“To whom do you swear fealty?” she demanded.
The daunting knight gaze narrowed on her.“King Robert.”
The enemy!
“And you?” the fearsome warrior demanded.
Pulse racing, she fought for calm. There were only three men. If she allowed their leader to come near, she could fight him with her blade, toss the dagger hidden in her boot into the second warrior, and, with luck, grab the third knight’s weapon and end his threat. Then, she and Bróccín could use their mounts to escape.
“King Robert,” she forced out, the name vile upon her tongue, but to save their lives she would saywhat she must.
With a grunt, the first knight guided his destrier toward her.
Gwendolyn tightened her grip on her blade.
The fierce man halted his mount.
Mary’s will, he was still too far away for her to throw her dagger, nor could she leave Bróccín unprotected. Hersgian dubhraised, Gwendolyn moved before her husband.
“Lower your weapon, lass. We willna harm you.”
She scoffed. “And I am to believe you?”
“I dinna lie,” the warrior ground out.
Dark brows pulled together, and the knight gaveher a curt nod.
The squish of mud sounded a moment before strong arms caught her from behind. With ease, her captor ripped her blade free, and then pinned her against his muscled body.
“Release me!” she shouted, twisting against him.
“Cease,” her captor warned, his arms tightening around her like bands of steel. “If you continue to try to escape, I will tie you up.”
She stilled, furious she hadn’t heard him. Nor was she a lackwit. If they bound her hands, ’twould end any chance of escape.
“As Sir Quentin stated,” the man holding her continued, “we willna harm you.”
Far from trusting the word of her enemy, she remained silent.
Sir Quentin shot her a warning look, dismounted, then knelt beside Bróccín. “Aiden, wake up.”
Through a daze of exhaustion and fear, she frowned. Why had he called her husband Aiden? Not that the reason mattered. Once he awoke, their captor would discover he wasna the man he believed. Godhelp them then.
A second man dismounted and joined the first. He pressed a cloth against the cut in Bróccín’s head. “’Tis a nasty gash.” His gaze went to her with suspicion. “What happened?”
“We were crossing the river and I fell in,” she explained, deciding on half-truths until they could escape. “He dove in to save me, but the strong current swept us downstream. A short distance from here,he hit a rock.”
“Who you are?” the man she deduced was their leader asked. At her silence, Sir Quentin stood. “I told you, you willna be harmed. On that youhave my word.”
Unsure what to say, but for an unexplainable reason believing him, she nodded. “His wife.”
Astonishment, and something more—humor, perhaps—widened his eyes, and he burst out in laughter.
The surrounding men joined him inhis merriment.
She glared at their leader.“I dinna lie.”
“Lass,” Sir Quentin said, the humor fading, “Sir Aiden MacConnell”— he nodded to the others—“as my men and I, have fought together for many years. Well we know who he is. Though I find myselfextremelycurious to discover why you would claim such when I know for a fact that heisna married.”
