She was sobbing as she struggled to get up, as near hysterical as she ever wanted to be. She looked at him, but the image was a jagged montage with the pieces scattered: pool of blood . . . his pants half-down . . . her knife lying next to him.

She’d killed him. Oh my God, she’d killed him.

What am I going to do? I have to get out of here.

She opened the door and ran to the only person she could think of who could help.

Alex had dismissed his squire after the lad had finished removing his weapons and armor. It had been another long and frustrating day. Pembroke and the king’s reaction to the plight of Alex’s tenants had been exactly as he’d feared—unsympathetic—and something was still troubling him from the night before. He’d taken the unusual step of ordering a hot bath to be brought up, rather than just relying on the river, in the hopes that it would help him sort his thoughts. He’d wanted to be alone so he would dry and dress himself as need be.

The lad didn’t argue. Though after the ride to Wark and back, and the long day of ensuring that the soldiers were ready to march, the boy should be as exhausted as Alex; apparently some of the other squires were heading into the village to one of the alehouses, and he was going to join them.

Alex was just thirty, but there was nothing like a seventeen-year-old to make him feel very old and weary.

A few minutes after the lad left, Alex heard a knock on the door. Two men entered carrying the tub, and then for the next ten minutes or so they returned with buckets of hot water until it was full enough, and he sent them away.

He was just about to remove his shirt when he heard another knock. Assuming it was more water, he opened the door to repeat that he had enough, but the words died in his mouth.

“Joan?” He took one look at her and felt his insides twist in a coil of fear, horror, panic, and rage. The latter fueled by the nasty-looking bruise forming on the side of her pale, tear-stained cheek. Her face was bloodless, her hair half escaped from its pins, and her eyes glassy. He’d seen enough men in shock after a battle to recognize the signs.

When their eyes met, something inside her seemed to break. She sobbed and collapsed against his chest in tears. He’d never seen her so vulnerable; it was so disorienting that he didn’t know what to do. He caught her and held her tight, soothing her as best he could, but from what he didn’t know.

Easing her into his room, he closed the door behind her, and then held her back to look at her again.

“God, what happened? Who did this to you, sweetheart?”