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drinking in Ireland and survived it. He couldn’t blame a cask of usquebaugh this time, however.
    Blame his own idiocy, more like, or his lack of attention. To be attacked from above like the veriest untried lad…He’d been taught better—aye, and his instincts alone should have warned him even though his attention had wandered.
    Had he grown so complaisant since he’d been knighted that he’d become mindless and soft? If so, he deserved whatever he got. At least he’d survived—and no one at l’Eau Clair would know of his stupidity.
    Assuming he ever returned home. For all he knew, he was a prisoner here, held by the same knaves who set upon him. Perhaps the woman had been but another of their weapons, more subtle, meant to torture him into madness with her body.
    Or with her temper.
    He shook his head in disgust at his mawkish thoughts, an act he regretted at once. By God, buthis skull throbbed! He’d fought near as wounded as this before, though he’d rather not do so again if he could avoid it. But until he knew where he was and who held him, he’d be wise to remain alert and ready to take advantage of any opportunity.
    He dared not allow his vigilance to lapse again.
    Nor would he let himself fall victim to the woman once more, should she return. Neither female wiles nor warrior ways would tempt him, he vowed, no matter how appealing she appeared in either guise.
    The door hinges squeaked and the door swung wide, sending a draught of cool air into the room. The scent of spice and flowers flowed over him, as noticeable this time as before. His sweet-smelling temptress had returned.
    Will fought back a smile and composed himself to remain still and silent while she entered the room and shut the door.
    She crossed the chamber, her boot heels tapping lightly on the plank floor, and dropped to her knees beside his pallet. Her hand rested cool and light upon his brow for but a moment before she rose and moved several paces away.
    Will waited as long as his patience could bearto ease his eyes open. Better prepared for the sensation of light on his aching eyes, he forced himself to turn his head to his left, where he’d heard her go.
    Pain forgotten, he surged to his knees at the sight that met his gaze.
    The woman stood nearby, the message pack he’d worn slung over his shoulder open in one hand, the bundle of Lord Rannulf’s messages from within the leather bag clutched under her arm. Even as he struggled to his feet, she muttered a curse and carelessly stuffed the letters back into the pack.
    Except for one. Before he could stop her, she’d cracked the wax seal on the parchment square and shook it open. The color fled her face and her words grew louder and more foul.
    By the rood, what if she’d opened the message from Rannulf to Pembroke and the king? Though he was unaware of the contents, of a surety ’twas nothing for her eyes.
    Will gathered himself and lunged toward her. They fell back against the wall, the bag at their feet. “What do you think you’re doing? Put that down, you meddlesome wench—now!” he cried as he reached for the parchment she still heldclutched tight in her hand. “Have you no respect for another’s privacy?” She jerked away and he caught her by the arm.
    She fought against his hold, a fury cloaked in long brown hair and an anger he could feel in her shaking body. “Meddlesome, am I?” she snarled back he pressed her against the wall. “Traitor!”
    The letter caught between them, they stared at each other.
    Breath held tight in his chest, Will waited.

Chapter Four
    Birkland Manor, Nottinghamshire
    S ir Richard Belleville ignored the usual filth and noisy disorder that engulfed the bailey and made his way to the stable by a roundabout route guaranteed to afford him privacy. His irritation rose; the fact that he must skulk like a thief from one place to another in what was essentially his own keep grated mightily on his already-short temper.
    Damn Rannulf FitzClifford