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Around him he could hear his men moving with him, but he had instructed them to stay back until he had rescued Edlyn. He wanted a chance to shield her from the stares of his men—and if it was too late, he wanted the chance to kill each and every one of the mercenaries responsible for her death.

The clearing before him seemed unusually quiet for a camp of eight men. Wharton had reported that number, but a silence hung over the forest. Occasional moans sounded on the still air, and Hugh heard his men muttering as they reacted to the unearthly noises. These weren’t fairies. They weren’t anything he understood, but he didn’t care. He cared only about Edlyn.

Close to the clearing, Hugh parted the brush. Wiping the drips of water from his face, he surveyed the area. He couldn’t see any shapes moving close to the fire, yet the fire must have been tended recently or else it would have been smothered by the rain. The fire and the lack of visible targets made him even more uneasy. Had these men posted guards? Did the mercenaries know they were about to be attacked? And where was Edlyn?

Sweet mother of God, where was Edlyn?

The panic grew in him, dark and smothering. He had let her go. He had made the decision to allow her time to adjust to the idea of being his wife. If she were dead, it was his fault. No one’s but his.

Those lumps at the far side of the clearing must be the men, lurking in the shadows, waiting in anticipation of his attack. He would give them what they wanted. Steel rang as he unsheathed his sword. With a roar of fury, he leaped out of the woods and into the light. Holding his blade high, he raced toward the unmoving shapes. Behind him, he heard his men, surprised by his unforeseen charge, fumble with their weapons and tumble out of the bushes. He’d never done something so stupid, so unplanned, but he’d never been responsible for the death of his wife before. He’d never lost the woman he sought to save.

As he reached the shapes, he swung his sword, then almost jerked his arm out of its socket as he tried to pull back.

Stones. They were nothing but stones. The blade nicked one boulder. The force of the blow sent a shiver up his wrist, and he heard the snap as he put a notch in the fine steel.

He swore, a long string of French and English curses, and swung back to face the fire.

His men milled about, but no enemy remained here to face Hugh’s ire. Where were they? And where was Edlyn?

“They’ve moved on, I guess, master.” Wharton stood off to the side, well away from the reach of Hugh’s sword. “We’d best—”

A figure moved out of the shadow of the trees, and in unison every man there swung around and faced—

“Edlyn!” Hugh ran toward his wife, grasped her, pulled her into him. He held his sword in one hand and kept her safe with the other.

She stood without swaying in his arms, patting him as if he were the one in need of comfort. He swung her toward the light of the fire and stared at her face. One long scratch marred the perfection of her cheek, and he wiped it with his thumb.

“A branch hit me,” she explained.

“Are you…ill?” He was a plain-spoken man, but he found himself unable to do more than stammer. “Did they…?”

“Nay.”

He lifted his sword. “I’ll kill them anyway.”

Calmly she freed herself. Her torn cotte had dark splotches along the hem, but the lacing at the sides seemed to be intact. Grasping his wrist, she extricated his sword and handed it to Wharton. “Not while you’re holding me, I pray you.”

“How did you escape their…?” Wharton asked. “Did you have to hurt…?”

Embarrassed, he faltered, and Hugh noted that even his hardened man-of-arms couldn’t speak of such intimate matters.

Edlyn tried to smile at Wharton and at the men who gathered around. “I made them sick,” she said.

“What?” Hugh sounded as stupid as he felt.

“I convinced them I’m a good cook—which I am, you know. I make quite a good stew and have a light touch with the…” Something she saw in his face must have warned her to stop chatting. “They grabbed me in the forest and took me with them. They’d been waiting for days for the woman they wanted, they said, and they were half-starving, poor things.”

“Poor things,” Hugh repeated.

“I told them I was the herbalist at the abbey, and not the lady they wanted, but they wouldn’t let me go. They said they were under orders—”

A growl rumbled in Hugh’s chest and was echoed by his men.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what they said.” Speaking as quickly as she could, she said, “I convinced them we would ride better on full stomachs. So one of them snared a family of coneys and I wandered along and plucked herbs and berries, and when we got here and they were satisfied we weren’t being followed, they let me cook.”

Hugh tried to answer, but he couldn’t even form the words, so Wharton asked, “Is that how ye made them sick?”

“Aye, with elderberry bark and roots. Given in sufficient amounts, it causes a cramping of the gut followed by an uncontrollable release of the bowels.”