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Again, the truth of his words was clear in her eyes, which he could now see were brown. But not dark, like his own. They were a golden brown, light. Guileless.

“How do you know who I am?”

Oh, how sheltered this one was. Eyes narrowed, she tried to look suspicious, but all Galien saw was fear.

“Are you the lady of the castle, then?” And stubborn, like him. She refused to answer. Which meant, of course, she wasn’t.

“I wish to speak to you,” she said, moving daringly closer.

If he was quick, Galien could reach out and grab her hand. He just might, but then again, it was unlikely she had the keys to his cell. He’d have heard them rattling. Which meant grabbing her would yield him little. “I care little for your wishes, my lady.”

As expected, she bristled at his tone. “As you correctly surmised, I am the daughter of Lord Anbarth.”

Sore, tired, and hungry, Galien’s typical patience was being tested. “You speak as if we meet at one of your father’s banquets.”

Her patience, it seemed, was being tested as well. “He has little occasion for banquets of late,” she said.

Galien laughed. “And I should be sorry for it, I suppose? That he is too occupied haranguing his northern neighbors at the behest of a tyrant king to exchange pleasantries with Edward’s other cronies?”

“I did not come here to argue with you, Sir. . .”

He’d given none his name thus far, nor would he do so with this lady. “Why did you come here, Lady. . . ?”

“Reina.”

He’d not expected her to answer. Reina. The name was fitting, her bearing as queen-like as his mother’s or sister’s. Though she was scared, Anbarth’s daughter did not quiver in fear but held her head high. Galien supposed if she were the last sight that he would see on this earth, it would be a pleasant one at least. Much more so than his captors.

Bastards.

“I came here to ask you a question.”

His gaze dropped to her bodice. ’Twas cut low, squared off, with more than ample view to remind him he’d never again feel the touch of a woman’s breasts beneath his fingers. “Ask it,” he ground out, each reminder of his mortality more poignant than the last. “And be gone.”

Lady Reina swallowed, blinking as if waiting for him to regain a measure of cordiality that, were they indeed abovestairs in her father’s hall, he a guest and not a prisoner, Galien would gladly have shown her.

“You asked if I’d met a Scotsman before. I’ve rarely done so. Your guess was correct.”

Despite himself, Galien gripped the iron bars in front of him. He caught the look of pity Lady Reina gave him as she spied his bruised and bloody hands. They’d been overwhelmed by English forces, Galien never standing a chance against more than ten men to his one. But that did not mean he’d been taken easily.

“You’ve lived in Anbarth your whole life?”

“Aye.”

“Does your father not treat with any Scotsmen, then? Have you not been to the Tournament of the North?”

Held once each year, the tournament was the only time both English and Scots borderers came together peacefully. Even after Berwick and Stirling Bridge it continued to be held. Each year, Galien and his family attended the tournament, which held a special meaning to their family.

It was where his father, the chief of Clan Kerr, had met his English mother.

“Nay, I have not.”

His first guess had been accurate, then. A sheltered maid, indeed. Though many of Edward’s subjects with wealth such as Anbarth had properties all throughout England. Why the baron kept his daughter here, Galien neither knew, nor cared to know. Unless she was here to help him escape, he had little use for Lady Reina.

“Ask your question,” he said, impatient now. He was no mouse to her cat, a plaything for a curious Englishwoman who had naught else to do with her time than taunt him.

“I. . .”

He made her nervous. Galien leaned forward, his head inches from the bars now. “If you are here to let me out, I welcome the discussion. Otherwise, ask your question and leave me to my last days in peace.”