He looked at her directly. Not startled. Not apologetic. His gaze swept over her in one swift, measuring glance, cool, practical, entirely unawed.
Aingeal disliked him at once.
He was not handsome in any soft or courtly way. He had the lean, compact build of a man accustomed to armor, hardship, and long miles. His shoulders were broad, but nothing about him was careless. Dark hair was tied back at his nape. A short, neat beard framed a mouth that looked as though it had forgotten easy smiles. His eyes were gray, sharp, and watchful. There was something held tightly in him. Something dangerous kept under strict command.
They looked at one another across the winter field.
He did not lower his eyes.
Aingeal lifted her chin. She disliked his calmness. Disliked the self-possession. Disliked even more the sharp, unwelcome awareness that he was strong, and that strength sat on him as naturally as his sword belt. “Are you in the habit of standing in the middle of riding paths?” she called.
One dark brow rose. “I was not aware this was a road.”
Her eyes flicked pointedly to the narrow track worn through the grass. “It is.”
He glanced down, then back up, unimpressed. “Barely.”
The answer irritated her more because it was not entirely wrong. Only then did she look past him.
A sheep lay tangled in a clutch of bramble, one hind leg caught badly among the thorns. Its frightened bleating drifted thinly over the wind.
Aingeal exhaled through her nose, annoyed with him and annoyed with herself for having judged too quickly. “You might have chosen a safer place,” she said anyway.
He straightened slowly. “I might have.”
Without another word, she swung down from Bríd and crossed the short distance to the trapped animal. Brambles caught at her skirts as she knelt. She reached in carefully, ignoring the sting as thorns scraped her fingers.
Behind her, the stranger said, “You do not have to…”
“I know.”
She worked the sheep’s leg free with quick, practiced hands. The animal kicked once in panic, then stilled as she murmured under her breath. One final tug, and it came loose. The sheep stumbled upright and bolted clumsily away across the field.
Aingeal rose and brushed the dirt from her hands. When she looked up, he was still watching her. “Where are you headed?” she asked.
“The castle.”
Her chest tightened. “Why?”
The smallest pause. Not long enough to be obvious but long enough to matter. “I seek employment.”
She studied him more carefully. “You are not from here.”
“No.”
“Traveling alone?”
“For the moment.”
The accent confirmed what she had already begun to suspect. English. Faint, but unmistakable. Her spine stiffened. Experience had taught her caution around Englishmen with swords and measured answers. “You are a knight,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You will find no shortage of conflict here.” She let the warning remain plain in her tone.
“I seek usefulness,” he said.
The simplicity of it unsettled her. Not because she wholly believed him. Perhaps because some part of her did. Aingeal took Bríd’s reins and drew the mare nearer. “Announce yourself at the gate. The guards do not welcome surprises.”
