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cut through his lèine with ease. He envied the rosy cheeks of the young children playing hoops in the street.
    “Are you warm enough?” he asked Ana, as they wove through the shoppers and vendors hawking their wares in the market square.
    She glanced up at him. “Would you offer me your lèine if I were not?”
    “Nay, but I might purchase a thicker brat for you from the wool merchant.”
    A frowned creased her brow. “That would only stir the gossips. Few can spare the coin to purchase such an item on a whim. You would know that, if you were truly my husband.”
    “If I were truly your husband,” he said, “allowing you to take chill would shame me.”
    She shrugged. “Better a pinch of shame than an empty stomach.”
    “Only a woman would think such.”
    They crossed the wooden drawbridge to the manor gate. The two guards, clearly familiar with Ana’s face, nodded crisply to her and ushered them under the portcullis. Once inside, Niall noted a half dozen men-at-arms scattered about the yard, each wearing hauberks of costly ring mail. The inner close of the manor was a tiny patch of trampled earth that somehow managed to include a stable, a kitchen, and a chapel. Two more soldiers defended the solid oak door to the main house, but not a single soul was practicing his craft in the lists. Slaggards.
    Skirting the covered well in the center of the courtyard, they advanced to the door.
    Again Ana was recognized, and again they passed without challenge.
    Inside the great hall, remnants of the midday meal were being cleared away. The trestle tables were being wiped and dismantled. Hounds were sniffing the rushes in search of crumbs and bones. Two young pages were headed back to the kitchen with a large cauldron, and a laundry maid was gathering the soiled linens from the high table. All were busy and none took note of their passage across the room, save for the pinch-faced steward who spared them a brief glance as he hunted through the keys on his belt.
    Niall was struck anew by his good fortune in finding Ana—and by the whole sorry mess of coincidences that accompanied that good fortune. As they climbed the candlelit stone stairs to the second level, he squeezed her arm. “There are to be no deaths whilst I’m in Duthes. I will not have it.”
    She frowned. “Am I to be a miracle worker, then? Prevent all falls, all injuries in the lists, all accidents with the plow?”
    His fingers tightened. “No
suspicious
deaths.”
    “You mean no poisonings.”
    Indeed, that was exactly what he meant, but he chose not to leave her any open doors for mischief. “I mean you must be a paragon. Hold yourself to the highest standards of healing.”
    Mounting the last step, she freed her arm with a sharp tug. “I would do so whether you bid me or not.”
    The indignant blaze in her eyes brought her too-serious face to life, and Niall found himself entranced. “Excellent.”
    Ana gathered her skirts with a huffed breath and marched down the corridor to an alcove-set iron-studded door. It was opened swiftly to her knock, and a dark-eyed young maiden beckoned her into the room. “Welcome, Goodhealer. The baroness is asking for you.”
    Glancing inside the chamber and spying the drawn curtains around the bed, Niall paused. As much as he’d relish an opportunity to search Baron Duthes’s private quarters, this was not the time. “Here’s your satchel, sweetling. I’ll leave you alone to do your good work.”
    She tossed him an arch look. “You don’t intend to wait for me?”
    He shook his head. “You could be a considerable time and I must see the carpenters about an urgent matter. We’ve a pressing need for a larger, sturdier bed.”
    The handmaiden withdrew with a faint smile and the whisper of her linen hem over the rushes. Ana blushed madly. “I think the priority must be finding work, husband. Perhaps you should see the reeve instead.”
    “Perhaps I’ll do both,” he said agreeably, enjoying her