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She wrinkled her nose at that prospect and let the dead hand fall back to the ground. She was not going to cut off the finger, no matter what her father said. She didn’t have the stomach for it. But the man at her feet suddenly groaned, and Jordan, startled with fear and without hesitation, yanked her dirk from its sheath at her forearm and plunged the blade deep into his soft neck. The man stilled, silenced forever by the cold steel of her knife.

Gasping with shock, Jordan stared down at the man and could scarcely believe what she had done. She didn’t know why she had done it, only that she had been terrified and afraid if she didn’t kill the man that he would rise up and kill her. Her breath came in short, horrified pants as she stared down at her kill. Sweet Jesu,’ had she deteriorated to such a scared rabbit that she would kill before thinking?

In disgust she threw down her dirk and stumbled away from the dead man, wondering if indeed her father’s warring ways were claiming her. Already, she had to get away from the destruction and clear her thoughts. She didn’t care if her family thought she was weak. They had tried to toughen her up, to make her strong and fearless, but she didn’t have it in her. She was sweet and nurturing, kind and gentle. There were those better suited to tend those on the battlefield and cut fingers off for the gold they wore; she was going to find a place to hide and wait until the hunting and killing was over.

Glancing over her shoulder to see if she were being watched, Jordan wandered away from the field of destruction and into a small valley. Nestled at the bottom among a few scrawny trees was a small stream, with water glistening silver in the moonlight.

It was peaceful and calm, and she could feel her composure returning. She knelt by the stream and washed her hands as if cleansing away the confusion and revulsion she felt. She knew she was a disappointment to her father on two accounts: not being born male, and not being able to sufficiently deal with the normal aspects of being a daughter of one of the fiercest warlords on the Scottish border. Although her father loved her dearly and never made her feel anything less, she knew deep down he wished she were stronger. Sometimes she wished it, too.

Her father did not pretend that he always understood his only child, especially where her love for music and animals were concerned. Jordan could sing like an angel and could dance a Scottish jig like the devil himself, accomplishments for which he was enormously proud, but sometimes he just could not comprehend the female mind. He was a warrior, a baron by title, and his world was one of death and fighting, not the gentle world where his daughter dwelled.

Still, he would not be pleased if he found out she had run off like a scared goat and sought refuge this night. Jordan found a large boulder by the creek and sat on its icy surface, watching the water bubble in the moonlight. She wondered why she wasn’t like the rest of her female kin; bold and fearless. Above her, a nighthawk rode the drafts, crying out to its mate and she watched it for a moment before returning moodily to the stream.

“If you are thinking of drowning yourself, ’tis a bit shallow.”

The voice came from the darkness behind her. Jordan leapt off the rock, terrified as she whirled to face her accoster. She could make out a form of a man lying at the base of one of the bushy trees but could not make out much more in the darkness.

Panic rose in her throat and she realized with deep regret that she had left her dirk back on the battlefield. She could scream, but he appeared to be large and would most likely pounce and slit her throat before she could utter a sound. She froze, unsure of what to do next. She certainly did not want to provoke the man with the decidedly English accent.

“What…what do ye want?” she demanded shakily.

The moon emerged from behind the clouds, revealing the landscape in bright silver light. Jordan could see right away the man was gravely injured, as there was a great deal of dark blood covering his legs and the ground beneath him. It didn’t take her long to figure out that he was unable to rise much less attack her. Her courage surged and she was sure she could run back and retrieve her dirk before he could move upon her, the damnable English devil. She would do to him exactly what he would do to her given half a chance.

But on the heels of that thought came another. Jordan’s blood ran cold with abhorrence; she had just killed one man and punished herself endlessly for it. Now she was planning the death of another. More of her father’s violent influence was a part of her than she cared to admit. Perhaps this wounded man was innocent of any killing at all, she thought naïvely. Mayhap he was a victim of the situation, forced to fight by the hated English king. Perhaps he didn’t want to fight at all and then found himself a casualty.

Jordan forced herself to calm, realizing that the man could not hurt her. She took a step to get a better look at him yet still kept a healthy distance between them.

“Speak up,” she told him, feeling braver. “What are ye doing here? What do ye want?”

She heard the man sigh. “What do I want?” he repeated wearily. “I want to return home. But what I want and what will be are two entirely different things all together. What do you intend to do with me?”

Jordan eyed him beneath the silver moonlight. “I intend to do nothing with ye,” she replied softly. “I dunna need to. From the looks of that wound, ye will be dead by morn.”

The man laid his head back against the tree in a defeated gesture. “Mayhap,” he said, eyeing her in the darkness just as she was eyeing him. “Will you tell me something?”

“What?”

“What is your name?”

She saw no harm in giving her name to a dying man. “Jordan.”

His head came up from the trunk. “Jordan? A sound name. Yet it is usually a man’s name.”

Jordan moved a few steps closer. “My mother, being a pious woman, named me for the River Jordan,” she replied. “Jordan Mary Joseph is my full name. Moreover, I was intended to be a male child.”

The man’s eyes grew intense and Jordan felt a shiver run down her spine. It struck her just how handsome he was, English or no, and her cheeks grew warm.

“You are most definitely not a male child, Jordan Mary Joseph,” he said, almost seductively. “How old are you?”

“I have seen twenty years,” she replied, flattered and disarmed by his statement.

“Then you are married with children,” he stated. “Was your husband on the battlefield?”

“I have no husband,” Jordan said flatly. At twenty, she was embarrassed that she had not yet wed; it was a sore subject and one she certainly did not wish to discuss with him.

“No husband?” he repeated, evidently shocked. “Why not?”

She frowned. “Ye ask too many questions, English.”