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Dragon's Knight
Catherine Archer


Valorous, respected knight though he was, Jarrod Maxwell had always known the land of the heart was closed to him. Why then had capricious Destiny led him to aid Lady Aislynn Greatham…and made his soul yearn for impossible passion–and a forever love?Should she, Aislynn Greatham pondered, risk all she held dear–even betrothal to a childhood friend–to go on a journey with an enigmatic knight to find her missing brother? Convention muttered, "Nay!" But when she looked upon Sir Jarrod in all his warrior glory, her heart could not deny that she would follow this man–wherever he led!







“So beautiful, Aislynn.”

He reached to touch her hair, noting that the fine strands seemed to cling to his callused fingers. “So soft.”

A barely audible sound escaped her, drawing his gaze back to her face. He watched her lips part and her breathing quicken. He found himself unable to tear his gaze away from those sweet pink lips.

Aislynn’s voice was husky and questioning as she whispered, “Jarrod?”

Jarrod’s head spun. Whether it was from the feel of this beautiful woman in his arms, or from the wine, he did not know. And at this moment, he did not truly care.

He could never in his life recall wanting to kiss anyone as badly as he did Aislynn in this moment. And if there were reasons for not doing so, he could think of none of them.

He bent and placed his mouth on hers….


Praise for Catherine Archer’s recent titles

Summer’s Bride

“A delightful read!”

—Romance Reviews Today

Winter’s Bride

“A compelling, innovative tale…with lush details and unforgettable characters.”

—Rendezvous

Fire Song

“This finely crafted medieval romance…(is) a tale to savor.”

—Romantic Times

#603 THE BRIDE FAIR

Cheryl Reavis

#604 MISS VEREY’S PROPOSAL

Nicola Cornick

#605 THE DRIFTER

Lisa Plumley




Dragon’s Knight

Catherine Archer





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Available from Harlequin Historicals and

CATHERINE ARCHER

Rose Among Thorns #136

** (#litres_trial_promo)Velvet Bond #282

** (#litres_trial_promo)Velvet Touch #322

Lady Thorn #353

Lord Sin #379

Fire Song #426

* (#litres_trial_promo)Winter’s Bride #477

* (#litres_trial_promo)The Bride of Spring #514

* (#litres_trial_promo)Summer’s Bride #544

* (#litres_trial_promo)Autumn’s Bride #582

† (#litres_trial_promo)Dragon’s Dower #593

† (#litres_trial_promo)Dragon’s Knight #606


This book is dedicated to Mt. Hood Hospice in Sandy, Oregon, for all the wonderful work they do.




Contents


Chapter One (#ud6e598fb-e014-59bd-9e79-46f68a709585)

Chapter Two (#u6b54afa7-f546-5e56-a016-b358a8a074a2)

Chapter Three (#u6183bdab-a9b6-5fbc-a121-698b0a3c0392)

Chapter Four (#u17f8bd24-d272-5212-bbd0-64aae84f5df8)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Aislynn Greatham moved through the high-ceilinged, drafty rooms of Bransbury Castle, with only half her attention on whence she was going. The rest of her mind was centered on thoughts of where her brother Christian might be.

And if he would ever return.

Her father, the baron of Bransbury lands and keep, grew more morose with each day that passed. He asked the same questions each time they were together. Where could his son have gone and why? What could have possessed him to leave without telling his father? For the thirteen years Christian had been gone to the Holy Land. Had this not been long enough for him to be without his son and heir to his lands?

Aislynn could make no answer to any of these queries. She did regret not telling their father when Christian had confided in her that he was leaving. Christian had been so certain that he would return within a fortnight, had, in fact, given his solemn word on it. He had also assured her that he would be free to tell her every detail of his mysterious mission on his return.

Aislynn sighed, catching the first scents of the roasted fowl that she herself had seasoned that afternoon. She felt no pangs of hunger though she had eaten little that day. She greatly dreaded sitting at table with her father, having to bite back her own fears. For, more troubling than their father’s worry, was Aislynn’s thought that her brother had not returned because he could not.

Visions of him, ill…or worse, had begun to assault her day and night.

Those visions had driven her to do something that made it even more difficult to face her father. She had written to the friends Christian had spoken so much of. She had not bid her father’s permission, fearing that in his pride he would not give it.

Although she had asked for no more than information concerning her brother’s whereabouts, she secretly hoped and prayed that they would come to Bransbury. Christian had told her much of Jarrod Maxwell and Simon Warleigh, whom he had known since fostering with them even before the three of them had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land. Not only his love, but his admiration for their strength and abilities was abundantly clear.

Surely in the event that Christian was not with them, such men could find her brother.

Her father, his leg having never healed properly after a fall from his horse, was in no condition to search further than the immediate surroundings for his son. Moreover, he had no notion of where to start his search.

“Dear God,” she prayed, as she slowed her steps at the end of the corridor that led into the hall, “even if Simon Warleigh or Jarrod Maxwell do not wish to help us, please let them send word soon.”

To hide her anxiety, she took a deep breath and schooled her features to appear calm. Stepping into the Great Hall, with its wide hearth and high, narrow windows, Aislynn gathered the strength to appear hopeful—not only for her father’s sake, but all those at Bransbury keep. As she passed through the hall, she observed, with approval, the clean, scrubbed surfaces of the trestle tables that were set up for the evening meal. Many of the castle folk had already gathered in their accustomed places, chatting as they waited for the food to arrive from the kitchen. But there was a decided solemnity to their expressions.

She was sure they had noted their master’s recent melancholy and were moved by it, not to mention their own uncertainty at the disappearance of the heir to the lands. Strong leadership could mean the difference between peace or war. Aside from being a strong leader, her father, though a reserved and quiet man, was a fair and just overlord. These qualities made him well loved by his folk.

Aislynn was taking her place at the high table when her father, Thomas Greatham, lord of Bransbury keep, entered with several of his men. She could see the weariness in his lean face as he removed his gloves. It was also apparent in his slow, measured step that did much to disguise his limp as he moved toward her. She was glad of the heat from the fire as the men’s entrance brought with it a breath of chill air that made gooseflesh appear on her arms even beneath the heavy sapphire velvet of her gown.

As her father took his place, she noted a sheen of frost in his mustache. He looked to her with a hopeful expression in his periwinkle-blue eyes, eyes he had passed on to both of his children. “Any word of your brother?”

Regret made Aislynn look down at her folded hands. She took a deep breath then faced him with a fixed smile. “Nay, Father, not yet. But I am sure he, or word of him, will come soon.” It was something she said each day and she no longer imagined that it offered any comfort.

The naked disappointment that came over her sire’s face for a brief instant made her wish there was something, anything else she might do to help. There was nothing.

Not for the first time she considered telling him about the letter she had sent to Christian’s friends. She dismissed the notion instantly. There had been no reply. Better that he not know in the event that no word came. Not only might he be angry with her for sending it, he would surely be even more disheartened.

She spoke with forced cheer. “And you, Father, what of your day?”

He frowned. “The blackguards will not give me rest of late. Llewellyn’s constant efforts to plague me have been extended to his neighbors on the Welsh side of the border as well. Obviously there is some trouble brewing there, but I have been unable to glean any hint of what it might be.”

Aislynn sighed. The problems of holding the lands along the border did not abate simply because they had other worries. “Have you contacted Gwyn?”

“I have questioned your intended, but he seems to know naught, though he is deeply troubled by his neighbor’s obvious quest to wreck havoc with us all.”

Aislynn sighed again. Gwyn ap Cyrnain was the one of the few Welsh lords who had reached out in any kind of friendship to them. He had done so to the point of offering for Aislynn’s hand in marriage. Her father approved of the match and Gwyn had been a friend to Aislynn in the long years when her brother had been away. The marriage would strengthen her father’s position with Gwyn’s countrymen. She had agreed. That Gwyn seemed in no great hurry to see the matter settled suited her most well.

Gwyn was a good man, a solid man, not only in size but in heart. With him she would create a stable base about which their children would gravitate. It would be a family such as she had always wished hers had been.

To the getting of those children she gave little thought. Although Gwyn had kissed her on the day their marriage contracts were signed over a year gone by, she had felt nothing but the same filial affection toward him that she always had. She did not bemoan this fact, for she had no notion of experiencing love such as was told in tales of romance. Family was what mattered to Aislynn.

Her father sighed now, bringing her attention back to him. He said, “As you know, under normal circumstances, I do my duty here gladly. It is only now, with Christian gone and with no explanation that I chafe under the responsibilities of keeping matters in check.”

She touched his hand gently. “I understand.”

There was no more conversation between them as the trays arrived from the kitchen and the meal began.

Aislynn did not take her father’s distraction as any insult to her person. In the years she had lived alone with him he had been a good father, if somewhat preoccupied with his duties. Only after Christian’s return from the Holy Land had he been more garrulous at mealtimes. That was, until her brother’s disappearance.

Aislynn was making every effort to eat the food, when the door to the hall flew open wide, bringing on a rush of cold air.

Like all those present, she glanced up, thinking the new arrival must simply be some latecomer for the meal, and stared. For the man coming toward them was not a resident of the keep or the surroundings lands.

Aislynn was quite sure that had she seen this man about the demesne she would certainly remember it. As he moved toward them with both casual grace and alertness, she noted the exotic quality of his appearance. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, his skin darkly tanned, though most other men were paling as they all did at winter’s approach. When he halted before the high table, she saw that his eyes were no less dark than his shoulder-length hair, their centers lost in that seemingly depthless darkness.

Even before the stranger began to speak, Aislynn realized who, in fact, this man was.

Jarrod Maxwell.

She had met him once, many years ago. It had been before Christian had left on crusade. She and her father had gone to bid her brother Godspeed where he was camped with King Richard’s army. Her father had allowed her to go off with Christian, who had, of course, gone looking for his friends. They had seemed to forget her until someone had shouted out that the king had arrived. The throng had risen to watch the king pass by. It had been Jarrod Maxwell who had lifted her up on his shoulders so that she could see above the heads of the many soldiers. Everyone wanted to watch King Richard as he passed within a mere stone’s throw of them.

