Year of our Lord 1283. In the light of the early dawn, Lady Fay traverses her parapet wall and waits with bow drawn taut. Only when she realizes the group of men who exit the Saxon rowboat are tonsured does she allow herself to breathe. She need not shoot another of King Alexander’s suitors. At least not today. With a wicked grin, she lets go the bowstring, and the arrow makes a perfect arc to land directly in front of the one in the lead. She isn’t so fond of priests, either.
Nicholas Bruce jumps when the barb lands within inches of his sandaled feet. The former queen of the Isle of Man is just as beautiful and deadly as he remembers. Suddenly, he is not so certain that this holy disguise will work. Surely she’ll remember him, the bastard grandson of the mighty Earl of Annandale. But what choice does he have? If he wants to survive, he needs to bed her, and soon.