“Then you may repay it by gifting me your sword.”

His laugh drifts out from the darkness. “That is a fine effort, crécerelle. But my sword is my own, and I will not gift it to any woman. Or man.”

“That seems a pity,” I murmur.

Silence, and then a sharp laugh as he reappears, one hand pulling a cart, the other waggling a finger at me. “I heard your riposte. Yes, I walked into that one, I suppose. The sword I carry at my side is not for gifting.”

I start to ask whether any of his swords are for gifting. He was not shocked by my innuendo, and so I want to enjoy a few moments of risqué repartee with such an attractive man. Any of my heroines would. But the words dry up, and I can only sigh and say, “You are no fun at all, sir.”

His mouth opens, and a rejoinder flashes in his eyes. Perhaps something about how he can be quite fun? But he stops, and I swear I see him mentally divert course, as I did.

“You shall not have my sword on so short an acquaintance,” he says finally. “But you shall have my cart. Now, alight, fair maiden, so that I may carry you from this wretched place.”

“I’m walking.”

He slumps dramatically against the cart and sighs deeply enough to startle a dove overheard. The bird wings off into the barn rafters. Another follows. Then another.

“See?” Nicolas says. “Even the doves are disappointed with you, crécerelle. Impressed by your pluck, but in the end, disappointed.”

“My pluck?” I glower at him. “If the next adjective from your mouth is feisty, you may need your sword.”

“I was going to say spirited. Is that acceptable?”

I’m about to answer when I catch a noise. I lift as high as I can on my tiptoes, bringing me close to his ear. “Something startled the birds, and it was not me. I heard a horse whinny.”

“A horse. Near a barn. Quelle surprise!”

I frantically motion for him to be quiet.

He tilts his head. Then he must hear something. His mouth sets, and he strides toward the wall. I follow as fast as my injured leg will allow. He presses his eye to a knot in the wood. I find one lower down and do the same.

At first, I see nothing but an old stone wall and a lone sheep. Then, beyond the wall, I spot a trio of horses. They could be simply grazing . . . if they were not wearing saddles.

Nicolas pulls back sharply, only to hiss through his teeth when I am not where he left me. He glances about and stalks over to me.

“We must hide,” he whispers.

He wraps his fingers around my forearm as he glances about. I look up into the hayloft. He presses his lips together and shakes his head.

“You are too badly injured,” he whispers.

I tug from his grasp and hurry to the ladder where I start to climb, ignoring the pain in my arm. I am prepared for him to grab my leg, in which case I would be required to climb faster, but he seems to have already realized such restraint is unwise . . . or simply futile. He settles for helping me up, which seems to require putting his hands on my bottom to steady me, and I have to bite back a laugh thinking of how Portia would react to such a familiarity. I also must admit that when one is wearing men’s trousers, one can actually feel someone’s hands on one’s bottom, and it is quite pleasant, at least when that someone is a handsome young man.