Though she had been but six at the time, Aislynn had not forgotten that day. Her memory of it was sharper than that of her mother, who had died three years before.

Her brother had gone into fosterage only months after her mother’s life had been taken in a tragic accident when the horse she rode stepped in a hole and tumbled upon her. Though Aislynn had been very young at the time, barely recalling her mother as more than a warm scent, Aislynn had learned her father had lost much of his joviality upon her mother’s death.

This in no way surprised Aislynn. She knew her father blamed himself for his wife’s death. The night before she’d left Bransbury for a visit to her sister’s home, he had awakened from a vivid dream that foretold her death on the journey. Yet he had been unable to convince her that she must not go. He felt that he had not tried hard enough to convince her of the danger.

But Aislynn did not wish to think on this, for it had all happened long before she could remember. She must concentrate on the man before them.

And truth to tell that did not prove difficult.

Christian had told her that his friend had been born of an Eastern woman while his father was on crusade and that he had brought the child home with him after she died. That exotic heritage was stamped on this man in not only his coloring but in the flowing ease of his stride, in the noble set of his wide shoulders, and the regal angle of his head. He was garbed as any other knight, in a burgundy velvet tunic and a flowing cape of fine wool with a dragon clasp that was fashioned in the same manner as the one her brother wore on his cape. Yet it was also easy to imagine him in the Eastern robes of the people in the many sketches Christian had drawn on his travels.

Christian had shared tales of the many women who had sought the exotic knight’s favor wherever they had gone. And suddenly as those black eyes met hers for a brief moment, Aislynn knew a feeling of resentment for all those faceless dames.

Quickly she looked away, telling herself how very mad such a thought was even as the man began to speak. “My lord Greatham, my name is Jarrod Maxwell. I have come as quickly as I could in answer to the letter concerning Christian’s disappearance.”

Her father’s tone was dull with confusion. “Letter?”

Aislynn watched from the corner of her eyes as Jarrod Maxwell nodded, a crease appearing in his brow at her father’s obvious confusion. “Aye, it came to Avington by messenger some days gone by.”

Her father said, “I sent no letter.”

Aislynn, feeling her sire’s assessing gaze upon her, looked into his blue eyes. “I sent it, Father. Christian had just returned from Avington when he set off on this mysterious quest of his, and I thought that those there might know where he had gone. Or that he might even have gone there as he has before.” Her gaze flicked to the dark knight, and away. “I cannot deny that I did hope Christian’s friends might even come to our aid. They are, after all the years they spent in the Holy Land together, as much family as we are to Christian. Besides, Christian himself once told me if there was ever any reason, I should not hesitate to call upon them as I would him.”

Her father’s voice was filled with disapproval. “Daughter, that all may be true, yet it does not explain why you would do this without consulting me?”

Jarrod Maxwell spoke up, drawing her gaze back to him. “If you will permit, my lord, I can not disagree that your daughter erred in not begging leave before writing to Avington. Yet Simon and I are indeed family to your son and come to your aid in finding him gladly.” There was a coolly assessing expression in his dark eyes as they rested upon Aislynn for a brief moment. She felt a strange sense of unrest, though she was not sure why.

The fact that he glanced away again, clearly dismissing her, should not have brought such a prodding of displeasure. She told herself that it was because he had had the very nerve to express his own disapproval of her writing without her father’s permission.

But his easy dismissal was especially irritating when she had been so immediately taken with the sight of him. Which was ridiculous of her, given that she was to be married. Yet for reasons she could not understand she found her gaze going to the knight once more as he bowed to her father, his lean-jawed countenance and strong nose in profile. Jarrod Maxwell was indeed as handsome a man as any maid might long for.

She pushed away this thought when her father spoke her name with irritation. “Aislynn!”

He watched her with a glowering expression and she realized she had not answered him. She addressed him hastily. “I deeply regret that I did not tell you, Father. I know how worried you have been, how frustrated in your efforts to find Christian. As I said, I thought that if naught else Warleigh or Maxwell might have some notion of whence Christian has gone. I…” She blushed again, looking down at her hands, feeling very self-conscious as she felt Jarrod’s gaze upon them.

Her father raised her chin to look at her. He continued to scowl, yet she noted that most of his irritation with her had already passed. He said more gently, “In future I will thank you to recall that not only am I your father but the lord of these lands. You will not take such action without my consent.”

She nodded, for there was no denying that she had acted rashly. Then in spite of her displeasure with Jarrod Maxwell, she faced him. She was glad that he had come to aid them. Surely he had come because he thought he could help find Christian. She asked hopefully, “Do you have any idea of where Christian might be?”

His expression showed clear regret as he shook his head, making his rejoinder to her father rather than to Aislynn. “Nay. I am sorry, but I have not the least notion. When he left Avington he said only that he was going home, and, though he seemed a bit preoccupied, I thought little of it after all we had been through.”

She tried to tell herself that her disappointment was brought on by his words, rather than by his continued disregard of her. Chagrined, she found herself studying her folded hands once again and wondering if she had gone quite mad in the intervening moments since this man had walked into the keep.

Even though Sir Jarrod Maxwell addressed his host rather than Christian’s young sister, he could not help being aware of the disappointment that emanated from her. He flicked a glance over and saw the pain that tightened Aislynn Greatham’s delicately beautiful profile and washed the color from that creamy skin. He fervently wished he had another answer to give, which surprised him.

He did not even know the girl.

She took that moment to look up across the table, laden with the evening meal, and Jarrod was held by a pair of startling cornflower-blue eyes. He found himself truly looking at Aislynn Greatham for the first time. There was a restive fragility about her, the type of restlessness as displayed by a butterfly. Her skin was like porcelain in contrast to the dark blue velvet of the head covering that framed her face. Her honey-colored lashes were thick, her lips, pink and pleasingly formed, her cheeks sweetly curved above the slender line of her jaw. He felt a stirring inside him, a desire to touch, though he knew that he could not do so, for to touch a butterfly was to destroy its ability to fly.

He was shocked at this fanciful thought, for it was so unlike him.

It was not the first time he had thought of this girl. Many years ago when he was a boy of fifteen, he had met her when she, so small she could barely be more than a babe, had come to bid her brother, Christian, Godspeed before his journey to the Holy Land. She had been such a little child, straining to see King Richard as he rode by the troops, who had gathered for the journey. He had felt an unfamiliar twinge of affection and protectiveness, reaching down to lift her up. She had weighed next to nothing as he had raised her up to see above the crowd of soldiers.

Now there was a difference in his reaction to Christian’s young sister that he could not quite put his finger on. And, strangely, he felt an intense reluctance to attempt to name it.

Jarrod had no personal interest here other than to find Christian.

Even as she watched him, her gaze darkened with some deep emotion that he could only read as sadness. He felt that tug in his belly once more and deliberately focused his attention on her father again. “I take it, my lord, that you still have no idea of your son’s whereabouts either.”

Lord Thomas Greatham shook his gray head. “Nay, I do not.” He bowed with studied politeness. “But really, sir, you need not concern yourself with our difficulty. It was wrong of Aislynn to bring you all this way.”

Jarrod frowned. “Not at all, my lord. As I said, Christian is as my brother. I am happy to be informed that there is a problem, as was Simon who would have come as well if it were not for his duty to his lands, not to mention his new bride.” Simon was indeed well and happily occupied, having found more bliss with the daughter of his enemy Kelsey than Jarrod would have thought possible. But he did not wish to think on that now, nor the fact that any thought of Kelsey reminded him of the untimely and unjust death of The Dragon, the very man who had brought himself and his two friends together as fosterlings.

The loss of his foster father still brought a wave of pain. The Dragon had taken an angry lad of thirteen and taught him that he was the master of his own fate, had not only made him knight but a man. Jarrod chafed under the knowledge that he and his friends had been denied retribution against Kelsey by a king who loved those who were of like nature as himself.

Knowing these thoughts gained him nothing, Jarrod looked to Lord Greatham. “Neither Simon nor myself would have you do aught but contact us about this matter.”

Jarrod recalled Aislynn’s obvious understanding of their brotherhood, and felt an unwanted rush of kinship toward her. He knew again a strong pull of awareness that centered in his lower belly. Instantly Jarrod called himself firmly to task.

He forced himself to look at her again, to see her clearly as the child she was. It was almost with relief that, as he swept her form, which was enveloped in a gown of heavy sapphire velvet, his eyes told him that she was indeed a tiny waif of a girl with fragile bones. And her blue eyes were, as they had been the first time he saw her, too large for her heart-shaped face.

He also recalled a blond braid of so pale a shade that it was not readily forgotten. His gaze slid over the hood that completely concealed her hair. The honey of her brows and lashes made him wonder if it had darkened as many children’s did as they approached adulthood.

At the moment, his eyes met those blue ones again and he saw that they bore an expression of uncertainty as well as sadness over her brother’s disappearance. He found himself thinking that he would do whatever he must to see that sadness gone from her eyes. To see her smile.

His gaze went to those lips, which were not smiling now. Her tongue flicked out to dampen the lower lip, which seemed more full than before. He felt a stab of awareness and found himself once more looking into the blue eyes that were watching him with an expression he could not begin to name.

The baron’s voice intruded on Jarrod’s thoughts like a cold draft as he said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, sir, but I am certain you must have your own matters to attend.”

Jarrod blinked and turned back to the other man. “Forgive me, my lord, but I have nothing of more import to attend. At the same time, I do not mean to press myself where I am not wanted.” He squared his shoulders, frustrated with the need to convince the other man to accept his help. He sensed the depth of their concern as well as his own. Tact was not one of his virtues, but he ventured, “I understand that I am as determined to find your son as you yourself are, my lord. I am but another pair of hands, another horse, to aid the efforts that are already being made. I would do whatever I can to locate him and see him returned home without delay.”

Lord Greatham sighed heavily, rubbing long slender fingers across a tired brow. “I know not what you could accomplish, sir knight. Thus far none of my efforts or those of my men have gained so much as one hint of where my son has gone.” The baron took a long, deep breath. “It appears as though my son rode out from this keep and disappeared into the mists.”

