Silver Flame. Hannah Howell

is an odd one,” Gamel said, looking inquisitively at Farthing.

      “’Twas my mother’s choice. She said it was what it cost my father to make me.” Farthing smiled faintly at the shock the men could not fully conceal. “The sting of that eased many years ago.” He yawned, then said, “To bed, my sweet Catriona. Ye as weel, lads. To your blankets,” he ordered the twins, then looked at Gamel. “Ye, kind sirs, are most welcome to sit by the fire as long as ye wish. Ye willnae disturb us.”

      “Nay,” Gamel replied. “We will bed down now as weel. We must rise at dawn. If we start out too late we will be forced to spend yet another night in the wood. I hope ye sleep with your sword at your side.”

      “Aye, I do,” Farthing said. “These woods are rife with thieves who would cut your throat just to ease their theft of your purse.”

      It was not easy but Sine Catriona hid a smile. For a thief like Farthing to speak so disparagingly of thieves was a little amusing. However, she knew that Farthing’s words were heartfelt. He had only scorn for those who could not or would not lighten a purse without hurting the owner. Farthing considered them the worst of all thieves.

      She spread their blankets out close to the fire. One brief, sharp glance from Farthing had told her that tonight they would share a blanket. Farthing had obviously seen the look in Sir Gamel’s eyes. Now he would let the man know that she was not free for the taking. It was the simplest of all their ploys. However, she had never found so great a need to use it before.

      That fire in the man’s eyes called out to her. It was not simply lust. Sir Gamel looked as if he thought she was his, as if he thought she would and should understand. What troubled her was that a large part of her saw nothing strange in that.

      Keeping her back to the men, she took off her headdress, freeing her hair so that she could brush it out. Sleeping in the coverchief would cause more suspicion than the unusual color of her hair. Carefully she slipped out of the short-sleeved brown dress she wore over her linen chemise, then quickly got beneath the blanket. A moment later Farthing, wearing only his hose and shirt, crawled in beside her. She closed her eyes, struggling to feel safe and calm as he tucked her up against him spoon style.

      “’Tis a bad night for me to be cup-shotten, though it does begin to fade,” he whispered.

      “’Tis rare that ye overimbibe. Ye need no heady wines to help ye enjoy life. Besides, how could ye ken that we would have visitors?”

      “And such visitors. The mon stares our way as if I am the trespasser. ’Tis an odd look, more than lust, I see that clearly enough. Dearling, dinnae flinch or act startled. I am going to place my hand upon your breast.”

      “Why?” she asked even as she watched his rather beautiful dark hand cup her breast.

      “’Tis a sign all men can read.”

      Daring a peek at Sir Gamel, she gasped softly. The glance he sent their way was deadly. She had seen that look before—in the eyes of jealous husbands. Turning sharply into Farthing’s arms, she put her back toward the disturbing man. She wondered fleetingly if they had allowed a madman into their midst only to discover that she did not like the idea that those searing gazes might arise from lunacy.

      “I swear, Farthing, he looks ready to run ye through.”

      “Aye, he does. Dinnae worry. He is far too polite to do so.”

      “This is a poor time for jests.”

      “Mayhaps. Settle here.” He arranged her comfortably against his chest. “I am going to rest my hand upon your sweet tail now.”

      “Another sign?”

      “Aye.”

      “Is it wise to goad him so?”

      “He must be shown that there is naught for him here.”

      “S’truth, I dinnae understand this.”

      “I ken it, dearling. Go to sleep.”

      “Do ye have your sword at the ready?”

      “Why, Catriona, I didnae realize ye felt that way about me.”

      She pinched him hard enough to make him grunt. “I speak of the one ye stick in men, knave.”

      “Ah, that sword. Aye, ’tis in reach. Sleep, lovely. Just pretend those green eyes of his arenae boring into your back.”

      “’Tis far easier said than done. I shall be checking closely for holes there in the morning,” she muttered, but tried to relax, to welcome sleep’s hold.

      Gamel had been unable to tear his gaze from Catriona since the moment she had unbound her hair. He ached to wrap himself in the thick silvery waves that hung nearly to her knees. His need was so strong, so fierce, that he shook with it. All he could think of was that some madness had seized him.

      When Farthing’s dark hand had covered her high, full, linen-shrouded breast, Gamel had reached for his sword. The sight had seared his brain, twisted his innards, until he was near to bellowing like some enraged bull. When she had turned in Farthing’s embrace it had helped little, then he had been forced to watch the man’s hand tangle in her lush hair while his other hand slid down to cup her lovely derriere beneath the blanket. Their soft whispers threatened to drive him mad with envy. Gritting his teeth, he finally forced himself to turn his back on them only to meet Ligulf’s concerned gaze.

      “What troubles ye, Gamel?”

      His soft laugh was shaky. “Simply that I burn to run a sword through that mon, a mon who does no more than bed down with his woman.”

      “She is fair,” Ligulf murmured, frowning in obvious confusion.

      “Aye, she is. Go to sleep. There is no understanding this lunacy.” Gamel closed his eyes and fought to grasp the soothing oblivion of sleep.

      Sine Catriona was confused when she suddenly found herself awake. It was not yet dawn and all appeared quiet. Without moving from Farthing’s light hold, she looked around her. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of a stealthy movement in the shadows at the edge of camp. Struggling to maintain the air of one still asleep, she worked to covertly wake Farthing. With every muscle tensed, she found it difficult to feign the languid motions of one asleep.

      “Thieves creep our way, Farthing,” she whispered.

      “Curse it. I had prayed for a quiet night,” he muttered as he slid his hand toward his sword. “Turn on your side. When I give the cry, rush to the twins and have your dagger at the ready.”

      Still struggling to act like one asleep but restless, she turned again. Seeing the shadows edging toward them, she decided they must have bedded down in a large nest of cutthroats. The treacherous vagabonds had been unable to resist temptation.

      Even though they were creeping up on a sleeping camp, the presence of five men should have deterred them. The thieves were either desperate or numerous enough to feel secure even if a battle developed. Neither circumstance boded well for her or her companions.

      Unable to resist, she stared across the waning fire at Sir Gamel, only to find him staring at her. She carefully mouthed Thieves, praying that the ones creeping toward the camp did not see her. To her intense relief she did not have to repeat the risky gesture. Sir Gamel’s subtle movements told her he had understood. Now there would be at least one other full grown man armed and ready.

      “Now!” Farthing called, and she bolted.

      She was nearly at the twins’ sides as Farthing and Gamel leapt to their feet, their swords readied to greet the rush of the cutthroats. Their cries and those of their foes quickly roused the others. Sine Catriona was amazed at how speedily Sir Gamel’s companions came alert and joined the battle.

      “Up that tree,” she ordered the two drowsy boys.

      “But…” Dane began to protest while he helped Ree onto the lowest branch.

      “Nay.