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“You have your orders.”

Paris’ jaw ticked with angry disapproval. “Those are not orders, they are a death sentence.”

William straightened. “Paris, I forbid you to lay a hand on her no matter what she does. Is that clear?”

Paris sneered at him. “I have never struck a woman and I do not intend to start now, even if she does deserves it,” he said. “I meant that she will probably kill me the first chance she gets.”

“Then tie her up while you sleep if you must, I care not,” William said. “I have my hands full with Jordan.”

Paris cocked an ashy-blond brow at him. “I have a better idea,” he said hopefully. “You take Jemma and I shall take Jordan. Jemma seems much less hostile toward you.”

There was no way William was going to let Jordan out of his sight but he would not let on to Paris that it was for mostly selfish reasons. With a twinkle in his eye, he turned the tables.

“Do not tell me you are afraid of one small female,” he said.

Paris pursed his lips in irritation. “By your command, then,” he said. “I knew it would be foolish to even suggest such a thing. Oh, and by the way, I loathe you, my lord.”

William nodded to him slightly, crossing his arms. “And I, you.”

They broke their little conference and Paris went over to Jemma, scrutinizing her impatiently.

“Well, my little banshee, it seems that you and I are to be constant companions,” he said distastefully.

Jemma looked just about as happy as he was. They glared at each other a moment before Paris loosely indicated her clothing.

“Is that all you have to wear?” he demanded.

Jemma’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, my lord, but I had not the room to carry my silk surcoat.”

He put his hands on his hips. “I will be seen with no peasant washerwoman.”

Jemma was near to explode. Her small face turned red and her mouth worked and Jordan could see that she would be sent back to Langton this night if she did not intervene. Rushing to Jemma’s side, she grabbed her cousin’s arm and squeezed.

“My lord, Jemma is welcome to all that I have,” she said quickly. “I will bathe her and send her to ye a proper lady.”

Paris’ eyes softened on Jordan. “You are most generous, my lady.”

Without so much as another glance, Paris quit the tent and was followed closely by Kieran. William sighed; it seemed as if they would get no sleep tonight.

*

A hasty bath was prepared for Jemma and Jordan roughly scrubbed her cousin, showing her just how much she disapproved of her actions. Jemma muttered and grumbled, but she did not raise her voice as William had instructed her. Jordan thought it amazing that Jemma had yet to yell, considering how roughly she was bathing her.

Scoured to within an inch of her life, Jordan ordered her out of the tub and dried her vigorously. As Jemma used the linen cloth to dry her hair, Jordan dressed her in an emerald green brocade surcoat with a slim bodice and long, slim sleeves.

The dress fit her well enough, but it was at least 3 inches too long in the skirt. Jordan frowned.

“Ye’ll just have to lift it high when ye walk, otherwise it will become a muddy mess,” she told her cousin. “Here, put the breeches and slippers on.”

Jemma obediently did as she was asked while Jordan took over the hair duty. She brushed it vigorously with her horsehair brush, holding it up and letting the strands fall individually so that the air would dry it. The brazier in the room was giving off little heat but she did her best. At one point she brushed particularly hard and Jemma let out a yelp.

“Ooch, woman, do ye try and pull my hair from my head?” she said angrily. It was the first hostile thing she had said yet.

Jordan eyed her. “Shut up and let me finish. I should be asleep by now, not bathing my idiotic cousin.”

Jemma scowled. “Dunna call me that. We’ve already said what needed saying.”

Jordan brushed harder on purpose and Jemma jumped up, yanked the brush away, and glared at her. “I shall do it myself,” she snarled.