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Kieran watched William smack his huge fist into the palm of his hand angrily, raging like a mad dog. They were all concerned and upset, but that did not excuse the insult dealt to Jemma.

“You will not blame Jemma for this,” he said lowly.

Paris, standing a few feet away, heard the tone and groaned inwardly. The last thing they needed was a fight. He stepped closer, just in case.

“Why not? ’Tis her fault.” William raged.

Kieran was struggling with his temper, a rare occurrence. “If that is true, then Jordan did not have to go,” he said with a tick in his jaw. “She can think for herself, or so you have said.”

William glared at Kieran the likes of which no one, including Paris, had ever seen. He was so damn angry that he was irrational. “Kieran, if anything happens to Jordan because of your wife’s stupidity, I shall kill the bitch myself. I swear it.”

Oh, God. The knight’s surrounding them tensed with apprehension, waiting for the next move. Even Paris was frightened. Kieran and William could do substantial physical damage to one another.

Kieran’s eyes widened at the threat; his temper could no longer be controlled. He was armed; William was not. In a fit of uncharacteristic rage, he unsheathed his sword with a resounding clang.

“Defend yourself!” he roared.

Paris unsheathed his sword, bringing it to bear directly in front of William to fend off Kieran’s blow. William, however, had not so much as flinched and met Kieran’s gaze with deadly hostility.

Kieran brought the blade down and Paris found himself fending off the heaviest blow he had ever had the misfortune to receive. He knew Kieran to be remarkably strong, but the strength behind the blow was super-human. Sparks flew brightly into the night air, a few of them landing on William, as Paris staggered. But William had yet to even so much as step back a pace.

The knights had no idea how to react. They jumped back, out of the line of fire, wildly concerned for the situation. Should they jump in or not? Ranulf, wisely, motioned them all back and away. To lend aid would mean to take sides, and that must not happen.

Paris yelled at William to move, but the earl was not listening. Kieran raised his sword again and Paris physically threw himself in front of William, a double-handed grip on his sword as he prepared to fend off another bone-rocking blow. The glint of steel flashed before him as Kieran brought the sword down, and Paris braced himself.

But the impact never came. Suddenly, the sword was sailing out of Kieran’s hand and into the darkness, landing heavily several yards away. Kieran put his hands on his face and swung away from William, staggering back onto the road like a drunken man.

Paris, swallowing hard with relief and surprise, realized he was shaking. He was fully prepared for the battle of his life and was astonished to see it suddenly ended. When he turned to look at William, the baron was already walking past him and toward the slumped figure standing on the road.

Then William did something he had never done in front of his knights. He showed an onslaught of weak, human emotion. He grabbed Kieran and hugged the man fiercely. Kieran responded instantly, holding William with ferocious grip.

“Forgive me, Kieran,” William whispered into the man’s shoulder. “I am always unstable when it comes to my wife. Forgive me my words; I did not mean them.”

Kieran simply nodded, giving William a firm squeeze before they stood apart.

“I am scared, too,” he whispered.

William shook his head slowly. “God, ever since I met that woman I have done things I believed myself incapable of.” He sighed. “Jemma is not to blame alone. I am sure Jordan had quite a hand in this, as well. I guess what angers me the most is that I could have stopped them and I didn’t.”

“You are not a mind reader,” Kieran replied wearily. “Although I have wondered at times. You did what I, or any of us, would have done. Do not be angry with yourself.”

William put a companionable hand on the side of Kieran’s head, smiling weakly at him. “You were going to kill me?”

Kieran looked sheepish. “I was thinking on it.”

William grinned and gave him a light slap on the skull. “I never knew you had it in you, old friend.”

Kieran made a wry face. “As you said, I am unstable when it comes to my wife.”

William’s smile faded. “Then we must move. We have a lot of ground to cover to catch those little vixens.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Roan d’Vant sat alone in the knight’s quarters, in complete battle armor as he sat hunched over vellum with a quill in his hand. He was writing a letter, mayhap the most important letter he would ever write.

It was to his cousin, Andrew d’Vant. Andrew was a mercenary soldier, leader of a mercenary army nearly eight hundred men strong. Andrew fought purely for the money involved. Although born as the second son of Earl Alston, near Carlisle, he was not English. Neither was he Welsh, nor Scot. He was whatever money said he was.

Roan had a bad feeling about the battle march into Scotland to retrieve Lady Jordan. He wasn’t paranoid as a rule, but he had seen the destruction the Scots had made and was positive, as was William, that the war wasn’t over yet. The clans were still banded together, somewhere in the south of Scotland, and he was somehow sure they would run into them. And knowing how the men were feeling about the Scots right now, there would most likely be no survivors on either side. A clash would prove to be one of the most violent in history.