Euphemia ran after her as Clare entered the hall. ‘No wonder you’re still unmarried. A braw man appears and you do nothing but insult him.’

      ‘Euphemia, you talk as if I should open my skirts to anything with a pillicock.’ Of course, the girl’s mother did, so she knew no better.

      The girl shrugged. She knew who, and what, she was. Her mother might have been the baron’s companion for ten years, but she would never be his wife. ‘What’s the harm?’

      ‘He’s someone’s bastard son, attached to no lord. He may have been banished from his fellows. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t murder us in our beds.’ And if he did, the fault would be hers.

      ‘Well, I’ll be friendly, if you won’t.’

      ‘No, you won’t. I don’t want to see his bastard in your belly after he’s gone. Now go and find out whether cook needs help with those fowl.’

      The girl smiled and left, without answering yea or nae.

      Clare gritted her teeth. She had tried to bring order to this place, but France and all she’d learned there was far away. The wildness of these untamed hills crept into everything and everyone. Even she had mornings, like this one, when nothing would soothe her but watching the falcon soar and taking pleasure in its kill.

      She glanced up. Fitzjohn was still regarding her. He smiled, as if sensing her unruly urges.

      She turned her back on him. Let the man fill his belly and be gone.

      She tried to ignore him when he appeared in the Great Hall for the evening meal, sitting far below the salt. He seemed at ease there, among the men-at-arms, yet something set him apart, as well.

      Euphemia leaned over to serve him soup, her breast pressing close to his shoulder. Clare clenched her fists.

      He caught her looking at him and his eyes, in turn, travelled over her as if he saw not just under her clothes, but under her skin.

      She looked away. He was not worthy of a lady’s attention. She rested her gaze, instead, on the small tapestry banker, a gift from Alain.

      Alain, Comte de Garencieres, had come to Scotland a year ago with soldiers and money to aid, or more precisely, to rekindle the Scots’ war on England. He had brought with him the reminder of all she had left behind when she had returned two years ago after years of being fostered in France.

      The banker, in threads of red, white and gold, depicted a man and woman, arms outstretched, about to reunite. On the woman’s shoulder perched the falcon who had already returned to her.

      It was too beautiful to sit on, though it was designed as a bench cover. Instead, she had draped it over a chest beside the great hearth where she could see it.

      Alain’s gift was a reminder of a better world, one where grace and chivalry reigned. And as soon as the fighting was over, they would be married. She would return to France as the comte’s lady, far from this crude and brutal land of her birth.

      She glanced at Fitzjohn through her eyelashes without raising her head. A boorish Scot, like the rest. Interested only in fighting, eating and women.

      He had left her thoughts by the time the evening meal was finished and she started up the spiralling stairs to her bedchamber. But as she reached the third level, Fitzjohn loomed before her, just beyond her candle’s glow.

      The flame trembled. ‘This is the family floor. What are you doing here?’

      ‘Looking for a bed.’

      She glanced towards her door, still closed. Had he dared look inside? ‘I told you to sleep in the Hall with the rest.’ She took the final step up to the floor, yet still he towered over her.

      ‘You might at least offer me a blanket and pillow.’

      ‘I’ve offered you a roof.’ And it was more than she should have. ‘Don’t make me regret it.’

      ‘A lady’s hospitality normally includes something more comfortable.’

      Comfortable carried the lilt of an insult, but the words raised her guilt. A lady should show more hospitality. Yet his behaviour didn’t befit a knight, so she had trouble remembering to act as a lady.

      ‘I have given you the same welcome that I would give any other fighting man. If that is unacceptable, then you won’t be sorry to leave tomorrow. Now stand aside so I can reach my chamber.’

      He didn’t move, yet something crept over her skin, as if he had touched her. She started around him, but the space was narrow and she bumped against him, stumbled and lost her grip on the candlestick.

      He caught her with one arm before she hit the floor and when she looked up, she saw the candle, straight and steady, in his other hand.

      Knees bent, she tried to stand, but only fell against his chest. Embarrassed, she had to cling to his shoulders as he straightened, giving her back her stance, and then her candle.

      She backed away, her forearm branded with his palm, her breasts still feeling the press of his chest, held just a moment too long, against hers.

      ‘Dream well, Mistress Clare.’

      She reached behind her and pushed her door open, afraid to look away for fear he’d follow. But he didn’t move, and as she took the light with her his smile faded into the darkness.

      She shut the door and leaned against it, shaking.

      Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be gone.

      As she slammed the door against him, Gavin struggled to subdue his anger. Her disdain was sparked by such small trespasses, things that reflected none of the darkness he concealed. If she was so concerned about the shine of his armour, what would she think if he broke down her door and forced himself into the comfort of her bed?

      He’d seen men do worse. He had ridden away from the English because their war had made it too easy to act on such dark visions. As easy as it had been for his father to seduce a Scots lady and leave her with a child forced to fight the heritage of his blended blood.

      He was weary of war—the one on the field and the one in his soul.

      He descended the stone stairs into the hall. A few men still gambled in the corner. The rest had curled up for the night. The fire had burned to embers and his small bedroll offered little cushion from the unforgiving floor. For weeks, he had braved cold and rain, staying clear of Lord Douglas’s men as they chased Edward’s troops. Grass and dirt had been his bed. He ached for a moment of comfort.

      Stretching out close to the hearth, he saw the tapestry banker covering the chest beside it, keeping the wood warm when a man was cold.

      He reached over, pulled it off and rolled up in it. The memory of her fingers caressing