Chapter Two

We must let go of the live we have planned as to accept the one that is waiting for us.

~Anonymous

England, 1103

Marcus Quinn, known as Marc to a select few, was the baron of a set of holdings he’d named Blackthorne. He stared out his window and contemplated the unpleasant fact that he needed to get a bride and an heir. His king had been hinting at the fact, for quite a while now.

Marcus hoped that, if he did so quickly, he could choose his own, rather than have one chosen for him. Past the usual age of marriage, he remained unwilling to be tied down with a woman who would lay like ice under him in the bedroom and whine and complain during the day. Marriage—it was a subject he avoided with the utmost fervor.

Marcus left the castle and headed for his stables, lost in thought. He wanted someone who would not be a hardship to live with. Mistresses had long lost any appeal. Sure, he currently maintained one at his castle, but even she had begun to bore him. In the dark recesses of his mind, he realized he wanted someone to love and to be loved in return, something rather unique for a man of his station. Most barons married for an heir but still kept mistresses. They were men, after all, and able to take a woman when and where they wished.

As he brushed down his destrier, Marauder, he thought about having to get another one, soon. Marauder was getting older, and soon, it would be too much for him to carry the combined weight of both Marcus and his armor. It was hard to contemplate since they had been together for a long time and had been through so much. A new horse, not to mention a bride, this just isn’t my day. Shaking his head, he left the stable, traveling inside after leaving the horse most wouldn’t touch if he ordered them to. His stallion was foul tempered, but it worked in his favor. No one could take him, no one could ride him, and on the field of battle, the horse was a weapon himself, striking out at those who got to close.

The next day, Marcus was in the stable before most of his castle had awakened. He needed a ride. The murkiness did not appear it would let up, anytime soon. The air was uncommonly heavy while containing an underlying static vibe to the thick fog it supported. Marcus urged Marauder on but ensured they proceeded at a slower pace. There were cliffs on this part of his land, so while he wished to reach the stream, caution was advisable.

It was the place he went to think and be alone. No squires, no pages, no one aside from him and his horse. No smelly castle, unkempt men, or female servants trying to catch his eye for an invitation to a tumble with the lord of the castle. No walls to enclose him. Perfect. For a man used to a warrior’s life more often than not, the dealings at the castle tended to get annoying.

Marauder tensed beneath him, and Marcus snapped to attention, hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.

At the other end of the clearing he rode through, by the stream, some of the fog had cleared away, leaving him a view—albeit a hazy one—of a magnificent black horse. This horse was like nothing he’d seen before. Built a little narrower than Marauder, yet still containing as much power in his body. Even with the distance between them, Marcus could tell the horse was watching him with fierce concentration.

The horse snorted, arching his neck with pride and total male arrogance while one foreleg pawed angrily at the ground, sending the morning dew flying. The equine’s stance was one that showed not only courage but also protection.

Marcus felt his blood pound and realized that this could be a horse for him. No, the horse. He may even be more agile than Marauder. His horse, feeling the energy coming off his rider, started blowing and prancing, getting ready for action, for Marauder was not only a warhorse but also a stallion. Marcus made a lasso while he focused his energy on the magnificent black equine in front of him.