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  Praise for A Good Day to Marry a Duke

  “The very essence of romance . . . endlessly entertaining.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Readers will gallop through the lighthearted love story.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Full of wit, deceit, manipulation, and a thoroughly entertaining

  mix of American and English cultural references, this amusing

  romance has set the bar high for the sequels.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for the previous works of Betina Krahn

  “A delectable romance most readers will find impossible to resist.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “An utterly charming treat . . . a heroine to admire and love and a meltingly desirable hero.... Nothing could be better about this book.”

  —RT Book Reviews Top Pick

  “The contemporary sexual feel of the writing . . . worked seamlessly into the historical setting.”

  —Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

  “Rip-roaring romantic escapade is a breath of fresh air in historical reading.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Witty, rollicking romance . . . a bright, exciting adventure.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Krahn has outdone herself in this funny, sexy medieval romance . . . will keep readers smiling—and hungry—until the end.”

  —Library Journal

  “A captivating tale of action, adventure and passion that is wickedly fun.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  Also by Betina Krahn

  Rebel Passion

  Passion’s Storm

  The Paradise Bargain

  (previously published as Love’s Brazen Fire)

  Hidden Fires

  Rapture’s Ransom

  Luck Be a Lady

  (previously published as Midnight Magic)

  Passion’s Ransom

  Just Say Yes

  (previously published as Passion’s Treasure)

  A Good Day to Marry a Duke

  Three Nights with the Princess

  BETINA KRAHN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for A Good Day to Marry a Duke

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1993, 2018 by Betina M. Krahn

  Previously published by Avon Books in August 1993 as The Princess and the Barbarian. Published by arrangement with the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4354-6

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4357-7

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-4357-3

  For Wendy McCurdy,

  whose skill, dedication, and friendship

  have meant so much to me.

  Prologue

  Smoke hung in a vile gray-green haze over the skeletal hulk of what was once the great hall of the palace of Cardiz. The polished marble walls were now blackened, the colored window glass and magnificent carved furnishings lay in splinters, and the glorious Persian weavings which covered the soaring walls were reduced to wet, stringy tatters. The battle for control of the kingdom was finished, the rebellion extinguished. In the midst of the smoke and cinders sat ironthewed Saxxe Rouen, on a step near the main door.

  The elbows of his massive arms were propped on his knees, his broad chest heaved behind battered leather and mail, and his huge, corded hand still clutched his red-stained sword. Beneath a haze of dark stubble, his chiseled features were set, and a trickle of blood ran from a cut at the edge of his long, dark hair, down his forehead, grazing the corner of his eye. Beside him, his comrade in arms Gasquar LeBruit was sprawled on the floor wheezing with exhaustion, his metal breastplate dented and spattered with red.

  “Another kingdom saved.” Saxxe looked around him with a sigh of disgust. “If you can rightly call this being saved. Another fortnight, another kingdom.... In the thick of fighting I kept thinking that Zarif the Usurper’s men were the ones with the crimson turbans. Damn near got me killed. Crimson was Desmond’s Dread Horde . . . a month ago.”

  “A year ago.” Gasquar raised his helmeted head from the floor. “But, then . . . who keeps track?”

  “I hate this.” Saxxe’s green-gold eyes narrowed on the colored glass that now lay strewn over the floor, amidst a spreading puddle of red-stained water. “We’re always slashing and hacking, and defending and upholding. What the hell does it get us?”

  Gasquar shoved up on one arm and shot a bleary look at him. Saxxe got like this sometimes, especially after a particularly nasty battle. “We get a pouch full of silver. And a fortnight of the ale and the demoiselles—”

  “A pouch full of silver?” Saxxe snorted, pushing to his feet. “How long has it been since anyone paid us in silver?”

  Gasquar’s response died on his lips, and he squinted and rubbed a callused hand through his wiry beard, trying to recall. After a long moment under Saxxe’s scrutiny, he brightened. “But . . . we have had the ale. And the demoiselles.”

  “And a fortnight of the headache after,” Saxxe growled.

  “Oui . . . a magnificent ache in the head after.” Gasquar flashed a grin filled with unabashed venery. “It is how we know we have got full worth for our coin!”

  “It’s a damnable waste,” Saxxe declared irritably, hauling up his heavy, silver-handled broadsword and looking around for something to wipe it on.

  “It is our lot in life,” Gasquar countered, watching Saxxe stride purposefully across the hall. “We are warriors . . . it is what we do. And . . . Sacre Bleu! ”—he gave his burly chest a thump—“we love it!”

