Joan had learned that the swiftest way to rid herself of a man she’d targeted who was growing impatient with “no,” or might be beginning to suspect she wasn’t the “easy” mark he’d been led to believe, was to mention one word: marriage. They scatted like frightened mice before a cat. It was shameful, really. But undeniably effective.

“I’m s-sorry,” he stuttered, darting for the door as if the devil were nipping at his heels.

Without another word, he was gone, and that was that.

Joan sighed. It was hard not to be cynical when men never surprised her.

At least they didn’t usually. But Sir Alex Seton—the man the Guard had called Dragon—had. She didn’t know what she expected from the Guardsman who’d betrayed Bruce and his brethren (which now included her), but it wasn’t the kindness, consideration, and yes, gallantry, that he’d shown her last night. For a few minutes she had almost been able to believe that she was as innocent and maidenly as he thought her.

Good gracious, when he’d lifted her in his arms to carry her up the tower . . . she could still feel the reverberation from the way her heart had slammed into her chest. She could also still feel the strength of the powerful arms wrapped around her, and the steely hardness of his shield-like chest.

She’d felt safe and secure, warm and protected. It would have been so easy to close her eyes, rest her cheek against his broad chest, and let herself forget—just for a moment. But she couldn’t, of course. She wasn’t a starry-eyed, naive maid anymore, no matter how much he’d made her want to believe otherwise.

She should have been annoyed by his high-handedness, but the romance of the gesture had affected her more than she would have guessed. Perhaps her jaded heart wasn’t completely hardened and impervious as she would like to think.

For more reasons than one, she would be wary. Alex Seton was dangerous. Dangerous not only for how he made her feel, but for what he knew. He might not know her identity, but he knew about the existence of a high-placed spy in the English camp. And although he might be a traitor, he was undoubtedly a highly skilled and savvy one. She would not underestimate him, or the threat he posed. She had to avoid him in the future at all costs.

He was a Scot fighting for the English—the worst kind of traitor in her regard.

But it wasn’t fair. A traitor who’d betrayed his king and friends should have some kind of black mark across his face to warn her. He certainly shouldn’t look as if he’d ridden straight out of Camelot.

She wondered if it was all for show. Was there perhaps one honorable knight left in England, after all?