LITMIR.BIZ

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the journey home.

      While she tried to keep her eyes on the veil as well as look for a stick with which to retrieve it, a man suddenly appeared on the opposite side of the stream as if he’d materialized out of thin air.

      “Have no fear, my lady!” the stranger called out as she came to a startled halt. He unbuckled his sword belt and put it down on a nearby rock. “I mean you no harm.”

      If he was taking off his sword and was alone, he likely didn’t mean any harm. More importantly, he sounded educated and of high rank—a knight, at least, if not a lord or baron.

      Whoever he was, he wore a simple leather tunic with no shirt beneath, dark breeches and plain boots. Standing by the stream with the woods behind him, he was like some sort of god of the forest—or maybe that thought only came to her because of his simple clothing and dark, waving hair.

      He began to wade across the deep stream and when he reached her veil, he plucked it from the water as easily as another man might pluck a daisy from its stem, then raised the dripping rectangle of cloth like a victor with his spoils.

      “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said as he approached her, the water splashing up around his shins, his deep, musical voice again assuring her he was no rough rogue. “I’m Sir Oliver de Leslille, of Ireland.”

      Sir Oliver—a knight indeed. Ireland explained the slight, delightful lilt to his words that made it seem as if he were singing rather than speaking.

      He also possessed a high forehead, denoting intelligence, a remarkably fine, straight nose and a chin that was exactly what a man’s chin should be, while his full lips curved up in the most incredibly attractive smile.

      Something deep inside her seemed to shift, as if a mild earthquake had moved the ground beneath her feet. Or the very quality of the air had changed.

      Or as if something that had been slumbering had awakened.

      “I was hunting with some friends and got separated from them,” Sir Oliver explained as he reached the bank and stood beside her. Water dripped from her bedraggled veil, and she couldn’t help noticing that his wet woolen breeches clung to his muscular thighs.

      “Since I had a powerful thirst,” he said, “I stopped here, and then I heard your, um, cries of dismay. Very colorful, I must say.”

      Sweet Mother of God, he’d heard her cursing. She wasn’t usually easily embarrassed, but right now, she was—so much so, she almost wished the stream would rise up and wash her away. Almost.

      She wasn’t usually prone to blushing, either, but she was doing that, too, even as she realized she should say something. Give him thanks, at least. Unfortunately, the words would not come—another oddity—and instead she found herself transfixed by the steady, brown-eyed gaze of this handsome stranger who’d waded through the water toward her as if he did this sort of thing every day, and as if that water wasn’t ice-cold. “You must be frozen!”

      “I’ve been colder than this plenty o’ times before, my lady,” he said as he handed her the sopping veil. “It’s worth a little chill to be of service to such a lovely woman.”

      “I—I thank you, sir,” she stammered.

      What in the name of the saints was wrong with her? She’d never sounded like such a complete ninny.

      Unfortunately, she simply couldn’t seem to think clearly, to form coherent words or a thought other than that he was the most breathtakingly good-looking man she’d ever met. “I’m very grateful you retrieved this for me. I paid a great deal for it—too much, my sister will say—and I would have been very upset if I’d lost it. It’s fortunate you were nearby, although you’re a long way from Ireland.”

      God help her, now she was babbling.

      “Aye, my lady, I am,” he said, a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes. “And who might you be?”

      Fool! “I’m Lizette.” Simpleton! “I mean, I’m Lady Elizabeth, of Averette.”

      The man nodded over her shoulder. “That’s your maid, I presume? I trust you have others with you and aren’t traveling alone?”

      “Yes, no, that is, yes, that’s my maid. And of course, I have an escort. Of …” Sweet savior, how many? “Fifty men. They’re close by.”

      “I’m glad to hear it. There are thieves lurking hereabouts and you’d be a very tempting morsel,” he said with a look in his eyes that made her throat go dry and her heartbeat quicken as it never had before.

      “So I’ve heard. That is, that there are thieves, not that I … I don’t mean to sound vain … or imply …” She gave up and silently cursed herself for a dolt.

      Sir Oliver laughed softly. “Modest as well as pretty. That’s a potent combination.”

      Merciful Mary, she might swoon like some giddy girl if he kept looking at her that way and she might say. anything.

      If this man had cornered her in the chapel, who could say what she might have done?

      “Averette—that’s in Kent, isn’t it?” he asked.

      “It is indeed! Have you ever been there?”

      What a stupid question! Surely if he’d visited Averette she would remember him.

      “No, I’ve never been to Kent. I’ve met your sister at court, though.”

      A surge of dismay and disappointment tore through her. If he’d been to court, if he’d met Adelaide, he would be comparing them in looks, if nothing else, and nobody could come out ahead of Adelaide if beauty was the measure. The men who sought her hand had all tried for Adelaide first, and been refused.

      His smile grew and she supposed that was because he was thinking about Adelaide. “Actually, I asked her to run off with me, but she wouldn’t. There was another man, you see, that she liked better.”

      All Lizette’s anger and envy disappeared. He’d probably felt the sting of Adelaide’s rejection—and Adelaide could be very stinging.

      “How unfortunate for you,” she replied as her confidence returned, and she gave him a smile of her own. “Why don’t you ask me instead?”

      It was an outrageous thing to say, yet surely he would laugh and say something clever in return, as courtiers and handsome noblemen were wont to do.

      Instead, the joviality left his face, and he said, in a voice soft and low that acted upon her like a bold and intimate caress, “Would you say yes if I did?”

      He must be teasing. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

      Yet her heart throbbed as if it wanted to break free of her ribs. Her lungs seemed to stop functioning. God in heaven, she’d craved excitement and adventure all her life, and here it was, in the flesh. Handsome, seductive flesh.

      “My lady!”

      She’d completely forgotten about Keldra. And Iain. And everything else in the entire world except Sir Oliver de Leslille of Ireland.

      She looked back over her shoulder to see Iain Mac Kendren marching toward them, his sword drawn and a hostile expression on his sun-browned face. Keldra must have gone to fetch him, for she came scurrying along behind him.

      Iain, who was forty-five if he was a day, had spent most of the journey from Lord Delapont’s castle ignoring her complaints that the rocking motion of the wagon made her queasy. He’d also made it quite clear that he resented being sent to bring her home to Averette, although he couldn’t be any more annoyed than she at being summoned home as if she were a child.

      In spite of Iain’s belligerent bearing, however, Sir Oliver didn’t appear the least disturbed, and he once again regarded her with amusement in his dark eyes.

      “Who’s this, then?” he inquired, quirking a brow. “I hope not an irate father

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