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The woman went from one emotion to the other with such speed it left his head spinning. Now she was subdued and docile again, and her vulnerability was apparent.

“You personally are not their enemy,” he replied. “ ’Tis what you represent.”

She chewed on that for a moment, her head still bowed and her hands still twisting. Then, to his surprise, he caught the glisten of a fat tear on her cheek.

Jordan was humiliated that hot tears were forcing their way from her eyes. She was so tired and emotionally unbalanced that everything was spilling out all at once. Unlike most ladies, Jordan could not and did not even try to keep her feelings under control. She was trying to right now, as not to embarrass herself in front of an English knight, but she’d had little practice.

“I told my Da not to send me into the lion’s den,” she whispered. “I wunna live to see my next birthday. Every person in the Godforsaken country hates me and wants to kill me.”

William felt a stab of pity for her. If the roles were reversed and it was he who was thrust into the heart of Scotland, he was not even sure that he would not be terrified. She had taken all of the events of the day remarkably well, but he knew everyone had their limits. She had reached hers.

Setting down the cup, he went to her and sat down beside the chair. He tried not to look directly at her, but from the corner of his eye he could see her shaking with quiet sobs. There was a soft white hand resting on her knee and he impulsively reached over and clasped it in his big, warm grip. He half expected her to pull away and was pleased when she didn’t.

“No one is going to kill you, Lady Jordan,” he said softly. “I swear it on my oath as a knight of the realm. As long as I have breath in my body, you shall be safe from harm.”

She turned to face him; she was very, very close. He found himself gazing into those incredible green eyes and his mind went to mud. She was so unbelievably beautiful, even with her eyes wet with tears.

“Why would ye pledge this?” she demanded gently. “Ye are my sworn enemy, English. Do ye not hate me?”

“Do you hate me?” he countered huskily.

She blinked at him as if the question confused her. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “I should.”

“So should I, but I do not,” he replied. “How could I possibly hate the woman that saved my life?”

Her gaze was intense on him and he could almost see the thoughts rolling through her brain. The tears were gone now and she seemed to be a little more at ease. He didn’t even realize he was still holding her hand.

“When I first saw ye today, English, I though ye might have come to kill me,” she said.

His eyebrows rose in mild surprise. “Why on earth would I do that, my lady?”

She dropped her head again shyly. “Because I dinna do a very good job of tending yer wound those many months ago and I thought ye were there to seek revenge.”

When she repeated her thoughts, they particularly sounded silly. She wished she hadn’t said anything at all. For his part, William was surprised.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, perplexed and concerned. “You saved my life, my lady. I do not make it a habit to kill people who have shown me kindness, not even Scots.” He peered more closely at her. “Did you really think that?”

She was embarrassed to admit it. “Aye, I did,” she said.

He smiled. “Then I am sorry, but I am going to disappoint you.”

She glanced up at him and found herself grinning timidly. She felt much better about the entire situation. William’s easy manner and words had done much to ease her mind.

They continued to sit a moment in silence and Jordan found herself glancing curiously at him. He was so handsome, so kind, that she wanted to know about him, as he knew of her.

“Where do ye come from, English?” she asked hesitantly, afraid he would tell her it was none of her affair.

To her surprise, he answered. “My father was the Earl of Wolverhampton. My family has a large keep near Worcester, a gift from the Duke of Normandy to my great-great grandfather.”

“So ye’re an earl’s son?” She wasn’t surprised. The man reeked of noble breeding. “Are ye the only son?”

“Nay,” he replied. “My brother Robert inherited the title some years back. My middle brother, Jonathan, is a knight serving the Earl of Norfolk. And I am the youngest.”

“And ye have served at Northwood all yer life?” she asked.

“Since I was eight,” he replied.

“Then ye grew up with the men that serve ye?” It would be her last question, she promised herself. She did not want the man thinking she gabbed too much even though she was quite curious to know everything.