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rustled a lock of hair that had fallen forward to brush his shoulder. She glanced up. He was close. So very close. The absolute blue of his eyes seemed to take up her entire vision.
    “This could have happened to you,” he whispered.
    She hadn’t thought of that. She had only wanted to face someone on the field of honor, to see what it was like to joust. Her gaze dipped to his lips.
    “You could have been hurt just as badly. Or worse.”
    His lips moved, forming each word. What had he said? She could have been hurt. Yes. For the second time, she had to pull herself from her musings. She sat back, separating herself from him, breaking the spell. She glanced around and found the clean cotton cloth at the foot of the mat. She carefully pressed it to the wound.
    “If I had hurt you like this, I would never have been able to forgive myself.”
    Startled, Layne shifted her gaze to his. Sincerity shone in his blue orbs. Layne’s heart fluttered like a baby bird waking up to a ray of sunshine. She didn’t like the warm feeling washing over her.
    “You must never joust again.” His commanding tone returned. “And I will see to it that you do not.”



Chapter Four
    G riffin didn’t know what to make of the woman. He was shocked that she seemed sincere in her apology. What had she expected of a joust? Men were stronger and able to withstand the injuries that came with a tournament. Women were fragile, delicate even. God’s blood! If he had struck her with the lance, she could easily have been killed! His gaze moved over her. She was only a slip of a woman, from what he could see. To don a man’s armor and to take up a lance against him was folly.
    She ran her tongue over her lips as she picked up the corner of the cloth to check on the wound.
    For a moment, he was stunned, captivated by her presence. Perhaps it was the unexpected glistening of her moist lips. Perhaps it was the brush of her hair across his nipple. Whatever it was, he had a sudden and unanticipated picture of her lying beneath him with her lips parted. He shifted his position and turned his gaze to her hand on his wound. Her fingers were so small. Another image flashed into his head. Of those small hands wrapped around…
    He cleared his throat, drawing her gaze. “Did your brothers allow you to joust?”
    She shook her head, looking back at the wound. “No.” A smile slowly curved her lips. Then, she froze and looked at him. Her chin lifted a notch. “Frances hit his head and I took it upon myself to take his place.”
    “Took it upon yourself?” he echoed in disbelief. He shook his head as she pressed the cloth against his wound again. “Then you must have jousted elsewhere, in other tournaments?”
    Again, she shook her head. “I’ve watched my brothers in practice and on the field.” She looked at him and a lock of her dark hair hung over her cheek. “I’ve tried the quintain...”
    He scowled. The quintain? But his concentration was held by that stray lock of her hair out of place against her rounded cheek. He found it difficult to concentrate. He wanted to brush that hair from her face, run his fingers along her skin.
    She sat back, brushing the lock from her cheek, and lifted the cloth from his shoulder. “I’m skilled with a horse. I’ve often trained with my brothers sparring with swords.”
    “Swords?” The word seemed to come from her effortlessly. It should have been foreign on her lips. He sat up, his brows furrowing. She should have been speaking of French fashion or embroidery. “Your brothers allowed you to use a sword?” he asked in disbelief.
    She shrugged. “They needed the practice. Michael is too young, although he is learning quickly. And there were occasions where either Colin or Frances could not practice when the other wished. Frances was more likely to spar with me than Colin.”
    Griffin looked at her hands. He imagined them…wrapped around the handle of a sword. “Where is your mother?”
    “She died when I