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“This,” he said to his wife, “is Christopher Logue. Son of a right old bastard who nearly had me killed in Arbois.”

“A pleasure,” Sabine murmured.

Though he was as pleased to see Christopher as anyone in this camp, he needed to get Sabine away from these men. And quickly.

“Where is he?” Guy asked.

Christopher nodded to the tent Guy had assumed was the leader’s, being both larger than the others and at the very center of camp.

“Shall I take your horses?”

Guy handed him the reins. “Gladly, though not far, if it pleases you. This will not be an extended visit.”

His purpose this night was simply to alert de Chabannes of his presence and set a meeting for their negotiations. It would take days, if not weeks, for any outcome, much less a favorable one. Guy knew the mercenary company’s leader as well as anyone. And did not expect him to capitulate easily.

But he would capitulate. Eventually.

“Many thanks.” He took Sabine’s hand. Squeezing it, he leaned toward her to whisper as they walked toward de Chabannes’s tent.

“Say little.”

She pulled back.

“I do not ask it of you out of a desire to silence you. But to protect you. De Chabannes is cunning and will attempt to use any information you give him.”

Sabine did not appear pleased by the prospect, but neither did she refute him.

Just before they entered, he whispered again.

“I will ensure you are rewarded for your efforts later.”

His wife’s gasp was the last thing he heard before entering the tent.

* * *

Sabine hadn’t expected the man Guy described as a ruthless bastard to bound up from his seat to hug her husband.

Though she understood some of his words, it had been years since Sabine had studied French. When her tutor took ill, her mother had completed Sabine’s studies, and though she herself had been fluent in the language, as most noblewomen were, it was not an area of study Sabine enjoyed. And, as her father had said many, many times, her mother had been too indulgent of Sabine’s whims.

The mercenary leader also spoke quickly, though Guy seemed to have no difficulty understanding him.

Since she could not hope to understand what they were saying, Sabine watched the two. She was struck most by Guy’s easy manner, as if he’d not spent much of the day warning Sabine about this very man. Not that she could think of much besides that kiss, which she knew had affected them equally. Each time she looked at Guy, his expression told the tale. One of desire, of longing, and of anticipation.

“Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné,” de Chabannes spat.

That she understood, mostly. Guy had asked why he was alone in the tent, something unusual for him, and he’d responded that he’d prefer to be alone than in bad company.

Guy gestured back to her. “Lady Sabine, daughter of Robert de Stuteville, lord of Cottingham.” He paused. “My wife.”

The mercenary seemed as shocked as Christopher had been. Apparently the idea of Guy having a wife was a startling one. He recovered quickly, though, and bowed more deeply than was her due. Sabine had never met a Frenchman who would risk offense by failing to offer a proper greeting.

“The honor is mine,” he said, standing. Now that she had a better look at him, she realized he was quite a bit younger than she’d expected. His face bore a similar scar to Conrad’s, although in a different location. It was a hard face, accustomed to both battle and the elements. Though not clean-shaven, like Guy, neither did he have a beard.

De Chabannes filled two goblets with wine, which he then gave to Sabine and Guy, gesturing for them to sit across from him on a wide stool. His tent accommodated four such structures and was obviously the center of the company’s activities. It struck her that it would take some effort to transport its contents, especially across the channel.

This was no small favor Guy planned to ask for.

“What brings you, along with your wife, to my humble tent?”