The expression on David’s face was that of a man who knew he could make his aim. She could not permit that. The daughter of Llygad could not allow Carwyn to be captured.

Her eyes locked on the blade, and its rise, and the tension and movements of the arm that aimed it. At the vital instant of release, she lunged and threw herself into David.

Hands grabbed her and threw her aside. She landed in a heap against a wheel.

Shaking her dazed perceptions clear, she looked up. Marcus loomed above her, his sword in his hand. The expression on his face was indescribable. She saw fury, but beneath it there flowed a sadness, as if he had always hoped his suspicions were wrong.

David ran to the misaimed dagger and snatched it up. He headed to the barn’s far door as the tail of Carwyn’s horse disappeared outside it.

“Let him go,” Marcus called. Then his voice turned very quiet and calm, as if he spoke for her ears only. “Let him go.”

He sheathed his sword and pulled her to her feet. That only brought her closer to his silent anger. She faced him as fearlessly as she could, but caution returned with her wits.

The full implications of his arrival in this shed suddenly struck her.

He had surmised that the reason for the raids had been to draw him away. He had expected her to make some move, and even guessed that a meeting would take place. He had ridden out and then turned back, just as he had the day she helped Dylan to escape, and had told David and others to cooperate with any plan she hatched.

He understood her too well. It was as if he read her mind. How much else had he guessed? How much danger did he present to her?

“I said that you would not be leaving, Nesta.”

Relief split through her fear. He did not know why this meeting had really taken place. He thought it had only been a ploy to get away.

David joined them, and Marcus’s relentless gaze finally broke away. He took her arm and pulled her out into the yard. The wainwright ambled out from his home, taking in the knight and merchant and her. Sieg was leading the wagon and Marcus’s horse out of the alley.

Marcus released her. While he went for his mount, she walked over to the wainwright. The man was of middle years, short and spindly with thinning hair, and he smiled ruefully as she approached.

“I think I’ll be going back home to Powys, looks like,” he said. “Won’t do to stay here now, with him knowing I let one of them live in my shed.”

“This is your home, even if you have family in Powys. Your trade is here.”

“Trade is where the craft is, my lady. I’ll be all right all the same.”