A shout heard above the pound of hooves drew Elias’s regard. Amid moonlight, someone crouched in the stream near a fallen tree. Then that one’s head came around, he thrust upright, kicked at something, and splashed through the water toward the opposite bank.

Pained head increasing its efforts to dim his consciousness, Elias bellowed, “I come for you, Arblette!”

The man made for the trees. If he reached them ahead of his pursuer, he would be fortunate. Regardless, the wick of that good fortune would soon be trimmed past all hope of flame.

That belief proved false when the figure face down in the stream took form, skirts and mantle splayed in the shallow water.

Elias was tempted to leave the woman to a fate likely decided, but he could not were there a chance of reviving her. He reined in the horses, sprang from the saddle, and nearly dropped to his knees as ache rimmed his skull.

With his world tilting side to side, he strode into the water, thrust an arm between the woman’s abdomen and the stream’s bed, and dragged her upright.

Honore of no surname was soaked through and limp as the dead where she hung over his arm, but before he could regret not pursuing Arblette, she convulsed and began spitting up water.

He maintained his balance and support of her, but nearly lost both when her heaving and spluttering ceased and she began to struggle.

“Miscreant! Devil! Knave!” she cried, doubtless thinking him Arblette.

He braced a leg behind, turned her to face him, and pulled her against him.

She snapped her head back. Though moonlight revealed hair too wet to know its color and a gravel-bitten face and blood running from nose to chin, he could see she was as lovely as her upper face foretold. Though perhaps ten years beyond the age at which most maidens plighted their troth, she was not as old as his twenty and eight.

“You will not take my tongue,” she gasped, then her eyes widened. “You!”

Head beginning to come right, he said, “Me.”

“I-I feared you dead.” The stiff went out of her, her chin dropped, and her forehead fell against his shoulder. “Where is…?” She coughed. “…Finwyn?”

“You speak of your accomplice who set upon you?” Elias scorned as he carried her from the stream.

“Put me down!”

He obliged, and her knees buckled and she landed on her rear. Shaking and coughing, she drew up her legs, positioned the gorget beneath her nose, and secured the ties. Then she dragged the wet wimple up from her shoulders and over her head.

“I am not his accomplice,” she said, muffled voice and chattering teeth forcing him to strain to catch her words. “I am as much a victim as you.”

“I am to believe you were not party to relieving me of my coin—and my life?”

Wrapping her arms around her knees, she gathered them close. Only eyes and nose visible, she said, “You pulled me from the w-water. You must know he put me there.”

“It would not be the first time one partner in crime turned against the other to avoid sharing ill-gotten gain. I am sure drowning you presented the most expedient means.”

“That was to subdue me. Had you not come, he would have c-cut out my tongue and given me to the villagers to be burned as a witch—a thief of babes the same as he tried to convince you.”

“Why would he cut out your tongue?”

Her head bobbed against her knees. “He intended to say I did it myself so I could not be made to reveal the devil’s schemes. But it was so I could not reveal he is the devil.” She coughed harshly as if to clear water from her lungs. “For that, I would not yield your dagger.”

He examined her words, asked, “Where is it?”

“He must have…” She shook her head. “Nay, had he gained it, he would have spared the seconds required to cut my throat lest you revive me. Search where you drew me from the water.”

He did so, and something in his soul settled when he pulled his prized possession from the stream’s bed.

Moonlight shot through the ruby set in the hilt—a gem that had adorned Everard Wulfrith’s own dagger years ere he ordered it set in the dagger of the one who had helped make possible the life he now shared with Lady Susanna.

Having angled his body so he would not lose sight of Honore of no surname, Elias heard before he saw the one moving out of the trees into which Arblette had fled.

“My lord!” Theo called, sword in hand as he ran forward.

Elias glanced at the woman. Shaking harder, she buried her veiled head between shoulders and knees. The weather was mild for an autumn eve, but it would not seem so were one drenched.