Jarrod bowed. “I assure you, I have naught else to demand my attention than finding Christian.”

He could see the continued strain on the older man’s face, even as indecision creased his brow.

At that moment the woman reached out to put a comforting hand on her father’s arm. And Lord Greatham, proud man that he was, put his hand over hers as if it was she who needed comfort.

She whispered, “Pray heed his offer, Father. Sir Jarrod is as worried as we and mayhap he can help us. I…Christian was gone from us for such a very long time and now…”

Her anxiety moved Jarrod to a feeling of protectiveness that amazed him. He also felt moved by Lord Greatham’s pain as he sighed. Jarrod listened with relief as he said, “I will accept your aid in the spirit it is offered.”

Jarrod bowed again, knowing that he could not afford the weakness of becoming too attached to Christian’s sister, or his father, for that matter. The only relationships he’d ever experienced with anything approaching satisfaction were those with Christian and Simon. And they needed nothing from him, accepting his loyalty and love, not requiring it.

Jarrod had never been needed by anyone, nor had he himself needed anyone, not his father, nor his half brother, nor his moth—He stopped himself before the last thought could fully form. Jarrod was greatly aware of his own good fortune. As the bastard son of an Eastern woman and his father, he had been brought back to England and lived in his father’s noble household until he’d overheard his younger, legitimate, brother Eustace begging their father to send him away. Having never felt that he truly belonged in the household of his father’s legitimate wife and son, he had requested that he be sent away into training as a knight.

His father had agreed with his accustomed lack of emotion and Jarrod had fostered with The Dragon at thirteen, those two years being the best of his life. And even after his foster father had been betrayed and murdered by The Dragon’s own half brother, Jarrod had simply gone on to a new fosterage, leaving England with his new lord and not returning until early in this year. As Simon and Christian had also made the journey, staying on in the employ of the Knights Templar, when most others had returned to England, he had been more than content for the thirteen years he had remained in those hot desert climes. He had only ventured to return when they had, feeling no more tied to the East than he was to England.

He would remain, as he has always been, free to come and go, by his own will. He would keep his mind on what he had come here to do. “I thank you, sir, and will begin at whatever task you would have me do with all haste.”

Lord Greatham inclined his own head, seeming almost relieved now that the matter had been decided. “You may do what you think best in this. Truth to tell, I find I have a scarcity of inspiration.”

“I thank you, my lord, for your faith in me.”

The older man shrugged. “Give more credit to my son’s high opinion of you.” He eyed Jarrod with a respect that did nothing to disguise the pain he was feeling. “Your quest will wait till morn. For tonight you will accept not only our thanks but our hospitality.” He gestured to one of the servants who stood nearby. “Bring our guest a seat as well as a cup and plate.” He then turned to Jarrod again. “Please, take a place at our table.”

“Thank you, my lord. I would be grateful as well as honored to sup with you.”

Jarrod seated himself on the bench that was brought forward. In spite of his hunger, he found himself picking at the food presented to him. Resolved to remain unmoved by these two, he cast not so much as a glance in Aislynn Greatham’s direction.

Yet he was uncomfortably aware of Aislynn throughout the remainder of the meal. With the baron it was easier. They talked of hunting and other such pursuits, seeming to stay away from more personal issues. He felt the baron was not eager to reveal more of his inner feelings than had already been given away.

Even when Aislynn rose before the meal’s end, begging fatigue, he kept from looking directly at her, though he was aware of a certain stiffness that emanated from her small person. Only then did he finally look into her delicate face to see that she was watching him with a look of hurt confusion in her blue eyes.

Jarrod kept his surprise severely in check. As soon as she noted his attention, she looked away, making a hasty departure.

Once she was gone, though, Jarrod realized that he was indeed behaving quite madly. He was decidedly wrong to think he could prevent being moved by Christian’s sister to some extent. She was frightened for him and Jarrod loved Christian as his brother. It was only natural that he would feel a strong connection to the sister Christian loved and who obviously loved Christian. He could not ignore her in his short time here, nor did he wish to.

She was feeling badly enough without his being rude. One did not have to become attached to show kindness as he had toward many in his life.




Chapter Two


Aislynn paused before the door that led to the private chambers and peered back toward the high table. Aye, Jarrod Maxwell was indeed still there. He was not some figment of her imaginings, that strange and fascinating man who had come walking into their lives with that cool breath of wind. And yet he had managed to sit the whole of the meal without one word to her, talking with her father as if she did not even exist.

She would certainly wish him at the far ends of the earth were it not for her certainty that he would find Christian. Even as she thought this, she could not forget the way he had looked at her mouth. She had felt a rush of something warm and womanly inside. It was something she had never felt when Gwyn looked at her. Not even when he had kissed her that once.

Whatever was the matter with her?

Though Jarrod Maxwell was quite undeniably the most interesting and handsome man she had ever seen in all of her life, she must stop this. She certainly had no reason to think the knight was interested in her. She must not allow herself to imagine some connection between them. Instead, she needed to be about the task of readying his accommodations.

As her father had said, the knight should be shown the utmost honor and hospitality they could bestow upon him. Christian’s chamber was vacant at the moment and quite spacious. It should serve their guest quite well.

Without further ado Aislynn went to the kitchens and charged her women with readying a bath. She then made her way to her brother’s chamber to prepare it for Jarrod Maxwell herself, determined to behave as the daughter of her father’s noble house. Yet, as she was spreading the clean linens on the bed, the bed Jarrod Maxwell would soon lie upon, she noted with alarm that her hands were trembling. Quickly, she told herself her trembling was only due to her excitement and hope that the knight might actually be able to help them find her brother.

When she moved to place the soft white pillow upon the bed, she could not deny an unexplainable thrill at the vivid image of his dark head upon it. She took a deep breath and held the snowy pillow tightly to her breast.

It was with a start of surprise that, at that very moment, she heard her father’s voice behind her in the open doorway. Along with it came the unmistakable deep tones of the man who was so much in her thoughts.

She swung around to face them with a guilty start, dropping the pillow onto the floor.

Her father motioned Jarrod Maxwell into the chamber as he addressed her. “Aislynn, my dear, Margaret informs me that Sir Jarrod is to have Christian’s room during his stay.”

Aislynn nodded, not meeting her father’s gaze as, with a pounding heart, she bent to pick up the pillow and toss it upon the bed. Telling herself that the men could not have known her thoughts even if they had seen her hugging it, she replied quickly, “There is no point in his having less comfortable accommodation when it is vacant. Sir Jarrod will have some measure of privacy here.” As she motioned toward the large wooden tub, she realized that the knight’s name felt strange and at the same time welcome on her lips, which only disturbed her further.

Hurriedly she went on evenly, determined to behave as if she welcomed this man no more than she would any other guest. “The women are heating water for a bath as we speak.”

Jarrod Maxwell held up a hand, shaking his black head. “There is no need—”

Her father interrupted him. “Nay, do not demure, sir knight. Allow us to thank you for your help by way of our hospitality.”

The other man subsided, bowing, his stance tense, as if he were uncomfortable at being the object of their consideration.

Aislynn found herself studying Jarrod Maxwell as he stood there with her father. This new awkwardness was a sharp contrast to the grace and power that seemed his accustomed demeanor. What a strange mixture of reticence and confidence he was. No wonder Christian held him in such high esteem.

Again Aislynn felt an unmistakable stirring inside her. He raised a strong hand and raked it through the raven darkness of his hair while he listened to her father. At that very moment those black eyes found hers and she felt herself flush. He held her gaze for just one moment. “Lady Aislynn.”

Quickly she looked away, moving to make sure the towel she had draped over the bench was not too close to the fire, though she already knew that it was not. Far from being pleased that he had acknowledged her, she was unaccountably flustered, her heart thumping in her breast.

Deliberately Aislynn occupied herself with wandering about the room, putting away the few items her brother had left out. The two men’s conversation became no more than a soft murmur in the background, though the deep timbre of the knight’s voice kept her senses in a heightened state.

So successful was she in distracting herself that she ceased to even attend their conversation until her father’s voice rose as he said, “What do you mean, the side of one of the pots has cracked?” Aislynn looked up to see that her father was addressing Margaret, the head woman at Bransbury, who stood at the entrance to the chamber with a perplexed frown creasing her brow.

The slender, dark-haired Margaret looked from him to Aislynn. “I did not mean to trouble you with this matter, my lord. I intended to inform Lady Aislynn. The iron hook that held the pot of bathing water over the fire came loose, causing it to fall.”

Her brow creasing, for a crack in one of the enormous pots was a calamity indeed, Aislynn started forward. “I will see to it, Father.” She would be glad of an excuse to leave them.

But her father halted her with a raised hand. “Nay, Aislynn, you have had much to occupy you. See to our guest. I will attend this matter myself. I wish to see how badly the pot is damaged.”

“But…”

It was too late. He was gone and with him, Margaret.

She heaved a silent sigh. Clearly she had been too effective at appearing busy.

And now she was yet more determined to appear so. She did not wish to attempt to make polite conversation. But Aislynn could feel the knight watching her. She could not bring herself to look at him, not now without her father’s presence to buffer her feelings.

Desperately she looked about the chamber. The fire burned clean, the tub was ready for filling, the linens were laid out, the bed was turned down. There was nothing left to do and his attention upon her was near tangible, though Aislynn pretended not to notice.

She felt a flush staining her cheeks. Surely she had blushed more in the past hours since Jarrod Maxwell’s arrival than ever before in her life.

It was with a start that she heard him speak her name. “Lady Aislynn?”

She looked across the length of the thick carpet that marked the center of the room and into those black, depthless eyes. There was no expression in them that she could read. “My lord?”

He motioned about the chamber. “Would you mind if I have a look about? I might be able to find something that would help us in our search for Christian.”

Instantly she shook her head, blushing anew as she realized what her thoughts should truly be occupied with—her brother and finding him. “Nay, please do so, but I do not know what you might find. My father and I have been through everything. There seems to be nothing here beyond my brother’s clothing and his drawings.”

“He left his drawings? When we were in the Holy Land he never went far without them.” His dark brows arched. “Perhaps I will begin there.”

