LITMIR.BIZ

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Bruce adorns Lord Douglas’s shield?’ In her surprise, her tongue forgot its courtly inflection. ‘Are ye daft?’

      ‘Nae, but Carr men have been known to lapse in loyalty to an absent king.’

      King David the Bruce had been England’s captive for half her life, it seemed. In his absence, a Douglas and a Steward ruled Scotland in his name. ‘Does that make you an enemy of Douglas and Carr, Gavin Fitzjohn?’

      ‘Not as long as they are no enemy of mine.’

      His eyes met hers and they took each other’s measure in silence. On the Border, an allegiance could be as strong as the relentless wind. And as variable.

      ‘See, Clare? He’s no enemy and we should all go home. I, for one, am chilled to the skin and ready to sit by the fire.’ Euphemia kicked her horse into a trot and the stranger fell in behind her.

      Clare handed Wee One to Angus, then hurried to catch up, letting the squire and the hound follow.

      She brought her horse beside Euphemia and the stranger dropped further back, complimenting young Angus on his mount.

      ‘You’re leading him straight home!’

      Euphemia shrugged. ‘Why are you so worried? There’s one of him and three of us.’

      ‘And he’s the only one carrying a sword.’

      A few men still manned the tower, but if he was scouting for raiders, they were leading him straight to what he wanted. Still, she would feel safer, she decided, home in the castle, where he would be outnumbered by her men-at-arms.

      At the silence, the stranger moved closer. ‘Angus tells me your falcon killed three today that were twice her size. That’s a bird with courage.’

      ‘Well that you say so.’ Euphemia smiled. ‘Wee One is Clare’s favourite.’

      ‘Then it seems your sister is as good a judge of bird flesh as she is of men.’

      She glanced at him without turning her head, still puzzling him out. He’d displayed none of the courtly respect a knight should, yet he controlled his destrier with a warrior’s ease, confident of his strength.

      He caught her studying him and she snapped her gaze away, gritting her teeth at his laugh. ‘It’s too late to flatter me, Fitzjohn.’

      ‘Oh, Mistress Clare,’ he began, his voice still edged with humour, ‘no man who was any judge of character would try flattery on you.’

      ‘But a true and noble knight would always speak sweetly to a lady,’ she countered. Alain always did. ‘That must mean you are not a true knight.’

      ‘Or that you are not a true lady.’

      She stiffened. What gave her away? ‘I am certainly a truer lady than you are a noble knight.’

      He cocked his head. ‘Perhaps, Mistress Clare, it may be too early to come to that conclusion.’

      She gulped against his gentle rebuke. A lady would never have made such a statement. In this wild land, it was hard to cling to the courtly graces she had learned as a child in France.

      In sight of the tower, she was relieved of the need to answer, and waved to the guard standing on the wall to open the gate. ‘Who’s with you, mistress?’

      The man beside her called out without waiting for her answer. ‘A hungry, tired man looking for a warm bed and a hot meal.’

      The guard waited for her sign. She nodded. ‘Open the gate.’

      They rode into the barmkin and she handed the sack of game to the falconer, closing her ears to his complaints. She started to dismount, expecting young Angus to help her off her horse, but instead, she faced the stranger.

      He appeared before she saw him move, fast as a falcon diving for its prey.

      He reached to help her down. She hesitated. Somehow, his hand offered an invitation to touch more than fingers.

      Without waiting for her to accept, he grabbed her waist, lifting her off the saddle. She had no choice but to slide down into his arms.

      He held her too tightly. As she stretched her toes towards the ground, she felt her breasts press against his chest. Something like the stroke of a bird’s feather rippled across her skin. She held her face away from him, but his lips, sharp and chiselled, hovered too close to hers.

      Her feet hit the earth.

      Standing, he was a full head taller than she. Though journey dust clung to him, he carried his own scent, complex and dangerous, like a fire of oak and pine, smouldering at the end of a long night.

      His smile didn’t waver. Nor did his eyes. Blue, startlingly so, and framed by strong brows, they held her gaze strongly as his arms held her body.

      ‘I’m ready to dismount.’ Euphemia’s pout was audible.

      And just like that, he was gone.

      Clare sagged against her horse, realising she had held her breath the entire time he touched her. This was no perfect knight, but a dangerous man. Anyone who trusted him would find herself abandoned and alone.

      Or worse.

      She forced herself to walk away, ignoring the tug of his eyes on her back. The cook and the steward approached, stern looks on their faces. She hoped fresh fowl would soothe their anger at her for avoiding her day’s duties.

      ‘Mistress Clare.’ The man’s words were a command.

      She turned at her name, hating herself for doing it and him for making her. ‘If it is food you want, the evening meal will be served shortly.’

      ‘What I want is to see the Carr in charge.’

      Now she was the one who smiled, long and slow and she watched his face, savouring the moment. ‘You’ve seen her.’

      And when she turned to the steward, the smile lingered on her lips.

      Gavin watched the woman turn her back on him, never losing her smile.

       You’ve seen her.

      And he had. With her fair hair pulled into an immovable braid, suspicious grey-green eyes and straight brows, hers was not a perfect face. But she had the air of a woman accustomed to being obeyed, and he could well believe she was the castle’s mistress while her father or her husband was at war.

      He had made no friend of her yet, he was certain, but he must try to do so now. He strode over and interrupted her conversation. ‘Then you’re the one I want to see. I want to join your men.’

      The quiver on her lips might have been irritation or fear. Should she discover who he was, it would certainly be fear. Eventually, there would be no way to hide it. She had not recognised his name, but even the smallest band of warriors seemed to know it now.

      Yet he refused to cower behind a lie. Men would think what they would. He had learned not to care.

      ‘No. You cannot.’ Her tone brooked no opposition.

      ‘Why not?’ Most of the castle’s men were, no doubt, harrying Edward all the way back to England. ‘An extra man-at-arms should be welcome.’

      ‘Oh, we’ll have men enough, just as soon as they capture Edward and come home.’

      He stamped on a pang of regret. He had known his decision would mean abandoning the man who had brought him to knighthood, but he had hoped not to care so much. ‘Well, until they do, I’ve a sword to offer in your service.’

      ‘Do you always march in, demand what you want, and expect to get it?’

      What he wanted was an end to endless war. That, he did not expect. Or even hope for. ‘I only expect that, as a knight, my duty is to fight.’

      She studied his face until he feared she would see the English blood in it. ‘So you truly are

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