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come back from war and all had thought him dead. So had Samuel Elliot, mistaken on the battlefield for his fallen brother.
    Meriom squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples, the pain there so sharp it felt like knives driving into her skull.
    But nay, she had the ring. Thomas was not here, could not be here. There was no hope for that, and in that hope lay the way of madness. Her mind was tricking her again. How many times in the years since he’d left had she believed she’d seen him at the market, at the fair, at the tournament in Glesson? A hundred…maybe more? They say those grieving oft see their beloved when they are not there. God in heaven, ’twas a fact grounded in reality—Thomas Addecker was dead. And yet, even now she could feel his soul surrounding hers, as though he lived and breathed in the dark knight who stood before her.
    Mother Mary! She was losing her mind.
    Turning, she picked up her skirts to flee, the room tilting, spinning around her, colors streaming, people laughing. Blessed saints, the air had grown hot in the hall, and her stomach heaved as if she was standing on the deck of a rolling ship. She felt her knees wobble beneath her and she staggered, the floor rising up to meet her. If she did not get away from him, this dark stranger, and all that reminded her of Thomas, she would be sick.
    She bolted, darting through the crowd.
    â€œWait!” the knight called after her.
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    Meriom stumbled through the great wooden doors that opened into the snow-dusted center courtyard, the moonlight beaming down in rays of blue and white. A handful of guests huddled around a small bonfire. She took a deep breath and waited for the biting cold to restore her. Thoughts of the dark knight immediately filled her head—a knight who inexplicably stirred her desire—and made her think of Thomas.
    Nostalgia crept into her thoughts—a kiss she’d once shared here with Thomas, an impassioned, lingering kiss, the kind that lasted longer than her breath, much like the kiss she’d just shared with a stranger.
    Heaven help her! Had she lost her senses? What of loyalty and love?
    A range of emotions raced through her mind. Guilt. Shame. Surprise. No man could replace her Thomas, could he?
    Withdrawing the ring from her bodice, she freed it from the leather string and slipped the golden band on her middle finger. She needed to see it…to remember. She cried silently, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her quivering chin.
    A cloak settled over her shaking shoulders, its warmth comforting and soft.
    Meriom lifted her eyes to see the face of a young squire. There was kindness in his youthful eyes.
    â€œI thank you.” She looked away, discouraging his company.
    The squire stood beside her, unmoving. “I’m not much for feasting,” he said, softly. “Too crowded. Too loud. I much prefer the quiet of a campfire and the open road.”
    Meriom kept her voice distant. “You traveled far?”
    â€œFrom Flanders and then from Shropshire to here—in the snow. I was in service to the king.”
    â€œAh, you served in France then. Were you at the Battle of Bouvines?” She’d met only a handful of knights who’d served in King John’s army and survived. She knew not why she even bothered to ask.
    The young squire took a drink. “I was there, my lady.” He swallowed hard and looked away. “I am amongst the last to return, stopping here to rest before I travel home.”
    Beneath his new traveling clothes, he looked alarmingly thin.
    Meriom took pity on him. “I’ll make certain you get a sack of food for the rest of your journey.”
    He bowed his head and raised her hand to his lips, as chivalric code commanded. “Thank you for your kindness, great lady.”
    Meriom nodded, only to startle when he shoved her fingers toward the firelight.
    The squire’s face paled. “This ring. Where did you