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the bids were always high, for a man like this was far more dangerous than any band of simple routiers .
She stared up at him, speechless, and saw his dark brows lower in a frown. She had the oddest impression that the encounter with the routiers hadn't so much endangered his life as inconvenienced him— annoyed him, even. And now she was delaying him even longer.
“Here, let me look at your man,” he said, his manner brisk and impatient. He sank to his haunches beside her and stripped off his gloves. She found his nearness so intimidating, it was all she could do to keep from drawing back. Yet his powerful, strongly boned hands were unexpectedly gentle as he subjected Walter to a brief, professional assessment.
“He is your groom?” de Jarnac asked, casually wiping his bloodied hands on the grass.
Attica nodded. “Will he live?”
The knight shrugged and pulled on his gloves again. “He might. But the bolt has gone deep. Better to leave it in him now and tie him to his horse while he's still in a faint. There's an abbey just up the road. They'll know what to do with him.”
De Jarnac stood in one lithe, athletic motion and turned away, as if he had already dismissed her from his mind. She thought about being left here, in this meadow full of dead routiers, to cope with Walter Brie by herself. She thoughtabout the routiers coming back—or about others like them waiting on the road ahead. She thought about what had been done to the women of that burned village. And she realized suddenly that no matter how sinister Damion de Jarnac's reputation or how disconcerting she might find him, his presence was infinitely preferable to his absence.
She bounded to her feet. “Monsieur—”
At the sound of her voice, his head swiveled. His gaze focused on her slowly, as if he had been thinking of something else and only now remembered her presence. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if—if you go beyond the abbey? To Laval, or perhaps Le Mans? And if so, if I might ride with you?”
She saw his eyes narrow as he studied her. Something in his expression altered, and she knew a swift stab of panic. If he suspected the truth—
“How old are you?” he demanded suddenly.
She stared at him. “Wh-what?”
“I said, how old are you?”
She hesitated an instant too long. “Sixteen,” she said, and knew it for a mistake.
She did not like the light that glinted in the depths of his fierce green eyes. “Liar,” he said, his lips curling into something that was not a smile.
It had been a lie, of course, only not in the way de Jarnac thought. Attica was nineteen.
“Fifteen,” she amended.
The knight's big hand cupped her chin, jerking it up to the sun. He studied her face in the light, and she trembled. “Huh. Fourteen is more like it.”
She wasn't about to dispute it. She stood, trying desperately to remain motionless within his grip and terrified of what he might see. But Stephen had once told her thatmost people see only what they expect to see. It seemed true. De Jarnac stared at her a moment longer, then shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “I don't like to be lied to, little lordling. Remember that.” He let her go.
He swung away to catch Walter Brie's horse. The gray jerked its head, its flaring nostrils flecked with foam and blood, its eyes wild with fear and pain. “Easy, boy,” de Jarnac crooned in a voice so calm and soothing, Attica could only stare. The gelding snorted but stood still while the knight ran a practiced hand down its neck and withers. Attica had the sensation, once again, that she had been dismissed.
She walked to stand beside him. “May I ride with you, then?”
He kept his attention centered on the horse. “I'll see you as far as the abbey. Not beyond.”
She felt her throat close with disappointment and a new upsurge of fear. “You mean, you're not going any farther?”
“No. Only that you're not going with me.”
Tired of talking to the knight's broad back, she went around to the other side of the horse so that she could look at him