Aislynn started toward the chest at the end of the bed and was aware that he was moving toward it, too. When she halted before it, she reached out to the latch. A strange but unmistakable jolt flashed through her as her hand came into contact with warm flesh and she pulled her hand back. In that brief contact, she was aware that the skin she had inadvertently touched was smooth and hard. The skin of a man’s hand.

Jarrod Maxwell’s hand.

Her gaze lifted and she saw that he was now standing close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his mysterious black eyes. He took a step backward, murmuring, “Forgive me. I but thought to do something for myself rather than have you wait upon me.”

Her heart pounding, Aislynn saw that his mobile mouth had turned down in a frown. Rubbing her still trembling hand against the back of her skirt, she wondered if he was aware of her own reaction to that inadvertent touch.

She answered hastily, attempting to cover her confusion. “There is nothing to forgive. You simply startled me.” She was decidedly unhappy with the breathlessness in her voice.

Surely it was surprise that made her tingle from the top of her head to the tips of her toes—startlement.

He bowed, not meeting her gaze now, and Aislynn turned back to open the chest. She found herself speaking too quickly. “As I told you, we have searched everything. Though there are hundreds of renderings, none of them gives any hint of where Christian might have gone.”

With the lid thrown back, the few sheets of parchment, which lay on top of Christian’s best garments, were revealed. “These are most recent of those we found. All the others are over there.” She pointed across the room toward another larger chest against the gray stone wall. “They were obviously made before his return to England.”

She could feel the heat of Jarrod Maxwell’s body as he bent over her. He seemed to have forgotten that awkwardness of a moment ago as he looked more closely at the drawings.

Aislynn swallowed hard, a shiver racing through her. Taking a deep breath, she moved back carefully so as not to actually touch him while giving him a better view. Sir Jarrod, thankfully, did not appear to note her reactions, which was a relief of great proportions. For they only seemed to grow more inexplicably extreme by the moment.

She watched as the dark knight reached out to take the top drawing, holding it close as he studied it, frowning with obvious concentration. Curiosity overcame her reluctance to be near him, and she leaned in to look at the drawing. She was forced to rise up on toe tip to see it clearly.

Noting her action, Jarrod Maxwell looked down at her. “You are very small,” he commented as he held the drawing lower, seeming unaccountably pleased at his observation.

Finding no explanation for why this would be so, Aislynn determined to ignore it. She had never been particularly troubled by her size. It had in no way prevented her from doing anything she wished to do. She turned her attention to the rendering.

She had seen it before, of course. It was done in charcoal, as were all of Christian’s renderings. In it a man lay upon a bed, his face creased with pain and sadness. In the corner of the parchment was drawn the form of the dragon brooch. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked to where Sir Jarrod had thrown his cloak upon the end of the bed, recalling that he had worn it his when he’d entered the hall.

Aislynn knew from Christian that it was Sir Jarrod who had had the brooches made and that their friend Simon Warleigh had one as well. Although it had seemed odd that her brother would draw the brooch on the corner of the page, neither she nor her father had been able to assign any particular significance to it.

Jarrod’s gaze continued to hold obvious concentration as he looked from the drawing of the sick man to the brooch and back again.

Aislynn could not stop herself from asking, “What is it? Do you find something of significance there?”

The knight turned to her with an expression of intense concentration. “I am not sure, but the man in the drawing is a soldier who came with Isabelle and Simon when they left Dragonwick some weeks ago. He was injured in his efforts to help Isabelle and Simon escape from Kelsey.”

Aislynn heard the barely suppressed rage in his voice as he said the name Kelsey. Through her brother, she knew what ill Kelsey, who had murdered The Dragon, had wrought, and also of the anger that seethed inside the three men who had fostered together. But she noted a depth of venom in this man that went even deeper than that which Christian had displayed.

She listened as Jarrod went on, his voice now softened by regret. “Though we thought the wound was not serious, Jack became ill and died. Christian, although he knew him little, spent much time at his side. Seeing Jack so ill, and knowing he had meant only good in helping Isabelle and Simon to leave Dragonwick, made me want to vent my wrath on Kelsey all the more.” His jaw clenched tightly. “And that I can not do, for Simon and Isabelle’s sake. We are too closely watched by King John, who was not pleased to have been coerced into setting Simon free.”

Aislynn knew that it had been Christian who had convinced two very powerful nobles to speak on Simon’s behalf, virtually blackmailing the king into setting him free. She wondered if Sir Jarrod had any notion of how much he revealed of himself with this tale. Clearly he had a great capacity for ire and a love of vengeance, yet he tempered them for the sake of those he loved.

Again, Aislynn was moved by the bond between the three men, though she was not surprised to learn that her brother had sat with the dying man. She had been quite young when Christian had left Bransbury, but his kindness to injured animals about the demesne was well remembered. She had missed his gentleness, his warmth, when her father was so locked in his grief over his wife’s death. Though she had understood as she grew older that a young man must foster and become a knight, she had never stopped hoping that he would return to Bransbury—that they would be as a family.

Christian’s return had made her dreams a reality, for a time. But now they were once more in a state of loss. She would leave no avenue unexplored in her desire to have Christian home.

Yet she could not see what this drawing might have to do with her brother’s disappearance. Puzzled, she watched as Sir Jarrod quickly leafed through the other drawings, setting them into the chest before going back to the first one, the one depicting the man who had died.

Again she asked, “What is it that you see?”

He shook that dark head. “I am not certain. There is just something. Somehow it seems that Christian may be saying that the brooch, The Dragon, is connected to Jack.”

“But even if that is true, I do not see what it can have to do with Christian’s being gone. Perhaps the man simply made him remember past times at Dragonwick.”

The knight raked a hand through his thick hair, taking a deep breath and setting the drawing aside. “Perhaps you are right, Lady Aislynn.”

The sound of her name on his lips brought her back to an instantaneous awareness of all the feelings she had been attempting to deny. Her gaze came to rest on the lean line of his jaw, the curve of his heavy black lashes, the suppleness of his mouth.

A strange heat moved in Aislynn’s belly. At that moment Sir Jarrod turned his black fathomless eyes to her, his gaze as deep as the darkest night and just as unreadable. Aislynn could not move, could not even breathe properly, for her chest felt…

Suddenly realizing that she was staring at him, Aislynn feared that all that was going on inside her would be revealed in her eyes. Deliberately she focused on the fire, the stone floor, the open door. Anywhere but on the dark knight.

Good heavens, had she gone mad?

Her brother was missing. That was the knight’s only reason for being at Bransbury. Even if he were interested in her, it would not be appropriate now. Even if she were not engaged, which she was. Even if her marriage was not significant to the peace on her father’s lands, which it was.

The sound of slow footsteps approaching in the hallway outside made her cast her gaze to the doorway. Her father appeared there. He came forward into the room, taking in the fact that Jarrod was holding her brother’s drawing in his hands.

He looked to Aislynn and she said, “Sir Jarrod wanted to know if he might look through Christian’s things and I said yes.”

Her father nodded. “That is well, for I have said he might have free rein to do whatever he thinks might aid him.” He moved to examine the drawing. “I too thought there might be some hint here yet I can see nothing. What is your opinion?”

Jarrod shrugged. “I see what you see, my lord.”

Her father sighed and made a slicing motion. “Enough for this night. You have journeyed far and must rest.” He turned to Aislynn. “The pot did fall and must be replaced, Aislynn, but we have made use of another. The water will be ready shortly.”

Aislynn felt her cheeks heating again. She had completely forgotten the broken pot, which was certainly unusual for her. She took great joy and pride in the overseeing of the keep.

Her father went on, unaware of her discomfort. “You will be abed before you know it, Sir Jarrod.”

To her surprise, the knight turned to her with a frown of apology. “Pray forgive me, Lady Aislynn. I had not thought until this moment how late the hour has grown. You should have sought your own bed some time gone. I’m sure you will soon be eager for me to leave Bransbury if my presence keeps you up past the hour when your father prefers for you to be abed.”

She frowned, blinking. He was speaking to her as one might a child.

Her father nodded. “Aye, Aislynn, as Sir Jarrod has indicated, the hour grows late for you as well.”

Aislynn did not remind her father of the fact that she was often at her duties until far past this hour. “Perhaps it is past time for me to retire. Good night, Father.”

She bowed in Sir Jarrod’s general direction and slipped toward the doorway as her father halted her, kissing her on the cheek and saying, “Good night, little one.” It was something he had said countless times, but this night, before this man, it gave her a decided feeling of discomfort.

She was infinitely aware when Sir Jarrod’s dark eyes fixed on her and it was all Aislynn could do to meet them as he said, “You have my thanks, Lady Aislynn. I will not allow myself to impose upon your usual routine again. I know how the young need their rest.”

She felt the chagrin that flashed from her own eyes to his. Then quickly she forced her gaze to fall, bowing and making a hasty exit.

Was the man mad? And what was wrong with her father, to have treated her like a child before the other man? Needing her rest, indeed. She was a woman, some nineteen years of age.

Her reactions to Jarrod Maxwell had not been those of a child. But this thought brought only deeper discomfort, for she would never have him know that.

Not sure whom she was angrier with—herself, her father, or the knight—she stalked in the direction of her chamber. And as she went, she could not help wondering that one of them had not offered to carry her poor exhausted little person to bed.

The momentary image of herself in Jarrod Maxwell’s arms caused her body to heat in a new and far more disturbing way that made her groan her anger aloud.

Jarrod rose early and went down to the meal.

Although his attention was mixed and had been since arriving at Bransbury, he did his utmost to concentrate on what must be done to find his friend. Jarrod could not help feeling that there was something about that drawing of Jack, something that kept prodding at the back of his mind. Yet he could not quite determine what it might be.

He remained distracted by thoughts of Aislynn Greatham. Although he had realized that he was drawn to her because she was Christian’s sister, that realization had not lessened the surprising strength of his reaction to her.

In that one instant last night when he had touched her hand, and then again later, for the briefest moment, when she had seemed to be looking at him as if…

He shook his head to clear it. He did not want to think about the way she had been looking at him, nor his unfathomable response, that strange tugging inside him. She was Christian’s sister.

