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all the strength of his vow of chastity, he resisted the idea that they were alone, unchaperoned, far from anyone else.
    It was not so much her maidenly beauty that called to him, but the expressiveness in her features. Her eyes held a deep intelligence yet seemed haunted by shadows in their silver depths. Her mouth was full and firm, yet the way she worried her lower lip with her small white teeth hinted at vulnerability.
    Years of celibacy faded beneath the onslaught of vivid desire. Rand laid his big hands on her cheeks, letting his thumbs skim in slow, gentle circles. “I’ve never seen a face like yours before, Lianna,” he said softly. “At least not while I was awake.”
    Alarm flared in her quicksilver eyes. She drew back. “You are not from around here. You speak like a Gascon.”
    He smiled. His father’s legacy. “So I am a Gascon, at least part of me is. And you are from around here. You speak like a Norman.”
    “Are you a brigand? Do you burn, pillage, and rape?”
    He chuckled. “Preferably not in that order. Are you a poacher?”
    She stiffened. “Certainly not. I’ve every right to hunt the lands of Bois-Long.”
    Suspicion shot through Rand. “You hail from Bois-Long?”
    “I do.”
    Sweet lamb of God, Rand mused, she’s from Longwood. He had to duck his head to hide a flash of curiosity. A gunner’s daughter, she’d said, yet she’d have to be of noble birth to hunt. Despite her homespun garb, her speech and manners marked her as no one’s servant.
    “Your father was a gunner,” he said slowly. “Was he also a man of rank?”
    “No.” She eyed him warily.
    “You’re well spoken.”
    “I am well schooled.”
    “What position do you hold at Bois-Long?”
    “I am...companion to the chatelaine.”
    He nodded. “I see. It’s common enough for a gentlewoman to surround herself with younger girls, common for those girls to learn polite accomplishments.” One eyebrow lifted. “Gunnery is hardly a polite accomplishment.”
    “But far more useful than spinning and sewing.”
    “And far more dangerous. Does your mistress know of your experiments with guns?”
    A small, tight smile. “Certes.”
    “She approves?”
    A regal nod. “Most heartily.”
    Rand loosed a long, weary sigh. What manner of woman was his bride-to-be that she’d let this girl, clearly little older than a child, dabble in weaponry?
    Lianna was staring hard at him. He sensed his questions had aroused her suspicions and so left off his queries. Instinctively he’d kept his identity from the girl. Now he was glad. Soon enough she’d learn he was Enguerrand Fitzmarc, the English knight come to claim the demoiselle and the château. Until then he merely wanted to be Rand to her.
    “You’re trespassing,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing to a line of blazed poplars in the distance.
    “So I am,” he replied, looking at the boundary of trees. He took her hand and helped her to her feet. Her hand felt small but strong and seemed to fit his own like a warm little bird in a nest.
    “Come,” he said, “I want to be certain your gunshot didn’t frighten my horse all the way to Gascony.” Dropping her hand, he bent to retrieve her cloak and apron. The weight of the apron surprised him. He peered into the pocket, then stared at Lianna. “I don’t know why I expected to find winter stonecrop blossoms in here,” he said. “You’re a walking arsenal.”
    She picked up her gun and stood while he tied the apron at her waist and draped the cloak about her shoulders. He let his hands linger there. “Your mistress is wrong to allow you to venture forth with a gun.” Silently he swore to stop Lianna once he took possession of the castle.
    “My mistress understands the necessity of it.”
    “Necessity?”
    Her little wooden sabots kicked up her hem as she walked by his side. “We’ve had no peace since Edward the Third crossed the leopards of England with the lilies of France.”
    What a curious mixture of