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She reached for her cup of ale, then froze as Sir Etienne appeared from the shadows of the hall and sat down across from her.

She looked at him briefly, noticed the rearranging of his nose—no doubt thanks to Colin’s fists—then lowered her eyes and refused to look at him again, though she could feel him willing her to do the like.

Ali turned her attentions to the high table, merely to have something else to watch. And as she looked at the faces of those sitting there, she wondered how it was that after little more than a se’nnight she could have lost so much of her discomfort at being near these people.

The Dragon she avoided just on principle, even though she’d begun to doubt that he was as full of evil as was rumored.

She had given much thought to all that the lady Gillian had told her.

Ali could well see where Lord Christopher’s warriorly form alone could lead those around him to back up a pace and reconsider any jests at his expense.

His visage, its unworldly handsomeness aside, was stern, but in nothing more than a manly way.

Ali watched him with his lady wife and saw that whilst he frowned at others around him, his look infallibly gentled when turned toward her.

And to be sure, he treated her with deference enough.

Gillian herself seemed to have no fear of him.

Perhaps he was in truth just a man, but a man whom the gossips had cloaked with a foul enough reputation to keep everyone in fear of him.

And if that held true for him, how did it hold for Colin? Christopher of Blackmour had the very blackest, the very vilest fame reaching as far as her home, yet he appeared to be a mere man—a man with a gentle woman by his side and two very small sons who seemed to fear him not at all.

Christopher’s lads didn’t seem to have any fear of Colin.

Ali watched as the younger one made an appearance at the table and immediately crawled over bodies and chairs until he had ensconced himself in Colin’s lap.

Ali watched in surprise as Colin not only allowed the familiarity, but put an arm around the lad to keep him from falling backward.

And then the true entertainment began.

The boy soon tired of Colin’s food and turned to the man himself.

Colin’s shoulders were used as a place to perch, his hair was tugged enthusiastically, and his ears were used as reins.

And all the while, Colin merely continued his conversation with Blackmour, seemingly undisturbed by the young lad’s ministrations.

Small fingers investigated eyes, nose, and mouth, but Colin’s only response was to pat the lad on the back and settle him more firmly on his shoulders.

Ali began to wonder, unwillingly, if she might have taken rumor as fact when it should have been counted as mere fancy.

Had she made a mistake?

That was, however, a thought she simply could not entertain.

She had set her foot to her accursed path and there was surely no turning back now.

She purposefully turned her attentions back to her meal only to find Sir Etienne staring at her with an expression she couldn’t quite identify.

She glared at him briefly, then concentrated on her food.

“Beware, boy,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward so she couldn’t help but hear him. “I’ll not stand for such cheek from you. You aren’t his yet.”

Ali felt an unwelcome rush of fear sweep through her.

She remembered all too well what it felt like to be at Sir Etienne’s mercy.

It was the last place she would again find herself willingly.

She gave serious thought to how she might escape to a place where Sir Etienne wouldn’t be able to follow.

Mayhap she would offer to take something up to Sybil and thereby hide herself in the solar.

The foolish twit hadn’t come down for the meal—again.

Ali found herself quickly losing sympathy for the girl.

After all, if Colin allowed a lad to crawl all over him thusly, surely he couldn’t be all that bad.

His smell aside, of course. Even she, who shunned bathing as a dangerous and foolhardy practice, could see the wisdom of it in his case.

Then again, too many more days out in the lists and she would be seeking out a tub of her own free will.

There was something about roasting in chain mail in the heat of the day that brought out a body’s most pungent odors.

The hall door opened and shut with a resounding bang, making her jump. She watched as the man who had entered the hall strode across the rushes, made straight for the high table, and bowed before Colin.

“Lord Berkhamshire,” he said in a loud voice, “I bring a message from your father.”

The change that swept over Colin was truly startling in its swiftness. Colin very carefully handed Blackmour’s son to him, then stood to face the man standing before the table.

