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shrugged. “They say I look a great deal like her.”
    “She must have been a very great beauty.”
    When Christian looked at him in surprise, William felt his face reddening. “What I mean to say is… you do not resemble your brothers or your father.”
    “No. I am nothing like them.”
    For long moments they sat watching the fire, then Christian spoke again. “I was fortunate that when I was fourteen my mother’s brother visited our castle, Sir Allendale. He saw how I was treated, and he took pity on me. He asked my father if I might squire for him. It got me out of the castle for a number of years. I owe him a great debt.”
    “He taught you well,” William said. “Was it your uncle who dubbed you ‘The Crow’? Archers are more oft called after vipers or scorpions or eagles.”
    “No, I got the name quite young. I used to sit on the fence of our training arena, watching my brothers fight. I liked to sit with my feet on the top log and balance on my haunches.”
    Suddenly, William could see the image clearly. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the vision of a small, dark-haired boy sitting thus.
    Christian smirked. “I thought it would build my leg muscles and improve my reflexes.”
    “I’m sure it did,” William said seriously, choking back a laugh.
    “In truth, the name was meant as an insult.” Christian shrugged. “But it suits me. A crow knows how to get away from its enemies, sitting up high in a tree, watching, invisible. It sees the moment to attack, swoops in, and stings— snatching a sparkling treasure or a bit of prey, and ’tis gone again before it’s even seen. It’s clever and bold, but never foolhardy. That is my warrior’s road.”
    William couldn’t help smiling to himself at the earnestness of Christian’s description. He had the pride of any young warrior, still in love with the dream of his own ferocity.
    “And you, Sir William? You’re called the Lion. Your strength and bravery is much lauded. But how would you describe your warrior’s road?”
    “Me?” William composed his face into a serious scowl. “I sunder things with my sword. Oft.”
    Christian blinked at him for a moment and then started laughing. He covered up his mouth as if embarrassed at how it made him look. William felt a wave of anger that Christian had been forced to learn such restraint. He wanted to pull down that hand, to say, Laugh. Laugh Christian, for there is none here to chide you for it , but he didn’t. Instead, William smiled back, then he caught Christian’s laughter as if it were a spark, and they chuckled together easily for a good while.
    When their laughter died down, William stretched out his legs towards the fire, accepted Christian’s offer of the last swig of wine, and thought about all that Christian had said. He flushed with shame, remembering how it had felt to stand in front of Lord Brandon and admit that his own father refused to help Elaine. But he attempted a teasing tone.
    “I’m glad you told me why you joined my hopeless cause. ’Tis good for a man to know where he stands.”
    “William… that— that is not the only reason I came with you.”
    Christian’s voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made the hair on the back of William’s neck stand up. He looked at Christian then. Christian stared back at him— and held.
    William was used to Christian avoiding eye contact of late. But not this time; not tonight. William gazed into those eyes, caught by a pull he couldn’t break. And what he saw in those fire-lit fields of golden brown was an undeniable invitation. Just as their laughter had done, heat jumped from Christian to William, spreading through him, pooling heavily in his groin, and causing his pulse to race like a bolting horse.
    At last William swallowed and tore his gaze away. He could feel his face blazing as he struggled to control his body and his thoughts.
    “’Tis late,” William said. His voice did not sound like his own. “We should