It was far better for his peace of mind to think on the obvious anger in her gaze as she had left his chamber the night before. Clearly she was an unpredictable young wench to show such resentment in the face of his and her father’s consideration of the late hour.

Jarrod paused at the entrance to the hall and realized that only a few of the servants were stirring. He felt a sense of relief that he need not linger to break his fast with the family. It was surely due to his uneasiness over not only Aislynn’s but also her father’s making such an effort to see him made comfortable.

Jarrod was not accustomed to being the brunt of such coddling. He was a soldier, not visiting royalty. Even at Avington, with Simon and Isabelle, he had gone about, as he was accustomed to, without so much fuss.

Last night had been his first bath in a tub in some time. His baths were taken in whatever body of water he might come across. And that was the way Jarrod preferred it. He required no luxuries and wanted none. He neither wanted to become soft, nor to become beholden to anyone.

Yet he could not deny that the warm tub of water would have been relaxing had it not been for the fact that he kept getting images of a pair of periwinkle-blue eyes each time he closed his own.

With a silent groan of frustration, Jarrod approached a slender, dark-haired woman in a clean woolen gown and said, “Might I trouble you for a slice of bread and meat?”

As she passed an assessing brown gaze over him, putting hard, muscled arms on her narrow hips, he realized it was the woman, Margaret, who had come to Christian’s chamber the previous night. “You may, my lord, but would it not be better to eat a proper meal?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. Yet I would get an early start.”

She nodded. “As you will, my lord.” She paused then before going. “It is good of you to come, my lord, to help to find our lord Christian.” He could see the sudden misting in those brown eyes. “We are sore grateful to you.”

Feeling uncomfortable with her emotion and gratitude, Jarrod nonetheless reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. “He is my friend.” He was not acting out of some selfless wish to help, but out of his own desire to find Christian. Jarrod wished they would all see that.

Her gaze registered understanding and she bowed deeply in return, then went on her way.

His discomfort with her thanks, with all of their thanks, had not lessened as he received the food with a self-conscious nod and strode from the hall. As quickly as his horse could be fetched, he left the keep, turning his mount to the open countryside at a gallop.

Although Jarrod knew that Lord Greatham had questioned everyone in the immediate vicinity of Bransbury, he began at the beginning. He needed to set some order in his mind to his own search.

The village lay nestled to one side of the castle, but Jarrod moved directly off to the left of it. He meant to leave the village for later as he moved around the demesne in a circular motion.

Each man, woman and child must be thoroughly questioned. Without even realizing, someone might have seen Christian as he left. If he could find such a soul, Jarrod would then know which road and direction he had taken.

Yet thorough as he was, helpful as all he spoke to were, Jarrod learned nothing new that day, even though he spent all the hours between leaving the keep and long after dark on his effort. Neither did he the next day.

Though he did see and discuss what he had been about with her father, Jarrod did not see Aislynn Greatham during either of those two days, returning to the keep after she had retired. He told himself that he had no care for this either way.

His last thought each night was of her, but this was because she was Christian’s sister and he was sympathetic to her pain.




Chapter Three


Aislynn woke quite early, after a restless night—as each night had been since Jarrod Maxwell had arrived at Bransbury. She kept telling herself that his speaking to her as if she was a child did not plague her in the least.

Yet her agitation worsened when she remembered how she had felt as his black eyes looked directly into hers. It was as if he were looking into her soul, making her feel far from the child he believed her to be.

She tried to wish Jarrod Maxwell had never come to Bransbury, but the very notion was shockingly painful. Surely it was due to her belief that he would be able to help them find Christian.

Even though there had been no real developments in the days the knight had been at Bransbury, she was not willing to relinquish hope. She was, in spite of all that had happened in her life, including the early death of her mother and her brother’s long absence, an optimist at heart. And it was this sense of optimism that she drew on to assure herself that she would conquer this strange fascination with Jarrod Maxwell.

She parted the heavy rose velvet curtains at the side of her large oaken bed and stepped out onto the carpet that covered the cold stone floor beside the bed. There was no sense in building a fire when the day’s duties would keep her from returning to the comfortably furnished chamber for more than minutes at a time. Shivering, Aislynn dressed warmly, as she always did on chill mornings, in a shift, a heavy underdress of dark green linen, and an enveloping over gown with wide sleeves that showed the tightly fitted sleeves of the gown beneath. She then donned her veil, barbette and a warm cap with pearl trim that matched the butter-yellow brocade of her gown.

Leaving her chamber, she went to the kitchen, which lay at the end of a long corridor off the hall, as she did each morning before going in to break her own fast. One of the duties she most enjoyed was flavoring the large pots of stews and boiled meats that were served at the midday meal. The herbs that she grew in her own garden served as a constant inspiration for new and interesting combinations of flavor. And many about the keep said that the teas she brewed from her herbs were quite effective at alleviating minor ailments of the head and stomach.

This day she paused at the entrance to the long narrow chamber with its well-scrubbed counters, great ovens and wide hearth. With one of the two enormous pots that hung from iron hooks on either side of the hearth broken, only one rested over the low-burning fire. Although this made keeping up with work in the kitchens difficult, the women had managed to do well thus far, roasting more of the meat than was their usual custom.

And strangely Aislynn had not even thought on the matter of how much thyme might be added in to a particular recipe in relationship to the amount of rosemary, or any other such combination since the first night Jarrod had come to Bransbury.

Jarrod, whose mysterious black eyes made her heart pound each time he looked at her.

With irritation she realized that she had allowed her thoughts to go back to that man once more. Sharply Aislynn returned her attention to her responsibilities.

It should have soothed her that all was in order, as it was every morning with Margaret awaiting her instructions on which of the containers of herbs and spices would be used this day. It did not.

Margaret had mothered Aislynn since her earliest memory and Aislynn loved her. As a small child she had often been held close to the woman who was lean and wiry from constant activity. Even at rest, the head woman seemed always about to jump up and see to some task.

Yet the fact that she had inadvertently seen Jarrod Maxwell comforting Margaret in the hall on his first morning here had left Aislynn uncomfortable in Margaret’s company. She had been so moved by the brief gesture that she had not shown her presence, but had stayed out of sight until he was gone. And each time she saw Margaret she was reminded of his kindness.

As Aislynn approached, Margaret swung around from where she stood stirring the pot and smiled at Aislynn. “Good morrow.”

Aislynn nodded. “Good morrow.”

“What think you this morn?” She nodded her head toward the row of small containers in which the flavorings were held, the main stores being kept in a cool dry cellar.

Aislynn looked at them and frowned, her mind devoid of any inspiration. Finally she admitted, “I have little hunger and naught seems appealing to me. What think you?”

Margaret looked at her closely. “Are you well, Aislynn?”

She avoided looking into those brightly observant brown eyes, fearful that all she was trying not to think on would be revealed to the woman who knew her so well. She spoke the truth without telling all of the truth. “Aye, I am concerned for Christian.”

Margaret clearly failed to note any undue disquiet in her mistress, asking, “Have you seen Sir Jarrod this morn?”

“Nay, why do you ask?”

“I wish to catch that lad before he sets off without anything to eat. We must have a care for his wellbeing for he seems to have little enough, if any.”

Aislynn bit her lower lip, guilt stabbing her sharply. In spite of his shortcomings, Jarrod Maxwell was a guest at Bransbury. It was her duty, as the lady of the keep, to have a care for his comfort.

She held up a hand. “I will see to it. You have enough to attend without adding that to your other duties.”

Quickly, before she could give herself time to think, Aislynn went back down the corridor that connected the kitchens to the main part of the keep. On entering the Hall she cast a glance around the chamber.

She did not see him. Hurriedly she asked one of the serfs who were assembling the trestle tables. “Royce, have you seen Sir Jarrod?”

The serving man nodded. “Aye, he went from the keep some minutes ago.”

Clearly the knight meant to leave without eating, as Margaret feared. Aislynn hurried out into the cold morning after him, knowing he would first fetch his horse.

The stable came into her sight just in time for her to see a mounted Jarrod Maxwell emerge from the wide double door. He started across the greensward toward the gate and she called out quickly, “Sir Jarrod.”

He swung around immediately, his dark gaze searching her out with obvious surprise and what looked to be reluctance. But it was quickly masked by cool civility as he turned the white stallion and came toward her.

Not caring for that expression of reluctance, however brief, Aislynn raised her chin as she waited for him.

Sir Jarrod halted the restless stallion at her side. “May I be of assistance, Lady Aislynn?”

In spite of her irritation with him, she answered, “I thought to see that you had something to eat before you left the castle.” A desire to hide any real interest in him made her add, “Actually it was the head woman, Margaret, who thought of you. I simply realized it was my own duty and not hers to see you were looked after.”

His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You have done your duty by me. You may rest easy.”

She grimaced, wrapping her arms around herself as she realized that it was not her intention to be surly no matter what his opinion of her might be. “I did not mean to imply…Aside from your being here to help us find Christian, you are a guest at Bransbury. We do not receive many guests and it is not only my father’s but my intent that you be treated with the utmost hospitality and honor.”

Those dark eyes changed, narrowed, studying her with an expression she did not understand, and Aislynn could no longer hold them. She looked at the ground as a shiver took her and she wrapped her arms about herself.

He said softly, “You’ve come out without your cloak.”

His changed tone made her raise her head.

Before she could even think, Jarrod Maxwell was on the ground beside her, slipping his own cloak about her shoulders, the cloak that was still warm from the heat of his body. There was a new tingling along her flesh that had naught to do with cold.

Immediately she made to remove the cloak, whispering, “Please, there is no need for you to…”

He reached out to hold it together in front of her and Aislynn looked up at him, her eyes caught once again by his as he said, “Do not be silly. You are cold.” His gaze softened as did his voice, the huskiness of his tone making her shiver in a different way, a pleasurable way. “I do thank you for your concern for my well-being and it has already been brought home to me that you and your father are kind and generous folk. But you should not have come out here without a cloak.”

“I simply thought to catch you before you could leave the keep without some sustenance.”

