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“Of an Irishman. Lord Yves is on the lookout.”
The pasted smile became brittle, so stiff she felt it would break in two. “Is he?” She did not dare turn to see precisely where Máel stood, but she hoped he was far, far back.
“Yes.” Sir Bennett cuffed his young squire on the back of the head when the boy moved too slowly, then turned to her. “We must keep you safe, my lady. You will be under my protection until your father returns.”
“Oh, I don’t think I shall require—”
“I insist.”
A presence coalesced beside her. Powerful, ruffianly… She looked up at Máel.
Sir Bennett did as well. He eyed Máel up and down with a cool, derisive glance. “And you are…?”
“My father’s man-at-arms,” she said swiftly, adopting a regal tone, for it kept her voice from shaking.
“Ah.” The information was enough to lose all Bennett’s interest—he cared nothing for commoners or anyone faintly resembling them. Instead, he reached for her hand.
“Come, lady, my joust begins in a trice. Watch me win. You shall be my honored guest.”
“Oh, no, I am sorry, I cannot—”
“I have bid you come.” His voice was harder, and the remote respect in his eyes turned to something far colder.
Máel didn’t move in a way that anyone would have noticed, but Cassia felt the rising energy of him at her back. He was preparing himself.
If he unleashed, they would be doomed.
She extracted her hand with a swift little twist. “Of course,” she said with a smile and bent head. “I must away momentarily, but I will surely be there to watch you win.”
She gave a curtsey, meant to mollify, for that is the way one had to deal with such men.
On balance, she preferred the outlaw to the knight.
Of course, there was no balance. Such choices were not in her control. But notwithstanding everything, she would get Máel his family’s sword.
She hurried away, Máel at her side, and guided them to the stairs. Up they went, around and around the curving passageway, moving faster on every step.
Lord Yves’s voice sounded from a distant landing, coming down the stairs.
“Hurry,” Máel murmured.
A delicate sweat formed on her neck and arms. They reached the landing where her room lay. Stepping out of the stairwell, they hurried to the door. She scrambled for the key, held in a pouch always tied to her girdle.
The key was gone.
The thin slick of sweat on her skin grew thicker. Her fingers dug inside. She heard people in the distance. Lord Yves’s voice grew louder. He was descending the stairs.
She ripped the pouch open, half panicked.
Máel stepped forward. “Give me a pin from your hair.”
She lifted a shaking hand and drew one out.
Leaning low, he thrust it into the lock. Wiggling it, he turned and gave a push. It sprang open.
They rushed inside. Cassia slammed the door shut and leaned against it, her palms on the wood.
“I would have killed him for you.”
