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He shrugged. “I can not guess,” he said, not moving toward her, or the letter.

“Do you believe I would betray you after what’s passed between us?”

“Would you not? It would be noble of you, by his standards. And the king’s.”

“Noble is also protecting my sister despite what I might want.” There it was. She said it. What Haydn would do with the information, she could not guess.

He paused and frowned. “It is as I thought. And if I were you, I’d do anything to protect her.”

“You are angry.”

“Aye, I am angry. You write a letter to your father telling him. . .” He shrugged. “All you’ve learned, perhaps?”

“All I’ve learned? You share so little of yourself, what do you believe I could possibly say to him?”

His eyes narrowed. “I could see you, Phillipa, through the fabric of the tent. When you leaned forward as we spoke of Bristol and my cousin Rory.”

She thought back to that night. “I was curious—”

“Only when talk turned to my relative who just happened to live at the border.”

Phillipa could not remember the specifics of their discussion, but she had wondered since what Rory might be involved in. But Haydn looked at her with such suspicion, as if all along she’d done nothing but vie for information. And nothing could be further from the truth. She didn’t want to know. Not any longer.

“If you so mistrust me, then why not just have me escorted to Hillside as you planned?” Phillipa could not resist lashing out now. He was supposed to be the one to help her through this, but instead, he pushed her away.

“Perhaps I will,” he shot back.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm both of their tempers. “Haydn, truly, I know nothing of significance. And if I did. . .” Her voice trailed off.

“If you did?” The suspicion in his eyes told her more than Haydn’s words about what the outcome of this discussion would be. “If you knew the whereabouts of Wallace, for instance?”

Wallace. There was no one the king despised more. “Do you know where he is?”

“If I did, could I trust you with the information or would you put it in that letter?”

“What concern of yours would it be? You are English too, Haydn. Wallace was responsible for many deaths at Stirling and—”

“I am a borderer,” he interrupted, his voice harsh. “And a Waryn. Kin to Clan Kerr.”

And at least some of his family fought with Wallace. He didn’t have to say it. Which meant the king had good reason to question the Earl of Kenshire and his family’s loyalty.

But what of Catherine? What of me?

“’Tis complicated,” she admitted.

“Nay.” Haydn sat on the bed and slipped his boots back on. He was leaving. She wanted to say something to make him stay, but what could Phillipa say that would make him trust her? Precisely nothing. To him, she would always be the daughter of the king’s advisor first, Phillipa, his wife, second. “’Tis not complicated at all,” he said, more to himself than to her. Then grabbing his belt and sword, Haydn walked out of their small chamber without another word and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They’d not spoken all morn.

Holt and the men knew better than to approach him. They knew he hadn’t slept with Phillipa courtesy of the stablehand who’d asked if he’d gotten any sleep in the stable loft on account of ol’ Ned neighing during the night. Not that he’d intended to hide the fact. As they approached the fork in the road that marked the climb to Middleton Ridge due north and the road that would lead them northeast, toward Hillstone Manor, it would become apparent enough that he and his wife would be parting ways.

Haydn had hardly slept the night before, a fact that helped to lend him little patience when his brother did ride ahead to join him.

“What is the plan?”

“You know the plan, Holt.”