EXCERPT:

. . . A tone of possession and ownership had crept into his voice. Gwyneth stepped back with an urgent need to flee, stopped only by the bulky form of the guard still standing behind her, blocking any escape. Besides the conquering warrior of Creekside, who did this man think he was? He may have ruthlessly gained possession of the keep and lands, but that did not give him ownership of her.

As if somehow hearing her thoughts, he lifted his head to stare at her. His piercing green-gold gaze was unwavering as he held her pinned in place with nothing more than a stare.

“She is mine.” He lifted one eyebrow, daring her to refute his claim.

Gwyneth’s heart stopped. She did know him. That arrogant stance, the possessive tone of voice, the sardonic lift of a brow, and that all-knowing stare had only intensified with age. He’d grown taller, broader shouldered, more muscular, and his voice had deepened, but his arrogance had remained just as unbearable.

The years fell away as the memories flooded back. He’d teased her mercilessly about a doll during their first meeting. At the next, he’d tried to pretend that he had climbed the old apple tree faster and had nearly pulled her hair from her head. Later, whenever he visited Creekside, he’d always gone out of his way to intentionally enrage her, as if her anger had been the most amusing thing he’d ever witnessed. He was the reason she’d learned to hide her emotions as best she could.

He was also the reason she had never wed. According to the rumors that had reached Creekside, he’d been responsible for John’s death.

“Beaumanoir.” She wanted to spit. Without thinking, she threw the rock she still held in her hand at him. “You spawn of the devil, how dare you!”

He easily dodged the rock and smirked. “I see you do still possess a wayward temper. I had begun to fear you’d grown out of it.”