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“Get up,” he said. “I shall not leave you alone.”

Back in William’s tent, Jordan was crying hysterically as William grappled with Malcolm. However, it took only a few seconds for William to pound the man once in the temple and leave him passed out on the floor. Swiftly, he rose and went to Jordan to see if she was injured. To his astonishment, she threw herself at him and clung to him for dear life.

“Are you all right?” he demanded hoarsely.

Tears wetting her cheeks, Jordan could only nod. Before she could speak, the tent flap flew open and the majority of William’s knights were there, swords in hand and ready to do battle.

Brusque Ranulf took charge, thrusting Dougal at Kieran and jerking Tate to his feet for Michael. Deinwald went to stand over Malcolm, looking severely at the man.

“What in the hell happened?” Deinwald demanded.

William looked at Jordan for an explanation. She swallowed, struggling to calm her tears.

“That is my cousin, Malcolm,” she said in a shaky voice. “He came to me and put a knife to my throat.”

“How in the hell did he get into the camp?” William wondered, then jerked his head at Deinwald. “Better check the posts, man, and see who is missing.”

“Aye, my lord,” Deinwald was gone.

With the tent clearing and men on the move, William turned his attention to Jordan.

“Why?” he asked, “did he want to kidnap you? To take you back to Langton?”

Before she could answer, he turned back to the other knights. “I would wager good money he had something to do with the attack on us yesterday morn. Put those other bastards in irons. I shall deal with them in a minute.”

“What about him?” Ranulf pointed to semi-conscious Malcolm.

William’s face was like ice. “I shall deal with him now.”

Ranulf and Marc hoisted Malcolm to his knees, flanking the man with their swords in hand.

Paris entered the tent with Jemma clutched in one hand. It took Jemma all of one second to see her brother on his knees in the middle of the tent and she went mad.

“Malcolm.” she shrieked. “Sweet Jesus, what in the name of hell are ye doing here?”

Paris looked confused but glared dangerously at the figure on his knees. “Who is that?” he asked to anyone who would answer him.

“My brother.” Jemma yelled.

“My cousin.” Jordan cried on her heels.

Paris pointed to the man with his sword. “Is this why the alarm sounded?”

“Aye,” William replied. “Better go calm the troops. Might as well get them assembled, too. It’ll be dawn in an hour or so.”

“Malcolm Scott, what in the bloody hell are ye doing here?” Jemma demanded again.

Jordan was still crying. “I shall tell ye, Jemma,” she sniffled. “He was going to kill me. He held a dirk at my throat.”

Jemma’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Is that true, Malcolm?” she asked, outraged. “I shall kill ye myself, ye little bastard. What goes on in your brainless head?”

William did not need Jemma’s anger. He had quite enough of his own. “Take her out,” he told Paris.

Jemma protested loudly as Paris literally carried her from the tent. He could feel Jordan shaking behind him and turned to her, gently guiding her onto a stool.

“Sit here and try to calm yourself,” he said in a low voice. “I shall take care of your cousin.”

Before he could turn away from her, she reached out and grabbed his hand.