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Hugh, commander of the royal troops in the West, watched as Edlyn disappeared into the woods.

“Ye going after her?” Wharton asked.

“Nay.” Hugh couldn’t believe he was saying that, but Lady Corliss’s reprimands clung to his mind. Not that he let a mere woman influence his decisions, but the abbess showed unusual wisdom in her decisions. Also—and he admitted this grudgingly—he suspected the abbess might comprehend the workings of Edlyn’s mind better than he did. “Let her go.”

“What?” Wharton danced around like a rooster plucked of its tail feathers. “But ye didn’t hang him.”

Hugh snorted. “Not personally.” But he had captured Robin, earl of Jagger, and sent him into the prince’s hands, where he’d been executed. That was the reason why, even after he’d regained enough strength to protect himself from assassins, he’d remained quiet. He’d hoped to lay claim to Edlyn before she discovered his identity.

A real claim. A physical claim. The kind of claim no woman could forget or dismiss.

He responded to the thought of placing that physical claim on Edlyn with a hard shudder of desire.

Nay, he couldn’t let her wander alone in the woods as she wished. He had to make sure she would return to him, willingly or not. “Wharton, you know her best. Go after her. Keep out of her sight, yet keep her in yours. I’m not comfortable with her wandering the woods alone.”

“If ye’d go after her yerself, ye wouldn’t have t’ have me sneaking around like a mole after a worm,” Wharton protested.

“You flatter neither yourself nor the lady. She’ll be better after a brisk walk, then I can explain my actions to her.”

Wharton scoffed. “Don’t explain t’ women. Just give ’em a bop on th’ head an’ they’re better fer it.”

“I’ll give you a bop on the head if you don’t get after her,” Hugh answered. “And I’ll thank you to keep your marriage advice to yourself.”

“Been married more often than ye,” Wharton replied insolently.

Hugh knew his man well. “And how many of your wives are you still married to?”

Glancing at the abbot, Wharton lowered his voice. “Two fer sure. Mayhap three.”

“I am reassured,” Hugh said sarcastically. “Now go.”

With a nod, Wharton started along the path Edlyn had taken in her flight from her new husband.

Hugh called, “Remember, she is my lady and the greatest treasure of my soul. Treat her as such.”

Wharton raised his hand in acknowledgement.

The nuns stood at the back of the crowd, and Hugh heard one say plaintively, “But we didn’t get to throw the wheat.”

Wheat for fertility. Wheat for increase. Wheat for a son of his from Edlyn’s body. Aye, he wanted that ceremony with the wheat, but Lady Corliss shepherded the nuns toward the cloister and they obeyed as good women should. By God’s gloves, when Lady Corliss spoke, he would obey, too. The woman was an autocrat—and a holy woman.

Hugh’s men lined themselves along the bottom of the stairs, and Hugh started toward them. They were his own personal troops, the men he had gathered around him through the years. A dozen knights, twenty squires, and the menservants for them all, they had remained in the area after the battle, hiding themselves and Hugh’s possessions on Wharton’s instruction for fear of giving away Hugh’s position. Now they had gathered for his wedding and watched solemnly the scene that played before their gazes.

As he descended the stairs, he spotted Baron Sadynton watching him with a satisfied sneer. Without a thought, Hugh changed directions, planted his fist right in Sadynton’s face, and before Sadynton had even toppled, strode into the crowd of his men.

They closed ranks and walked him toward his newly resurrected camp. The usual marital congratulations seemed inappropriate when the bride had abandoned the groom, and Hugh understood that. “Come, men,” he called. “Let us go speak together.”

“My lord.” Hugh’s squire, a young Welsh boy of thirteen by the name of Dewey, took Hugh’s hand and kissed it fervently in a gesture of respect and relief. “We despaired of your life until Wharton arrived to reassure us of your good health.”

“It was not my time to die yet.” Hugh freed his hand, then ruffled the lad’s hair. Turning, he glanced over the group. “Where’s Morven?”

Dewey sighed and kicked the ground, and Hugh rubbed his forehead. “He was too young for such a fate. And Sir Ramsden?”

Dewey shook his head dolefully.

“A seasoned warrior, lost to us now.” Hugh was well aware of the gap Sir Ramsden’s death would leave in his small band. No one worked with the horses better than Sir Ramsden, and he had been a faithful companion for many years.