Nesta stood with her arm around Genith’s shoulders. It had taken a long while to get her sister to stop crying, and Marcus’s icy manner as he ordered the preparations had not helped matters any. Whenever he glanced their way, Genith had resumed weeping like a woman doomed.

Nesta touched Genith’s arm and gestured to the young man who had been captured along with her sister. His hands were still bound, and a rope now tethered him to the wagon’s side. Of middle height and slight of build, he appeared no match for the powerful warrior who had captured him. He wore a sack tied to his back that was too flat and long to only be holding food and garments.

“What is his name?”

“Dylan,” Genith whispered. “The others ran when they saw all was lost, but he did not.”

“Brave of him,” Nesta said. Brave but rash. He should have run too, if capture was inevitable.

Dylan watched Marcus with lidded, sparkling blue eyes. He showed no fear. Nesta looked back to her sister in time to see admiration flicker as Genith regarded the prisoner.

“Do you know him? Is that why he stood by you?”

Genith blushed. “He served last winter at our kinswoman’s household. I was surprised to see him with the others here. I did not know that he had joined them.”

“Do not let Marcus know this. He may think that Dylan pursued you, and accuse him of abduction.” It would be a very neat explanation for Genith’s escape, Nesta admitted to herself, and she would need a good one soon. She could not risk the young man’s life in that way, however.

It turned out that Dylan was in danger with no help from her. After the chests had been moved and the horses prepared, one of Marcus’s men pointed to the prisoner and addressed his lord. “Might as well hang him now. Easier that way, and he’s either a thief or a traitor.”

Marcus stood at the cottage door, dwarfing the threshold behind him. He examined the young man tied to the wagon, and Dylan gazed back fearlessly. Two pairs of fiery eyes locked on each other. Dylan’s challenge could not have been more clear if he had voiced it. Nesta could almost hear Marcus weighing the trouble awaiting if he did not hang Dylan immediately.

“Would you punish him for foolishly following his elders?” she called to Marcus. “His greatest treason was to his own safety, in not fleeing like the others. Besides, the sack on his back clearly carries a harp, and he can entertain us on the evenings of this journey.”

That brought Marcus’s gaze on her instead. His expression suggested she had been very stupid to remind him that she existed. “You would have me spare him, Nesta?”

“Aye.” She hoped that Marcus would not hang Dylan merely to spite her.