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the eyes within the visor lock with her defiant gaze though she could not see them. There stretched between these two a tottering pause charged with some sort of unspoken astonishment. Just when she thought she had set him prettily back on his spurred heels, he leaned the elbow of his good arm casually across the pommel of his huge saddle built to hold a man in full armor. His long legs held so stiffly in the big stirrups seemed to relax, and he held his dented, two-handed sword more easily. He flexed his legs, and his greaves and foot armor clinked.
    “You know,
demoiselle charmante,
your tongue is as sharp as my long, belt dagger here, and I have a good mind to take you on as an opponent in this foul temper I am in. Shall we say ten passes each at the quintain? You do have a war-horse somewhere about, do you not? ’Twould be a fair enough contest as this bloody, damn broken sword arm of mine does as much good as a maid’s. You can ride?”
    “Aye, of course, but I resent your making a jest at my expense. Saints, no woman is trained as a fighter.”
    “Ah,” the man said, his voice low and shadowy within the helmet he had made no effort to remove. “Somehow, with those lavender velvet eyes and that shrill tone, I thought otherwise.”
    He wedged his sword under his injured arm and, with his good hand, reached up and unlatched the leather straps which loosed his visored helmet. The square-jawed face, the tawny lionlike mane that shook itself free and emerged was—was magnificent. Joan sucked in her breath so hard he glanced down to see if he had accidentally kicked her.
    Crystalline blue eyes set under full brows ringed by damp, tawny curls bored into hers. His nose was long, but slightly bowed as though it had been broken once; his cheekbones high, almost prominent; the mouth firm with a propensity to pride or maybe even cruelty in the set of the elegant lips. In Joan a sweet, warm, pulling tide mingled with the distinct feeling that she was balancing on the edge of a windy cliff and she nearly toppled into the mud at his feet. He seemed young, almost as young as she, but his gaze was so direct, so devouring, he seemed also very wise and very much in charge. It made her suddenly annoyed at how terrible she must look—all wet, muddy, and road-stained, her damp hair loose in a riot of curls and tangles.
    “I believe you are no true and gentle knight, sir,” she finally managed, remembering such an insult from a romance she had heard somewhere. “You must needs climb down off that mountain of a horse and not put me at such a disadvantage!”
    He relaxed again, visibly, and grinned down at her with a flash of white teeth for one brief instant before his handsome, if arrogant, face went mock serious again. “I really cannot picture,
ma chérie,
anyone having you at a disadvantage under any conditions. That blown and windswept, damp look—quite entrancing.”
    “Saints!” she sputtered while her quick mind darted about for an insult that would do. Did he dare think she always went about like this and at the king’s court? Could not the stupid simpleton tell she had just arrived and suffered untimely drenching in the rain?
    “You dare to speak of how I look? Look at you, sir. Do they dub you ‘Sir Mud and Mire’ here about?”
    Her voice ended in a near shriek and, horrified, she watched him throw back his big head on his strong neck and roar with laughter. She started away, edging carefully sideways past the patiently standing horse, but the man easily lifted one half-armored leg over his pommel and dropped just behind her. A metal-encased hand held her arm above the elbow before she had gone four steps.
    “Hold,
demoiselle, s’il vous plaît
! Stop the fussing. I am very weary of women’s fuming and fussing. But you are not usually such a scold, I think. Stay but a moment. I meant not to tease. I find your wet and windy look entirely to my liking, and I can tell you must be new-come to court.”
    She paused