“Aye?” he said, and there was no welcome or warmth in his tone.

“He bids you depart for Harrowden. ‘Within the hour,’ said he. He is anxious to have the lady Sybil delivered.”

The entire company held its breath. Ali stole a look at Sir Etienne and found that even he had stopped watching her long enough to look at the high table.

For herself, once she looked back at Colin, she could not look away from him.

Gone was the expression that gave nothing away.

Gone, seemingly, was the endless patience he’d shown her.

In its place was a cold fury that was plain to the eye.

She was suddenly thoroughly grateful that she was not the focus of his ire.

The thought came to her that she surely would be, did he but know who she was.

Colin looked at the messenger with an expression of such malice that the man backed up several paces. “I’ll leave when it pleases me,” Colin said, each word clipped.

The messenger cleared his throat. “Your sire bid you—”

“My sire can rot in Hell!” Colin shouted. “Return and tell him I’ll leave when I’m ready!” He sat down and bellowed for more wine, which a page hastened to give to him.

The messenger was no fool. He bowed, then immediately turned and made for the door, not even asking for supper.

There was silence in the hall for a goodly while after that. Conversations returned, but they were at first whispered ones.

Ali concentrated on breathing and keeping her dinner down. What a fool she had been, to think she could so easily have dealings with the Butcher of Berkhamshire! To think on him as a man who, though gruff and warriorly, was not dangerous.

Sir Etienne leaned over the table toward her. “Imagine how he will treat his wife. I shouldn’t want to taste his wrath,” Sir Etienne said, with an unpleasant smile. “As a woman. A defenseless, helpless woman.”

“But you’ve already had a taste of that, haven’t you?” said the man next to him, clapping him on the back with a laugh. “How did it sit with you, Sir Etienne?”

A brawl ensued and Ali wasted no opportunity to bolt from the hall.

She knew she couldn’t stay inside any longer, not after what she’d just witnessed.

Whatever comfort she’d felt in Colin of Berkhamshire’s presence was completely gone.

She’d seen the side of him that grown men feared—and feared with good reason.

Her only surprise had been that he hadn’t reached over and pulled the messenger’s innards out through his skin with his bare hands.

Perhaps with a woman he might have shown a slight bit of restraint whilst beating her or screaming at her. Perhaps. But with a man, one of his guardsmen, he would show none. He’d surely shown none to Sir Etienne.

What would he show to her when she, as Sir Henri, displeased him?

She fled down the steps and made it to the side of the chapel, her breath coming in gasps. Then she dropped to her knees and wept. What she wanted were great, noisy, wrenching sobs that would rid her of all her fear. Instead, she wept with her hand over her mouth to stifle the sounds.

He would kill her. Did he but know who she was, he would kill her, likely in the most painful of ways. But what could she do to avoid it? Flee? How, when he watched her all the time? How, when she was soon to be his as part of Sybil’s dowry?

She dragged her sleeve across her eyes, her breath coming in gasps. Maybe if she banged loudly enough and wept convincingly enough, Sybil would allow her inside the solar where she might at least hide until she could decide on a plan. And if not Sybil, perhaps Gillian would aid her....

She shook her head, dismissing the thought immediately. Gillian was wed to Christopher, who was Colin’s dearest friend. She would be asking Gillian to turn against her husband, and that she couldn’t do.

She struggled to her feet. If she could just hide for the remainder of the night, perhaps she could flee out the gates at first light.

Though she would have to go back inside the keep for her coin.

Leaving it behind had been a foolish decision after all.

Obviously, she would have to fetch it. Putting her shoulders back, she started toward the hall.

Then she froze.

Sir Etienne stood leaning against the stone of the hall, watching her. He pushed away and started across the dirt path.

The hall door opened at the same time. Light spilled down the steps. None other than Colin of Berkhamshire stood there, looking even fiercer than her foul imaginings had made him.

“Henri,” he called, “come in. I’ve a task for you.”

