his. "It was one of those stupid dogs," she started to explain.
"And what are you doing out here alone?" he demanded. He rested his hands on his narrow hips.
She didn't suppose it would do any good to point out to Sir Daffyd that he had a definite attitude prob-lem. She was seething inwardly, but she tried for a conciliatory smile. All the gesture did was pull at the aching muscles of her cheek.
"I'm with Switha," she said reasonably.
He looked around the clearing, then raised a heavy, pale eyebrow at her. "Oh?"
She peered over his shoulder. The Saxon woman
had disappeared from the clearing. So much for find-ing the cure for her problem.
"I sent her home," he explained shortly. "I doubt there's anyone in the region who'd dare to harm the goodwife, so she's safe enough. But you." He pointed an accusing finger at her.
"Me?" she heard herself squeak. She cleared her throat."I'm chatelaine of this holding," she went on defensively. "Who would dare ..."
"Any outlaw who can catch you alone," he cut in. "You've guards at the castle," he pointed out. "Bring some with you when you venture out."
It was good advice, though his contemptuous tone was anything but endearing. She gave him a curt, imperious nod, thinking with annoyance that she wasn't used to living life with a bodyguard in tow. She was not a rock star. Although he certainly looked like one with all that gorgeous naturally blond hair and the gold hoop earring in his right ear.
He took her arm and said, "Come along, lady. I haven't got all day." It was a large hand. She could feel its warmth, and a heavy layer of callusing, through her three layers of sleeves. The calluses were from wielding a sword, she supposed.
"What! Where?"
While she protested, he dragged her forward a few steps, until they were next to the horse's warm gray flank, then placed his hands around her waist. The next thing she knew she was perched precariously on the rump of his horse. He swung easily up in the sad-dle before her. She watched his fluid movements with a certain amount of admiration. She managed to keep her sputtering indignation in check only by reminding herself just which one of them carried the sword—and muscles enough to treat her as though
she were no heavier than a feather.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked with decep-tive meekness as he guided the animal forward.
"To Passfair," was the succinct answer. He gave a swift glance over his shoulder and instructed, "Try not to fall off."
The high rear of the saddle didn't seem like a par-ticularly good object to cling to, and this horse was nowhere in the black destrier's league. It had a far rougher gait. Her sore hip made her position even more uncomfortable. She found herself flinging her arms around Sir Daffyd's waist.
It didn't feel at all like Sir Stephan's. There was more of it, for one thing. Stephan was all lanky skin and bones. This man was made up of hard muscle and sinew. Wide shoulders arrowed down to the waist she was holding. Even though she could feel the chain mail beneath cape and surcoat, she could tell most of what she was holding and leaning against was him. His gold hair was soft against her cheek, the thickness and texture very different from Stephan's black silk. He smelled different, too. Less of wood smoke and stable and more of...
"Lavender?"
She felt the chuckle ripple down his back. They were so close that the movement almost tickled her.
"Switha recommends it for fleas. You should try some, my lady," he suggested.
She wasn't sure if he was being helpful or implying she was flea-ridden. She probably was. She'd didn't know if lavender would keep bugs away, but it cer-tainly smelled good. She breathed deeply but didn't bother to reply, and they rode on in silence.
Daffyd stopped twice to speak to soldiers they encountered as they neared the fields, then moved on.
He seemed to forget her presence behind him. She held on tight and endured the bumpy ride.
As they reached the track leading
"And what are you doing out here alone?" he demanded. He rested his hands on his narrow hips.
She didn't suppose it would do any good to point out to Sir Daffyd that he had a definite attitude prob-lem. She was seething inwardly, but she tried for a conciliatory smile. All the gesture did was pull at the aching muscles of her cheek.
"I'm with Switha," she said reasonably.
He looked around the clearing, then raised a heavy, pale eyebrow at her. "Oh?"
She peered over his shoulder. The Saxon woman
had disappeared from the clearing. So much for find-ing the cure for her problem.
"I sent her home," he explained shortly. "I doubt there's anyone in the region who'd dare to harm the goodwife, so she's safe enough. But you." He pointed an accusing finger at her.
"Me?" she heard herself squeak. She cleared her throat."I'm chatelaine of this holding," she went on defensively. "Who would dare ..."
"Any outlaw who can catch you alone," he cut in. "You've guards at the castle," he pointed out. "Bring some with you when you venture out."
It was good advice, though his contemptuous tone was anything but endearing. She gave him a curt, imperious nod, thinking with annoyance that she wasn't used to living life with a bodyguard in tow. She was not a rock star. Although he certainly looked like one with all that gorgeous naturally blond hair and the gold hoop earring in his right ear.
He took her arm and said, "Come along, lady. I haven't got all day." It was a large hand. She could feel its warmth, and a heavy layer of callusing, through her three layers of sleeves. The calluses were from wielding a sword, she supposed.
"What! Where?"
While she protested, he dragged her forward a few steps, until they were next to the horse's warm gray flank, then placed his hands around her waist. The next thing she knew she was perched precariously on the rump of his horse. He swung easily up in the sad-dle before her. She watched his fluid movements with a certain amount of admiration. She managed to keep her sputtering indignation in check only by reminding herself just which one of them carried the sword—and muscles enough to treat her as though
she were no heavier than a feather.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked with decep-tive meekness as he guided the animal forward.
"To Passfair," was the succinct answer. He gave a swift glance over his shoulder and instructed, "Try not to fall off."
The high rear of the saddle didn't seem like a par-ticularly good object to cling to, and this horse was nowhere in the black destrier's league. It had a far rougher gait. Her sore hip made her position even more uncomfortable. She found herself flinging her arms around Sir Daffyd's waist.
It didn't feel at all like Sir Stephan's. There was more of it, for one thing. Stephan was all lanky skin and bones. This man was made up of hard muscle and sinew. Wide shoulders arrowed down to the waist she was holding. Even though she could feel the chain mail beneath cape and surcoat, she could tell most of what she was holding and leaning against was him. His gold hair was soft against her cheek, the thickness and texture very different from Stephan's black silk. He smelled different, too. Less of wood smoke and stable and more of...
"Lavender?"
She felt the chuckle ripple down his back. They were so close that the movement almost tickled her.
"Switha recommends it for fleas. You should try some, my lady," he suggested.
She wasn't sure if he was being helpful or implying she was flea-ridden. She probably was. She'd didn't know if lavender would keep bugs away, but it cer-tainly smelled good. She breathed deeply but didn't bother to reply, and they rode on in silence.
Daffyd stopped twice to speak to soldiers they encountered as they neared the fields, then moved on.
He seemed to forget her presence behind him. She held on tight and endured the bumpy ride.
As they reached the track leading
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