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Walking into the hall wearing a pale blue gown, one befitting her station, was more than simply a comely woman, as Sir Eamon had called her. Curly chestnut hair, loose and wild, framed a delicate face, but not so delicate eyes. Roland couldn’t discern the color from such a distance, but as her eyes found his, there was no other word to describe them but wild.

Wild. As if she weren’t in a hall dominated by men, all of whom would be strangers to her. But instead, as if she were in the forest hunting for prey; only a bow and arrow in her hands were missing. But there was no doubt this woman was the hunter and not the prey.

She even smiled at him.

A wide, almost secretive—dare he think it?—seductive smile.

But I would ask you to watch out for her.

Goddamn Thorne. If he’d not asked it, Roland would have had an entirely different greeting for her than the one he now planned.

“Where are you going?” Alden asked.

Roland ignored him. Striding up to her, he extended his hand, palm raised. “Mistress Amalia, I presume.”

The guess at her name was the correct one, it seemed.

“Aye,” she said, hesitant.

“Sir Roland de Vere, at your service. Sir Eamon has asked that my friends and I ensure your comfort and safety during your tenure at Castle Blackwood.”

She took his hand.

As the son of an earl, he’d touched many, many ladies as such before. Kissed the hands of some of the most powerful women in England. But as Roland pressed his lips to Amalia’s soft skin, not daring to let them linger, he stood knowing two things.

First, she smelled delicate, like lilac, but he was not fooled. This woman may be sweet, but there was fire inside her.

Second, he would have her. Though Roland had no wish to disappoint the swordmaster he very much admired, that brief touch, now over, could not—would not—be the last time he touched the maid.

Unfortunately, Darien had caught up to them and could likely see Roland’s intent. Standing near him in what could only be described as a defensive gesture, his friend took a moment to frown at Roland before greeting Amalia.

“I am pleased to meet you both,” she said, her voice exactly as Roland might expect it. Not tingling, nor too deep. Perfect, like the rest of her.

Diverting his gaze from her ample bosom, but avoiding Darien’s cautioning look, Roland instead concentrated on Amalia.

“He mentioned a third man, one my lady has spoken of as well. The blacksmith?”

“Perhaps you can find him,” Roland said to Darien. “To introduce Alden to Mistress Amalia? I will escort her to the meal.”

Without waiting for his friend’s reaction, one that would likely be more condemning than Roland would care for, he held out his arm.

She took it.

“You will sit with us,” Roland said as some of the other recruits began to notice her.

“I . . . ” She peered sideways at him. “I will admit, I was hesitant to come to the hall. There is little place here for a lady’s maid. I could eat with the other servants—”

“You will sit with us,” Roland repeated. She was no scullery maid and would take a meal in the hall. He would ensure all of the others noticed and understood . . . the maid was under his protection.

“I thank you,” she said as they arrived at the same trestle table where Roland and his friends took every meal. “But I also wish to offer an alternative.”

“To sitting here?” he asked, gesturing for Amalia to sit at the edge of the bench opposite where he typically sat.

“To being told to do so.”

The hall was loud, as always with so many men present, some coming as he had from the training yard, others preparing to head in that direction. Because of that, it was likely that he alone could hear her words.

Fire. As he suspected, there was a simmering passion to her that, once unleashed, Roland had no doubt would be untamable. Thankfully, he had no desire to tame her.