Ali threw a look at Sir Etienne, but he had slipped back into the shadows.

Now, here was something to decide. Torture from Colin or torture from Sir Etienne. How could a body possibly choose between the two?

She wondered if she could make the stables before either of them could reach her. Was the portcullis down already? The drawbridge up? Would she survive if she jumped off the wall into the sea, or would she merely dash herself to pieces against the rocks below?

The chapel door opened behind her and Ali spun around, certain she was in the midst of a miracle. The priest stood there like a rescuing angel.

Ali didn’t hesitate. “I want sanctuary,” she said, throwing herself to her knees before him.

He frowned down at her. “Nay.”

She gasped in surprise. “Why not?”

“I’ll not have a sniveling knight cluttering up my chapel.”

“But you must give me sanctuary when I ask it of you,” she cried. “You must!”

“I must do nothing,” the priest said stubbornly.

What kind of fiendish place was this, where demons ran amok and priests shirked their duties? Ali felt tears coursing down her cheeks and she could do nothing to stop them. She was doomed. Her best chance for salvation had just been denied her. She would die a horrible death at Colin’s hands—

She was hauled to her feet by the back of her tunic. She squeaked in surprise.

“Damned useless priest,” came the grumble from above her head. “Be off with you, Father, to where you do your best business.”

The priest drew himself up stiffly. “My duties for the day—”

“No doubt continue at the ale spigot,” came the reply.

The priest strode off in a fine temper. Ali wished she possessed such cheek. Unfortunately, ’twas all she could do to remain where she was, up on her feet thanks to Colin of Berkhamshire’s fist in her tunic, and not weep out loud. He turned her around to face him.

“I saw Sir Etienne leave the hall,” he said, looking down at her with glittering eyes. “He seems recovered enough. Was he troubling you again?”

What could she possibly say? Should the more dangerous man protect her from the less dangerous one? Or were they equally lethal where she was concerned?

Colin grunted. “You’ll attend me from now on. Sybil can fetch her own food.”

She blinked in surprise. “What?”

Colin looked to his left, into the shadows where Sir Etienne was no doubt still lurking, then back down at her. “A foot behind me at all times is where you will remain. Do you understand that simple instruction?”

The saints pity her, she certainly did. “Aye,” she managed.

Colin looked at her with pursed lips, then shook his head and turned back to the hall. “Come. We’ll seek our rest. I’m sure you’re as eager as I to put an end to this foul evening.”

An end? Ali had to put her hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing in a most daft fashion. The madness wasn’t ending, it was just beginning! Forever as a shadow to the Butcher of Berkhamshire? The very thing she had been trying to avoid and was now doomed to endure?

By the saints, not even her nightmares had been this diabolical!

“Henri, come,” Colin said, taking her by the arm and tugging on her.

She would have dug in her heels, but the saints only knew what kind of retribution that would have brought down upon her. So as she walked up the steps to the great hall with him, she comforted herself with the small hope that he wouldn’t want to damage her until he’d trained her.

She wondered, absently, what her father would have to say about her current straits. Would he have ever agreed to the betrothal if he’d known where it would lead?

She had to find another path, some other way to live her life. If she had to endure many more days of this, she was certain she would drop dead from fright.

Mayhap the convent was her only choice in truth. She might have enough coin to buy her way inside with what Isabeau had given her and if she sold the sword Colin had given her.

She shied away from the thought immediately.

She touched the hilt and found the cold steel to be surprisingly comforting.

Nay, she could not sell this. Whatever else she chose to do, she couldn’t give up a gift that had been so freely given, given with the expectation that she could make good use of it.

Colin paused just inside the hall and his hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Stay by me,” he commanded.

“Aye, my lord,” she whispered.

“I’ll see you’re kept safe,” he grumbled. “Poor whelp.”

Ali gulped. A foot away from the Butcher of Berkhamshire at all times.

By the saints, could her life become any more dangerous?