Excerpt of Brides of Christmas by Jo Beverley, Margaret Moore, Deborah Simmons

THE HUGE PADDED BELLY finally had a benefit, Joan of Hawes decided as she bounced across the horse, face down, in front of her captor. It cushioned the worst of this. She'd given up screaming and yelling. All that had achieved was a sore throat. Her captor was treating her as if she were a roll of fleeces, ignoring her — other than one strong hand in her belt that stopped her falling off, accidentally or on purpose.

Despite fury and fear, she was grateful for that firm grip. They were racing down a woodland track at a gallop, and she'd no mind to die over this. But who had snatched her off the donkey, and why? And why now, when it would cause such terrible trouble?

Suddenly the rider pulled the horse to a headtossing, stamping stop, and hoisted her up just like a bundle. Before she could shriek, he turned her, and put her down sitting sideways in front of him on the horse. By the time her dizzy head had settled, they were off again and she'd only caught a glimpse of a darkhooded form. Now, however, she could see other riders around. Strange riders, flowing dark, fast and fiendishly quiet through the winterbare, frosty wood.

Earlier, they'd swooped down on the village in silence, like black hawks from the sky....

"Sweet Mary, save me," she whispered. Had she been seized by the forces of darkness?

She twisted to try to see if her captor had a human face, but saw only darkness. A shiver of unholy terror passed through her, but then common sense returned. He was hot like a man, and smelled like a man — sweat, wool and horse. Now she saw that his hood hung forward to shadow his face, and his skin was darkened in some way. A common raider of some sort.

Then she understood more. This galloping horse had no saddle, and the man she was squashed against wore no mail. The bridle and reins were rope. Not unearthly devils, then, but men without jingle of bell, harness or mail. All the horses were dark, too. No wonder they'd appeared as if out of nowhere.

It was — it had to be — the de Graves, her uncle's bitterest enemies, taking this opportunity to ruin the de Montelan's most sacred ceremony. All the same, she couldn't help admiring the planning and execution. She did so love a job well done.

But why, oh why, did they have to choose this year to make mischief, when it was going to cause such terrible trouble? Her cousin Nicolette had been supposed to play the Virgin, and no one must know that she and Joan had changed places.

Perhaps they'd let her go soon. They'd succeeded in disrupting the ceremony, and had no need to keep her. If so, could she get back to the castle before Nicolette was discovered there? Probably. If he put her down now.

"Sirrah," she said.

When he ignored her, she shouted it. "Sirrah!" He paid no attention, intent on the dark road and speed. Speed taking them farther and farther from Woldingham. Joan eased her arm forward and jabbed back as hard as she could with her elbow.

The horse misstepped, and her captor grunted slightly, but he only said, "Stop that."

Then they were off again, and she knew — knowing men — that there'd be no stopping until he decided it was right to stop. May the devil rot his toes. She thought of throwing herself off the horse, but wasn't feeling suicidal. Just frightened and irritated.

What foolish mischief this was. But then, the whole bloodthirsty feud between the de Graves and the de Montelans was foolish. It had cost lives over the generations, and disrupted the whole countryside hereabouts, and all because of a piece of cloth carried to Jerusalem back in the First Crusade.

In the weeks since Joan had arrived at Woldingham to be companion to her cousin Nicolette, she'd learned all about the wicked, dishonorable de Graves family. They were supposedly guilty of everything from stealing that banner to putting the evil eye on the Woldingham sheep last August. The stories might be true, but she wasn't convinced, mainly because of the current head of the de Graves family.

Not that she'd met the famous Edmund de Graves, of course, but all England had heard of the Golden Lion — beautiful as Saint Michael, brave as Saint George, protector of the weak, defender of the right, dire vengeance on all who did evil.... Legends were told of him, and troubadours sung his praises.

The Golden Lion was son of the famous Silver Lion — Remi de Graves, mighty warrior and advisor to the king. Lord Edmund had been trained from boyhood by the best tutors and warriors, including the almost mythical Almar de Font, a renowned hero in his own right. At sixteen, the Golden Lion had carried the prize at a glittering tourney. At seventeen he had fought brilliantly in the war against France. At eighteen he had singlehandedly cleared out a nest of outlaws, who were terrorizing the area around one of his estates.

It was possibly true that generations ago a de Graves had cheated a de Montelan out of the ban

----------------------------------------------------------- --------------------- Article 02: Untitled ner, but the Golden Lion could have nothing to do with wicked rivalry and revenge today.

Could he?

So, was she not in the hands of the de Graves? The horse was pulled to a halt again, pressing her even harder against her captor. Whoever he was, he was a superb rider. This was a fiery destrier, heat and muscles seething beneath her, and her captor was controlling the beast with just legs and a piece of rope.

"Husha, husha, Thor," her captor murmured, leaning forward to pat and soothe the horse's arched neck. His massive chest almost crushed Joan and she squeaked a protest.