A soft laugh escaped him. “Let me assure you. I am quite unaccustomed to being fussed over and am more than able to look after my own needs.”

She was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice as she replied, “So you have said, but mayhap you should allow yourself to be looked after. At least a little.”

He looked away from her, his gaze distant. “Nay, there is nothing to be gained in becoming soft.”

She frowned at this. “It is not softness to allow others to show kindness. The receiving of kindnesses takes as much strength as the giving of them. You seem willing enough to care for others but unwilling to receive care.”

His lips twisted wryly, his expression suddenly patronizing. “What would one of your tender years know of such things?”

Her frown deepened as a wave of renewed ire swept through her and she groaned in frustration. “Why do you persist in saying such things to me?”

His black brows arched high in obvious amazement at her animosity. “What things?”

She put her hands on her hips. “You address me as if I am a child.”

“But you are a child.”

She raised her head high, made bold by the anger running through her veins. “I may be small of stature, my lord, but I am no child and you should know this. Many women are several years wed by my age. I myself will be married ere many months have passed.”

A strange ripple of something dark and unreadable passed over his exotically handsome face, leaving as quickly as it had appeared before he said, “But how could this be. You were an infant when last I saw you.”

She sighed. “I was six and more than thirteen years have passed. I am nineteen years of age.”

He took a deep breath, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes now, as he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her. “But I thought…” He drew himself up. “Nonetheless, you are my friend…my brother’s sister.”

Impatience tinged her voice. “Pray what can you mean by that, Sir Jarrod? I have not said that I am not Christian’s sister. And what has that to do with my age?”

He looked into her eyes, his own searching and confused as, far from answering her questions, he asked one of his own. “How could I have been so very mistaken?”

Aislynn scowled again, drawing on anger to mask her own disquiet. “That, my lord, only you can answer. Haps you have your own reasons for wanting it to be true.”

As soon as the words were said, Aislynn wished them back with all that was in her. Whatever could have possessed her to speak thusly? She certainly did not mean to imply that he had any interest in…

It was more than obvious that he did not. Any more than she was interested in him. She was to be married.

Aislynn was distantly aware of that displeased expression returning to his depthless black eyes once more. His voice was barely audible. “Just what are you accusing me of?”

She tried to hold her ground, yet the madness of her words could not be defended. She faltered, sputtering, “I…oh…I meant nothing…I…”

And suddenly Aislynn could think of nothing save getting away from that measuring black gaze. She parted the cloak and dropped it to the ground before he could move to halt her. She then swung around and ran from Jarrod Maxwell as quickly as her feet would take her.

In some ways the morning after Jarrod’s encounter with Aislynn passed in the same fashion as previous ones since his arrival at Bransbury. He questioned, in an orderly fashion, each man, woman and child in his path.

Yet his attention was divided as he went from farm, to woodsman’s croft, to mill, spiraling out from the immediate area around the demesne to the next village and learning nothing. He could not forget the conversation that had passed between himself and Aislynn. He could, in fact barely credit that it had even taken place. Recalling the flash of womanly fire in her eyes, the noble dignity of her stance, in spite of her anger when she had told him her age, made him wonder afresh how he could have been so very wrong.

Again he recalled her seething outrage when she had informed him that she was to be married. Jarrod could not halt a renewed rush of disbelief as well as an unmistakable and unexplainable sense of regret, both of which he quickly dismissed.

He had only felt protective of her—brotherly. It was those brotherly feelings that made him hesitate at the thought of her being wed. Any brother would wonder if his sister was ready for marriage, even one who was, by her own declaration, well into her womanhood.

If he had only been thinking clearly he would have told her this.

He could not do so now. For any attempt at explanation might be misinterpreted as…well, he was not certain how it might be misinterpreted. He only knew it might be.

God’s teeth, he swore as he realized that he had turned the stallion off the path without even realizing it. Had he not told himself that he would not become involved with those here at Bransbury?

There would be no explanations made to the noble lady Aislynn. He would finish his tasks here as quickly as possible and be on his way. In the meantime he would not allow Aislynn Greatham to get beneath his skin.

It was his own lack of concentration, as much as hunger, that drove him back to the keep earlier in the evening than on previous days. These things, and the realization that he would need to remain away the whole of the night if he was to go on to the next village.

The sun was still fairly high over the curtain wall when Jarrod rode through the gate into the bailey. He realized that his passage was marked by many, as it had been since his arrival. Jarrod knew that the castle folk hoped he would be able to find the young lord, as he was called here at Bransbury.

Jarrod took his horse to the stables and gave him a good rubdown, before supplying him with a portion of feed. The stallion was not only a mount but also a companion to him. The well-proportioned horse, with its flowing white mane and tail had been bred in the Holy Land. It was smaller than most destriers, but its stamina and strength were equal to its beauty.

When he left the stable, Jarrod started toward the great gray form of the keep. His path led him near to the low stone structure of the kitchens. As he drew closer, he became aware of a group of people gathered around a wagon from which hung numerous goods.

A tinker. Jarrod was suddenly brought to alertness.

Here would be someone he had not questioned concerning Christian. And perhaps Lord Greatham had not done so either, for the peddlers did not linger often in one place but quickly moved on to the next likely sale. He knew his host was not in the keep this day, but had gone to make another attempt to negotiate a peace between the feuding Welsh.

Jarrod approached the group around the wagon with a determined step. It was not until he was directly upon the eight or ten women who ringed the wagon, and the short, dark man who stood beside it, that he realized that at the forefront of the group stood none other than Aislynn Greatham.

A wave of not only reluctance, but more shockingly, intense awareness washed through him and Jarrod’s feet came to a standstill. Shocked after all he had resolved within himself this very day, Jarrod found himself stepping backward into the shadow of the wall.

He told himself that he was not avoiding the woman, he would simply rather question the tinker alone.

None of those gathered around the wagon seemed to have taken any note of his presence, though Aislynn did glance in his direction briefly and he held very still. He felt an uncommon relief when she turned back to the tinker, who began to extol, in eloquent terms, the virtues of the huge iron pot that rested upon the ground before him. When he was finished he cast a beaming smile upon the lady of the keep.

Jarrod watched as Aislynn shrugged, saying, “I might be able to put it to some use.”

The peddler’s dark eyes continued to smile with good nature as he nodded. “Aye. This pot will be invaluable to the lady who purchases it. It will hold more laundry, more stew, more of whatever a lady might choose than either of those in yon kitchen.”

Aislynn shrugged and Jarrod realized that she wisely neglected to mention that one of those now had a crack in it. To do so would very likely influence the value of this one. She said with perfect unconcern, “How much?”

The man named a price.

Aislynn laughed softly. “I could not find my way to paying more than half that amount.”

The man held up his hands. “I am a man of business, my lady. I must recoup the cost to myself in order to feed my five children.” He named a sum that was halfway between his own first figure and hers.

Again Aislynn shrugged. “I am sure that some other lady will be happy to pay that amount.” She turned away.

With a heavy sigh, the man threw up his hands. “For you, Lady Aislynn, only for you would I make such a sacrifice. The pot is yours.”

She swung around, reaching for the purse that hung from a cord at her tiny waist, even as she motioned to the women. Two of them moved to take up the pot by its handle and carry it into the kitchen.

The peddler made a great show of continuing to emit heavy sighs as Aislynn dropped the coins into the palm of his hand. But there was no mistaking that his eyes had lost none of their humor. Neither did they disguise the trace of self-satisfaction in the curve of his lips.

With the transaction completed, the fellow grinned once more. “Now I wonder if I might interest either you, or any of your women, Lady Aislynn, in a bit of anything more frivolous.”

Without waiting for a reply, he swung around and flipped up a shutter along the side of the wagon to reveal a tray full of fripperies. Among them were inexpensively made bobbles, threads and ribbons.

As if of a single mind, the women stepped closer, Aislynn included.

Jarrod watched as Aislynn reached out to finger the end of a periwinkle-blue ribbon, then a much deeper sapphire one, which lay beside it. One of the women said, “The darker one would match your new gown, my lady. Of course, it would not be seen lest you leave your head uncovered.”

Aislynn nodded and picked up the dark ribbon.

“You are right, Therese. I need not always wear a covering on my head, even in winter.” She placed another coin into the tinker’s outstretched hand.

Not being one to ever have had a great interest in hair ribbons, Jarrod was surprised to find himself not only noting her purchase with some interest but with a decided disappointment at her choice. Not that he disliked the dark blue. It was certainly a color he would be more likely to prefer for himself. It was simply that the lighter shade matched her eyes.

Appalled at his own fanciful thought, Jarrod gave his head a vigorous shake.

Unconsciously he slid even further back into the shadow of the wall. He remained there until Aislynn and her women had concluded their other numerous interactions with the tinker. Gladly he watched as Aislynn stepped back, gave a final nod of her head and led her women into the kitchen.

Only when he was certain they were not coming back did Jarrod approach the tinker. The small energetic fellow had already begun to hang various items on their accustomed hooks.

The peddler looked up with a smile of welcome as Jarrod came to a halt beside him. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

Jarrod shrugged. “I was wondering if you might have happened upon the young lord Christian on the road some weeks past.”

The fellow shook his head. “Nay, my lord, I did not, though I do recall seeing him here at keep the last time I was at Bransbury. The lady Aislynn was so happy to have him home that she had to tell the tale of his return from the Holy Land to even me, a lowly tinker.”

Jarrod could not help feeling a sense of disappointment, though he’d had no real reason to believe he would learn anything from the man.

The tinker went on. “’Twas a sad thing to hear that Lord Christian was missing as I arrived this day. He was not long at home and I only really spoke with him twice.”

“Twice.” Jarrod’s brow furrowed with sudden concentration.

“Aye, the lady showed him to me when I came that day, all excited she was to have him home. As I said, he was a good sort, spoke to me man to man, not condescending as some nobles are wont to do. And he was no different when he came to me that night when I camped on the hillside outside the keep, as I do each time I pass through these climes.”

Jarrod was listening very carefully now. “He came to your camp?”

