is who you are. Son of Sir Arthur of Anglesea, knight of the realm, and the man who taught me how to hold my head up.”
“Sir Henry?” Alya took his breath away in the red silk. Her sooty hair lay in a gleaming sable cascade down her back.
Newt punched his shoulder. “A lady such as that deserves a knight by her side.”
Henry donned the surcoat. It had grown snug across the chest and shoulders. Bloody thing near strangled him, and he tugged at the neckline.
Alya touched the dragon’s head. “What is this you wear?”
“They are my father’s colors.” Her fingers burned through the layers over his chest.
Stepping back, she tilted her head and studied him. “You look very fine, Henry.”
“Sir Henry.” Bahir came to stand behind her. “You must call him Sir Henry now.”
“Sir Henry.” Her full mouth formed the words like a caress.
“My lady.” He bowed over her hand. Stupid sod that he was, but the action came naturally to him. One he had performed many times in his past.
* * * *
Dwarfed by the honey-hued stone wall, Alya stood in the shadow and felt no bigger than an ant. Massive arched wooden doors guarded the manor house. At the apex of the arch a large, ornate coat of arms stared down at all those who dared seek entry.
Henry pounded on the door. He stood back, hand over his sword pommel and his shoulders straight and proud.
She wished she could wipe her sweaty hands on her skirts, but she would stain the silk, so she wound them in the stifling drape of her cloak.
A small door opened within the large door and a swarthy face appeared.
“We seek Ugo D’Onofrio.” Henry spoke in French.
The face peered at them, eyes narrowed. “Who seeks him?”
Henry’s shoulders rose on a deep breath. “Sir Henry of Anglesea, and Ugo’s niece, the Lady Alya.”
“That should light a fire under his ass.” Sweating in his mail and surcoat, Newt stood behind her. Beyond Newt, Bahir carried a chest filled with gifts her father had sent to ease her welcome. Gifts? More like bribes to accept the interloper.
The little door slammed shut and running footsteps grew fainter on the far side of the wood.
With a reassuring smile, Henry turned to her. “You look beautiful.”
“They will be proud to welcome you,” Bahir said.
He insisted he remain a few steps behind her. It was better that he appeared her servant, he had said. Henry had agreed with him, but had taken no pleasure in his agreement. Perhaps one day they might—what was she thinking? After today they would all part ways.
A grinding noise sounded from the door, and then it swung open on a loud, pained creak.
Sir Henry offered her his arm.
Alya’s fingers shook as she placed her fingers on his wrist. She drew comfort and courage from the power of the arm she held.
“Chin up,” he murmured. “You are a lady born.”
Raising her chin, Alya stepped through the doors.
The gate boomed shut behind them.
They walked through a short, dark passage that smelled of mildew before it opened into a courtyard beyond.
Arched balconies stared down on them from all sides as Henry led her across a bright courtyard full of lush greenery. A fountain gurgled and splashed in the middle, sunlight catching on the water.
Their footsteps sounded loud against the flags.
A serving man waited in a doorway at the far end of the courtyard. He peered down his nose at her, and motioned them to follow.
The cool of the manor provided a blessed reprieve from the hot day without. Large tapestries awash with vivid color hung from the walls. Beneath her slippers, mosaics created bright splashes of color against the stone floor.
The servant motioned them through yet another set of doors. How many could they need? A man sat at the far end on a carved wooden chair. As they approached, he rose.
Stamped across the hawkish bones of his face, the resemblance to her father was unmistakable. This man stood taller than her father, and slimmer beneath his scarlet tunic.
“Sir Henry.” The man spoke in a melodious voice. “I welcome you.”
Henry bowed with his fist to his chest. He moved his arm in a smooth arc to indicate her. “I present to you the Lady Alya, daughter of your brother Pietro D’Onofrio, formerly of Cairo.”
The man stiffened. A hard stare raked her from top to toes. “Is this her?”
“Indeed.” Henry’s tone grew cold. “The Lady Alya speaks French.”
Alya curtsied as Henry had taught her. She rose again, relieved not to have caught her foot in her hem. “Good day, Uncle.”
The man flinched. “You do not look like Pietro.”
“Nay.” She forced a smile to her frozen face. “I believe I look most like my mother.”
“An infidel?” Ugo sneered.
His rudeness left her momentarily speechless. She glanced at Bahir.
He gave her a tiny nod.
Alya took a bracing breath. “My mother was not of your faith.”
“And you?” Ugo stepped nearer to her, his arms behind his back, a nasty sneer twisting his face.
“I am of the one true faith,” she said. “My father insisted on it.”
Ugo grunted. “I take it my brother is dead.”
Said so abruptly, the words stabbed at Alya. Her gaze found Henry and the comfort she sought. “That is what we believe.”
Ugo walked around her in a slow circle.
Alya forced herself to stand still beneath the scrutiny. Chin high, shoulders back, just as Henry had shown her.
Bahir coughed and jerked his head at the chest in his arms.
Her throat felt too tight to manage any words. Her heart beat unsteadily and robbed her breath.
“We are not sure of your brother’s fate.” Henry stepped smoothly into the building silence. “We believe he met with a foul end after we fled Cairo.”
Ugo stopped barely two feet in front of her and scowled. “He sent her to me?”
“Aye.” Henry