  Saxxe paused in the midst of cleaning his blade on a bit of ruined tapestry and frowned. He did sort of love it . . . the lightninglike sear of batt
le fire in his veins, the pumping swell of blood in his muscles, the soaring sense of invincibility . . . the potent, almost sexual feeling of taking on three opponents at once and seeing the death fear in their eyes as he took them down one by one. Sometimes it was damn well intoxicating. But then came the foul, acrid aftermath of battle; the smoky halls and smell of scorched furnishings and rivers of gore . . . the feeling of depletion. And, increasingly, a sense of futility. Like now.

  “I’ve had a bellyful of fighting for other people’s kingdoms . . . and lands and homes and heirs,” Saxxe snarled, inserting the tip of his blade into the sheath strapped across his back and sliding the sword home. He propped his great fists on his hips and swung his shaggy head around, taking in the splendor of the caliph’s audience hall, which, even in ruins, was more grand than anything he had known in his wayward, wandering life.

  “I want a damned kingdom of my own. I want land . . . a great holding . . . with orchards, fields, and streams. And sons . . . a raft of sons . . . a whole houseful of them. And concubines . . . a whole damned harem of them, like that fat Caliph of Shalizar had.” His eyes glowed hot and golden at the thought. “All different sizes, shapes, and colors . . . a different one for every night of the year. And a soft bed to sleep in night after night. No more sleeping on the ground or in caves or in pesthole taverns between hires. . . .”

  “Ahhh.” Gasquar lurched to his feet and staggered closer, pausing to wipe his blade on the ruins of a nearby curtain. “You speak of beds and women . . . the battle fire is not yet gone from your blood, mon ami. You would quench your fiery lance in a woman’s sweet well, oui?”

  Saxxe glowered at his friend. Gasquar had a way of reducing all problems to fit the space between a woman’s knees. There were times when Saxxe appreciated that simplification of life. But not now

  “Think, my friend. We have roamed the entire world in these last five . . . six . . .” He paused and scowled as he came up short of the number he intended. “Just how many years have passed since the Holy Crusade ended?”

  Gasquar dragged his battered helmet off and gave his head a thorough scratching. “I am not certain.” He tucked his helm under his arm and began to contemplate his thick, sooty fingers. “We were two years with Louis at Alexandria and Damietta . . . then a season in Thrace . . . and then the wars of the dukes of Venice and Naples. Another year, we fought the infidel Moors in Spain . . . or was that two?”

  Saxxe snorted in disgust. “It seemed forever.” He scowled, trying to remember, and found that the nature and durations of the conflicts ran together alarmingly in his mind. “Well . . . I had sixteen years when I rode off on the Crusade and now I have . . .” He lifted a sinewy fist and punched out his fingers one by one, his eyes widening. He tried again with both hands, and found himself staring at his callused palms in disbelief. “First I cannot remember how many years I have fought, and now I cannot even recall how old I am!”

  “You and I”—Gasquar shrugged—“we have never been quick at the numbers, mon ami.”

  Saxxe paced away, his bronzed features growing redder and hotter. “Damn and double damn! Years—bloody years in the mercenary trade—and naught to show for it but a mess of scars!” he bellowed. He wheeled on Gasquar with burning eyes. “‘Prithee sir, he is my only son,’ they say . . . and we take up arms and fight. “My family home, my inheritance, my lands,’ they mewl . . . and we ride out to rescue and restore. And then, when we have spent our strength and shed our blood in their miserable service, they turn their bald faces upon us, whining: ‘The churls have plundered my treasury, goodly knight,’ and ‘Surely you will take your reward in heaven, sir.’”

  He stalked closer, his voice dropping to a hoarse, determined rasp. “Well, I’m through storing up rewards in the hereafter—I want my share in the here and now. And, come the dirk or the Devil himself, I intend to have it.”

  He snatched up his shield and headed for the ruined door, stepping over splintered beams and groaning soldiers without breaking stride. Gasquar jolted after him, and soon they were stalking across a courtyard garden littered with broken statuary and vanquished enemies.

  “A fighting man has to look out for himself . . . make his trade pay. Silver is all a self-respecting mercenary is interested in.” He halted in his tracks and raised a clenched fist toward Gasquar. “From now on, we fight only for silver. From this day forward, Gasquar, my friend”—his eyes burned like fired bronze—“we demand cold, hard coin in advance, before rescuing or defending or upholding anybody.”

