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caught her to him, hungry for the taste of her, a kiss, the feel of her breasts in his hands. She responded with a sweet urgency, glad of his touch, wanting more, wanting it quickly. Upon her knees, she unbuckled his scabbard. She took him in her hand. Battle was soon forgotten.
    He had meant to stay longer at the welcoming bastion of Tyne, but while he was there, a messenger arrived from David, urging him onward to Stirling with moderate haste. Something had happened; Waryk knew the king, and he knew he was being summoned for a reason. He bid brother and sister goodbye and started swiftly toward Stirling, where the king, who frequently moved about the country, was in residence.
    They rode late one night when they came across an armed guard bearing the king’s colors. They were challenged in the name of King David, and Waryk quickly called out his own identity, then found that he faced an old friend, Sir Harry Wakefield, an older man, but one of the king’s closest advisors. Dismounting, he greeted Sir Harry, curious to know what he was about. “Is there some new action? Has fighting broken out anew?” he asked him.
    â€œNay, Laird Lion! Why, ’tis nothing but escort service I am about. The death of an old laird sends his child to the king, and so I am entrusted with her safety. We have heard about the fighting. Across the country, my friend, you are known for your great victories.”
    Waryk inclined his head, though he was tempted to deny the praise. What had he done but slaughter madmen who had seemed to have no purpose?
    â€œThere’s another copse, just yonder,” Sir Harry told him. “You and your men may rest, Laird Lion, for no one will pass this road without my challenge!”
    â€œMy thanks, Sir Harry. Angus, what say we do as he suggests and make camp here. Have Thomas tell the men.”
    The cry went out down the ranks. Angus knew that Waryk trusted in no one man alone, and that if Waryk had told him to take his rest, then Waryk meant to stand the first hours of guard duty himself. Sir Harry, pleased to be of service, saluted Waryk. “Truly, we heard you made quick business of those raiders at Localsh,” he said.
    â€œAye, Sir Harry, but I fear they’ll rise again.”
    â€œThe king has new enemies?”
    â€œA king always has enemies, old and new.” Waryk dismounted, giving his horse to one of the pages who rode with him as the lad came to tether the destrier for the night. A rustle in the trees alerted Waryk and he spun, his sword unsheathed, as a second mounted man rode onto the trail. “Sir Harry—” the man called, a thunderous note in his voice to mask his concern.
    â€œIt’s all right, Matthew,” Sir Harry said. “’Tis Laird Waryk, the king’s champion, returning from battle.”
    â€œAye, sir, Laird Waryk,” the man said, sounding somewhat relieved. “We’ve strength against an enemy tonight!”
    â€œHave you had trouble?” Waryk asked.
    â€œNay,” said Matthew. “But there are always troubles then, are there not? Especially in this, an old laird dies, he leaves a daughter …”
    â€œAye, well, we will be here tonight, and tomorrow, we’ll wait for you to break camp, and follow behind. If anyone is following, we will know. If that serves you well, Sir Harry?” Waryk didn’t want to imply that Sir Harry might really need his assistance in the simple task of escorting an orphaned heiress to the king.
    â€œLaird Lion, it sits well enough with me!” Sir Harry said. “The lady’s own men are with us; when we see Stirling, they will double back, and when they have passed you by, you will know we are safely on our way down to the fortress.”
    â€œAye, then.”
    â€œMatthew, ride the trail south, and I will move to the north,” Sir Harry said, and Matthew turned on his warhorse to do as commanded. Sir Harry lifted a hand in salute to