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imagined a man’s lips could make her feel this way—overwhelmed and overheated and yet disappointed.
    What might she feel if he pressed those lips against hers?
    What might she feel should he do more?
    That thought was enough to make her stumble backward, away from this stranger with those eyes and those lips, that smile and that virile body, that deep, compelling voice…the very personification of all risk and all danger, the living temptation to cast aside duty and honor for one hour of passion in his arms.
    She feared Sir Connor then, more than even Baron DeFrouchette. And so she turned and fled.

Chapter 3
    R ennick DeFrouchette swatted the head of his squire as Percival tried to pull off his master’s scarlet leather boot. “Well, who is he?”
    â€œHis name’s Connor,” the thin, auburn-haired youth panted as he finally got the baron’s boot off. Red-faced from the effort, he wiped beads of perspiration from his upper lip.
    Rennick frowned, and the glimmering light of the candle made him look demonic, despite the luxurious surroundings. This private chamber was second only to the earl’s in terms of size and furnishings, as befitted an honored and important guest. Rennick had made certain it was so, ordering the servants to provide him with the earl’s finest linens and furnishings while he visited, which was often. After all, the grieving earl needed his advice on so many things.
    â€œConnor? What kind of barbaric name is that?” he asked.
    â€œWelsh, my lord,” Percival replied as he straddled the baron’s leg and made ready to remove the other boot. “His family holds land in the march. He’s Sir Connor of Llanstephan, second son of a baron. His father was Norman, his mother Welsh.”
    â€œSecond son, eh?” The baron put his stockinged foot against the thin young man’s backside and pushed.
    â€œAye, my lord,” Percival cried as he fell forward, boot in hand, his red hair flying. He nearly crashed into the carved bedpost. “He was in the Holy Land with the king.”
    A muscle in Rennick’s jaw twitched as Percival straightened. “Ah. One of the chosen, was he?”
    â€œYes, my lord, and very well regarded by King Richard, too, until they quarreled. Richard cast him out of his retinue and sent him back to England.”
    The baron reached for the silver goblet containing some of the earl of Montclair’s excellent wine. “Cast out, was he? Like Lucifer from heaven.” He raised the goblet to his lips. “What was the nature of the quarrel?”
    â€œSeems he told King Richard he had acted unchivalrously.”
    Rennick swallowed his wine so quickly, he nearly choked. “I can imagine how Richard took that. The fool’s lucky our illustrious and martial sovereign didn’t cut off his head.” He took another sip of wine. “So he was sent home. Is that all?”
    â€œNo, my lord,” Percival replied as he stood waiting for further commands. “His family is seriously behind in the payment of their taxes.”
    â€œAh.” A knowing grin spread across Rennick’s face. “So he is poor. No wonder he kept looking at me. He likely thinks to capture me in the tournament tomorrow.”
    â€œI would if—” Percival fell silent.
    â€œYou would if you were he? Of course you would, for I will be the richest man on the field.” Rennick eyed his squire again. “And you would emulate me in other matters, too, eh, Percival? How goes the wooing of the fair young Isabelle?”
    Percival flushed and didn’t meet his gaze.
    â€œShe is pretty and comes from a good family, so why should you not try to win her affections?”
    The relief on the youth’s face was pathetic.
    â€œDoes she seem to reciprocate?”
    â€œNo, my lord,” Percival admitted.
    â€œPity,” he lied. The last thing he wanted was for this oaf—albeit a highborn