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said Müller. “She’s made clear to us that she’s used to being treated with more respect.”
    Becker leaned toward his commander. “Wolfram, what woman would you most like to have in your power right now?”
    The leader gave a disgruntled shrug, rolling his shoulder and testing his bicep while Krause tried to tie off the bandage around the bulging muscle. “The Virgin Mary, to save this bloody hopeless cause?”
    Becker poked him in the ribs. “Think: What woman would it most infuriate Prince Kurt for you to hold?”
    At that, the colossus turned back toward her. His restless irritation under Krause’s ministrations stilled. “Have you found his lady?”
    Becker smiled and swept a hand toward her in a grand gesture worthy of a court ball. “Behold—I have the honor of presenting Lady Lenora Trevelyan.”
    The commander pushed to his feet and strode toward her.
    Tight buckskin clung to his muscled thighs over black leather boots. He still wore a brace of pistols and a sword hanging from his belt. Otherwise, he was naked and shorn near bald. The white of his fresh bandage gleamed in the dark against the tanned skin of his arm and chest. He didn’t seem to notice the cold of the night; indeed, heat radiated off his form. When he came to a stop and stood towering in front of her, her head barely reached his shoulder.
    Ignoring his fresh wound, he grasped her from Johann and towed her back toward the fire, where he stared at her hard in the light cast by the flames. “Is it really you, Lady Lenora? And are you all right?” He chafed her icy hands between his much larger ones. “You’re trembling.”
    She’d never stood near such a large and largely naked man. His chest, lightly furred with dark hair and still slick with traces of blood and sweat, filled her vision. She breathed him in: the tang of musk, battle, horse—a hard fighting man in his prime. Her head reeled.
    And then, through her confusion, she realized that he’d switched from the German he’d been using with his men and was addressing her in English. She hadn’t heard or spoken English in weeks now, since her parents had left the country. Kurt claimed it to be an inferior language and insisted they converse in German.
    This huge man spoke not only in English but in the plummy tones of the British aristocracy.
    She forced her eyes up past that chest to stare at his face—and into his eyes, now lit up by the bonfire. They were as blue as the summer sky. She dragged in a shaky breath and forced her spine straight. “I am not trembling,” she replied in English, as stoutly as she could manage. “’Tis merely that you find me soaked to the skin, half-starved, and rather thoroughly annoyed at being set upon by your merry band of brigands.”
    His face split in a wide grin. “Enough to set anyone to the trembles. I would’ve swooned dead in a faint long ago and been laid flat out on my bed.”
    His mention of fainting started a wheel turning in her head. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” She narrowed her eyes at him and frowned. And then the wheel clicked in place. “You’re the blacksmith from Rotenburg,” she said, gasping. “You were bearded then, but it is you, isn’t it? What are you doing here?” Then the absurdity of her question hit her. “Wait—you’re not a smith at all. Are you a spy? I asked you that day at the castle: Who are you? ”
    He stepped back and offered her a gallant bow. “Your servant, my lady. Wolfram von Wolfsbach und Ravensworth. In England, I hold the honor of Earl Ravensworth. Here in Germany”—he smiled disarmingly—“they usually drop my father’s name. I inherited the title of Free Imperial Knight of the House of Wolfsbach through my mother.”
    She stared at him. “You are Lord Ravensworth and Freiherrvon Wolfsbach,