By Jennifer Blake
The 3 Graces of Graydon are well-born sisters bearing an ominous curse: any guy betrothed to them with out love is doomed to die. a lot to her chagrin, girl Isabel Milton has been given to Earl Rand Braesford - a gift from the Tudor king for his loyalty to the throne. The lusty nobleman fast claims his husbandly rights, an event Isabel scarcely was hoping to get pleasure from quite a bit. yet formative years and power won't shop Braesford from his bride's notorious curse...
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He stepped out onto the cobblestones. Every eye in the bailey turned to fasten upon him. Isabel came erect in her saddle as alarm banished her weariness from the long journey. She had been misled, she saw with tight dread in her chest, perhaps through ignorance but more likely from malice. Graydon was fond of such jests. The master of Braesford was no mere farmer. He was, instead, a warrior. Randall Braesford was imposing in his height, with broad shoulders made wider by the cut of his doublet.
Selecting one, he broke its stem into two equal lengths with a few quick snaps. He fitted these on either side of her finger, and then reached without ceremony to slip free the knotted silk ribbon which held her slashed sleeve together above her left elbow. Shaking out the shining length, he wrapped it quickly around his makeshift splint. Isabel stared at his bent head as he worked, her gaze moving from the wide expanse of his shoulders to the bronze skin at the nape of his neck where the waving darkness of his hair fell forward away from it, from his well-formed fingers that worked so competently at his task to the concentration on his features.
Her finger hurt with a fierce ache that radiated up her arm to her shoulder, making her feel a little ill and none too steady on her feet. More than that, she had no wish to face Graydon just now. He would blame her for the humiliation at Braesford’s hand, and who knew what he might do to assuage his injured conceit. Braesford’s features were grim as he closed the two of them into the solar again. Turning from the door, he gestured toward a stool set near the dying fire. She moved to drop down upon it and he followed behind her, dragging an iron candle stand closer before going to one knee in front of her.
By His Majesty's Grace by Jennifer Blake