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the night. The same village Garrett called home. For now.
    She had no business thinking of Garrett when her family was threatened from all sides.
    Below her, Tom crossed the bailey toward the stables.
    She hadn’t seen as much of Tom since Garrett had appeared in her life. They’d been friends since both of them could toddle off without their mothers. Tom was Nurse’s son and he had his mother’s pragmatic nature, without her bite. He’d grown much taller of late, towering a full head above her. His shoulders cast a broad shadow before him.
    Soon, Tom would be courting. Suddenly, she ached to be with her old friend. Tom had a way of looking at the world that made sense to her. He didn’t judge her or laugh at her. Tom listened, and then put matters to rights in her head.
     
     

Chapter 5
     
    Garrett woke with a start. His head thudded like someone kept putting the boot to it. His arms screamed the agony of stretched sinews. He tried to move them. They were held fast, wrenched from the socket and suspended above his head like a crucifixion. Searing pain spread down his arms from the bindings constricting his wrists.
    Alarm shot through his blood. He forced his eyes open. Everything swam and he closed them again. It took a long moment for his head to stop the cursed whirling.
    He needed to remember. His belly heaved. Breath sawed through his nose as he clenched his jaws shut. It came to him in fits. Finishing in the forge, sweaty but too tired to bother with washing. Thinking of Beatrice. Falling asleep. Then, waking up with the dread someone was in the hut.
    They’d clobbered him. He forced his eyes open. Instinct to fight surged through his muscles. Icy water hit his face and he gasped. Nothing would be gained by striking out blindly.
    “Welcome back,” a man drawled. In the dimly lit forge, he sat atop a water barrel, looking strangely out of place with his fine tunic and clean boots.
    The pressure on his arms was unbearable. Icy water dripped down his chin onto his bare chest. Sweet Christ, he was naked, stark-bollock naked. He got his feet beneath him and tried to stand. His legs were weak as wet linen, but he forced them to take some of his weight. The relief on his arms made his eyes water. It must be late, the great fires were banked to the coals. Lyman would be asleep.
    “I thought we might speak.” The stranger sounded like a bloody lord.
    Who was the cur? Darkness concealed most of his face, clean lines with a patch of a neatly trimmed beard. A man of fashion, then.
    “Who are you?” Garrett licked his lips and tasted the bitter iron of dried blood. His stomach roiled.
    “It is better for you not to know.” The stranger wiped his hands on a kerchief and tossed it into the hearth. Flames leapt around it and subsided.
    Sod that. He tried to think, but his head was fuzzy. Did he owe the dog money? A wife . Had he tupped this one’s wife?
    “We are not acquainted.” The stranger rose and gave a curt wave.
    Three men materialized out of the shadows.
    Garrett went cold. He hadn’t seen them before, and he should have. Growing up rough left few gaps for mistakes.
    The men moved to the door and out.
    Alone with the overdressed cur meant no aid, but also no witnesses. It was either a very good thing or a very, very bad thing.
    He tested the ropes. The knots pulled tight.
    “There is no need to be concerned.” The stranger dusted the seat of his tunic.
    Garrett nearly laughed in his face. He was strung up like a slaughtered pig with his wedding tackle dangling. There was every bloody reason for concern.
    The man had light hair with eyes either brown or green.
    He took keen note of the face. If he got out of this situation, it was a face he’d be sure not to see again. And if he did, he would grind those pretty features beneath his boot and laugh while the whoreson squirmed.
    “I have been watching you for a time now.” The stranger stepped carefully, avoiding the filth on the floor. “And I thought