“Aye, he came down to my camp and talked with me while we shared a bottle of wine. Asked me about the places I had been and seen, which are considerable in my work.” He rolled his eyes, laughing. “The stories I told him and all the others I could have told if we’d had more than those few hours under the stars. Not that Lord Christian didn’t have his own stories to tell about him and his two friends.”

Jarrod restrained a sigh as he realized that this information, however entertaining it might be in other circumstances, only served to frustrate him now.

Finally the man said something that made the fine hair on the back of his neck prickle in alert. “Young lord Greatham, he seemed fair disappointed that I knew very little of a wee village called Ashcroft. I was sorry not to be able to tell him something of it other than that I’ve heard another of my trade mention the place. There seemed nothing of interest to say of it for he said it’s such a small village, and very isolated, that there’s little gain to be had there. No great family lives there, such as the Greathams here at Bransbury.”

Jarrod took a deep breath, trying to think calmly, to understand what this might mean. “You say Lord Christian was very disappointed that you could not tell him how to find this Ashcroft?”

“Aye, I’d say so. It was not anything he said, mind you. But I’ve something of a good eye for reading people after making my living at selling goods. A man has to know when to give a good-natured nudge when a customer is uncertain, or to leave go. If he pushes too hard he won’t be welcome in a place next time and if he has no enthusiasm for his craft…well…his children do not eat.”

Jarrod could not doubt the man. Had he not watched the exchange between him and Aislynn? Not that she had gotten the worst of the bargain. She had acquitted herself quite well in Jarrod’s opinion, though he was fairly certain she had ended in paying the price the tinker wished to receive for the pot.

Even if he wished to doubt the significance of the exchange between the tinker and Christian, he could not do so. For now, at long last, he had some bit of information to begin his search for his friend.

Thus if the tinker said Christian had been disturbed when they’d discussed this Ashcroft, Jarrod was determined to figure out why. He frowned. “But you say you do not know the location of this village?”

The other man shook his head then sighed. “Nay. I am sorry that I can offer you no more information than I have. As I said, it is remote, and perhaps if I think on the matter, the one who told me of it had just recently come from the north, toward Scotland.”

North toward Scotland. This brought an immediate thought of Kewstoke, his father’s lands, which were not far from the Scottish border. But Jarrod did not wish to think on this, nor of his feelings of grief when he had heard of his father’s death from a nobleman who had recently come from England some years ago in the Holy Land.

He must concentrate on what the peddler had told him. Though it was, in fact, precious little to go on, it was something. Jarrod bowed to the man. “You may have, in fact, been of some help to me. I am in your debt.”

The tinker bowed. “Then I am very glad to have been of service.” He gestured to his laden cart. “As for being in my debt, have no care for that other than to recall that I am a salesman. Should you have need of anything of a material nature, I would be happy to provide it.”

Jarrod knew there was unlikely to be any opportunity for him to make any purchases from the man.

The tinker laughed, shrugged and began gathering his goods together once more. As Jarrod watched, he reached out to close the shutter that would once more hide the tray with the ribbons Aislynn had examined earlier.

The periwinkle-blue ribbon caught his eye as before, bringing an unexpected idea. Seeing Aislynn with the tinker, watching her as she fulfilled her duties with wisdom and adroitness made him realize anew that he had been mad to ignore her. What harm could there be in offering a small token of peace?

Jarrod reached into his belt and removed a coin. “I will have the pale blue ribbon.”

The tinker quirked a brow and glanced toward the door where Aislynn had disappeared some minutes gone. “A very good choice, my lord.”

Jarrod made no reply to this obvious innuendo as the tinker reached to his own purse, for the sovereign Jarrod had placed in his hand was far too dear a price for a bit of ribbon. Jarrod stopped him. “Nay, pray keep it. As I said, you have done me a service.”

The tinker bowed and said, “And now I am in your debt, my lord.”

Jarrod nodded absently as the man’s assumptions brought a surge of discomfort. With the bit of ribbon in his hand he now felt somewhat uneasy, especially as the image of Aislynn’s delicate face and those wide and beguiling blue eyes came strongly in his mind.

He suddenly realized he could not give it to her. It might only further confuse things between them. She might very well misinterpret his action, as the peddler had.

An honorable man did not give such gifts to a woman who was to be married. The Dragon, who had been the man to teach Jarrod so much of honor, had never mentioned this specifically. But Jarrod knew, in spite of the fact that he had little experience with gentlewomen. His sense of right told him as much.

Nay, he could not give it to her, but neither did he wish to keep it. Only the fact that he would cause the peddler to speculate further kept him from dropping the bit of silk to the ground where he stood.




Chapter Four


Aislynn listened with amazement to her father. “The peddler has told Sir Jarrod that your brother had sought information about a village called Ashcroft. Sir Jarrod believes, as I do, that he may, in fact, have gone to this place.”

“Ashcroft.” The name was utterly unfamiliar, but Aislynn’s joy overwhelmed any accompanying surprise. In her excitement Aislynn leaned closer to her father. Sir Jarrod had accomplished what they had not.

She had not seen Jarrod Maxwell since that horrible confrontation this very morning. Her face heated at the very memory of it, though she was buoyed by a sense of righteous indignation.

Unaware, her father answered, “Sir Jarrod told me just minutes ago when I met him as he was leaving the keep.”

She looked down at her folded hands. “He is not coming in to the meal?”

“Nay. He is determined to seek further information concerning this village.”

This brought her upright. “What do you mean—seek further information? Can Sir Jarrod not simply go there?”

“The peddler knew no more about the location than that it may be in Scotland. Scotland is a big country.”

She sighed. “Then my happiness is premature.”

“Nay, daughter.” He reached out to put his large warm hand over her cold one. “Sir Jarrod has said that even if he learns nothing more this day he intends to simply head toward Scotland and see what can be learned on the way. He will leave on the morrow.”

Jarrod was leaving on the morrow! Aislynn felt a rush of emotion that left her limbs weak, her chest tight.

As her father went on, she forced herself to attend him. “Sir Jarrod is determined. I believe that if any can locate this village, he can. And if he does locate it, he may indeed find your brother there or at the very least further word of him.”

Aislynn forced herself to nod. She wanted her brother found and she did not care in the least that Jarrod Maxwell would be leaving them in order to find him.

She was glad the irritating man would be gone from Bransbury. Life would go on much more smoothly and peacefully without him.

A sudden rush of memory of the times when their eyes had met and the strange sensation that had come over her made her feel weak and uncertain. When Jarrod Maxwell looked at her, Aislynn felt, well, alive in a way she had not been before he came.

“Aislynn?”

The sound of her father saying her name intruded upon these thoughts. Her voice was breathless as she answered, “Yes, Father.”

The frown that creased his brow left her with the impression that he had been trying to gain her attention for some time. His words confirmed it. “Aislynn, attend me, please. Are you well?”

She nodded quickly. “I am simply so very happy to know that Sir Jarrod will set out immediately.” She could hear the lack of conviction in her words.

He nodded. “You will, of course, see that Sir Jarrod has all he needs to begin his journey—food, warm furs, perhaps even a tent, and whatever else he might require.”

Now Aislynn frowned in consternation. She did not wish to have any more contact with Jarrod Maxwell.

She could not tell her father this. Yet neither could she bear the thought of facing the knight. She smiled tightly. “Father, I am sure that Sir Jarrod will not require anything beyond some food. He brought no such luxuries as you suggest when he arrived at Bransbury.”

He scowled at her. “I am surprised at you, Aislynn, for this attitude is quite unlike you. We could do nothing about the circumstances by which Sir Jarrod traveled to us. We can do something about the circumstances under which he leaves us. Especially so when it is for our benefit that he has undertaken this journey.”

She flushed, looking down at her hands, which she had clasped tightly in the lap of her apricot velvet skirt. It was badly done of her to respond as she had. And even more importantly she felt a reluctance for her father to wonder at her odd behavior.

Aislynn spoke very softly. “Your point is well taken, Father. I will see that Sir Jarrod has all he will accept by way of making his journey as comfortable as possible.”

He nodded. He seemed suddenly distracted now, seeing her, yet not seeing. His distant voice told her why. “I have received word that, far from being quelled by my visit to him, Llewellyn has continued to harry his neighbors, though none claim to know the reason why. They are saying that he is calling in every man upon his lands for questioning. If I can not leave this chaos in order to find my son, making the one who will search for him comfortable is the least we can do.”

Aislynn bowed her head. “I will see to it this very moment, Father.”

As she moved off to the kitchens, Aislynn resolved that, even though she meant to carry out her father’s wishes with no more complaint or hesitation, she need not have direct interaction with the man she had been avoiding, until all was done. Sir Jarrod would very likely be glad to have little contact with her as well.

It was not until some hours later, long after most of the keep had sought their beds that Aislynn was finished making arrangements for their guest’s journey. She wiped her hair back from her brow with a weary hand, feeling a sense of accomplishment in spite of her fatigue. Leather bags had been packed with foods that would keep well for several days. The freshly aired furs, as well as a small but sound tent, were ready to be secured to the donkey she had designated to carry the provisions.

She knew she had delayed telling Jarrod Maxwell of her preparations for him long enough.

She had no fear of waking the man who so occupied her thoughts. Margaret had informed her that he had returned to the keep a short time gone. Margaret had further insisted a jug of warmed wine, as well as bread and meat, be sent to Christian’s chamber.

Where he might have been until so very late at night, Aislynn did not know. Nor, she told herself, did she care. Her business with him was purely out of necessity.

Yet she could not help wondering if he was avoiding her as she was him. For some reason the thought prickled, which made no sense whatsoever.

She raised her head high as she made her way down the passage that led to her brother’s chamber.

Yet as she came to halt outside the narrow oak door, she hesitated, biting her lower lip. She could hear no sound from inside. Perhaps she was wrong in thinking the knight would still be awake and Jarrod Maxwell had already gone to sleep. She certainly did not wish to waken him, not when he was starting a long journey in the morning. Perhaps one of the servants could inform him of the preparations she had made on his behalf in the morning.

Even as she continued to hesitate, a soft scraping from inside the chamber made her frown with chagrin.

The knight was awake. And she had promised her father.

