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on your head?”
    Alex flung two more rocks, his aim so poor that they sank ignominiously. “I had been rather enjoying this peace and quiet. Must we fill the air with conversation?”
    Luke smiled crookedly. By wordless consensus, they continued on.
    Some distance farther upstream, half-hidden by an overgrowth of wild shrubbery, they stumbled upon an abandoned longship. Delighted with their find, they whipped off their confining overtunics and investigated the dilapidated boat like boys, leaping from bench to bench and searching through debris in the musty, low-ceilinged cabin until they wearied of stooping over. All they found was bits of rope and the occasional shard from a broken barrel, the vessel having long ago been stripped of oars, mast, sail, and whatever goods it might have contained.
    Having explored as much as he cared to, Alex picked the sturdiest-looking of the oarsmen’s benches and lay on his back to contemplate the clouds scudding across the azure sky. Luke sat cross-legged on the bench next to his, took out his little knife and the piece of wood he was currently carving—which was to be a crucifix for Hlynn, if Alex wasn’t mistaken—and bent his head to his work.
    “‘Tis the worst case of wine sickness I’ve ever seen,” Alex said, breaking the silence he’d requested.
    “Aye, he can barely walk.”
    “Why do you suppose he came here?”
    Luke kept his gaze fixed on the little chunk of wood, which he sculpted with great precision. “I should think he made that fairly obvious.”
    Alex looked at him.
    “He came here because of you. He heard you’d be here, and he wanted to see you.”
    In his mind’s eye, Alex conjured up images—some dreamlike, some nightmarish—of that fateful summer in Périgeaux. “Why?” he asked with a vague sense of dread.
    Luke rubbed his thumb thoughtfully over his handiwork, then raised his eyes to his brother. “That might be worth finding out.”

Chapter 3
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    ALEX COULDN’T SHAKE his sense of disquiet as he climbed the narrow, winding stairwell within the ducal castle’s north tower. He fisted his hand to rap on the oaken door at the top of the stairs, but muffled voices from within made him hesitate. Drawing on his uncanny hearing—as keen as any wolf’s, and a valuable asset in the field—he concentrated on making out the words.
    “Eat some of this—please.” A woman’s voice: Nicolette.
    “I don’t want it! My stomach’s in a twist. I told you that.”
    “Just a little, Milo. You haven’t eaten in—”
    “Because I haven’t wanted to. Damn you, you meddlesome bitch, get that away from me.”
    Alex turned and had descended halfway back down the spiraling stone passage when a rattling crash—as of something hurled against the door—made him spin around. He paused only briefly before sprinting back up the stairs.
    When he was within sight of the topmost door, it opened. He heard the whisper of silk as Lady Nicolette backed out of the chamber. “You’ll have to clean it up yourself this time, Milo,” she said, her voice quiet but strained.
    “Send up a maidservant to clean it,” came Milo’s gravelly voice from within. “And tell her to bring some wine.”
    She shut the door and turned to lean back against it, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling slowly as she took several deep breaths. The warm torchlight burnished her face, igniting it with a golden luster. Alex frowned when he saw the brown spatters that marred the otherwise pristine white silk of her tunic.
    Her eyes opened, and then grew wide. “Alex,” she breathed.
    “Hello, Nicki,” he said quietly, his heart racing in his chest.
    They regarded each other in charged silence. Presently Alex said, with a glance at the door, “Is this a bad time? I can come back later.” He kept his voice low, lest Milo hear.
    She didn’t seem to hear him, absorbed as she was in studying his face. Her gaze lit on his jaw, his chin, his nose, and finally his forehead. The