Aside from the damage done by Alex’s fists, he could see the stain of blood from where Joan’s knife had penetrated near his hip. The same knife that was now at Gifford’s waist. Reaching down, Alex pulled it from the belt and slid it in his.

“You will say nothing about what happened here to anyone. If someone asks, you were set upon by thieves on the way back to the castle from the village. Consider yourself fortunate that I do not take you to the king right now and have you thrown in the pit prison. But my betrothed wants to forget this ever happened, and I am very reluctantly honoring her wishes.” Alex leaned down and lifted the other man up from his slump against the wall to meet his gaze. “If I hear you have even mentioned Lady Joan’s name, I will kill you.”

His tone left no doubt that he would like nothing more.

Alex let him go and stood back up. He looked down at the beaten man like the excrement that he was. Gifford had started to recover and, realizing Alex wasn’t going to kill him, his fear had been replaced by a look of burning hatred as he struggled to his feet. Some of his pride had returned as well. “You could try.”

Alex just looked at him and smiled, knowing it wouldn’t even be a contest. Gifford hadn’t had half the training Alex had had—nor had he fought alongside the best warriors in Christendom for seven years.

Gifford seemed to read his thoughts—or the substance of them anyway—and his battered face flushed with anger.

But Alex had wasted enough time on him already. Joan needed him.

When he turned to leave, Sir Phillip Gifford made his last—fatal—mistake. He pulled a dagger from its sheath at his waist and was halfway to throwing it at Alex’s back when Alex’s blade struck him in the throat.

Alex was out of practice, but his aim was still true—and just as deadly. He was still the best.

Chapter 20

20

IT WAS A testament to her deep distress and shock that Joan didn’t even hesitate to take Alex up on his offer to let her use his bath. She didn’t care about the propriety of taking her clothes off in the room of a man who was not yet her husband—or anything else for that matter. All she wanted to do was sink into that clean, warm water and wash the feel of Sir Phillip’s touch off her skin and the blood from her hands.

She scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was pink and not a trace of blood remained. If only the memories were so easily washed away.