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Jordan and Paris rode at the head of the army for nearly an hour. William and most of the other knights were nowhere to be seen and she fought off the desire to ask Paris where they all were. She was somber and was pouting, and had not even realized it. Paris knew, however. He could feel it in the rigid way she was riding.

Suddenly, they heard a host of pounding hooves riding up behind them and Jordan had to hold on for dear life while Paris’ destrier did a wild, excited dance. There was some shouting going on but she could not make out a word of it.

William appeared beside them, dressed in full battle armor. He threw up the visor on his helmet and looked directly at Paris as if Jordan didn’t even exist.

“Give her to Jason,” he ordered. “I need you with me.”

Jordan was immediately and unceremoniously passed over to the strong young knight. She was a little concerned to notice that all of the knights were in full armor, shield slung over their left knees for quick access. She had been around enough battles to sense the tension in the air. She knew something was very wrong.

Even with the tension in the air, it was William who held her attention. To actually see The Wolf in action was something few Scots had lived to see and tell about. The pure power and command presence radiating from the man was awe-inspiring, even to a woman. Without seeing him swing a sword, she could see that there was basis for every rumor she had ever heard about him.

Paris slapped on his helmet and quickly latched it to the lip extending from his breast plate. Behind them, the other knights began screaming orders and she could see the column begin to dissolve and head for the surrounding wooded areas.

Her infatuation with William dissolved as fear shot through her. Sweet Jesu,’ she had been so caught up with the captain that she hadn’t grasped the severity of the situation.

“What is happening?” she demanded warily.

William reined his huge horse beside Jason. He still had yet to even look at her.

“I want you to take Lady Jordan and ride for hell to Northwood,” he ordered the young knight. “We shall try to buy you enough time to reach safety.”

“Are they Scots?” Jordan asked loudly so that he would have to respond. “Then mayhap I know them. One word from me will send them away.”

He turned to her, his face obscured by the helmet. “My lady, there are near six-hundred of them, twice the rank I carry. They have crossed the English border after us and I doubt one word from you would send them away.”

She looked at him a long moment and he saw her face go pale. “Are they bearing Scott tartan?” she whispered in a strangled voice.

“Aye,” he said, spurring his horse after his men.

Jordan’s breath caught in her throat. She ran hot and cold with the knowledge that her father had betrayed her. Sweet Jesu,’ was it possible? She had always known her father to be just and fair, and simply could not comprehend that the man had gone back on his word. It wasn’t true.

Her mind was reeling with disbelief. It was a horrible, vicious mistake on William’s part. Mayhap it only looked like Scott tartan to the untrained eye. But even as she thought that, she knew it was impossible; William had been fighting the border wars long enough to know the difference.

Her heart broke into a hundred pieces. But she would not truly believe it until she saw it for herself, she had to see it for herself.

If the worst were true, then she was no longer a peace offering but an enemy captive. She would certainly spend the rest of her life locked up in the tower, forgotten and hated. She had to find a way to get away from the knight that held her and join the battle for two reasons – to see if it was indeed her father’s army and, if so, to join them to save her own life.

Sadly she knew that if it were true, if it were her father’s army, then she would lose a great deal of respect for him. To live at Northwood as a prisoner or at Langton in shame was not much of a choice.

But she had to know. Her mind began to form a plan borne from desperation. A thought occurred to her; she was a woman, wasn’t she? Weren’t they said to have irresistible wiles?

Her eyes narrowed cunningly and she stealthily removed a soft kerchief from inside her cloak and, as casually as she could muster, let it fall to the ground.

“Sir knight,” she said sweetly. “I seemed to have dropped my handkerchief. Would ye be good enough to retrieve it for me?”

Jason seemed to take delight in touching her inappropriately. His hands were on her waist, her hips, and her buttocks as she sat against him. In fact, he caressed her buttocks rather provocatively, and she was disgusted and was horribly unnerved. When he tried to grab her right breast, she clamped an arm down and thwarted his attempt. Laughing low in his throat, he slid off the destrier and bent down to pick up the kerchief.

His backside was turned up to her and the opportunity was too good to waste. Planting her foot against the armor, she pushed as hard as she could. Jason, weighted down by a hundred pounds of armor, went rolling with the momentum.

Digging her heels into the destrier as hard as she could, Jordan reined the animal in the direction the army had taken and prayed she could control the massive animal long enough to reach it safely. She had to know.

The horse had pounded out nearly two miles when she began to hear the unmistakable sounds of a battle. Screaming, yelling, and clanging of metal on metal floated on the still-thick air. Jordan paused, trying to follow the sounds. Her face was pinched from the exertion and the cold air, and her hair was kinking up in the damp mist and was sticking to her face, but she ignored it. Kicking the horse in the ribs, she reined it back into the woods. The sounds were definitely emanating from in there.

She broke from the road and through a bank of trees, racing through the dense forest before coming through the other side and into a clearing. Her heart was pounding wildly from fear as she yanked the snorting animal to a halt, taking a moment to survey the scene.

The fog partially shrouded the armies, making them appear like ghostly figures. She could see very little except for a select few men sword fighting. With sweaty palms, she steered the animal along the edge of the trees, making her way north to where she thought the Scott skirmish lines might be. If her father were here, she had to find him.

There were a few fighting soldiers near her; she strained to get a good look at them in the mist and saw that, indeed, a couple were wearing Scott tartan. She felt bile rising in her throat; Sweet Jesu,’ was it true, then? Was her father a liar? She felt sick, wishing she could turn the horse and ride as far as it would take her until they both tumbled into the sea and she was free from her misery. But not before she told her father what she thought of him. All of his cursed talk of honor.