“I asked help from a baron not in Flanders with the King. Of course he is English. We all are. Hell, you brought Barrowburgh with you.”

Marcus bit back his response. He began calculating. It would take two weeks for troops from England to make their way here, but the lords in Wales would arrive sooner. Once they did, he would be obligated to finish this with blood, not guile.

Peals of laughter drew his gaze back to Nesta and the domestic scene surrounding her. Her happiness sent light spilling through his heart.

He remembered the way she had thrown herself at him by the stream, and saved him from that bolt. It had been an instinctive betrayal of her father’s cause, and he loved her for it.

He knew, however, that she had not completely forgotten her duty. He was counting on that. Counting on her making good her resolve to not be subverted.

He needed her to find the heart to commit another betrayal, this time of him.

He needed her to make her move, and very soon.

Mallets pounded to her right and left as Nesta stood on the wall walk. Within hours of arriving, Marcus had relieved Sir Hubert of his responsibilities, and set men to work reinforcing the shaky defenses. All around her were the signs of a manor being prepared for war.

The scene spread out on the hill below reinforced that impression. Most of the army Marcus had brought lived outside the wall, in camps carefully positioned and clustered. Some of the men had been sent into the forest, and as dusk now fell she could see the dots of distant fires, showing where sentries ringed them.

The pounding around her stopped. Boots lumbered away. That surprised her, until she felt the body along her back and the arms sliding around her waist.

“There is more light left,” she said. “They could have worked longer.”

“The food is ready, and they hardly mind the reprieve.”

“I think they know the reason for it, despite your attempt at discretion.”

“Probably so, after your bravery at the stream.”

They had not spoken of that during the last hours of riding here. She did not regret her reaction, even though it had not been the result of bravery. It had not even been a decision. One moment she had sensed danger, and the next she was holding him.

“Do not scold me for being reckless, Mark.” The horror of seeing that arrow in the ground returned, evoking a heart-numbing premonition of grief. No matter what else happened now, she would not want to live if he died.

“It would be ungrateful to scold. But promise me to never do such a thing again. Better an arrow finds me than you. I was born for such dangers, and accepted them long ago.”