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“I have seen ye fight….”

*

J amison was standing in front of her.

The man was so big that he filled up her entire field of vision and when Havilland looked up to see the big Scotsman standing there, all she could see was dark bulk.

The fire from the hearth was behind him, giving him a surreal silhouette and, to be truthful, Havilland’s heart jumped when she realized who it was.

Given the size and shape, it could be no one else.

A man that size wasn’t easy to miss and there was no one else at Four Crosses with that kind of mass.

Certainly no one else who radiated such intimidation.

She could feel her palms beginning to sweat.

Sitting on the ground helping feed an injured man because the surgeon had asked her to help, Havilland was in a rather awkward position.

It wasn’t as if she could run from him or, worse, defend herself if he decided to spank her again.

So she simply sat there and looked up at the man, unsure of what to say, wondering if he knew that she had been the one to hit him over the head in the stables.

Because the light was behind him, she couldn’t even see his features or his expression.

Therefore, she did the only safe thing; she simply lowered her gaze and went back to her task without uttering a word.

The soldier she was helping was a de Lohr man, older, and he’d lost the use of his legs after a fall from the battlements. Havilland was spooning beef broth with barley into his mouth when she heard Jamison clear his throat softly behind her.

“I’ve come tae see how Watcyn is faring,” he said quietly. When the soldier looked over at him, the man’s face lit up and Jamison came to stand next to him. “Aye, so ye heard me, did ye? Stop being lazy and rise tae yer feet, man. I’ve need of ye.”

Havilland was about to spoon more broth into the man’s mouth but he ignored her completely, now focused on Jamison. There was adoration in his expression. It was clear how much he admired the big Scotsman.

“I shall be better in the morning, my lord,” he assured Jamison. “A bit of rest is all I need.”

Jamison knelt down, his big and bulky presence causing Havilland to pull away.

Heat radiated off of his body. His knee, as he took it beside her, came too close, so much so that she visibly recoiled.

She didn’t want to be that close to him.

Or did she? God, she couldn’t think with the man so near her.

Why was her heart beating so?

“Aye, a bit of rest is all ye need,” Jamison said, patting the old soldier on the shoulder. “I think a bit o’ rest is something we all need. It was a fearsome day and ye served admirably. I’ve come tae tell ye so.”

Watcyn’s face softened with gratitude, with pride. “We chased the Welsh off, did we not, my lord?”

Jamison nodded confidently. “We did, indeed,” he said. “And we shall again should they come back lookin’ for a fight. I will expect ye tae be at my side if that happens.”

Watcyn nodded his head but he looked rather uncomfortable, uncertain about his condition, embarrassed even. “I will be happy to be at your side when this little trouble with my legs goes away,” he said. “I… I am sure I can feel them coming back.”

Jamison wasn’t sure what to say to that. He happened to glance at Havilland as if she might have some answers but her head was lowered, looking away from him. His gaze lingered on her raven-dark hair for a moment before returning his attention to the soldier.

“I am sure they will,” he said quietly.

He couldn’t help but eye Havilland again as if his attention was being drawn towards her, unable to look away.

He kept hearing Becket’s voice in his head; It is my earnest suggestion that you have a meeting with those three and settle whatever differences you may have.

He’d told Becket that such a meeting would be better coming from him, as the commander, but here was the source of his troubles, right here by his right arm.

It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Jamison had always been able to negotiate his way out of anything. He had that gift. He was coming to feel foolish that he was hiding behind Becket for something he could do better.

“My lady,” he said, his deep voice quiet. “Might I have a word wich’ ye?”

Havilland’s head shot up, shocked to realize he was looking right at her. She was instantly wary of him. “Aye,” she said hesitantly. “You may speak.”

Jamison could see the suspicion in her eyes. “Away from Watcyn, if ye will,” he said, glancing at the soldier. “I am sure he doesna need tae hear our business.”

Havilland was looking at him with increasing apprehension. “I… I cannot leave,” she said, feeling like an idiot because she sounded frightened. “The physic does not have enough help. I must stay and help him.”

Jamison’s gaze lingered on her dark head.

