She was only a few feet away when she stopped midstep and gasped. The color leeched from her face as every ounce of blood in her body crashed to the floor. She had to grab hold of the edge of one of the tables to prevent her legs from collapsing.

Oh God, it couldn’t be.

“Is something wrong, my lady? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

One of Sir Henry’s men—Sir Bertram, she thought his name—must have seen her sway and had come to her rescue, offering her a steady arm to hold on to. She took it, not only for the solidity but also to block the person she’d seen from her view.

Only then did the shock dissipate enough for her to respond. Nay, not a ghost (irony, that), though she wished he were—there was no one in the world she would like to see dead more than him. “I felt a little light-headed for a moment,” she said with a wobbly smile to the young knight. “But I’m fine now.”

“Are you sure?” Sir Bertram asked with obvious concern. “You are shaking and your hand is as cold as ice.”

Realizing that people were beginning to stare, she forced a calm, serene mask to her face that she did not feel. “Perhaps a glass of wine would help.”

Sir Bertram immediately jumped to do her bidding, leading her to the table and ordering one of the serving girls to bring the lady some wine.

Somehow Joan made it through the meal. She evaded her cousin’s questioning glances and laughed and jested with the rest of the table as if nothing were amiss. But the cold sweat on her forehead and chill in her bones told differently. She was painfully aware of the powerful knight in Despenser arms seated not twenty feet away. Let me go . . . She could still feel his weight on her pinning her down as she struggled.

Though Sir Phillip Gifford had merely been a squire the last time she’d seen him, she would never forget the man who’d raped her.

When he’d been sent to Sir Hugh’s lands in Wales four years ago, and she’d gone to live with Alice and Sir Henry, she’d thought to never see him again. But with the war and her being in such close proximity to the English leadership, she should have realized this could happen. She should have known. She should have been prepared.

But in truth, she feared nothing could have prepared her for seeing him again.

Alex. She felt his absence acutely. It wasn’t that she needed his strength; it was as if his inherent goodness might somehow blot out the evil.