  Gasquar flashed a grin and smacked his hamlike fist hard against Saxxe’s in a show of solidarity.

  “Cold, hard coin.”

  Chapter One

  The city of Nantes,

  on the western coast of France—1262

  The sea breeze rolled in, charged with the feel of an impending storm as it glided through the narrow lanes and crowded market squares of the bustling port of Nantes. All over the city, merchants and their patrons cast eyes heavenward, expecting storm clouds, and shook their heads in confusion at the clear sky. When the bells of eventide finally tolled the hours of Vespers, the merchants and tradesmen forgot their customary last calls and eagerly closed down their shops to seek the comfort of their hearths. As the sun’s last rays withdrew from the streets, an unsettled sense of expectation hovered over the city.

  Crown Princess Thera of Aric and her companion, Countess Lillith Montaigne, shared that sense of expectation as they sat huddled behind a carved wooden screen overlooking the inner court of one of the city’s leading nobles. In the stone-paved yard below, household servants bustled back and forth laying three trestle tables with fine linen and silver wine cups . . . anticipating, as did Thera and her companion, their master and his party of noble guests.

  The evening breeze wafted through the vine-covered trellises ringing the court, providing relief to the two women in their hiding place upon the wooden gallery. But with each slacking of the breeze, heat and foody smells billowed from the nearby kitchen doors, engulfing Thera and Lillith in aromas of sage-stuffed capon and garlic-rubbed lamb. Over-warmed and aching with anxiety, Thera released a taut sigh and fanned herself with the edge of her mantle.

  “Let me take your cloak, Princess,” Countess Lillith said in a whisper, reaching for Thera’s outer garment.

  “Nay, I would leave it on.” Thera clutched the top of the woolen garment together at her throat and cast a forbidding look at her companion. A fine sheen of moisture covered her features, damp tendrils of burnished hair clung to her temples, and her eyes glowed with a heat that had little to do with their uncomfortable circumstance.

  “You’ll roast like a guinea fowl, trussed up like that,” Lillith insisted, wresting control of the garment and dragging it from Thera’s shoulders, baring the pristine white of her fitted silk gown. “Faith—just look what the hood has done to your hair. You should have let me do you up proper plaits . . . or worn a crispinet.” She wriggled closer on her stool and began to retuck wisps of hair into the long, single plait that began halfway down Thera’s back.

  “Don’t fuss, Lillith,” Thera said, brushing away her hands. “It doesn’t matter how I look. No one shall see me but you.”

  Lillith sat back and scowled at her mistress. This was not the princess she knew. Her usual princess would not suffer the slightest disarrangement or the merest smudge on her garments, nor be seen in public with so much as a hair out of place on her head.

  “But, perchance, if you are taken with the duc’s manner and appearance . . .”

  Thera pinned the plump, dark-eyed countess with visual daggers. “In that highly unlikely event, I shall slip away, back to our good host’s house, and send Henri tomorrow with an inquiry on the possibility of”—her mouth puckered as if the words were distasteful—“marriage negotiations.” The decision was made, and the subject, her royal annoyance proclaimed, was closed. She applied her eyes once more to the decorative holes in the screen, watching the movement below.

>   Lillith sighed and searched Thera’s striking features in profile . . . her delicately arched brows and carved cheekbones, her straight, perfect nose, and her slightly squared jaw. She was the very picture of regal poise and determination. Or of royal stubbornness run amuck . . . depending upon one’s view.

  Crown Princess Thera Aric had been raised from the age of two years by her widowed mother and a covey of doting noble ladies, with the assistance and advice of a solicitous Council of Elders. Tutors were culled from the burgeoning universities at Paris, Orléans, and Oxford to instruct her in both the trivium—grammar, rhetoric, and logic—and the quadrivium—arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music—of the seven liberal arts. For strength and health, she was taught to ride and to swim, and for entertainment she had a menagerie of pets, a host of attentive adults, and a palace full of gardens and architectural wonders. Then, when she reached a suitable age, children of the kingdom had been selected to come to the palace to share her tutors and experiences . . . to ensure that she would know and love her people.

  Every part of her life had been planned and guided with flawless precision. She had grown into a strikingly beautiful young woman with a wondrously keen mind, a deep affection for her people, and a strong sense of her royal duty. In truth, her extensive education had prepared her admirably for every aspect of her royal life . . . except the fact that she would someday have to marry and share her kingdom with a man.