From the way she was acting, nervously, she probably thought he wanted to take her outside and beat her again, a far cry from the confident woman he’d met yesterday.

Well, perhaps he had wanted to take her outside and beat her at one point, but as he gazed at the woman, he noticed again just how beautiful her eyes were.

She had a little nose, tinged red from the cold, and her lips were shapely and pale beneath it.

He’d noticed from the beginning how astonishingly beautiful she was and, inevitably, he could feel himself relenting towards her somewhat.

He was twice her size and many times more powerful.

She was just a woman, after all, and he’d come on very strong yesterday at the gatehouse.

She had reacted in kind. Perhaps he had, indeed, caused this situation.

Perhaps all of this had been his fault.

“I understand,” he said after a moment. “But I must speak with ye. Will ye grant me that privilege?”

Havilland didn’t want to. She wanted to tell him to go away and leave her be. But she couldn’t quite speak the words. Something about his nearness made her body tremble. Fear, she thought with confidence. Anger .

… what else could it be?

“Aye,” she said, clearly reluctant. “What… what did you have to say?”

Jamison stood up and crooked a finger at her, indicating for her to follow him to the corner of the room, which was just a few feet away.

It was in darkness, mostly, and the wounded were crowded all around them, probably too ill or weary to hear what was being said, but he didn’t want to have a conversation over Watcyn, especially not for what he needed to say.

Jamison moved, hoping she would follow and, after a moment, she did, although it was with hesitation.

He thought she looked as if she waited for him to lash out at her, ever on guard.

He didn’t really blame her and all the while, he was thinking what he might say to her.

He suspected there was only one thing he, in fact, could say.

He didn’t want to spend his time at Four Crosses looking over his shoulder every moment for an attack.

For no other reason than that, he wanted to settle their differences.

Make peace.

He was going to have to make the first move.

“I fear that when I came tae the gatehouse yesterday, me mood was foul,” he said, sounding as apologetic as he could manage.

“I had been three days in the field fighting the Welsh and I fear that I took me exhaustion out on ye and yer men. I am sorry if I caused ye ill-humor. I am sorry ye felt the need tae attack me because of it.”

Havilland stared at him. Of all the things she imagined he would say to her at this moment, an apology wasn’t among them.

In fact, she was shocked. Truly shocked.

Her first instinct was to scold him, to agree with everything he’d said, but upon the heels of that thought came ideas far more subtle and endearing.

It was rare for a man to apologize and most especially apologize to a woman. She could hardly believe her ears but those quietly uttered words worked their desired effect– they also softened her stance. Like a fool, she was folding, whether or not she wanted to.

“I suppose you are not entirely to blame,” she said reluctantly.

“You do not speak like any of the de Lohr knights and I suppose I was not entirely sure you that were not part of the Welsh, trying to coerce us into opening the gatehouse. I supposed I believed it all the more when you were so nasty to my men.”

“Nasty?”

“You threatened to throttle them.”

He remembered that, clearing his throat awkwardly as he averted his gaze. Then, he snorted, a smile creasing his lips. “I meant it,” he said. “But then ye came from the gatehouse tae do the throttling. I barely had time tae protect meself.”

Havilland could see that he was grinning. He even glanced at her, the dark blue eyes twinkling. At that moment, she had a most unexpected reaction; her cheeks flushed a dull red and her knees felt strangely weak. It was difficult to breathe for the way he was looking at her.

I am weary , she told herself. Simply weary. Why else would my knees feel so unsteady?

But it was more than that, although she had no idea what “more”. All she knew was that she couldn’t help herself from smiling in return, as if her lips had a mind of their own.

“I was not very successful,” she said. “You are a formidable warrior.”

Jamison was warming to the conversation in spite of himself.

He’d apologized to soften the woman, because everyone knew women were idiots when it came to an apology from a man, but now he found himself genuinely interested in the conversation.

She wasn’t an unreasonable female and seemingly very sensible, certainly nothing like the woman he had spanked the previous day.

She had accepted his apology. Now she was, perhaps, admitting some fault of her own.

It was his turn to be astonished.

“Ye have excellent technique,” he said, using flattery to break her down further. “Have ye always fought… well, as a man?”