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attentively at his side.
    But the man’s heart did not seem to be in it. Like last night, he looked downward, as if studying the grass at his feet.
    Had his father been like that, not caring about anything, when his mother had died? He had lived but days longer, and Caradoc had said grief had killed him—grief and disappointment over a disgraced son.
    He would not think about that, not before a tournament. He would think of something pleasant…like the Lady Allis.
    He had thought her lovely in the hall, where she presided with grace and calm smiles, although she was not as serene as one might suppose, not when one caught that flash of spirit in her eyes. In the garden, the sight of her glorious unbound hair had been enough to transfix him. Then, when she sighed, he realized how lonely and sad she seemed. Strange thoughts for him to have about the beautiful daughter of a rich and powerful man, but so it was.
    He decided the least he could do was to thank her. Then he had been tempted to make her smile—and been rewarded. She had been unexpectedly warm, amusing, fascinating. She had awakened feelings in him long dulled by hardship and the pain of loss, something youthful and joyous, like the delight he had felt years ago with his first lover, a giddy, silly girl, he realized with the wisdom of age, but pretty and appealing and very, very generous with her favors.
    Now, seated on the steadfast Demetrius as he readied himself for battle one more time, it came to him that what he had felt in his youth—the heady excitement, the burning desire, the bliss when a girl let him caress her—paled to insignificance when he remembered how his whole body flushed with yearning at the sight of Lady Allis with her hair unbound. Simply kissing her wrist had inflamed him far more than even making love with other women had.
    Despite the feelings Lady Allis inspired, he never should have touched her. He was who he was, and she was the daughter of the earl of Montclair.
    For a long time after he had left her, he expected to hear the booted feet of soldiers marching toward his tent, sent by the earl of Montclair to tell him he was no longer welcome and that he must depart at first light.
    Surprisingly, they had not come, which told him the lady had kept their meeting a secret. While that thought pleased him, he didn’t dare risk speaking to her alone again. Last night, she might have been attracted to him, or in a mood to play at love, but once she learned about him, that would change.
    To think he himself had almost told her what he had done, and why, intending that she hear his side of things. But for what purpose? Even if she sympathized, as she seemed to do last night, there could never be anything serious between a landless knight and the heiress of a great household, not even if her quick pulse throbbing, her glowing eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and her parted lips told him she felt something for him, too. And no matter if she intrigued him as no woman ever had, or possessed the most beautiful, soft hands he had ever seen or touched.
    Long, slender, supple fingers. Soft palms. A grace in the wrists that made him want to see her dance almost as much as he wanted to feel those hands on his body.
    If she had not gasped and pulled away when his lips brushed her wrist, he would have slid his lips lower and kissed her palm. Then her fingertips one by one. He would have gently tugged her into his arms and taken her mouth with sure purpose until she relaxed against him, weak with yearning. As their bodies touched and heat bloomed between them, he would have tenderly kissed and caressed her, keeping a rein on his passion until hers blossomed beneath his touch.
    Aroused by his thoughts, he shifted in the saddle, and Demetrius started to prance. He quickly gripped his horse tighter with his knees and commanded himself to stop thinking about Lady Allis and anythingelse except what he had to do this morning: