“Your father wasn’t the old duc.”Ĭhauncey seethed at the outrageous insult. I’m the Duc de Langeais now,” he added clumsily, and cursed himself for it. “Take it back! My father was the Duc de Langeais.

“Or bastard?”Ĭhauncey unsheathed his sword. “Duc?” The boy leaned against a twisted willow tree. “Do not play games with the Duc de Langeais,” Chauncey warned. It slid down his face, which was dark as a Spaniard’s.Ĭhauncey’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword. He hopped down from the monument, the ends of his black hair dripping rain. His torso was naked, his feet were bare, and peasant trousers hung low on his waist. Neither stone nor marble, the boy had arms and legs.

At first glance what appeared to be a large angel topping a nearby monument rose to full height. There was movement along the fringe of Chauncey’s vision, and he snapped his head to the left. There was no fog tonight, but the darkness and onslaught of rain were deceiving enough. Chauncey stepped easily over the sunken graves and humus of the cemetery even in the thickest fog he could find his way home from here and not fear getting lost. Rain sheeted down on the darkening countryside surrounding the Château de Langeais. Then he tugged on his boots and started for home. He tore a silver buckle off his shoe, placed it in the girl’s palm, and watched her scurry away, mud slinging on her skirts. CHAUNCEY WAS WITH A FARMER’S DAUGHTER ON the grassy banks of the Loire River when the storm rolled in, and having let his gelding wander in the meadow, was left to his own two feet to carry him back to the château.

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