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summer fire, for she had indeed planned to conspire with Mildred to leave clues behind—a dropped shoe, or even a torn bit of shift. When de Lanceau had addressed her and asked if she were all right, Elizabeth had stared off at the fields and refused to answer.
    His rough laughter had mocked her. “Watch her,” he had told Viscon in a tone cold enough to freeze stone. “If she draws attention to us, or escapes, you forfeit your payment.”
    Elizabeth sensed the mercenary’s gaze dart over her now like the flick of a serpent’s tongue. “Keep yer head down,” he snapped.
    She dropped her chin, but only until his attention slid from her to a dog bounding through a field dotted with clusters of bundled sheaves. Raising her lashes, she looked through the haze of dust and floating dandelion spores to where de Lanceau rode ahead with Dominic. They spoke in low voices, their words punctuated by occasional laughter.
    Both had donned concealing cloaks, as had the guards. The easy sway of de Lanceau’s hips proved he was comfortable riding a horse. She scowled. Of course he was. On Crusade, he had galloped headlong into battle against the Saracens.
    He had become a hero.
    He was no hero now. He was a man robed in deceit. He kept his horse to a walk, adding to the illusion they were a convoy of unhurried travelers. The farmers and peasants they passed on the road would not suspect him of kidnapping their lord’s daughter and spiriting her off to his wretched keep.
    Elizabeth fought the sting of tears, and glared at de Lanceau’s back. Knave. She could never replace her treasured brooch. Would he return it, or keep it as part of his cruel revenge?
    She could not bear to think of never wearing the beautiful ornament again.
    Viscon grunted and swatted her cloak’s sleeve. “Head down.”
    De Lanceau swiveled in his saddle, his expression wary. She dropped her gaze to the roan’s tangled mane and bit back an unladylike oath.
    As the day wore on, she shifted in the saddle to ease a cramp in her thigh. Twice, de Lanceau took bread and mead from his saddlebag and passed it back to her and his men. Twice, Elizabeth refused. Her bottom hurt. Her arm pained. Her head ached so much that her stomach churned, and she could not have swallowed the food if she tried. Hugging her arms across her grumbling belly, she tried to forget the mead’s tempting scent and her parched mouth.
    Swollen clouds blackened the afternoon sky. As raindrops splattered on her hood and shoulders and peppered the road with dark spots, de Lanceau barked an order to quicken their pace.
    She burrowed into the cloak’s folds. While the garment provided her with an extra layer of warmth, it did not stop the water from soaking through. Her shift plastered to her skin. The road transformed into a sheet of mud. Ahead, de Lanceau and Dominic huddled against the driving rain. Their chatter and laughter ceased. Over the gusting wind and clip-clop of hooves, she heard harsh commands to keep moving.
    Her teeth chattered, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her body. Dizziness courted her, and tempted her to close her eyes and yield to soothing darkness.
    It seemed only a moment later that a hand shook her.
    “Milady.” Troy’s voice sounded distant. “Wake up.”
    “Mmm?” She forced her leaden eyelids open and pushed wet strands of hair from her cheek. As the smells of horse and wet earth flooded her consciousness, she blushed, mortified to find she had slumped against Troy’s chest.
    She sat up, and froze. Twilight had fallen. Ahead, a fortress perched on the edge of a natural rock incline. Silhouetted against the sunset’s vibrant reds, oranges, and gold, the stone walls looked as black as midnight. The squared keep thrust up past the crenellated curtain wall like an ugly dragon rearing its head, and a water moat curled around like a tail.
    Branton Keep looked a forbidding place. She had no wish to ride into de Lanceau’s lair, but her body screamed for an