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the
contrary. I am very much needed, so I hear."
    His eyes widened again and became a
deep, rich shade of brown, reminding her of chestnuts warmed in the
glow of a hearth. The sudden idea startled her, but Isobel was
pulled in by his gaze. Almost trapped by it, she faltered,
stumbled, but then straightened her spine. She remembered that she
was a noble-born lady, a daughter of the Duc de Bressange, and he
was only a by-blow, a half-breed who lived his life by the sword
and apparently without scruples. "Have you no peasants to slaughter
today? No stags to hunt? No rebels to round up and houses to
burn?"
    "I'm sure I can spare time for you,
Lady Isobel. Since your husband cannot."
    Her pulse beat was too rapid suddenly.
She walked on, but he followed. Today it seemed he was intent on
gaining her attention. The grooms had readied her horse and one for
Jeanne too.
    "It seems likely to rain, my lady,"
her husband's hired mercenary exclaimed. "Perhaps you should delay
your ride and wait for the storm clouds to pass."
    Isobel did not reply, but took the
reins and led her horse out into the yard. Again she heard his
steps close behind.
    "Unless, of course, you can keep the
rain away with your witching spells."
    She whirled around. "I like the rain,
d'Anzeray. I welcome it."
    "I suppose life has been too dry for
you here." He smiled, showing off a gleam of straight, white teeth.
"But no more. Not after tonight."
    Suddenly she realized he was trying to
tell her something. He did not merely follow her because he knew it
pulled on her nerves.
    There was a pause while the breeze
ruffled that tail of his long dark hair and pushed the wool of her
gown against her legs. His gaze, heated and languid, swept down
over her figure, and it was as if his hands had caressed her
breasts and the curve of her hip. The sensation lingered, even
after he turned away to help Jeanne up into her saddle. Isobel
quickly used the help of a groom and a block to mount her own
horse. This clearly disappointed d'Anzeray, for when he turned back
to assist her and found he was not needed, he scowled fiercely. She
was reminded of one of her brothers sulking whenever she beat them
at some silly game.
    "You must wait for me to come with
you," he said.
    She looked down at him
from her horse and replied tersely, "There is nothing I must do for you,
d'Anzeray. It seems you forget yourself. You are the Baron's hired
hand, his tamed barbarian and—from what I hear— a bastard son of a
whore. Just because my husband relies upon you and finds you so
very amusing, does not mean I need ever do the same."
    To her surprise he banked his
irritation, smoothed his frown and merely smiled. "Ah, of course. A
noble woman such as yourself needs nothing from a humble soldier.
What could I ever do for you? What service could you ever want from
me?"
    "Exactly."
    But there was that warm glimmer again,
a knowing, self-complacent lilt to his smile. She felt her pulse
somehow beating in the soles of her feet and she was dizzy
suddenly, the air too thin.
    What service could you
ever want from me? The question sank in,
descending with as great a thud as her heartbeat had
previously.
    He rubbed a hand down over his face,
apparently making an effort to quell his smug grin.
    "Is there something you meant to say
to me, d'Anzeray?" she demanded, breathless.
    "It can wait. Go, enjoy this ride.
Later will be time enough for you and I."
    Isobel gathered the reins and prepared
to move on, but he stopped her by patting the mare's neck. His
gesture was gentle, his hand almost elegant in its movement, with
the long fingers trailing through the horse's mane. His fingernails
were kept trimmed and squared off. They were clean, she noted with
a jolt of surprise.
    "A fine beast. A pedigree Arabian,
eh?"
    "Yes," she snapped
reluctantly.
    "The Bedouin's say that Allah created
the Arabian horse from the south wind."
    "I would not know about that." She
waved a hand dismissively. "This horse was bred by my father,