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sister’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Besides, you’re practically betrothed as it is.”
    If only Isabelle knew how that remark dismayed her! But she would not burden Isabelle yet with all that duty and responsibility might demand of a woman nobly born. “Come along, Isabelle. And whatever you do, do not tell anyone we watched.”
    Fortunately, they didn’t meet anybody except Merva as they hurried to the south tower, and she was too busy sweeping out the hearth to pay any heed to them. She looked exhausted, too. No doubt she had had a busy night.
    With whom did not matter. Indeed, if she had been with Sir Connor, that should be nothing to her except that it would prove he had come into the garden intending to seduce her, either for sport or gain.
    She remembered how he had stepped out of the shadows, as if her lonely heart had conjured him up. How long had it been since she had felt as carefree as she had for those few brief moments when she hadasked about his hair? Six years, before her mother’s death had forever changed her world.
    Perhaps it was no wonder, then, that she had been so drawn to him. His banter had taken her back to a happy time, and made her feel a girl again.
    No, not a girl. Some of the emotions he inspired had nothing of girlish innocence about them.
    Why, even now, even here in the stairwell of the castle, tendrils of heat curled and danced through her body as if those passionate thoughts roused by him could never be completely controlled, or forgotten.
    He was a dangerous man indeed, and one she suspected she would never forget, because he had let a little light of joy into the deep places of her heart, where she stored her secret pain.
    They entered the round room at the top of the south tower. Usually it was used for storage, but during a tournament or feast days when Montclair Castle was full of guests, it was pressed into service as accommodation. Now, a large rope bed stood across from the door, the featherbed covered with fresh clean linen and a satin cover. Beside it was a bronze candlestand holding six beeswax candles. Near the door was a washstand with a basin and jug of fresh water, and several small pieces of linen. In deference to Lord Oswald’s status, they had hung tapestries on the wall to both brighten and keep the room warm against the chill of the early mornings. Two small, narrow windows, intended for archers rather than to let in light, provided some illumination in the daytime, yet it was like being in the dim, silent chapel when no one else was there.
    â€œThis is perfect!” Isabelle whispered as she joinedAllis at the loophole that overlooked the tournament field. “We can see everything from here.”
    Two groups of mounted men faced each other across the field. At the midpoint, to the side and out of their way sat their father, two soldiers flanking him.
    In the past, he would have been walking up and down the lines of waiting participants, making jokes and recalling past victories. And disasters, too. When she was Isabelle’s age, she had despaired every time he told the story about the fish his friend had hidden in the padding of his helmet and how it had smelled for weeks afterward; now, she would give almost anything to hear him tell it again.
    â€œDon’t they all look splendid?” Isabelle said with another blissful sigh.
    With the sun glinting on their armor, and their colorful surcoats, they did look wonderful—the might and power of Norman England arrayed before them.
    Her gaze was drawn to one man wearing a white surcoat embroidered with a red dragon rampant and, above his heart, a cross that marked him as one of those who had traveled to the Holy Land with King Richard. He was seated on a magnificent black war horse that stood so still, it might have been a statue.
    So might its master, for he was equally motionless. He did not fidget, or talk to anyone near him. Alone and