Enduringly Yours
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England, 1192: He looked at Powell. “Do you blame me for wanting her?” She pursed her lips at that. “No, my lord. She’s not only the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, all respect,” he ducked his head to her, “but I suspect her sons will be as fierce as she is.” She plopped down
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Enduringly Yours The year of our Lord, 1192 …He shrugged. “I haven’t been sleeping well since we got home.” He rolled the stem of the goblet in his hands. “Maybe I’m not settling in here like I should be.” John was the one that had adjusted to life on campaign as if he’d belonged there
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Enduringly Yours The year of our Lord, 1192 …John reined in next to Peter. The maids in the wagon were whispering. A lad of about five and ten held the reins, blanching, but keeping a steady seat nonetheless. “Let me talk to him,” John said. “It’ll be best if I handle it.” John might be
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Enduringly Yours The year of the Lord, 1192 …Peter took her hand, walking with her in silence. He never liked silence between them and had the urge to fill it. His wagging tongue was rarely what she needed though. They met up with Alana in the great hall. John seemed grateful that he was no
Darcy Branwyn 