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The horse was snorting and dancing furiously. Like any good warhorse, he heard the battle and wanted to be in the middle of it. It wasn’t too much longer before he pitched her off and went charging headlong into the fog.

Jordan picked herself off the wet earth and muttered a silent curse at the daft animal. She continued along her original path, her cloth shoes quickly becoming soaked from the wet grass. She was so distraught that she did not notice she had lost feeling in her toes.

Suddenly, she caught a glimpse that sent her head to spinning; McKenna hunting tartan. She was more puzzled than ever. The McKenna were not allies of the Scotts. In fact, they were fairly close to being an enemy. What on earth was going on here? She knew for a fact that her father would have never sought out the McKenna for their assistance. Or maybe he did. She didn’t know anything for sure anymore.

The sun filtered through the mist and revealed the battle as if a curtain had suddenly been lifted. It was much larger than Jordan had thought and she was frightened anew as she viewed the unfurling scene.

Clinging to the trees, she picked her way along the perimeter, trying to recognize any of the Scot soldiers. Her despondency was growing as she saw that she could recognize no one, yet they were fighting in her tartan. Her tartan. Who were these men?

Confused, she grasped hold of a Scot pine as if it could keep her from collapsing to the ground in a heap. Her gaze was desperate as she watched the battle unfold before her. Far off to her right she caught sight of one of William’s knights cutting a man in two. From the sheer size, she guessed him to be Sir Kieran.

Glints from armor reflected in the rapidly brightening sunlight, catching her attention. She could pick out more knights now, most on horseback, a couple on foot. She wanted to find at least one of them, to tell them she had no idea who these soldiers were, but they were too far away and she knew it would be foolish to leave the safety of the trees. She had to get a message to William so that he would not think her family was dishonorable.

And then, suddenly, he was there.

William sat atop his great warhorse, partially shrouded by the fog, wielding his sword like the archangel Gabriel. She watched, horrified and fascinated, as he fought effortlessly, dispatching enemy soldiers like untried boys. It almost appeared as if he were toying with them, but the force by which men were sent to the ground was evidence of the pure power from William’s sword.

He was a phantom warrior sent from the bowels of hell. His battle armor gave him a gargoyle-like appearance through the haze. Many an enemy would engage him. Sparks were flying as metal crashed upon metal with bone-jarring force, yet he would cut down one man easily and move on to the next.

One opposing soldier came up on his blind side, lashing out with his huge sword. Jordan’s hand flew to her mouth; she was sure the man would make contact. Instead, she saw William bend forward just enough for the sword to miss before answering with a back-handed parry that caught the man in the back of the neck, bringing instant death.

Her mouth hung open, agape. William would have had to have had eyes in the back of his skull to have landed a blow like that.

Jordan had seen battles before, but never in her life had she seen a soldier that moved with such grace and such strength. The more she watched, the more she realized that he was almost moving casually, as if he were completely at ease with what he was doing.

Half the time he kept his shield lowered; he was so skilled that it was almost an unnecessary piece of equipment.

William was deliberate in his fighting. He seemed to have eyes and ears all over his person, for there was not a man who could sneak up on him unnoticed. He set a pattern, making sure he threw his enemy off-balance before delivering a quick, final blow. It was simple strategy that took little time if executed right. Even his destrier was a fighting machine; all hooves and teeth. Even though the man and his animal were fighting separately, they moved as one. Never once did William jostle in the saddle.

Jordan began to watch William through new eyes. She knew him to be powerful and respected, but now she actually knew why. A slow smile spread across her lips; he was absolutely magnificent.

As she continued to watch, he began to fight a man with a strange, spiky metal staff who was nearly as tall as he was from where he sat on his horse. William was laying blow after powerful blow on the upheld staff but was making no headway. It was like striking a tree.

Suddenly, the enemy swung the great staff sideways and caught William in the back. He teetered for a moment but regained his balance. Meanwhile, the giant had landed two more shattering blows to William’s back and was making it near impossible for him to fully regain his seat.

Panic surged through Jordan like nothing she had ever experienced. She wildly thought to run to him and attack the giant from behind, just enough to distract the man so that William could kill him. But she wasn’t near large or strong enough. She continued to watch in mounting horror as the huge enemy pounded William with his massive staff.

Then, for a few moments, William appeared to gain the upper hand, deftly fending off the smashing blows while landing one good enough to send blood spurting. Jordan almost relaxed until the giant unexpectedly brought up his staff and caught William square in the head, powerful enough to send his helmet spinning into the air.

Jordan screamed at the top of her lungs, loud and shrill. She was convinced that she had just seen William beheaded and her hands flew to her face as if she could block out the visual impression. But in her mind’s eye it was as real as rain. She began to weep uncontrollably, horrified at what she had just witnessed.

She was so grief-stricken that she didn’t hear the shouts from the knights, informing each other that, somehow, Lady Jordan was on the outskirts of the battlefield. Inevitably, each one of them began to fight their way toward her.

But William was far from dead. The blow knocked him backwards on his horse and even as dazed as he was, he managed to bring his sword around and drive it sideways into the giant’s ribs as easily as slicing mutton.

But he had heard the scream and the shouts from Kieran and Michael, knowing it was Jordan who had emitted such a terrifying shriek. God be damned. He had ordered her to Northwood; what in the bloody hell was she doing here, in the middle of a battle? He was going to take her over his knee when he caught up to her and….

Oh, God… she was here in a battle.

Angry as hell and scared to death for her safety, he managed to halfway right himself in the saddle. Twisting his spinning head, he could see her over by the trees. Fear surged through him like a hurricane.

“Jordan!” he bellowed.

Her hands flew off her face in stunned disbelief. “William!” she screamed.

He was trying without much success to regain his balance; his head weighed a hundred pounds. He had to get to her with an urgency he had never known before. Behind him, a destrier blew past with a rush and headed straight for her. Without even looking up he knew it was Paris; he recognized the animal’s legs.

Jordan was fixed on William as if he were the only man on earth and failed to notice Paris as he bore down upon her. Like an avenging angel, he swept her into his arms and rode madly for the woods, the road, and beyond.