“No!” Gwen gasped, darting around her to grab for the fabric, trying to whisk the figurine out of sight. “That isn’t meant to be—” She caught at one edge of the fabric, and as she snatched it up, the little knight tumbled to the ground, landing on the muddied grass at their feet.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Isobelle began, trying to sweep her dress out of the way as Gwen dropped to her knees to retrieve the little knight. “He’s beautiful. How much is he? I quite fancy the idea of a knight who’d do what he was told, for once.”

“Sir Gawain isn’t for sale,” Gwen said firmly, closing her hand over the figurine. She looked about to say more when Sir Orson’s voice rang out, startlingly close.

“Lady Isobelle, please tell me you’re not buying more horseshoes. I’ve already run out of hooves.” There he was on the other side of the counter, with a lopsided smile at finding her where she shouldn’t be. “I assume they’re for me,” he continued. “Given I’m playing the packhorse today.” And indeed he was—the girls had added another couple of bags to his load since she’d slipped away.

“I’ll be good,” Isobelle replied, producing her dimples on cue. “Sir Orson, this is . . . ?” Though she’d heard the blacksmith address his daughter by name, it only seemed polite to offer a proper introduction.

“Gwen,” said Gwen, glancing between the lady and the knight with a neutral expression. “Of Ellsdale.”

If Orson was confused as to why Isobelle was introducing him to a random vendor at the market, he hid it beautifully. That was the nice thing about him—he could be friendly toward anyone. “Pleased to meet you, Gwen.”

Gwen blinked at him—no doubt as stunned by his square jaw and princely good looks as every other girl on the planet. “Uh . . . you too, Sir . . . Awesome?”

Isobelle managed not to giggle. It wasn’t the first time someone had misheard Orson’s name, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “Orson,” she enunciated carefully. “With an ‘R.’ But don’t worry, he responds to both.”

Sir Orson laughed good-naturedly, throwing his head back and looking just like a legendary hero who had stepped straight out of an illuminated manuscript of chivalric romantic poetry. Even his hair seemed to glow—outrageous, since Isobelle knew he didn’t use any product in it.

He offered Isobelle his arm. “It’s getting late, my lady—shall we?”

Isobelle glanced back at the blacksmith’s daughter, searching for some reason to linger at the stall, without having any idea why she wanted to stay.

Their eyes met again—and again, there was that strange sensation. But there was nothing more to say, especially with her friends catching up.

She let Orson lead her away. But when she looked back over her shoulder, Gwen was watching her go.

Chapter Three
Bring it on