“I was just assuring the ladies that we were done. Isn’t that right, Seton?”

Felton’s gaze was as hard as ice, almost daring Alex to disagree. Alex’s jaw was locked so hard it was as if he had to pry the word out. “Aye.”

For the first time, he felt Joan’s eyes linger on him. They were fixed on the line of red dripping down his stomach from a cut he’d taken earlier in the fight, and despite his anger, despite the fact that she was with another man, the feel of her gaze on his naked body made him swell.

“You’re hurt,” she said accusingly, stepping toward him as if she might—Christ almighty!—put a hand on him. If she touched his stomach that close to something else, everyone here would know exactly what he was thinking.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Despenser stopped her. “It’s just a scratch,” the other man assured her.

Even though Alex had been about to say the same thing, he didn’t like hearing it from Despenser. He liked the possessive way he tucked Joan into his body even less.

The hand gripping the hilt of his sword gripped a little harder. Gripped until his knuckles turned white.

Despenser hadn’t missed the movement. His eyes narrowed with warning that might have been amusing in different circumstances. Despite the young knight’s exalted new position as royal favorite, he was no match for Alex with a sword—“hurt” arm or not. If anyone should be worried, it was Despenser.

But proving his too-good opinion of himself, Despenser didn’t recognize the danger. Instead, he seemed to be laying down a gauntlet, daring Alex to accept the challenge.

He wanted to. Damn how he wanted to. He didn’t understand what it was about Joan Comyn that made him react with such intensity. Such possessiveness. Such anger.

She was undeniably beautiful in a sultry, wanton, “take me to the bedchamber” sort of fashion. But he’d known many beautiful women. Hell, the wives of his former brethren were undoubtedly some of the most beautiful in Scotland.

But he’d never been so attracted to someone before—even Rosalin—and to be attracted to the wrong someone was disconcerting. She was nothing like the sweet, innocent maid he’d pictured marrying after the war.

Rosalin Clifford now Boyd was just the sort of woman he’d imagined marrying one day. He might have contemplated making that day sooner, but it had been very clear she’d been in love with Boyd—whether he deserved her or not.

Marriage? Christ, why the hell was he thinking about that? He could never marry a woman who’d lain with another man—probably more than one—not when he’d held himself to a much higher standard.