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aloof, he sat upon his horse as if he were there to pass judgment upon them here, too, and she was quite sure that beneath his helmet—padded with his long, dark hair—his penetrating glance had already marked out his prey.
    What could she hear against Sir Connor of Llanstephan? Why did he mention that at all, except to create sympathy?
    Perhaps it was sympathy he deserved, and not merely a seducer’s tactic.
    â€œDid you hurt yourself? You’re rubbing your wrist.”
    â€œNo.” She shoved her hand into her dangling sleeve. “I get a bit nervous waiting for them to charge.”
    Fortunately, Isabelle was no longer watching her, but gazing steadily out the window. “There’s the baron and Percival. Percival is going to participate in the squires’ melee tomorrow. He even asked…”
    Isabelle’s sudden hesitation caused Allis to give her sister a wary, sidelong glance. “What did he ask?”
    Isabelle tossed her blond head. “He asked to wear one of my scarves, but I refused.”
    Isabelle was growing up and she was pretty, so it was inevitable that some youth was likely to make such a request, yet her sister’s vain response troubled her. “Had someone else already asked you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen why?”
    â€œBecause he’s a ninny!” Isabelle’s gaze faltered and the defiant manner deserted her. “Really, Allis, it would have been wrong of me to encourage him, don’t you think? He might believe I cared for him, and I don’t. Not in that way.”
    Allis didn’t reply. What could she say, that Isabelle should play the hypocrite like her sister? “I believe they’re about to begin.”
    â€œThe baron’s wearing your scarf, I suppose?”
    â€œYes,” she muttered, hating herself for agreeing to his request made the forenoon before.
    And yet, if Rennick DeFrouchette had his way, soon she would be enslaved as his wife.

Chapter 4
    M ounted on his destrier, Connor patiently waited for the charge to begin. Demetrius, likewise used to battle, also waited patiently, with only the flicking of his ears to betray any anxiety or excitement.
    Despite his seeming unconcern, Connor was aware of many things, not the least of which was the weight of his weapons and armor. His helm alone weighed ten pounds, his chain mail hauberk considerably more. His dull tournament broadsword dragged at the belt about his waist and slapped his thigh. His long, bossed shield covered his left arm and side, and he held the reins in that hand, leaving his right free to control the heavy, unwieldy lance. Made with a blunted tip, it pointed upward, and he rested the arm holding it against his body.
    He mentally ran through everything to rememberabout a charge with a lance. The two most important were grip hard with his knees and maintain his balance. Once Demetrius was galloping toward the opposing line, staying seated and maintaining his equilibrium must be his focus. If he lost his balance by leaning too far forward or back, he could fall from his horse without even touching an opponent.
    He scanned the men preparing on the opposite side of the field and spotted the Baron DeFrouchette wearing a scarlet surcoat embroidered with a gold griffin, making him an easy target.
    Then he turned his head toward Lord Montclair, for his helmet blocked his peripheral vision, and he wanted to urge Demetrius forward the moment the lord’s arm lowered. He didn’t want to be at the back of the pack with the anxious and excited younger knights in front of him. They would charge at anyone they saw, and he had no desire to be caught in such confusion.
    The old man sat in a large, ornately carved oaken chair at the side of the field. The morning promised to be a fine one, and warm for spring, yet the earl was dressed in a heavy cloak with ermine trim, long, blue tunic, thick boots and gloves. He was flanked by two soldiers standing