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He stowed his helm. “Another squire did that to me when I was twelve,” he replied. “We were practicing with swords we should not have been using and he went out of control.”

Her green eyes were filled with sympathy. “He coulda cut yer head off.”

He reached up and lifted her from his horse. “There is a stream over there.”

She felt rejected that he did not want to talk to her, nor was he planning on escorting her to the stream. But instead of wallowing in self-pity, it made her mad.

She marched over to Paris’ horse and practically tore her satchel loose from its bindings. With a toss of her hair to no one in particular, she strode over to the stream where Jemma was already dipping her handkerchief in the cold water. Standing a silent guard several feet away were Corin and Lewis.

“Well, ye won the bet,” Jemma said first. “When do ye want me to kiss Paris?”

Jordan lifted her skirt and sank gracefully to the grass, giving the young knights a tantalizing view of her pretty legs.

“I care not,” she said irritably. “Punch him in the nose for all I care.”

Jemma put the cold water to her cheeks. “What in the world is the matter with ye?”

Jordan looked at her cousin. She almost told her what was truly bothering her, but changed her mind at the last second. She stuck out her lip and dug into her satchel for her own handkerchief.

“Nothing,” she said.

Jemma didn’t believe her for a moment. “Has that English hound said something to ye? Has he insulted ye?”

“Nay,” Jordan told her. “I am simply tired. And hungry. Where is our food?”

They refreshed themselves, careful not to drip water on their dresses. Neither girl said anything for a few moments.

“Look, Jordan, at those pretty flowers over there,” Jemma suddenly said. “Let me weave them into yer hair.”

Jordan only shrugged but it was good enough for Jemma. She plucked two huge handfuls.

“These will go beautifully with yer dress,” she told Jordan.

Jordan sat broodingly while Jemma wove a delicate wreath into her silky hair. It was actually quite stunning, but Jordan was too depressed to notice. When she was finished, she took out the hand-mirror for her cousin to see.

“Look.” she commanded.

Jordan glanced at herself. Instead of seeing a beautiful young woman, she only noticed that her skin was beginning to burn and she bolted up.

“Sweet Jesu!’” She exclaimed. “Why dinna ye tell me I was turning red like a beet. Look at my skin.”

Jemma pulled back her cousin’s hair to notice that, indeed, she was burned. “Ooch.” she cried. “Does it hurt?”

“Nay, but it will,” Jordan wailed. “Look at me. I am ruined.”

“We will get some buttermilk,” Jemma told her. “That will bleach it out.”

“But not before we reach Northwood.” Jordan exploded and threw the mirror. It landed with a splash in the creek but she didn’t hear it; she was too busy marching away towards the coolness of the trees.

“Well, ye dunna have to get angry with me.” Jemma yelled after her. “I was not the one who burned ye.”

William was standing with Kieran and Michael and saw the exchange. Another fight, he told himself. God, those two had the strangest relationship he had ever seen, wanting to kill each other one minute and defending each other the next. He supposed he should go and calm Jordan down. It would not do to have a hysterical, red-eyed bride delivered to Northwood.

Paris was heading over to Jemma with a parcel of food in his hand meant for both ladies. William dismissed his knights and went to join him.

“What happened to Jordan?” Paris asked.

“I do not know.” William could see her standing in the trees.