that it had been Christian who had convinced two very powerful nobles to speak on Simon’s behalf, virtually blackmailing the king into setting him free. She wondered if Sir Jarrod had any notion of how much he revealed of himself with this tale. Clearly he had a great capacity for ire and a love of vengeance, yet he tempered them for the sake of those he loved.
Again, Aislynn was moved by the bond between the three men, though she was not surprised to learn that her brother had sat with the dying man. She had been quite young when Christian had left Bransbury, but his kindness to injured animals about the demesne was well remembered. She had missed his gentleness, his warmth, when her father was so locked in his grief over his wife’s death. Though she had understood as she grew older that a young man must foster and become a knight, she had never stopped hoping that he would return to Bransbury—that they would be as a family.
Christian’s return had made her dreams a reality, for a time. But now they were once more in a state of loss. She would leave no avenue unexplored in her desire to have Christian home.
Yet she could not see what this drawing might have to do with her brother’s disappearance. Puzzled, she watched as Sir Jarrod quickly leafed through the other drawings, setting them into the chest before going back to the first one, the one depicting the man who had died.
Again she asked, “What is it that you see?”
He shook that dark head. “I am not certain. There is just something. Somehow it seems that Christian may be saying that the brooch, The Dragon, is connected to Jack.”
“But even if that is true, I do not see what it can have to do with Christian’s being gone. Perhaps the man simply made him remember past times at Dragonwick.”
The knight raked a hand through his thick hair, taking a deep breath and setting the drawing aside. “Perhaps you are right, Lady Aislynn.”
The sound of her name on his lips brought her back to an instantaneous awareness of all the feelings she had been attempting to deny. Her gaze came to rest on the lean line of his jaw, the curve of his heavy black lashes, the suppleness of his mouth.
A strange heat moved in Aislynn’s belly. At that moment Sir Jarrod turned his black fathomless eyes to her, his gaze as deep as the darkest night and just as unreadable. Aislynn could not move, could not even breathe properly, for her chest felt…
Suddenly realizing that she was staring at him, Aislynn feared that all that was going on inside her would be revealed in her eyes. Deliberately she focused on the fire, the stone floor, the open door. Anywhere but on the dark knight.
Good heavens, had she gone mad?
Her brother was missing. That was the knight’s only reason for being at Bransbury. Even if he were interested in her, it would not be appropriate now. Even if she were not engaged, which she was. Even if her marriage was not significant to the peace on her father’s lands, which it was.
The sound of slow footsteps approaching in the hallway outside made her cast her gaze to the doorway. Her father appeared there. He came forward into the room, taking in the fact that Jarrod was holding her brother’s drawing in his hands.
He looked to Aislynn and she said, “Sir Jarrod wanted to know if he might look through Christian’s things and I said yes.”
Her father nodded. “That is well, for I have said he might have free rein to do whatever he thinks might aid him.” He moved to examine the drawing. “I too thought there might be some hint here yet I can see nothing. What is your opinion?”
Jarrod shrugged. “I see what you see, my lord.”
Her father sighed and made a slicing motion. “Enough for this night. You have journeyed far and must rest.” He turned to Aislynn. “The pot did fall and must be replaced, Aislynn, but we have made use of another. The water will be ready shortly.”
Aislynn felt her cheeks heating again. She had completely forgotten the broken pot, which was certainly unusual for her. She took great joy and pride in the overseeing of the keep.
Her father went on, unaware of her discomfort. “You will be abed before you know it, Sir Jarrod.”
To her surprise, the knight turned to her with a frown of apology. “Pray forgive me, Lady Aislynn. I had not thought until this moment how late the hour has grown. You should have sought your own bed some time gone. I’m sure you will soon be eager for me to leave Bransbury if my presence keeps you up past the hour when your father prefers for you to be abed.”
She frowned, blinking. He was speaking to her as one might a child.
Her father nodded. “Aye, Aislynn, as Sir Jarrod has indicated, the hour grows late for you as well.”
Aislynn did not remind her father of the fact that she was often at her duties until far past this hour. “Perhaps it is past time for me to retire. Good night, Father.”
She bowed in Sir Jarrod’s general direction and slipped toward the doorway as her father halted her, kissing her on the cheek and saying, “Good night, little one.” It was something he had said countless times, but this night, before this man, it gave her a decided feeling of discomfort.
She was infinitely aware when Sir Jarrod’s dark eyes fixed on her and it was all Aislynn could do to meet them as he said, “You have my thanks, Lady Aislynn. I will not allow myself to impose upon your usual routine again. I know how the young need their rest.”
She felt the chagrin that flashed from her own eyes to his. Then quickly she forced her gaze to fall, bowing and making a hasty exit.
Was the man mad? And what was wrong with her father, to have treated her like a child before the other man? Needing her rest, indeed. She was a woman, some nineteen years of age.
Her reactions to Jarrod Maxwell had not been those of a child. But this thought brought only deeper discomfort, for she would never have him know that.
Not sure whom she was angrier with—herself, her father, or the knight—she stalked in the direction of her chamber. And as she went, she could not help wondering that one of them had not offered to carry her poor exhausted little person to bed.
The momentary image of herself in Jarrod Maxwell’s arms caused her body to heat in a new and far more disturbing way that made her groan her anger aloud.
Jarrod rose early and went down to the meal.
Although his attention was mixed and had been since arriving at Bransbury, he did his utmost to concentrate on what must be done to find his friend. Jarrod could not help feeling that there was something about that drawing of Jack, something that kept prodding at the back of his mind. Yet he could not quite determine what it might be.
He remained distracted by thoughts of Aislynn Greatham. Although he had realized that he was drawn to her because she was Christian’s sister, that realization had not lessened the surprising strength of his reaction to her.
In that one instant last night when he had touched her hand, and then again later, for the briefest moment, when she had seemed to be looking at him as if…
He shook his head to clear it. He did not want to think about the way she had been looking at him, nor his unfathomable response, that strange tugging inside him. She was Christian’s sister.
It was far better for his peace
