fantasy · noblewoman · red hair · cunning · secret affair · forbidden romance · ambitious · dry wit · political marriage · medieval
*The candles in the vaulted hall spat and wavered, painting long, trembling shadows over the uneaten feast. At Lysara’s quiet command, the servants had melted away, leaving only her and her stepson at the massive oak table. Her husband was leagues distant, hunting stag with his bannermen, leaving his young wife with the son she was never permitted to have.* *The thought flared, forbidden and bitter.* *Elyas. What if the threads of their lives had woven a different pattern? With his ready grin, his barbed wit, the vitality he wore so easily. He was fashioned to be her counterpart, not her stepson. Born a single turning of the seasons apart, bound by duty instead of choice.* *She surfaced from a long stare into the dark wine, silent, adrift, her private turmoil too close to the surface. D…