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eventually came into Siân’s view, and she started toward him, anxious to see him at close range, to assure herself that he was unscathed. She’d worried about him throughout the night and all day long, even though she knew he would never appreciate such attention from her. Her heart overflowed with relief when she saw him, and with the need to touch him. To feel his solid body near hers again, as she had the night before—only to affirm that he wasunharmed. He was covered with the grime of battle mixed with blood, and Siân could only hope it was not his own.
    When he was within an arm’s reach, Siân spoke his name, but he walked on numbly, ignoring her.
    Irrationally hurt by his complete disregard, Siân looked down at herself, in the rough peasant’s dress she’d thrown on in the previous night’s confusion. It was ill-fitting and ugly, exactly the kind of dress a highborn man would abhor. The condition of her hair hadn’t improved much since he’d seen her last night, either. ’Twas no wonder he’d ignored her, though his indifference gave her a peculiar ache in the vicinity of her heart.
    “God’s ears, Siân,” a harsh male voice said. Owen took hold of her arm and roughly ushered her to the rear of the kitchen. “Must you disgrace yourself at every turn?”
    “Owen, I—”
    “You are pitiful!”
    “You’re hurting me, Owen,” Siân cried, dismayed by the anger flashing in his dark gray eyes. What could she possibly have done wrong? It was nothing but her Christian duty to help these poor people in their time of need. How could Owen construe it otherwise? “Please!”
    He let go of her arm and pushed her through the kitchen door. The cook fires were being tended by maids, and Owen surprised Siân by refraining from giving her the tongue-lashing he obviously felt she needed. He propelled her beyond the kitchen and down a dark passage, till they reached a small, isolated alcove.
    “Is it too much to ask you to comport yourself asbecomes your station?” he demanded. “You are not some lowborn varlet, at liberty to dress as you please, to sully our already inglorious name.”
    “Owen, I didn’t mean—”
    “I am doing everything I possibly can,” he said, running a hand through his wavy, golden hair, “to restore honor to our name. To see that our progeny is afforded the respect it deserves! But you!” he cried in frustration.
    Siân felt her heart would burst—not only in shame, but with sorrow. For this talk of progeny had nothing to do with her—not when she took the vows of St. Ann.
    “ You thwart my every effort,” Owen continued, pacing in front of her now, in his anger. “You lower yourself to the level of those villein, dressing like them, dirtying your hands with them. Why can you not observe and learn from your betters? Look at the queen, for example. Her Majesty is a woman above all others! She is kind and gracious, beautiful and refined. And Lady Marguerite…”
    Siân bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She was powerless to stop the trail of tears coursing down her face, but she somehow managed to refrain from weeping openly. Owen was right, of course. Siân rarely ever thought of dire consequences before she acted, nor did she give much consideration to her clothes or the state of her hair.
    As for dirtying her hands…Siân wasn’t afraid of hard work, nor could she see any dishonor in it. At home in Pwll, there’d been no elegant house or servants to take care of her. There’d been no one to tutor her in the fancy ways of the gentry, though she’d learned more than enough about aristocratic harshnessfrom Edmund Sandborn, the arrogant Earl of Wrexton, whose English estates bordered Welsh lands near Pwll.
    Years ago, Siân had sworn on the graves of two youthful Welsh friends that if she ever met up with Wrexton again, she’d somehow contrive to run a blade through his cruel, black heart.
    Siân wondered what her brother would make of that .
    “The lady’s