She was still trying to think of a way to respond when a loud roar rang out behind them from the group of men training nearby. Following the direction of the sound, she turned and something caught her gaze—or rather, someone caught her gaze.

She gasped, her body going utterly still. Her eyes were riveted. She couldn’t have turned away if she wanted to. And really, if she were honest with herself, she didn’t want to.

“What is it?” Margaret asked, but then following Joan’s gaze her eyes widened. “Or maybe I should say who is it? My word, he’s . . .”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. What could she say that would suffice? He was magnificent? Incredible? Male perfection? Knee-weakening, belly tightening, and jaw-dropping? Aye, he was all those things and so much more. He drew the eye like a twinkling star, like gold shimmering in the sunlight, like the flame of a beacon in a moonless sky.

Joan found her voice, although it was lacking quite a bit of air. “Sir Alex Seton. He’s part of Pembroke’s retinue.”

“Seton?” Her cousin frowned. “He’s the Scot who switched sides a couple years ago, isn’t he?” Joan nodded. “Interesting. Sir Robert certainly doesn’t seem to like him much.”

For the first time Joan’s gaze turned to the other man whom she’d only been vaguely aware of. She recognized de Percy’s champion Sir Robert Felton. The vaunted knight was also tall, well muscled, light haired, handsome, and bare to the waist, but for some reason she hadn’t noticed him. Her focus had been entirely on the other knight.

Although admittedly, Alex Seton didn’t look like much of a knight right now. She didn’t realize he was so . . . overpowering. Good Lord! Stripped to all his primitive glory, he looked every inch the ruthless brigand. Her gaze absorbed every ripple, every rock-hard edge, every bulge and line of the powerful muscles on his chest and arms. She might have to rethink her golden knight fantasy. There was something to be said for brutal, fierce, and dangerous.

But he wasn’t her fantasy, she reminded herself. He was a judgmental, self-righteous traitor who didn’t know how to mind his own business. Lachlan used to refer to him as Sir Galahad—the idealized perfect knight who always spoke of doing what was right. Joan understood what he meant now. Obviously, Sir Alex had a moral compass that didn’t flicker to gray.

She was still furious about the way he’d spoken to her, and everything about his attitude had rubbed her the wrong way. Which made her reaction that day all the more inexplicable. Could she really have wanted—even for a minute—for him to kiss her? She must have been out of her mind. She didn’t feel desire for men. Not anymore. Not since she was fifteen.