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at last count. Three before that.”
    Owen cursed, rising to his feet. His palms rose to rub his nape. His shoulder length hair, gathered uniformly with a strip of leather, brushed against the neckline of his tunic, its flaxen hue shining in the sun’s light.
    “What little I find, I bring to the children. I eat enough to keep me upright.”
    Owen cupped his hand around Cate’s elbow, helping her to stand. “In between murdering the taxmen, of course.”
    “Of course.” Cate attempted to shake free of his hold, which only caused his grip to tighten. He led her to the fire, where two freshly skinned hares were roasting on a spit. She couldn’t take her eyes from them as the flames licked at the juices seeping to the surface of the meat. Tiny droplets of juicy goodness hissed as they plunged into the flames, and Cate could focus on nothing else.
    Owen plopped her near a pile of saddle bags and tack before rummaging through a nearby pack. Retrieving a sack from its depths, he pulled from it several small bread loaves. He tossed one to Cate, and she caught it in her lap.
    She tore a bit off with her teeth, savoring the rich flavor on her tongue before swallowing. It was no more than a few days old, baked fresh in the royal ovens, no doubt. Made with quality flour, butter, and sweet cream. Cate closed her eyes and sighed. Given the chance, she could indulge in the goodness of such finery enough to make herself sick. She bit into the bread again, quickly followed by another, until not even the crumbs were left.
    An instant ache hit her gut. A wave of nausea swept over her, forcing Cate to recline against the nearest bundle of gear. A saddle made for a makeshift pillow, and she stretched her legs out, waiting for the pangs to subside. She closed her eyes, content to listen to the happenings surrounding her.
    The two men to her left cleaned their weapons while they had the time, groaning over the delay. One near the fire told another to keep his hands off the meat… it wasn’t ready. The conversations of aggrieved men were more like the squabblings of old women. The two men who were attempting to find Wallace were surprisingly hushed for having just returned from the hunt. Cate thought they would be busy informing Banebridge of the information they’d gained — where the fresh tracks ended, if there were others coming to her aid, if there was resistance, even. Instead, they’d distanced themselves from the group, remaining near their readied horses. Her instincts screamed at her to keep a wary eye.
    Boots shuffled close by. Owen sat on a saddle next to her, with a spitted hare in hand. “Still hungry?”
    “Thank you for your generosity, my lord. I know it is not necessary for someone of your status, and I am grateful for your kindness.” Cate accepted the chunk of meat Owen gave her and she brought it to her mouth, savoring every morsel. “Although,” she paused, “I do not understand why. Your obligation is to the Crown, not to me. I am your prisoner, am I not?”
    Swallowing, Owen wiped his mouth with the back of his palm before speaking. “I am in no hurry to return to London. Are you?”
    Cate choked down her mouthful. “No, I cannot say I am.” Heading to her own execution was not a top priority. Escape was, first and foremost. She knew the forest better than most and could survive alone if need be. A plan to rid herself of the shackles was what she needed at present. Sneaking up on an unsuspecting Owen hadn’t been at all successful — she was far too weak to best him. London was a mere two days’ ride, unless she could further stall their departure. She was running out of time and options. Cate could only hope Wallace would return with reinforcements, and soon.
    “You seem an honorable man, Bane. Set my mind at ease with the truth. I wish to know what lies ahead.” She tossed a stripped bone into the brush then looked at Owen expectantly, waiting for more. He sliced off a piece of meat and passed it