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He recognized his brother’s style, though, and planned to let Jamie flail himself into exhaustion. He was younger than Jamie and, ironically, it was Rollo’s injury that had kept him fitter than most men, regardless of age.

Jamie bobbed forward for what he clearly thought would be a killing lunge, and Rollo saw his chance. Though he refused to kill his brother, he found he was quite eager to bruise the lout.

Rollo stepped forward, meeting Jamie’s lunge. Their swords crashed, blade sliding down blade, until the brothers’ hands were inches apart.

“You always”—jutting his foot forward, Rollo grabbed his brother’s wrist and flung him over his extended leg—“make this same blunder.” As Jamie fell, his sword came loose and clattered across the timber roof.

Rollo put the tip of his blade to Jamie’s neck. “Don’t forget, brother . My injury makes me stronger than you. You can’t admit that you gave me that strength?”

“Never.” Jamie grabbed the blade in his palm, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from his fist. “You will never be the stronger man.”

He rolled from beneath the sword, shouting at once for a guard.

Rollo looked for a split second from the sword in his hand, to its wooden sheath tossed halfway across the roof, then to the battlements. With a curse, he tossed his blade down. The cane had been a fine little treasure, but he had neither the time nor the hands to spare.

He heard his brother’s shouts and the scrape of his broadsword as he retrieved it.

Rollo pulled himself up between the battlements, the stone scraping his back and arms as he wriggled through. Fumbling in the dark, his hands found the rope. The rock scored his knuckles as he eased down into the blackness below.

“Will,” Ormonde hissed. “Just here. Hurry now, I hear the guards rallying.”

Rollo dropped the last foot, landing clumsily in the boat, and his hired man set at once to rowing them back toward Traitor’s Gate.

“What are you doing?” Rollo sidled toward the empty cask, still waiting in the prow of the boat. “You were supposed to hide in there.”

“Someone has beat me to it.” Ormonde’s voice had a peculiar edge.

Rollo swung his gaze to him. “You sound amused.”

“Have a look-see,” the hired man said, offering his dagger.

Rollo took the knife and pried the lid free, revealing a woman. She was curled up, fast asleep, her heavy breath echoing in the tiny chamber. “What the devil?”

He peered in. It was impossible to make out any details in the dark. “Help me,” he said to Ormonde. “I’ll get her”—he put his hands under her arms and pulled—“you steady the barrel.”

“Good Lord,” Ormonde said, turning his face away. “Is that her or the cask?”

Rollo grimaced at the smell of stale wine. “I think mayhap . . . it’s both?”

He laid her down gently, staring for a moment in dumbfounded silence.

She was a small, fine-boned thing, with pert little features and hair that flowed long and loose down her back.

The moon had risen and illuminated her face with an unearthly light, making her seem like some sort of wayward fairy princess.

Rollo spied something on her, and he carefully took her bare arm in his hand. Her skin was warm and smooth, and he couldn’t help but run his thumb over the delicate bones of her hand, her fingers longer and more graceful than he’d have expected.

He turned her arm to see what had stuck to her and peeled a strange card from the thin skin of her forearm.

It pictured a man, walking blithely along, the sun at his back and a bloom in his hand.

The man in the drawing gazed up at the sky, heedless of the cliff from which he was about to step.

Beneath the image was written, The Fool.

Rollo quickly pocketed the peculiar thing, his skin prickling to gooseflesh.

The distant rumble of talk floated over the water from the direction of Traitor’s Gate, calling him back to himself. “Hurry,” he said to Ormonde. “In the cask. Now.”

“What of her ?” Ormonde pointed to the girl with a mix of bemusement and panic.

“I’ll give her my cloak.” Rollo slipped his arms from the blanket of dark wool, eyeing her strange and colorful skirt. “Something to cover the clothes she wears.”

“But they’ll recognize you. You can’t risk so much for some drunken wench.”

“What would you have me do? Drop her in the moat?” He settled the strange woman on his lap, leaning her against his neck as if she nuzzled him. “The guard’s eyes will be on the lass, not me.”

Ormonde stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Rollo glared back, and his friend simply shrugged, climbing awkwardly into the barrel.

“Make it fast.” Rollo angled away from the guard’s side of the boat, draping the woman’s hair over his face.

The smell of lavender filled his senses, and an unsettling feeling seized him, something visceral, both foreign and yet somehow dimly remembered.

He swallowed hard, reminding himself where he was. “We approach the gate.”

His hired man began whistling with affected boredom as they rowed closer, and Rollo thought he had well earned his keep.

Just as he’d predicted, the guard had eyes only for their drunken passenger. The man shot Rollo a rakish and congratulatory wink, nodding them through the Traitor’s Gate and out to the Thames.

But Rollo gazed sightlessly in the distance, breathing the scent of lavender and thinking he’d wager anything that this lass was more than a mere wench.