Accompanied by a cheering crowd of villagers, Sir Isenbard, his men, Burchard, and Ayla made their way up to the castle.

“I trust you will see to it that Sir Isenbard's men receive appropriate quarters, Burchard?” Ayla said to her steward.

“Yes, Milady.”

“Then do it, and we will meet later to discuss everything. I have to go and have a look at Reuben now.”

“Reuben?” If Isenbard hadn't already had so many wrinkles on his forehead, one might have detected a frown there. “Who is Reuben?”

“Ayla found a wounded bird in the woods she had to take care of until he can fly again,” Burchard grunted, rolling his eyes. “You know how she gets.”

“You mean charitable and caring?” Ayla asked sweetly. “Yes, I do get like that. You should try it some time.”

The steward pulled a face. “Actually, I meant foolish and reckless. We shouldn't be harboring any stranger in the castle now that we are about to be besieged! It is dangerous. We don't know anything about who he is or, more importantly, whom he serves.”

“What would you have me do?” Ayla demanded. “Throw him out to die on the off chance that he might be a spy?”

“Doesn't sound like a bad idea to me.”

“You had better concentrate on the real threats instead of making up imaginary ones,” she chided him. “Catch me that red robber knight for a start!”

“He's not likely to show his face on this side of the river now that we've got an armed guard at the bridge. And to cross the river to search for him would be too dangerous. Falkenstein could have hundreds of men in the forest by now.”

“So you're afraid?”

“Now listen here, you little slip of a girl...”

Isenbard had walked alongside them listening to their heated conversation without showing any emotion. Now he interrupted: “Milady?”

She took a deep breath and turned to him. “Yes, Uncle?”

“I think you said you needed my help. Against which of those two you mentioned? This robber knight or the Margrave von Falkenstein?”

“The Margrave,” Burchard replied immediately.

“The Margrave,” Ayla conceded grudgingly after a few moments. “Though I'd dearly love to see that villainous robber's head on a pike,” she added.

“Your wishes are duly noted,” Isenbard said with a bow of his head. “We shall discuss the matter of the Margrave as soon as my men are settled in at the castle.”

Ayla frowned, momentarily thrown off. “At the castle? Why at the castle, Uncle? We're planning to head the enemy off at the bridge. Wouldn't it be better to erect barracks or tents for the men there?”

Isenbard shook his head. “No. The bridge may be the first line of defense, but the castle will be any enemy's main objective. It may be that they find a way across the river other than the bridge. If we leave the castle unguarded, they could take it before we even notice. Such things have happened before—I've heard of one case where a lord with all the castle folk went to a feast in the neighborhood. When they returned, the doors were locked and a different flag was flying from the tower. One of his supposed friends had simply snatched the place while nobody was in it. We cannot make the same mistake. The castle must be guarded. We will station a small force at the bridge, and if they need support, they will have to wait until help from the castle arrives.”

Even though his words were grim, they brought a smile to Ayla's face, and she let herself bask in the security of his presence for a moment. This was why she needed Isenbard. He knew what he was doing. “Good. Burchard will see to your men's needs. I have to go and change Reuben's bandages now. Till later, Uncle.”

They had reached the keep, and she started towards Reuben's room. From behind her, she heard Burchard shouting: “Make sure you've got a guard posted outside the door while you're alone with him!”

Rolling her eyes, she began to climb the stairs.

*~*~**~*~*

By the time she had reached Reuben's room, a bright smile had replaced the annoyed expression on Ayla's face. Sir Isenbard's arrival, and the fact that he was obviously still in fighting form, was such a blessing that Ayla couldn't be put out by anything on this fine day. It was obvious as soon as she opened the door, though, that Reuben did not share her happy mood. The merchant—it was still odd to think of him in that way, he looked nothing like a merchant—lay with his back to the wall, staring at the opposite wall as though it were a deadly enemy. The scowl on his handsome face was truly impressive.

“Got up on the wrong side of bed, did we?” she said, cheerfully.

“I didn't get up at all,” he growled. “Injured, remember?”

“It was a figure of speech.”

“Aye, I know. And a pretty stupid one to boot.”

Normally, she would have been offended. But in her current good mood, she just shrugged it off. “Sorry if I'm annoying you. I can't help feeling happy today.”

For some reason, that seemed to upset him even more. “Yes,” he said, his teeth clenched. “Your guest has arrived. I heard.”

“Sir Isenbard? Yes, he's exactly who I've been hoping for.”

