch. Those perched on benches or leaning against stone walls seemed to hold their collective breath. Ceara, daughter to the Saxon lord of Wulfridge, waited with nervous defiance for her father’s reply. Some would like to see her fall, she knew well enough. Fah, she did not care what they thought. Their anticipation was as pungent as the sharp scents of burning pine knots and oil lamps. But all that mattered to her now was vengeance and pride—for ‘twas all she had left. Wulfric is dead, and with him have gone laughter and hope.… She saw rage in the pinpoint flames that lit Lord Balfour’s bright blue eyes.
