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ran through the forest, her skirts lifted high, her hair flying like a pennant in a stiff breeze, her long legs fleeing over the ground faster than she had ever run before. Her thoughts raced equally as fast.
    It was God punishing her. It had to be. Punishing her with her own overwrought imagination for being so wayward and immodest. From now on she was going to be the most demure, obedient maiden Castle Brodin had ever seen.

CHAPTER TWO

    T HE TRESTLE TABLES were being set up in the hall, and Philippe could smell the taunting scents of freshly baked bread coming from the kitchen, mingling with those of juicy roasting oxen. His mouth watered so much he felt like he’d been starving for days.
    The hall rang with the boisterous clamor of hungry knights. Philippe sat beside his host at the center table. Lady Beatrice took her seat in a chair across from them, with Philippe’s two best men benched to either side of her. Other benches were pulled up to the two long lines of tables, filled with knights and the household retainers.
    Philippe frowned, feeling oddly anxious. The two young ladies still had not come.
    Then he saw them, coming through the kitchen door, the servants following in a processional, carrying trays and bowls, all with food in mountainous heaps.
    The younger, Lady Claire, the daughter and heir of the household, was as petite as her cousin was tall and slim. Claire was the ideal woman, the perfect wife for most men, so properly demure in her blue kirtle and yellow veil. Behind her Lady Leonie towered over her, slim as a willow, her bushy golden curls flowing out beneath a nearly transparent veil. At least for once, she did not boldly look a man in the eye.
    Claire reached her place, and all the knights stood to make room for her, giving him a full view of Leonie. No longer a tangled, bloody, and muddy mess. And still too much of everything to be beautiful like her cousin. Yet in spite of all, his hand fought him for the chance to slip within the mass of long, dangling curls, now caught up in narrow braids laced through with bright ribbons. Her eyes sparkled like huge, dark emeralds that drew him into their depths. Aye, too, too much of everything.

    Leonie followed Claire, her gaze fixed firmly on the hem of her cousin’s kirtle in her determination to behave like a proper maiden. Tonight she would, for once, not embarrass her uncle before his guests. Her awful hair was as controlled as it could be. In her favorite shade of green, trimmed in twining golden and crimson embroidered lions and cranes, she looked as decent as she could be made to look. She hadn’t liked the way Ealga had set the veil on her head, but when she pulled it down farther to hide more of her hair and face, Ealga had whacked her with her comb.
    She repeated the litany she had designed for herself for this night.
Smile sweetly. Speak only when spoken to. Look no man in the eye.
And every moment when not eating, fold her hands in her lap. Her eyes firmly focusing on the white linen tablecloth, she took her place. Heat blazed in her cheeks as she realized she was seated directly across from the man she least wanted to see. Gritting her teeth, she reaffirmed her vow. She would keep her eyes downcast if she had to count every bread crumb fallen from the trencher.
    The Peregrine cleared his throat, and she jerked at the sound. “Lady Leonie,” he said, “allow me to present to you my knight beside you, Hugh of Hatterie.”
    Jarred, Leonie blinked, absorbing the words, and nodded sideways to the knight. “So pleased, sir,” she said.
    “My pleasure,” said the knight in a sweetly smooth voice. “Lady, will you permit me to cut your meat?”
    Leonie smiled weakly. “How kind of you.” She groaned. Of course it was kind of him. It was his duty as a gentleman. She didn’t have to sound like he was the first man ever to deign to cut her meat for her.
    “Hugh is heir to his uncle, Roland of Hatterie,” Philippe said.
    The knight