“This isn’t about my license or lack thereof,” said Jinna, folding her arms as she came to a stop between the guard and her waiter. “I know who your informant was—my dear brother-in-law, isn’t it?”

The mustachioed guard stepped forward, shifting his grip on his sword menacingly. “It’s up to Lord Whimsitt to arbitrate his claim of inheritance on your late husband’s property. Come with us peacefully now. No one needs to get hurt.”

Gwen could see Isobelle vibrating with fury, could feel the echo of that fury in her own breast—mingling with the awful dread she’d lived with ever since she began taking over her father’s smithy.

This was what happened to women who did men’s work. Jinna had earned her place owning and running this tavern by herself, but what did that matter to the men who ran this world? All they saw was a woman who dared set foot in their territory. Who dared dream for herself.

Jinna was standing there, her face serene, but her eyes as flat and hard as obsidian. Then, lifting her head, she said, “All right. I surrender.”

The words had barely left her lips when a cry rippled through the gathered crowd. The waiter on whose behalf Jinna had intervened surged forward, shouting, “Here, now, you can take her over my cold, dead—”

The head guard let out an oath as she flew at him, and with one sweep of his arm, he knocked her down.

The smattering of outrage turned into a deluge. The crowd surged forward, engulfing the guards, tables and chairs overturning. Gwen lurched to her feet and caught hold of Isobelle’s hand, desperate not to lose her in the melee. The other girl met her gaze, her eyes wide with shared fear and anger and shock.

And then someone grabbed her and pulled her out of Gwen’s grip.

The crowd buffeted Gwen away, and it took her several long, heart-stopping breaths to find Isobelle again. She was being held by the arms firmly, but respectfully, by a familiar-looking man not in the livery of the castle guard, but a simple, well-made doublet and hose. A flash of memory provided Gwen with a name: Orson, the handsome young knight who’d accompanied Isobelle at the market. The one who didn’t want to marry her, but would anyway.

“How dare you become involved with this,” Isobelle was shouting at him, trying to free herself. “She’s an innocent woman, all of this is—”

“I know!” Sir Orson cut her off, his face grim, brows drawn in with concern. “Isobelle, come on, I know that. We can look for a way to help her later, but I need to make sure you’re okay first. I only came along because I knew you’d be here—I’ve got to get you back to the castle before anyone realizes you were here.”