slowed the bleeding from his arm slightly, but the wound needed to be stitched.
He waded into the water, still wearing his trews in the hopes of cleansing them. He wished he’d thought to bring a change of clothing with him.
A rustling noise caught his attention, and Ewan spun, startled by the intrusion. Gerald of Beaulais emerged from the trees. His hand rested upon his sword hilt.
‘Your sword skills are lacking, Irishman.’
Críost. Hadn’t he defeated the man already in the wrestling match? And here he was, half-naked, with his weapons lying upon the shore.
‘But I defeated you.’ He remained in the water, inching his way closer. He reached down into the water and closed his palm over a round stone. ‘What is it you want, Beaulais? A lesson in hand-to-hand fighting?’
The nobleman reached for the dagger at his belt. ‘Leave Ardennes. And abandon your courtship.’
A flash of metal caught the sun, and Ewan threw himself sideways. The blade sank below the water, and a second later, Beaulais collapsed. Behind him stood Honora, a stout limb in her hands. A line of blood trickled down Beaulais’s forehead.
‘What in the name of God do you think you’re doing?’ Ewan bellowed, striding from the water. ‘Did you murder him, then?’
‘He was about to murder you!’
‘He threw the knife as a warning. I saw it coming and avoided it.’ Ewan approached Beaulais’s body and nudged it with his foot. Thanks be, a low groan resounded from the man’s throat. ‘I don’t need you, or anyone else, to defend me.’
Honora’s face transformed from pale white to furious red. ‘Fine. Let the next man kill you, then. I’ll stand back and do nothing.’
‘Why are you even here?’ Ewan demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be with your father, preparing for the feast. Or have you forgotten that you are meant to choose a suitor?’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ But she looked embarrassed, suddenly aware of what she’d done. Her gaze drifted down to the ground, and she held the branch as though it were a sword hilt. Her sleeves stretched against her arms, and he could see the outline of her lean muscles.
Cold water from his swim dripped down his torso, down to soaked trews. Honora’s stare travelled from his feet, past his thighs and stomach before she met his firm stare.
‘Stop chasing after me, Honora,’ he warned.
Her lips pressed tightly together, her green eyes flashing fire. ‘I wasn’t chasing. I was trying to save your ungrateful hide.’
Ungrateful? He hadn’t needed her help. Did she still believe he was a spindly lad of sixteen, unable to defend himself? Not a chance of that.
Ewan took a step closer, but she raised the limb, as though she were contemplating striking him.
‘Do not even consider it.’ Wrenching it from her hands, Ewan cracked it over his knee and tossed the pieces aside. ‘Go back to your father, Honora. I’m not the man for you.’
‘I wouldn’t want you if you were the last man in England.’ Honora sent him a furious look before she picked up her skirts and fled his presence.
Ewan picked up his fallen weapons and stepped past Beaulais’s unconscious form, his fury rising higher. Why had she interfered? Beaulais might have retaliated before knowing she stood behind him. She could have been hurt.
Damn her. Nothing had changed, not in five years. She lacked faith in him, but he wasn’t about to justify his fighting skills to her. He had nothing to prove, especially not after today’s victory.
He cast a glance at the unconscious man at his feet, his annoyance rising. And by the look of it, thanks to Honora, he’d just made another enemy.
Ewan shared a trencher with Katherine, ensuring that she had the choicest pieces of roasted pheasant and smoked herring. The Baron had spared no expense in the feast, and Ewan revelled in the food. His favourite dish of blanc-manger was the most exquisite he’d ever tasted. The chicken paste had a hint of almond milk, sugar, and the light crunch of fried almonds gave it texture. It made it easier to keep his mind off the pain of his arm.
But even as he ate, he was uneasy about what had happened with Beaulais. The man would not hesitate to retaliate. The only question was when.
‘You haven’t lost your appetite, I see,’ Katherine remarked, in an attempt to make conversation.
‘Would you care for more?’ Ewan broke off a portion of gingered salmon, but she shook her head, declining.
Though he gave Katherine his full attention, he was well aware of Honora on his opposite side. He offered her the same courtesy, in order to maintain appearances, but he could see the shuttered anger in her expression.
Beaulais staggered into the hall some time later, his gaze livid. A piece of linen was wrapped around his forehead, and he joined the other suitors at the lower table. Conscious of the man’s venomous glare, Ewan stared back, willing Beaulais to look away.
Instead, the nobleman drew a dagger, letting the blade flash in the torchlight. There was murder in his eyes, a visible threat.
Honora wouldn’t be foolish enough to confess she’d brought Beaulais down, would she? The Norman lord wouldn’t take kindly to being struck by a woman. And though Ewan was confident he could handle the man’s anger, he wasn’t so sure about Honora. She was far too reckless.
A harper played lively tunes, breaking the silence and redirecting the attention of the guests. Ewan ignored Beaulais and reached for a strawberry. Bringing it to Katherine’s lips, he complimented her beauty. As she blushed and accepted the fruit, his elbow accidentally brushed against Honora’s. She jerked away, her eyes narrowed.
‘My pardon,’ he apologised. From the way Honora shrank back, it was as if he’d struck her.
Then her expression changed, and she lowered her voice. ‘You’re bleeding.’
He glanced at his tunic sleeve, which had darkened in colour. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You need to tend the wound. It’s deep.’
She acted as though his arm had been severed. Though the trickle of blood irritated him, it was hardly serious.
Ignoring her insistence, he offered her a piece of fruit. ‘Would you care for a strawberry?’
She shook her head slowly. In her eyes, he saw worry. And though he wanted to make a lighthearted response, something to make her smile, he knew it wouldn’t work. Honora had always been able to see past his teasing.
And he was still staring at her with a strawberry in his hand. He turned and fed the succulent fruit to Katherine. Honora stiffened, as though he’d hit her.
Was she jealous? He couldn’t believe that to be true, for she’d claimed she wouldn’t wed him if he were the last man in England.
He watched her speaking to Sir Ademar. A strand of dark hair came loose from her veil, hanging against her neck. The curve of
