He could not look away from her, but could not answer. The vague apprehension that would not leave him was sharper now, knowing she had seen it when he thought she took no notice. He fought against the dread it raised in him, that she could so clearly see a weakness that he could not even name.

Before she could say more, he thrust the tonic back into her hands.

“I will judge the garrison men for combat skills,” he said abruptly. “The best will be knighted. I would have Davydd spar with them, if you think him equal to it.”

Caught up short, she opened her mouth as though to speak, but stopped. Her eyes twitched away, then back to him. In an instant, as he watched, she changed. He saw her remember that the fighting men were not her provenance, that hers were the duties of a lady. An echo of the grief that had been in her face as she watched her men ride away crossed her features, and he was instantly penitent. But she spoke as though naught was amiss.

“He is ready.” She opened the flask in her hands and turned away from him to pull at some tiny blossoms that grew on a nearby vine. Her voice was businesslike, all hint of tenderness gone. “Do you think to make him squire to you or another knight? I cannot say if he wishes to be vassal to Morency, though he wished to be bound to Ruardean.”

She spoke as though it mattered little to her, dropping the tiny blossoms into the bottle with steady hands. His own hand reached out to trace the straight, strong line of her back, felt her still as it came to rest on her veil. He wanted to take her here, now, to lay claim to her as his own. He wanted to pull her down to her knees and bury himself in her, press his chest to her back and his mouth to her nape, to hear her panting for him, to know she wanted him. As he thought it, he felt her body soften again, accepting his touch. Accepting him. The stiffness relented, her body pressing slightly against his hand for the space of a breath before she leaned away again.

“Is better that you speak to Davydd of his wishes,” she said, her voice warmer now. “When first he came to Ruardean, he wanted naught to do with fighting. Then he wished to join the Templars, and then scorned the idea.”

He smiled. “And by now he may wish to turn minstrel.”

“Verily, or to return to his father’s house in Wales.”

With that, she left for the kitchens.

He found Davydd in the stables, tending to Ranulf’s horse.