A fingertip traced up the side of her neck and felt her tremble sweetly, faintly. His hand turned over and opened over the smooth skin at last, palm sliding around the curve of her throat, and now relief and excitement flooded him as she turned – a quick, bewildering flurry of movement that happened in the blink of his eye – and then she was perfectly still again, facing him and holding the point of her knife to his belly.

The swiftness of it stunned him utterly. There was no trace of desire in her look; there was only a cool, hard warning. He stood with his heart hammering, his skin turning cold, his vision blurring.

He blinked, mortified less by the thought that he had imagined her response than by the way he was now frozen in fear. Utterly frozen.

Not fear of her. Not really. It was only a warning, clearly communicated without words, as she communicated everything. It was not fury and the promise of retribution, as it had been the only time he’d escaped the thieves. A day of running, sure of his freedom, relaxed and finally believing it was over when Baudry appeared from behind a tree and held a dagger to his throat.

This was not that. But it felt like it.

He looked down at the knife, blinking. A shape was carved into the grip, and he seemed only able to consider the question of what it was – a circle, a snake, the letter G? – instead of what might happen if she pressed the blade forward. He knew he must say something. Once, long ago, courtly words had come so easily to him, smooth and polished, the accepted ways a man would beg pardon of a lady. But now his mind was a desert. If only she would take the blade away.

When she finally did, concern ceased her features. She looked at him with her brows drawn together, obviously wondering what ailed him. All the warning in her had dissolved into uncertainty, and she seemed to become smaller. It was a trick of his mind – she had always been this small, coming only barely to his shoulder and so slight of frame that it would take no great strength to overpower her.

She stepped back from him and returned the knife to its place at the back of her belt, never fumbling for the hidden sheath. He waited to feel relief, but it did not come. Her eyes flicked over to the hooded falcon in the cage, then roamed over the baggage strapped to the mule, an aimless wandering of her attention. He gradually became aware that she was waiting for him to move from this place where he had turned to stone, so that they might resume their journey.

It was mortifying. She saw it in him, this outsized fear, and knew what it was.