His squire, of somewhat slighter build than his lord and nearly of an age and skill to receive knighthood, halted on the stream’s opposite bank. “The man was fast, my lord, but I could have overtaken him had I a bit more space in which to do so.”

He spoke of the one this woman claimed was a girl.

“He made it to the abbey and—” Theo’s words slammed to a halt, then he exclaimed, “My lord, what was done you?”

That which no longer bled profusely, though the gash throbbed. “What shall be avenged,” Elias slid back into his native French to match Theo’s, which would likely elude the woman’s understanding. “Now finish the tale.”

“The man slipped into the abbey ere I was upon him, my lord.”

Here evidence of some truth to what this woman told.

Elias slid the dagger in its scabbard, and denying Theo an explanation of how he came to be here with the one believed to know the fate of the boy he might have fathered, asked, “Upon your return here, did you happen across others?”

“None, my lord.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Would you have me scout the wood?”

Might he find Arblette? Or was the knave long gone?

Elias strode from the stream and sank to his haunches before the woman. “Honore of no surname,” he reverted to English, speaking loud enough to be heard by his squire, “tell me where to find Arblette.”

Teeth clicking, she said, “F-Forkney.”

“Where?”

“The outskirts. To the east.”

“My lord, should I scout the wood?” Theo asked again.

Elias looked around. “Non, Arblette is surely gone, and I have what I want.”

A hand touched his arm, and he returned his regard to the woman.

Still she clasped herself close, still only her eyes were seen above her knees. “If I do not flatter myself in believing I am what you want, Sir Elias, you bear correcting,” she said in French, evidencing she was as adept with his language as he was with English. Further proof she was as claimed despite the absence of a surname? Might she be a nobleman’s misbegotten daughter made on a commoner, well enough regarded she had been educated?

Casting off pondering for which he had no time, he said, “You shall take me to Arblette’s home, the sooner to be done with this farce. And I shall know the truth of the boy who may be my son.”

“Your son,” she said low, then louder, “I will give aid, but deliver me to Bairnwood first. Jeannette will be afeared for my safety, and I must change clothes. I am so cold.”

“Jeannette?”

“As told, not a man. Sh-she just appears to be.”

“I do not care how she appears. All that concerns me is bringing Arblette to ground ere he flees Forkney.”

She was silent, but just when he determined to scoop her up no matter what fight she gave, she said, “You are right. He knows where Hart is.” She shuddered. “We must find him.”

“Hart?”

“He who m-may be your son.”

Elias paused over the peculiar name, wondered if it referred to the life-giver beating in one’s breast or a male deer, then he called, “Mount up, Theo!”

Drawing the woman to her feet, reflexively he wrapped his arms around her when she fell against him. As much as she shook, he did not think she feigned the need for support. Too, she was not without her own injuries.

Elias swept her into his arms, regained his precarious balance, and crossed to his destrier. It was impossible to secure her on the fore of his saddle, not because her weight was burdensome but due to lack of cooperation. She did not fight him, but she was more concerned with ensuring the blood-dappled gorget remain slung across her lower face than stabilizing her seat.

“Your modesty is noted and unnecessary where I am concerned.” He pulled her hand from beneath the veil and pressed her palm to the pommel. “Hold to it!”

Her fingers splayed as if she meant to defy him, but she turned her head away and gripped the pommel.

As Theo gained his saddle, Elias swung up behind Honore. When he put an arm around her to draw her back, she strained opposite.

Though tempted to anger, he leaned forward and said, “Hear me. If you have spoken true, you have no cause to fear me. All I want is your aid in finding Hart.”

Her head jerked as if in agreement, then she coughed and muffled, “I have never been so c-cold.”

“Then turn into me. Hold to me. I shall warm you.”

She held herself separate a moment longer, then came around, gripped his waist, and tucked her head beneath his chin.

Feeling the wet of her garments seep through his, he called to Theo. “Ride!”