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missing.
    Up ahead and unaware of his scrutiny, Morgan was having issues of her own. Her headache was proving a distraction from the man who blindly followed her lead. She had almost forgotten he was even there.
    “I’m Sir Nic McKinnon. Do you have a name?” Nic asked, bringing his warhorse parallel to her own, their thighs nearly touching.
    The look Morgan gave him was a cross between, “
that was a dumb question
” and “
for God's sake, don’t distract me while I’m trying to keep from falling on my ass
”.
    Nic almost laughed. “Of course you have a name. Are you able to write your letters? If not then, we will just give you a name. However, if you can write then spell your name out on my hand.” They stopped in the road, and Nic held out his palm.
    Nodding, Morgan reached across and took his hand in hers. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the dice. Banking on him never putting the Duchess of Seabridge and the dirty, scruffy peasant together as one in the same, she wrote, and then looked at him.
    “Morgan,” Nic said, rolling the name round on his tongue. “A good Welsh name. I believe it means Sea-Born.”
    Then realization came as he sat on his warhorse, striking  him like a physical blow.  Nic hoped the revelation was not reflected in his face. Could this waif staring at him be his sea-born bride? Was this dirty and scruffy urchin the prize for his long and faithful service to the King? What had he done recently to piss Henry off to the point that the King would pawn this piece of work off on him?
    Then he stilled his mind. He let the emotion of the moment go and looked at her, staring into the beautiful green eyes too large for her overly thin face. He looked passed the shortly cropped hair that was as dark as the deepest midnight. Looking past the dirt, he took in the high cheekbones, the perfect bone structure of her delicate features.
    He had no doubt she was a female. The soft curves barely discernible under the groom’s clothing just clinched the argument he was having with himself.
    All right, he thought, I'll play along for now and see where this takes us.
    She obviously had some reason to run and take on a disguise to do it. Had King Henry’s decree reached her and she fled out of fear of him? Nic was aware of his far-flung reputation. He knew he was the best in the king’s forces.
    Men sought him out to fight, always thinking to topple him from his standing. Women at court sought after him for vastly different reasons than a fight. The air of danger and emotional unavailability hanging about him was a mighty lure, proving irresistible to many.
    However, those attachments came with a price that Nic was never willing to pay.
    He figured if he wanted a close, meaningful relationship, he would get another horse.
    No, he thought. The notion of going back to Seabridge singularly terrified her. He could see it in her eyes. She was not running from him, but from a more terrifying predator. Lord Brentwood or someone at the castle was the only explanation that he could reason out. Why else would a young woman of her standing be willing to risk life on the run as opposed to safe and comfortably pampered lifestyle behind castle walls?
    He had heard rumors the last few months of Brentwood’s unusual tastes in the bedroom and tales of unfortunate women who had to have physicians summonsed after a night spent in Lord Brentwood’s company. Nic knew the nobleman’s tastes had become more perverted and physically violent. So much so, Henry asked him to leave the court shortly after he himself left.
    Nevertheless, surely Lester would not be so idiotic as to misuse his ward. Such a notion was inconceivable even to a hardened soldier like him. Common court whores were one thing. Morgan was certainly not in that category of woman. She was a gentle woman born and bred. She was a damn Duchess for Christ’s sake and short of a Princess, it did not get much higher a birth.
    What was more to the point was that