The king was pleased with the united show of loyalty, and that was all that mattered. "Baron?" he said with a glance in Lawrence's direction. "Go and fetch the bride and groom. The hour grows late, and there is much to be done."

As Lawrence was bowing in answer to that command the king turned in his chair and looked up at Sir Hugo. "Where are all the ladies? I daresay I don't see a single lady in evidence. Why is that, Hugo?"

Hugo didn't want to tell the king the truth, that the men in attendance hadn't brought their women along because they were set on war, not merriment. Such honesty would only injure his king's tender feelings.

"Yes, my patriot king," Hugo blurted out. "I have also noticed the lack of ladies."

"But why is that?" the king persisted.

Hugo's mind emptied of all plausible explanations to give for the oddity. In desperation he called out to his friend. "Why is that, Lawrence?"

The baron had just reached the entrance. He caught the edge of panic in his friend's tone and immediately turned around. "The journey here would have been too difficult for such… frail ladies," he explained.

He almost choked on his words. The lie was outrageous, of course, for anyone who had ever met any of the Winchester women knew they were about as frail as jackals. King George's memory wasn't up to snuff, however, because his quick nod indicated he was appeased by the explanation.

The baron paused to glare at the Winchesters. It was their conduct, after all, that had forced the lie in the first place. He then continued on his errand.

The groom was the first to answer the summons. As soon as the tall, lanky marquess of St. James entered the hall a wide path was made for him.

The groom strolled into the hall like a mighty warrior ready to inspect his subjects. If he'd been homely, Lawrence would have thought of him as a young, arrogant Genghis Khan. The marquess was anything but homely, however. He had been gifted with dark, auburn-colored hair and clear green eyes. His face was thin, angular, his nose already broken in a fight he had, of course, won. The slight bump on the bridge made his profile look less pretty and more ruggedly handsome.

Nathan, as he was called by his immediate family, was one of the youngest noblemen in the kingdom. He was just a scant day over fourteen years. His father, the powerful earl of Wakersfield, was out of the country on an important assignment for his government and therefore couldn't stand beside his son during the ceremony. In fact, the earl had no idea the marriage was taking place. The baron knew he was going to be furious when he heard the news. The earl was a most unpleasant man under usual conditions, and when provoked he could be as vindictive and evil as Satan. He was known to be as mean as all the St. James relatives put together. Lawrence supposed that was the reason they all looked up to him for guidance on important matters.

Yet while Lawrence thoroughly disliked the earl, he couldn't help but like Nathan. He'd been in the boy's company several times, noticed on each occasion that Nathan listened to the views the others had to give, and then did what he felt was best. He was just fourteen, yes, but he had already become his own man. Lawrence respected him. He felt a little sorry for him, too, for in all their visits together Lawrence had never once seen him smile. He thought that was a pity.

The St. James clan never called the marquess by his given name, though. They referred to him simply as "boy," for in their eyes he had still to prove his worth to them. There were tests he would have to conquer first. The relatives didn't doubt the lad's eventual success. They believed he was a natural leader, knew from his size that he would be a giant of a man, and hoped, above all other considerations, that he would develop a streak as mean as their own. He was family, after all, and there were certain responsibilities that would fall on his shoulders.

The marquess kept his gaze directed on the king of England as he made his way over to stand in front of him. The baron watched him closely. He knew Nathan had been instructed by his uncles not to kneel before his king unless commanded to do so.

Nathan ignored their instructions. He knelt on one knee, bowed his head, and stated his pledge of loyalty in a firm voice. When the king asked him if he was his patriot king, a hint of a smile softened the boy's expression.

"Aye, my lord," Nathan answered. "You are my patriot king."

The baron's admiration for the marquess increased tenfold. He could see from the king's smile that he was also pleased. Nathan's relatives weren't. Their scowls were hot enough to set fires. The Winchesters couldn't have been happier. They snickered in glee.

Nathan suddenly bounded to his feet in one fluid motion. He turned to stare at the Winchesters for a long, silent moment, and the look on his face, as cold as frost, seemed to chill the insolence right out of the men. The marquess didn't turn back to the king until most of the Winchesters were intently staring at the floor. The St. James men couldn't help but grunt their approval.

The lad wasn't paying any attention to his relatives. He stood with his legs braced apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and stared straight ahead. His expression showed only boredom.

Lawrence walked directly in front of Nathan so that he could nod to him. He wanted Nathan to know how much his conduct had pleased him.

Nathan responded by giving the baron a quick nod of his own. Lawrence hid his smile. The boy's arrogance warmed his heart. He had stood up to his relatives, ignoring the dire consequences that were sure to come, and had done the right thing. Lawrence felt very like a proud father-an odd reaction to be sure, for the baron had never married and had no children to call his own.

He wondered if Nathan's mask of boredom would hold up throughout the long ceremony. With that question lurking in the back of his mind he went to fetch the bride.

He could hear her wailing when he reached the second story. The sound was interrupted by a man's angry shout. The baron knocked on the door twice before the earl of Winchester, the bride's father, pulled it open. The earl's face was as red as a sunburn.

"It's about time," the earl bellowed.

"The king was delayed," the baron answered.

The earl abruptly nodded. "Come inside, Lawrence. Help me get her down the stairs, man. She's being a mite stubborn."

There was such surprise in the earl's voice, Lawrence almost smiled. "I've heard that stubbornness can be expected of such tender-aged daughters."

"I never heard such," the earl muttered. " 'Tis the truth this is the first time I've ever been alone with Sara. I'm not certain she knows exactly who I am," he added. "I did tell her, of course, but you will see she isn't in the mood to listen to anything. I had no idea she could be so difficult."

Lawrence couldn't hide his astonishment over the earl's outrageous remarks. "Harold," he answered, using the earl's given name, "you have two other daughters, as I recall, and both of them older than Sara. I don't understand how you can be so-"

The earl didn't let him finish. "I haven't ever had to be with any of them before," he muttered.

Lawrence thought that confession was appalling. He shook his head and followed the earl into the chamber. He spotted the bride right away. She was sitting on the edge of the window seat, staring out the window.

She quit crying as soon as she saw him. Lawrence thought she was the most enchanting bride he'd ever seen. A mop of golden curls framed an angelic face. There was a crown of spring flowers on her head, a cluster of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her brown eyes were cloudy with more.

She wore a long white dress with lace borders around the hem and wrists. When she stood up the embroidered sash around her waist fell to the floor.

Her father let out a loud blasphemy.

She repeated it.

"It's time for us to go downstairs, Sara," her father ordered, his voice as sour as the taste of soap.

"No."

The earl's outraged gasp filled the room. "When I get you home I'm going to make you very sorry you've put me through this ordeal, young lady. By God, I'm going to land on you, I am. Just you wait and see."

Since the baron didn't have the faintest idea what the earl meant by that absurd threat, he doubted Sara understood any better.

She was staring up at her father with a mutinous expression on her face. Then she let out a loud yawn and sat down again.

"Harold, shouting at your daughter isn't going to accomplish anything," the baron stated.

"Then I'll give her a good smack," the earl muttered. He took a threatening step toward his daughter, his hand raised to inflict the blow.

Lawrence stopped in front of the earl. "You aren't going to strike her," he said, his voice filled with anger.

"She's my daughter," the earl shouted. "I'll damn well do whatever it takes to gain her cooperation."

"You're a guest in my home now, Harold," the baron replied. He realized he was also shouting then and immediately lowered his voice. "Let me have a try."

Lawrence turned to the bride. Sara, he noticed, didn't seem to be at all worried by her father's anger. She let out another loud yawn.

"Sara, it will all be over and done with in just a little while," the baron said. He knelt down in front of her, gave her a quick smile, and then gently forced her to stand up. While he whispered words of praise to her he retied the sash around her waist. She yawned again.