Dragon's Knight. Catherine Archer

building a fire when the day’s duties would keep her from returning to the comfortably furnished chamber for more than minutes at a time. Shivering, Aislynn dressed warmly, as she always did on chill mornings, in a shift, a heavy underdress of dark green linen, and an enveloping over gown with wide sleeves that showed the tightly fitted sleeves of the gown beneath. She then donned her veil, barbette and a warm cap with pearl trim that matched the butter-yellow brocade of her gown.

      Leaving her chamber, she went to the kitchen, which lay at the end of a long corridor off the hall, as she did each morning before going in to break her own fast. One of the duties she most enjoyed was flavoring the large pots of stews and boiled meats that were served at the midday meal. The herbs that she grew in her own garden served as a constant inspiration for new and interesting combinations of flavor. And many about the keep said that the teas she brewed from her herbs were quite effective at alleviating minor ailments of the head and stomach.

      This day she paused at the entrance to the long narrow chamber with its well-scrubbed counters, great ovens and wide hearth. With one of the two enormous pots that hung from iron hooks on either side of the hearth broken, only one rested over the low-burning fire. Although this made keeping up with work in the kitchens difficult, the women had managed to do well thus far, roasting more of the meat than was their usual custom.

      And strangely Aislynn had not even thought on the matter of how much thyme might be added in to a particular recipe in relationship to the amount of rosemary, or any other such combination since the first night Jarrod had come to Bransbury.

      Jarrod, whose mysterious black eyes made her heart pound each time he looked at her.

      With irritation she realized that she had allowed her thoughts to go back to that man once more. Sharply Aislynn returned her attention to her responsibilities.

      It should have soothed her that all was in order, as it was every morning with Margaret awaiting her instructions on which of the containers of herbs and spices would be used this day. It did not.

      Margaret had mothered Aislynn since her earliest memory and Aislynn loved her. As a small child she had often been held close to the woman who was lean and wiry from constant activity. Even at rest, the head woman seemed always about to jump up and see to some task.

      Yet the fact that she had inadvertently seen Jarrod Maxwell comforting Margaret in the hall on his first morning here had left Aislynn uncomfortable in Margaret’s company. She had been so moved by the brief gesture that she had not shown her presence, but had stayed out of sight until he was gone. And each time she saw Margaret she was reminded of his kindness.

      As Aislynn approached, Margaret swung around from where she stood stirring the pot and smiled at Aislynn. “Good morrow.”

      Aislynn nodded. “Good morrow.”

      “What think you this morn?” She nodded her head toward the row of small containers in which the flavorings were held, the main stores being kept in a cool dry cellar.

      Aislynn looked at them and frowned, her mind devoid of any inspiration. Finally she admitted, “I have little hunger and naught seems appealing to me. What think you?”

      Margaret looked at her closely. “Are you well, Aislynn?”

      She avoided looking into those brightly observant brown eyes, fearful that all she was trying not to think on would be revealed to the woman who knew her so well. She spoke the truth without telling all of the truth. “Aye, I am concerned for Christian.”

      Margaret clearly failed to note any undue disquiet in her mistress, asking, “Have you seen Sir Jarrod this morn?”

      “Nay, why do you ask?”

      “I wish to catch that lad before he sets off without anything to eat. We must have a care for his wellbeing for he seems to have little enough, if any.”

      Aislynn bit her lower lip, guilt stabbing her sharply. In spite of his shortcomings, Jarrod Maxwell was a guest at Bransbury. It was her duty, as the lady of the keep, to have a care for his comfort.

      She held up a hand. “I will see to it. You have enough to attend without adding that to your other duties.”

      Quickly, before she could give herself time to think, Aislynn went back down the corridor that connected the kitchens to the main part of the keep. On entering the Hall she cast a glance around the chamber.

      She did not see him. Hurriedly she asked one of the serfs who were assembling the trestle tables. “Royce, have you seen Sir Jarrod?”

      The serving man nodded. “Aye, he went from the keep some minutes ago.”

      Clearly the knight meant to leave without eating, as Margaret feared. Aislynn hurried out into the cold morning after him, knowing he would first fetch his horse.

      The stable came into her sight just in time for her to see a mounted Jarrod Maxwell emerge from the wide double door. He started across the greensward toward the gate and she called out quickly, “Sir Jarrod.”

      He swung around immediately, his dark gaze searching her out with obvious surprise and what looked to be reluctance. But it was quickly masked by cool civility as he turned the white stallion and came toward her.

      Not caring for that expression of reluctance, however brief, Aislynn raised her chin as she waited for him.

      Sir Jarrod halted the restless stallion at her side. “May I be of assistance, Lady Aislynn?”

      In spite of her irritation with him, she answered, “I thought to see that you had something to eat before you left the castle.” A desire to hide any real interest in him made her add, “Actually it was the head woman, Margaret, who thought of you. I simply realized it was my own duty and not hers to see you were looked after.”

      His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You have done your duty by me. You may rest easy.”

      She grimaced, wrapping her arms around herself as she realized that it was not her intention to be surly no matter what his opinion of her might be. “I did not mean to imply…Aside from your being here to help us find Christian, you are a guest at Bransbury. We do not receive many guests and it is not only my father’s but my intent that you be treated with the utmost hospitality and honor.”

      Those dark eyes changed, narrowed, studying her with an expression she did not understand, and Aislynn could no longer hold them. She looked at the ground as a shiver took her and she wrapped her arms about herself.

      He said softly, “You’ve come out without your cloak.”

      His changed tone made her raise her head.

      Before she could even think, Jarrod Maxwell was on the ground beside her, slipping his own cloak about her shoulders, the cloak that was still warm from the heat of his body. There was a new tingling along her flesh that had naught to do with cold.

      Immediately she made to remove the cloak, whispering, “Please, there is no need for you to…”

      He reached out to hold it together in front of her and Aislynn looked up at him, her eyes caught once again by his as he said, “Do not be silly. You are cold.” His gaze softened as did his voice, the huskiness of his tone making her shiver in a different way, a pleasurable way. “I do thank you for your concern for my well-being and it has already been brought home to me that you and your father are kind and generous folk. But you should not have come out here without a cloak.”

      “I simply thought to catch you before you could leave the keep without some sustenance.”

      A soft laugh escaped him. “Let me assure you. I am quite unaccustomed to being fussed over and am more than able to look after my own needs.”

      She was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice as she replied, “So you have said, but mayhap you should allow yourself to be looked after. At least a little.”

      He looked away from her, his gaze distant. “Nay, there is nothing to be gained in becoming soft.”

      She