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The outlaw wasn’t stupid. He read her anxiety, and for the first time since she’d met him, all trace of humor vanished from his countenance. “I’ll send my men.”

As he gave instructions, Hugh came to her, picked up her hand, looked at it, then glared at Richard. She didn’t know how, in the midst of his fight, he’d seen Richard kiss it, but now he scrubbed her hand between both of his as if to erase the contact.

At his touch, she relaxed. A silly relief, really, to think that if he held her, he still liked her. He probably didn’t; he’d looked so chagrined when she finished Fulk’s tale, and she knew how men thought. Probably he blamed her for capturing his interest so thoroughly he forgot his duty. But the warmth of his skin seemed to tell her that with Hugh she would be safe, and she leaned into him and rested her forehead on his chest.

Hugh caught her neck with his big hand and pressed her closer, turning her head so she rested against him and his arms could enfold her. His voice rumbled in her ear. “I’ll not doubt your storytelling abilities again.”

She detected a note of self-deprecating humor in his voice and raised her head. His face had been battered. His lips were split. His cheek puffed out. One eye was almost swollen shut, but the other eye twinkled at her. Her fingers stopped clutching his waist and slid up his chest, up his neck, and touched each bloody place gently.

He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips.

This bore no resemblance to Richard’s kiss. It wasn’t like anything she’d ever experienced. It was a spark created by two simple points of contact, like a firesteel and flint. Then his body pressed ever more tightly against hers, and their union was more than a spark. It was the whole pile of wood in flames. It was the forest fire ignited by lightning.

“If I don’t get you alone soon…”

Beside them, Richard cleared his throat. He’d caught them entwined like two illicit lovers, and Edlyn stepped quickly away. Then she wished she hadn’t. They were, after all, married. Only…not for long. Not long enough for them to be comfortable with each other.

“My lady.” Richard took her hand, the same hand Hugh had kissed.

She bunched it into a fist.

He held up the fist for Hugh’s inspection. “A message, do you think?”

Hugh held up a fist, larger, mangled, and bloody, and said, “A message you would be wise to heed.”

“But let us observe the courtesies for the time we have left together.” Richard placed her fist on his arm. “We’ll go release your lord’s men from the dungeon.”

“Go with our host, dear wife,” Hugh said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

It would be silly to object, she knew. Richard could still, after all, change his mind and keep all of them prisoners. Still, the men could fend for themselves. “I would rather find my children.”

“My men will find them,” Richard said. “If your children are anything like their mother, they probably already have a plan to assault the castle and free you.”

“Saint Mary forbid!” she cried but wondered if it was true.

Leading her toward the stairs, Richard called, “You come, too, Lord Roxford.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

When Richard’s man-at-arms opened the dungeon door, a blast of stale air struck Edlyn.

“Come,” Richard called congenially. “’Tis time to take your leave of my hospitality.”

Cautiously, one by one, Hugh’s men staggered out. They stared and blinked.

Wharton rushed toward his master. “Ah, yer face!” Standing on his toes, he examined Hugh. “How fares th’ other man?”

In a solicitous tone, Sir Lyndon asked, “The bastards have been beating you, haven’t they, my lord?”

Beneath the touch of her hand, Edlyn felt Richard jump. She clutched at him and said, “We don’t have time for another brawl.” Pointing at Richard’s bruises, she told Lyndon, “If anyone’s been beaten, it would seem Richard of Wiltshire came in for his share.”

Sir Lyndon stared pointedly at her hand resting on Richard’s arm and tried to speak again, but Almund crawled out of the dungeon on his knees.

With an exclamation of horror, Edlyn rushed to assist him.

“What’s he doing down here?” Richard asked. “The last I saw of him, he lay upstairs moaning, complaining he would die while coughing up his lungs.”

The man-at-arms in charge said, “That man tried t’ crack me on th’ head wi’ a battle ax.”