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Paris had taken Jemma directly back to his tent. She was agitated, but not from being handled like a sack over his shoulder. Her brother was in deep trouble and she was puzzled, angry, and frightened. As soon as Paris sat her on the ground, she moved away from him and began pacing nervously.

“What is Sir William going to do to Malcolm?” she demanded.

Paris eyed her, taking the time to strap on the rest of his armor he had left behind in his haste. “ ’Tis difficult to say, my lady.”

It was no answer and they both knew it. She was growing more frightened by the moment. She realized if she were going to get any answers, then she was going to have to calm herself and speak civilly to the English knight.

“Will he kill him?” she asked with quiet urgency.

Paris strapped on his cuirass and his breastplate. “That, my lady, will be for the captain to decide. I cannot speculate on his ruling.”

Jemma watched him as he once again became an armor-clad English warrior, a killing machine. Hated Sassenach, she thought. And her brother was on his knees in a nest of them. Of course he was a dead man; she knew that from the first. But why had he attacked Jordan? She was desperately confused, wanting to know her brother’s mind. Even though he was her kin, she didn’t know him at all.

She started to ask Paris another question but found her throat constricting. Much to her shame, hot tears trickled onto her cheeks and she turned away quickly so he would not see her humiliation.

Paris knew she was crying without even seeing her. He had an uncanny intuition when it came to women. Without a word he went to her, placing his large hands on her shoulders and guiding her into a collapsible chair. She didn’t resist his efforts.

“I have to go out for a while,” he said gently. “While I am out, I will go and see how your brother is faring and let you know. All right?”

She nodded, sniffing and wiping at her face. He re-evaluated her, sitting calmly without all of that spit and fire, she was really quite vulnerable. And very pretty.

“Why do not you get some sleep?” he encouraged quietly. “It will do you good.”

She nodded, rising and going to the corner of the tent where her borrowed satchel lay.

“Nay, my lady, I meant my bed,” Paris clarified.

She looked at him and her watery eyes flashed momentarily. “I will be sleeping alone, sir knight.”

He sighed, seeing the real Jemma return before him. “Aye, as alone as Job,” he replied with sarcasm. “Which is precisely who I feel like at this moment.”

Pleased that she would have the pallet all to herself, she forgot her sniffles and went over to the pile of furs. He watched her as she made herself comfortable, shaking his head at the stubborn little wench. As he pondered her mercurial personality, Kieran entered the tent. He eyed Jemma as she fussed with the pallet.

“So I see you have yet to commit murder,” he remarked casually.

Jemma looked up, glaring at the both of them before returning to her task. Paris grunted.

“So far I have had little opportunity,” he replied, turning to Kieran. “Is the camp secure?”

“Aye,” Kieran replied. “They seem to be the only intruders, and Deinwald has located the breach. Two soldiers were killed. We are doubling the guard on the perimeter.”

Paris nodded, satisfied. “Since William is busy with the, uh, prisoner,” he eyed Jemma, “I shall see to his cohorts. Where are they?”

“North side, near the guard post,” Kieran replied. “Lewis and Marc have them.”

Paris nodded again. “Very well. You stay with the banshee until I return.” He locked eyes with Jemma’s hostile orbs. “And you behave yourself, for I give Sir Kieran permission to blister your arse if needed.”

He was gone. Jemma sat on the furs, her oval face flushed with anger. Kieran hid a smile, pouring himself a cup of wine and trying not to look at her, although she was closely studying him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her but not her face. He wondered what physical harm she was planning for him. Her cousin certainly wasn’t the troublemaking type, he thought.

“Are ye really that big or do ye stuff yer clothes?” she demanded.

He looked at her, half smiling at her question. “I assure you, my lady, ’tis all me.”

She scrutinized him foot by foot. “How’d ye get to be so big?”

He took a couple of steps towards her. “Many, many hours of sword and field practice, and a good deal of wood chopping.”

“Wood chopping?” she repeated.