Darcy Branwyn

Lady Alana of Berkley slid off her dapple-gray stallion, her legs stiff from an entire day spent in the saddle. She was an accomplished horsewoman, but unaccustomed to sitting in one position for so long. She looked around her new surroundings; Ravenmore, where she and her brother, Matthew, would be spending the summer season with a friend of his, Lord John. Ravenmore looked little different than her home, Berkley. It consisted of a village lined with thatch roofed cottages, a stone chapel with small stained-glass windows, a kitchen outbuilding, the garrison, and of course the castle keep.

But there was one major difference, one that could not be seen with a quick sweep of the eye. 

Lord John of Ravenmore.

Alana knew that should be damned for what she had done. She likely would yet. Fantasizing about one’s new sword master was no doubt a sin of the flesh. Especially when one was engaged to another man.

She wasn’t precisely aware of what went on between a man and a woman behind closed doors or in darkened alcoves, but she’d a good deal of experience with horses, and could guess. John made her feel tight-skinned and warm all over. And an odd ache was beginning to develop in very private place.