“Oh really?” His voice was sarcasm incarnate.

“What's the matter with you?” Ayla frowned. “You don't seem to like him very much. Have you met him?”

“No, I've never met him.”

“Then what's the problem? Roll over, I have to change your bandages.”

Reuben just shook his head. “I don't have any problems. And I already have a bandage, I don't need another one.”

“No problems? When you mention Isenbard, your voice sounds like you've been force-fed vinegar. And one must change bandages regularly. If one doesn't, or moves about too much or gets them dirty, the wounds will fester and you'll get fever.”

Reuben muttered something unintelligible. Ayla only caught Isenbard's name among some muttered words that didn't sound very polite.

“What did you say?” she demanded.

“I just think he's too old!” Reuben growled. “That's all.”

Deeply offended, Ayla put her hands on her hips. This was her father's friend he was talking about! Her Uncle Ironbeard!

“What do you mean, too old? He can't help aging, now, can he? And he's in amazingly good condition for his age.”

“You think so, do you?” he asked, mockingly, then added: “Well of course you do, or you wouldn't be doing what you're about to do.”

Ayla stared down at her hands. “What I am about to do? What has any of this got to do with me changing your bandages?”

“I wasn't talking about the bandages.”

Ayla was getting confused. What was the matter with him? She had to find out. “Well then, what were you talking about?”

There were a few moments of silence.

“Forget it,” he said, his voice cool now.

Ayla stared at him angrily. So he wanted to annoy her, did he? Well, two could play at that game.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben could almost feel her anger boiling. He was amazed at the show she put on. Seeing her infuriated like that, he could almost believe that she genuinely cared for that gray-bearded pervert. Yuck! That would be even worse than her intending to marry him for his lands or money.

“By the way,” she said sweetly, “I wanted to ask you how you liked your supper yesterday. I hope you like fennel soup?”

He couldn't help grinning. So, it was time for her revenge, was it? We'll see about that, he thought to himself.

“I liked it very much. Please send my compliments to your cook,” he replied uber-politely.

Her mouth dropped open and formed a tiny little “O.” It looked very cute, and his grin widened at the sight. Quickly though, she regained her composure. Her eyes narrowed and she said: “Good, very good. So you won't have any objections to eating nothing else for the rest of the week? It'll do you a world of good, believe me.”

“No, that's fine. It is really an excellent soup. Thank you so much for your concern about my diet, Milady.”

“It's my pleasure,” she said, probably truthfully. He had to work hard not to chuckle.

“And there's something I wanted to ask you,” he added.

“Yes?”

“Have you made a decision about my compensation yet?”

She gasped, and again he had to suppress a chuckle. In a voice that sounded endearing in her attempt to be intimidating, she said: “Not quite. Though I thought maybe I could give you a pot of fennel soup, since you like it so much.”

He let his face assume a sad expression. “Alas, Milady, that will not be possible. You see, I am a merchant and will have to sell it to buy me new wares to trade with. And while I know that your fennel soup is excellent, the people on the nearest market might not share that opinion. They might even think it tastes like overcooked horse manure.”

He had expected her to be angry, or to make some sarcastic remark, or something along those lines. Her actual response took him completely by surprise.

She laughed.

It was a wonderful sound, like the music of a harp—so wonderful that he found himself joining in. They laughed and laughed, and then their eyes met, and suddenly they were both silent. There was a moment where they just stared into each other's eyes. Reuben drank in the sapphire-blue and thought of nothing else: not of his life being in danger, not of the fact that she was his enemy and captor, not of the pains of his past.

Then the moment was over, and she lowered her gaze. “So you're still convinced you deserve compensation, are you?” she mumbled.

“Absolutely,” Reuben stated confidently, true to his role as the greedy merchant.

“Interesting. I still think you deserve being thrown out of the window, ungrateful lout that you are.”

Reuben made a show of holding out his arms as if about to be picked up. “You're welcome to try, Milady.”

Her face flushed the most adorable shade of red. “You will behave,” she said, wagging a finger in his face, “or I will try—with the help of three of my guards. Understood?”

“That is hardly fair, four against one.”

“Neither is it fair to talk ill of people simply because they're old,” she chided. “I want to know—what do you have against Sir Isenbard?”

All of a sudden, Reuben's good mood evaporated. The mention of that pervert reminded him of what he had successfully managed to forget for the last few minutes: she was pledged to a man who could be her grandfather.