Taking a deep breath, Aislynn raised her hand and knocked softly upon the heavy portal, so softly that even she was hard-pressed to hear it. Immediately realizing Jarrod could not possibly have heard, she raised her knuckles and rapped again. This time the noise was much more forceful. It sounded, in fact, quite demanding. She stepped back instantly, startled at her own temerity.

Jarrod had been drinking deeply of the dark red wine since the serving woman had brought it. He had returned to the keep tired in both mind and body. Yet he knew that if he climbed into the bed, he would not sleep. He would lie awake thinking of the compelling young woman who had managed to so disturb his peace without even trying. A young woman whom he was unlikely to ever see again. Even when he found Christian, there would be no reason for him to return here.

He would be free to go on as he had before with no ghosts to haunt him but those of his past. Yet he drank more wine than was his custom in an effort to dispel the reluctance he felt at leaving Bransbury. Surely it was because he was so tired. The journey from Avington had been long and he’d had precious little sleep since arriving. And he was to set out again in the morning with nothing more than the name of a remote village as guide.

His unrest had nothing to do with the blue eyes of the female who had so forthrightly declared herself a woman and then insisted that he had some reason for not seeing this.

The very thought made Jarrod reach out for the cup again. He raised it to his mouth just as an imperious pounding sounded at the door. He sprang up, knocking over his stool as a jolt of adrenaline raced through him. Quickly he strode to pull the door open, his mind whirling not only from the wine but concern as he wondered what could be amiss to warrant such a pounding.

Jarrod stopped short. For on the other side stood a wide-eyed and diminutive Aislynn Greatham. Diminutive, he reminded himself, but very much a woman.

He spoke quickly. “What is amiss?”

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing. I simply wish to speak with you for a moment before you retire.”

His heartbeat eased only slightly as he scowled down at her. “When I heard that drumming, I thought something had occurred, that something was wrong.”

“Nay, there is nothing wrong.” His frown deepened and she finally noted his displeasure as she sputtered, “Forgive me, Sir Jarrod, I…”

Nothing, she had pounded upon his door like that for nothing. His head was spinning from the wine as well as irritation, and without stopping to think, he took her arm and pulled her inside the chamber.

Her eyes widened in shock. “What are you…?”

He let go of Aislynn, closing the door with a decided firmness, before rounding to face her. “I have no wish to discuss the matter in the hallway. What do you mean summoning me thusly in the dead of night?”

Now it was her brow that creased in not only displeasure but defiance as she glared up at him. “I attempted to beg your pardon for that. But you would drag me in without listening.”

“I am listening.”

She took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm her own anger, though he could still see traces of it in the high color along her cheekbones. “My father asked me to ready a few items for your journey. I simply wished to tell you that I had done so.” She looked down. “You are leaving in the morning, are you not?”

Jarrod was amazed at the amount of regret that stirred inside him as he looked down at her bent head. “Aye, I am leaving in the morning.” With no small effort he called himself to task and added, “There was no need to ready any supplies for my journey. I shall not be taking them. I prefer to travel light, making my way as I go.”

She shrugged those slight shoulders. “Nonetheless, my father asked me to make the things ready for you.” She looked at him then, her gaze direct, her nose tilted at a proud angle. “I was simply doing as he requested of me. He is a kind and thoughtful man.”

He nodded, not willing to try to fathom the strange expression in her gaze. “Aye, that I will uphold. Your father is a kind man.” He paused, honesty making him add, “And you are also kind, Aislynn.”

“You do much for us.”

He knew she meant his search for her brother and again felt a strange sense of regret. He pushed it aside. “I have told you that I have my own stake in finding Christian.”

Aislynn watched him closely. “So you have said. Have you no one of your own?”

A shaft of pain pierced his chest, a pain that shocked him, for he had thought himself long over this ancient hurt. The hurt of not having a home, a family of his own.

He felt her continuing to watch him as he moved to the table and picked up his cup. He downed the remainder of the contents and filled it again. And without knowing why, or even that he had been going to do so, Jarrod told her the truth. “Nay, my father is dead. And my half brother, who is now baron of his lands…” He shrugged. “Let it suffice to say he would not exactly welcome me with open arms.”

He did not look at Aislynn, but he felt the difference that came over her, a compelling softness that seemed to call to him, to urge him to rest in her womanly warmth. Again Jarrod emptied his cup.

The wine warmed him as it flowed out into his blood, warmed and numbed him, but did not ease that inner wanting. Slowly he sank onto the chair beside the table.

When she began to speak, his gaze found her face, the loveliness of her in the candlelight, which played over each delicate feature. So caught was he in just looking at her, in seeing the beauty he had not wanted to see, it was a moment before her words really registered in his mind. “I can not imagine what it would be like to be so very alone. Although there has been sorrow in my life, there has always been the promise of my dreams coming true, of my brother coming home, our family being whole again. My family, my father, my brother, marrying and having my own home and children someday, these things mean the most to me.”

Married, that was right. Aislynn was to be married.

Jarrod felt a renewed sense of unrest. He listened carefully as she went on, “My mother died when I was quite young. My father…he was not himself for a time afterward and it was during this time that Christian left us.” He looked at her, saw the sadness in her gaze, the glisten of tears she refused to shed. “You have no notion of how good it was to have him returned to us. He brought new life to Bransbury—to my father. He must be found. I can know no true happiness until it is so.”

Jarrod took the unused cup from the tray on the table and poured some of the wine into it. Without saying a word, he held it out to Aislynn.

Taking a deep breath, she moved forward and Jarrod rose. As she took the cup, he motioned her onto the chair. She took a drink of the wine, her gaze fixing on the flickering glow of the fire in the hearth.

Jarrod drank from his own cup. Even in his wine-clouded state, Jarrod wished he had some words of comfort. He did not, but her distress weighed heavily upon him. He told himself that it was her own sympathy for him, misplaced as it might be, that made him wish for some words of comfort.

Aislynn drew him back from these thoughts, whispering, “Have you discovered anything more of this Ashcroft? Have you any notion of how to get there?”

Jarrod shook his head. “Nay, but with the name in my possession all I need do is ask directions along the way.”

She sighed. “I am so glad that you have learned this much and am grateful for your efforts, but my worry has been little eased. It still makes no sense that Christian would remain away from Bransbury lest something had happened. I can not credit that he would break a promise to me lest something was dreadfully awry.”

He could not argue with that. Christian did keep his promises. “It is true, he does. Yet that does not mean something has happened to him. There could be any number of reasons for his being delayed.”

She turned to him, her gaze direct. “You do not really believe that naught is wrong or you would not have come all this way to find him.”

Jarrod could not meet those wide blue eyes, which seemed to see too much. “You must not allow yourself to become fanciful in this. I am certain that all is well.” As he said the words, Jarrod told himself that it had to be true.

Suddenly, he felt the chafe of waiting till morn to set out to find this village. He had always preferred action to conversation. Words were too easily distorted. As had been the loving and loyal words of The Dragon’s brother only days before he had betrayed him.

Aye, Jarrod would be glad to begin his new course of action. He did not wish to examine the accompanying thought that his restlessness was stronger than ever in Aislynn Greatham’s presence.

Jarrod took another long drink of his wine.

Aislynn raised her own glass. She too took a long drink before setting it back down, staring at her slender fingers as she twisted them around the base.

Jarrod found himself studying her averted profile, the dusky fringe of her lashes, the sweet curve of her cheek, which was pale cream in contrast to the apricot velvet of her cap. There was a definite trembling in the mouth that had pursed so many times with anger in his presence. He was drawn to her vulnerability, beckoned by it. She was so very delicate, so small, and seemed as if she would be so very easily broken. At the same time he realized what strength lay inside her. He had seen it time and again over the past days in the way she looked after her father—and in the confrontations with himself.

She lifted one hand and wiped it across her cheek. It was a furtive gesture and, if he had not been studying her so closely, Jarrod might have missed it.

Yet he was watching her. And he realized instantly that she was crying.

An intense jolt of protectiveness tightened his chest.

Before he could stop himself, Jarrod moved around the table to her side. Acting purely on instinct alone, he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. The bones felt fragile under his hard, callused hand. He swallowed as she looked up at him, her periwinkle eyes damp and unguarded in the light of the candle.

Jarrod spoke roughly, awkwardly. “Pray do not cry, Aislynn. I will find him.”

Rather than stopping the tears as he had hoped, this made them spill over onto her pale cheeks in a flood of sorrow. God’s blood. He had not meant to make things worse.

Now what was he to do?

Jarrod’s experience with women had not involved much in the way of comforting. He refused to remember the one woman for which he would have done anything. She who had wanted none of him. That pain was too great to bear…

Aislynn was here—now, and she seemed to welcome his care. He raised his other hand to the soft curve of her cheek. “Aislynn, I…please do not weep so. I promise you that I will bring Christian home to you.”

She peered up at him, her face pale, her gaze now searching, afraid to hope. “How can you make such a promise?”

He took a deep breath. “Because I am that certain I will do so.”

She sniffed. “Truly?”

He forced himself to hold her eyes without wavering, although his felt hot from not only the wine, but the loveliness of her. “Aye, truly.”

Before he knew what she meant to do, she had leaped up from her chair to throw her arms about his neck. “Thank you, thank you so very much. I simply could not bear it if he were not to return to us, nor could Father. Father is really not as strong as he appears, you know. His leg, it pains him so at times. That is the true reason that he has not gone after Christian.”

Jarrod stood very still. Aislynn was soft and yielding against him, so delicate, while at the same time decidedly woman. Feeling a distinct and decidedly unwanted stirring deep in his lower belly, he recognized it for what it was instantly. Desire. Jarrod tried to breathe evenly.

He told himself that he must think clearly here, must not allow himself to feel this way. He would concentrate on the fact that he must now do whatever he had to in order to bring Christian back, no matter how difficult it proved, or how long it took.

Yet as he stood there, he continued to be aware of other feelings and thoughts, the gentle, warm, woman scent of her, the press of her breasts against that area between his chest and belly, the heat that flickered gently but distinctively in his own blood. These sensations reminded him of the fact that he was a man and Aislynn was a woman.




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