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It was day! How was such a thing possible? She did not remember falling asleep.

“My lady?”

Reina opened the door. There stood two maids, one with another tray and the second who looked vaguely familiar, with a bundle of clothing. They entered the room and chatted as Reina watched in fascination. She’d been around chambermaids her entire life, and would never admit as much to them, especially her own maid, but Reina had not seen efficiency like this before. While she broke her fast, they cleaned her with lavender-scented cloth, a bowl of water seemingly coming from nowhere. They made the bed, helped her dress, and even brushed and re-braided her hair.

“Your companion is waiting for you in the courtyard,” the younger maid said.

“I thank you for your service,” Reina said, as one of the maids began to reposition Galien’s plaid over her kirtle. It fit well enough, and was an improvement over the shift, of course. She did not need the extra layer any longer. “I will take that,” she said, attempting to stop the young woman.

But she would not be waylaid. “Your husband bade me to tell you to wear it.”

Husband. “He did?”

“Aye, my lady.”

Reina couldn’t ignore the fact that it pleased her to hear it. It was likely so she could remain in disguise, of sorts, looking less like an English baron’s daughter than a Scotsman’s wife, the ruse they’d agreed on when meeting strangers.

“Very well,” she said as the young women finished.

Once, when her parents had taken Reina to court, she’d worn a bright green velvet gown. Silver thread lined every hem, and her mother had even lent her a necklace that had been in her family for generations. She’d felt so beautiful that day.

This was no English court.

The kirtle was well out of fashion.

But today, Reina was ready to take on what was to come. Wearing Galien’s plaid. . .

“Thank you,” she said again as the maid finished. She followed, wordlessly, and was led back onto the wooden platform. There, below, was Galien.

Reina drew in a breath, unable to hide her reaction.

This was not the man whose head had lain on her lap. Certainly it was not the one she’d spoken to from the other side of a prison cell.

Mounted—he had indeed procured a horse—he wore a saffron-colored linen shirt with loose sleeves and a black mantle draped over it. At his side, a sword hung as it would for any knight. In many ways, he looked as any nobleman would, save some of the adornments. Yet there was something different about him.

Descending the stairs, Reina realized why.

This was no English knight, but a Scotsman. A warrior. A member of one of the most powerful border clans whose escapades had even reached her ears.

Nay, not a member. The eldest son of their chief.

Reina shivered, approaching him. It was as if she did not know this man at all. For a moment, the sight of him terrified her, as she expected it might one of his opponents. But then he reached down, as if to lift her up to him.

Galien’s eyes, the smile behind them. It was the same.

He was the same.

She placed her foot on the stirrup, giving Galien her hand. He lifted her with ease as Reina slipped atop the horse, behind him.

“Good day, my lady,” he said. He sounded the same too.

“Good morn,” she replied, holding onto his waist.

Galien laughed. “Morn? ’Tis not been morn for hours.” He turned in the saddle. Breathing in deeply, he groaned. “You smell almost as good as you appear.”

Aye. This was the same man. “As do you, sir,” she said, remembering Galien had been knighted.

He looked at the plaid. “You wore it.”