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“So can we go in?” Wharton did a good imitation of a man about to expire from wheezing.

“Soon.” Hugh stared at the darkest corner of the garden where he knew the oak stood. Slowly he moved toward it, keeping to the paths as best he could. The fairies whispered of enchantment; he countered with logic. “A brush with death brought me here, and I found a childhood comrade in dire need. She saved my life, and I’ll rescue her from the wretched circumstances into which she’s fallen. You’ll see, she’ll be grateful to be living her old life once again. I recognize the hand of providence in my life, and her appearance here could be nothing less.”

The mist on the leaves sounded like laughter.

“Providence?” Wharton snorted. “Th’ hand of th’ devil, more likely.”

Wharton’s insistence incensed Hugh, and he responded in the manner most likely to silence him. “I do not understand why you, a man of war, speak so slightingly of a mere woman. One would almost suppose she had won a victory over you.”

“’Tis not true! Did she say so?”

Wharton’s quick reply told Hugh much, yet as he stepped into the deepest shadow beneath the tree, he knew he could not allow Wharton to continue to speak of Edlyn with such disrespect. In spite of the dark, Hugh turned and looked at the faithful Wharton to impress him with his displeasure. “Who she is and what she has done to you is of no interest to me. All I care is that my manservant will treat my wife with the respect due her. You, Wharton, seem unable to comprehend this, despite my repeated warnings. Perhaps it would be better if I found another servant.”

“Master!” Wharton must have dropped to his knees, for his voice slithered downward. “Ye wouldn’t leave me?”

“Not willingly.” Hugh stepped forward so he loomed above Wharton. “So I will have your sworn word you will protect and defend Lady Edlyn as you do me.”

“Master…”

Hugh didn’t care for the whine in Wharton’s voice, and he stepped back.

“Master!” Wharton crawled forward. “I swear, I swear.”

“On what shall I have you swear?” Hugh wondered. He knew his manservant, and not much impressed Wharton as holy.

“On a cross?”

“I think not.”

“In th’ church?”

“Not effective enough.”

“On yer sword?”

“We’re getting close.” Hugh stuck out his closed fist. “On me. Put your hand over mine, Wharton, and swear fealty to Lady Edlyn on my life.”

Wharton’s hand trembled. His voice trembled. But he swore while kneeling in the mud beneath the oak.

“Once again, Wharton, you show your wisdom.” His man stood, subdued and obedient, as he should be, and Hugh leaned wearily on his shoulder and turned back to the dispensary. “Let us make our plans to capture the elusive Lady Edlyn.”

Edlyn squinted into the morning sun as she scanned the open road for travelers. Specifically, for a monk and two boy-children trudging at his side. But the rutted, narrow track remained empty, and she turned toward the dispensary with a sigh.

When the monk had suggested he take Allyn and Parkin on a short pilgrimage, she’d been enthusiastic. The task of tending two tireless eight-year-olds in an abbey stretched her imagination and her resources, and she looked forward to the peace of solitude. And she freely admitted she had enjoyed it. She also missed her sons more than she ever thought possible, and she wanted them back.

Putting her hand on the gate to the herb garden, she hesitated to open it. Before her lads came home, though, she wanted Wharton and his wretched master gone. She hadn’t slept well last night because of Hugh. Because of his kisses. She worried that she’d hurt him too much, then she wished that she’d struck twice as hard. The scoundrel. He had been insulted when she thought he would take advantage of her lowly state to make her his mistress rather than wed her, then he had taken advantage of her weaker muscles to kiss her!

Why that even rankled, she didn’t know. She’d had enough experience with men to have taken their measure. Nevertheless, she’d slept too long and missed Mass, and Lady Blanche had glared when they’d met in the square.

Shutting the gate behind her, she turned—and gasped. Hugh rose out of the patch of thyme, his long legs steady. “What are you doing up?” she demanded. She hurried between the paths, her feet crushing the herb. Then she saw the ruddy color in his face. Clearly, his energy the day before had been no fluke. He was well, or soon to be. She slowed. “Get out of the beds, you fool, you’re crushing the plants.”

He rebuked her, his voice slow and measured. “That is no way to greet your betrothed.”

“We are not betrothed.”

“Then let us go now and remedy that state.”

She cocked her head and examined him. The ragged growth of his beard had been shaved clean, baring the lines of his cheeks and chin. He wore clothing, not the robe she’d confiscated for him. Hose and boots and a knee-length tunic with laced-in sleeves. They fit him and were of fine workmanship, a further indication of his success. She found her mouth set in petulant lines and tried to smooth them from her face. After all, why should it matter to her if he’d won a title and the lands he’d always longed for? She, more than anyone, understood how temporary were the trappings of wealth.