Yes, she is, he thought. But the real question is: What concern is it of mine? She could shack up with the village scarecrow and it shouldn't be any business of mine.

“I told you, Milady,” he couldn't help saying. “I think he is too old for you. You should choose someone better suited.”

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla stared at him quizzically. How could one be too old to tell people how to build a barricade?

“What do you mean, I should have chosen someone else?” she demanded. “People like Isenbard don't grow on trees, you know. He is immensely experienced and talented. I can't think of anyone half as good as him. Believe me, I have seen him in action.”

Reuben's eyes bulged, and he looked about to choke for a moment. “Seen him... in action?” he managed.

“Yes. Reuben, what is the matter?”

“When?” he demanded. “When did you...?” He broke off, seemingly unable to continue.

“A few years ago. My father was having some troubles, and he called Isenbard in to assist him.”

At that, his eyes almost popped out of his head. “Your father?”

“Yes, my father.”

“And...” Reuben took a deep breath. “Did Sir Isenbard deliver a satisfactory performance?”

“Yes, he did. So you see, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Yes, I see.” Reuben's voice was colder now. “I see that it's none of my business. I shouldn't have said anything. Please forgive me, Lady Ayla, for my discourteous speech.”

She looked at his face in puzzlement, not having the slightest clue what was the matter with him, or what he had been rambling about just now. Maybe he already had a fever and was starting to talk nonsense?

Without thinking, she placed her hand on his forehead and felt the temperature. No fever. Then her thoughts, or more precisely her memories, caught up with her actions. She remembered how, last night, she had snuck into his room, touched his face and...

Her cheeks blossomed red, and she quickly said: “Turn over now, will you? I haven't got all day!”

Reuben met her eyes with an unreadable expression and turned without another word.

Ayla untied the knot in the bandages and removed one layer after another. When she pulled away the last piece of linen, her breath caught and she felt dizzy all of a sudden. The wounds were a bloody mess, literally. This was not how they were supposed to look. Worst of all, the skin around the wounds was beginning to turn red.

Oh God, no, Ayla thought. Please don't let it fester.

“Reuben?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Did you move around at all?”

“No,” was his only reply.

Overcoming her apprehension, Ayla looked at his wounds again. Were they swollen? It was hard to tell. Innumerable bands of muscle bulged everywhere on Reuben's back, swelling him in an absolutely natural and, admittedly, even quite attractive way.

“Reuben?”

“Yes?”

“I'm going to touch your back now. I have to examine something. It will hurt a lot, but please hold still.”

“That won't be a problem,” he said. His voice still sounded gruff with anger, but why was there also a trace of amusement in it? Ayla would dearly liked to have known. She herself couldn't see anything funny about the situation.

Very, very carefully, she reached out and touched the red spot on Reuben's back, conscious of the fact that at any moment he would cry out and flinch away.

He did nothing of the sort. Instead, he took a deep breath, and his breathing slowed. What was the matter with this man?

As soon as she had felt the unhealthy bulge under the red skin, she could answer at least part of this question. Yes, there was a swelling. But that was only an indication, she reminded herself. It didn't necessarily mean the wounds were getting infected.

“I'm going to have to wash this,” she said and rose to her feet. “Don't move while I get some water and fresh cloth.”

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben just lay there, thinking, while Ayla worked over him for almost an hour. He didn't really know or cared what she did. The wounds didn't bother him, they would heal soon enough, and then he would be out of here, away from her.

She had looked so radiant when she had come into the room earlier, so utterly happy. She must be a damn good actress to appear happy because of that stone-faced old creep. He had almost, almost believed that she was really looking forward to marrying that fellow—until her cheeks had reddened when she had touched his face.

That blush had sent a tumult of emotions tumbling around in his chest. So many, so various, that he didn't know which to name first. The strongest, however, was one he wasn't able to identify at all. A tugging sensation near his heart. It was almost as though his heart was hurting. But that was ridiculous, of course! Nothing could ever hurt him, least of all such a soft, slender creature.

Best you remember that, he told himself. And remember what kind of a gross witch she is. He wasn't all that keen on morals himself, but to freely admit she had been busy with her future husband and her father...

God in heaven, he thought. At least the last woman I fell for pretended to be honorable and kind. This little monster in an angel's guise freely admits to debauchery and bloodthirst, and still I can't help thinking about her. She really must have put a spell on me. The quicker I get out of here, the better!