never seen him treat anyone—not even the abbot, his own master—with any more than grudging politeness.
Evidently viewing her guard as little threat, Siwardson dismounted and led his horse closer. “Aye. I left his keep at Gwal Draig not a week since.”
She’d expected a hulking brute, but the man who approached with purposeful strides was anything but. Though he towered over her men and his shoulders appeared broad beneath his fur-trimmed cloak, he moved with an easy grace. If only the fire weren’t in her way, she thought, struggling to see around it.
William motioned to the men behind him. “A moment, milord.” They huddled together, their conversation too quiet for Anna to hear, then William left them to join her and the other guards near the fire. “I say we let him stay, mistress,” he said, low-voiced. “Be a good way to hear what’s goin’ on on the other side of the border.”
“If you think it safe,” she said, as William would know this better than she.
He grunted in agreement and returned to Siwardson and the others. “You may join us, milord, so long’s you put aside your sword while you’re in our camp. I’m William de Coucy, captain of the guard. You may give your sword to me, I’ll make certain no harm comes to it.” He nodded toward Anna and the men surrounding her. “And we’ve a lady with us, milord. I trust you’ll treat her polite, if you take my meanin’.”
“Of course. I thank you.” Siwardson bowed in Anna’s direction. Surely he could not see her past the fire? He then hooked his helm onto his saddle and led his mount to the cluster of trees where the other horses were tethered. After he hobbled the massive beast, he returned, unbuckled his sword belt and handed the weapon to William.
After cautioning her to remain where she was, her guards left to join the others. The men talked briefly, then split up, some to unload the pack animals, the rest to finish setting up camp. Perhaps because of Siwardson’s size and presumed strength, William set the warrior to work putting up Anna’s tent.
Anna unclasped her cloak and laid it aside, then settled herself next to the fire to observe Siwardson. He appeared created of shadows, his movements smooth and graceful despite his size, his face a mystery. What kind of man would laugh as he faced eight armed men, alone?
And to venture unarmed into a group of strangers…?
Intrigued, Anna rose and, after noting that her guards were all busy elsewhere, moved toward him. She wanted to see Siwardson’s face, to judge for herself this stranger who had sent a frisson of awareness dancing down her spine.
She wandered closer to where he knelt hammering the last tent peg into the ground, and stopped a few feet away. His hair shone white-blond in the firelight, but with his back to her, she still could not see his face.
“Milord?”
His movements slow, deliberate, he straightened and turned to stare at her. Stifling a gasp, she stared back. Light blond hair fell to his shoulders, curling slightly about his darkly tanned face, and his eyes also pale a blue, they shimmered like ice.
Still holding her fixed with his gaze, he muttered something—a curse, from the sound of it—in a language she did not understand.
Recognition lit his gaze, she’d have sworn, yet she knew they’d never met.
He bowed, releasing her. “Milady. Thank you for allowing me to share your camp.”
Her heart beat so fast, she had to draw a deep breath and force herself to calm before answering. “You are welcome, sir. But ‘tis William who deserves your thanks, not I. ‘Tis not for me to say who joins us or not.”
“Surely the men take their orders from you?”
“Nay, milord, they don’t answer to me. I’m naught more than the baggage they protect and convey from one place to another.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t expect a coffer of plate to venture an opinion, would you?”
Finely chiseled lips curled into a grin, causing a dimple to appear in his right cheek. “Nay, milady.” He stepped closer and, casting aside the stone he’d used as a hammer, took her hand in his. Warmth swept through her fingers and up her arm to envelop her heart as he brought her hand to his lips. “You’re unlike any baggage I’ve ever seen—” he tightened his hold “—and far more lovely.”
Anna snatched her hand free, afraid he’d notice how her pulse pounded so strangely at his touch, his words. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him so easily. His face, limned in firelight, held her spellbound. His strong, even features fit his size, and his tanned skin provided an enticing contrast to his pale eyes and hair.
And his height…Rarely did she need to look up to meet a man’s gaze, yet the top of her head scarcely reached Siwardson’s broad shoulders.
“If you’re no coffer of plate, milady, what kind of baggage are you?” His grin widening, he stared at her hair, disheveled by her hood. “A bundle of furs, mayhap?” She stood motionless while he brushed the wispy curls away from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. He shook his head. “Nay, nothing so coarse. Silk—aye, ‘tis—”
“Sir!” Anna cried, her voice little more than a croak of sound. His rough palm remained cupped about her cheek, evoking a confusing array of thoughts and sensations. ’Twas too much to bear! She took a deep breath and raised her hand to grasp his wrist. “You must not—”
As her fingers closed about his arm, Swen finally paid heed to the strange sensation he felt where they touched—and to the unusual awareness of her he felt inside—and released the woman. She let go of him just as swiftly. “I beg your pardon, milady. I did not intend to abuse your trust.” Lips twisted in a mocking grimace, he stepped away from her. “Please, may we start over?”
She looked uncertain, confused, but she did not run from him, nor did she call for her guards. Perhaps he had not overstepped the bounds of propriety too badly.
As if to calm a frightened animal, he moved slowly and reached for her hand. He clasped it gently within his sword-hardened palm and swept a bow worthy of a French courtier. “I am Swen Siwardson, milady. I am most pleased to meet you. Will you tell me your name?”
She stared at their joined hands for a moment, then looked up to meet his gaze. “I am Anna de Limoges, chief artisan for the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat.”
Though he heard her speak, the words scarce made an impression upon him, for he was drawn once again to her face—unknown to him, yet as familiar as his own heartbeat. Swen feasted his senses as he sought to remember where he’d seen her before.
’Twas no hardship, for she appeared lovely in the flickering firelight. She was tall for a woman, largeboned and buxom, yet slim enough to entice him to span her waist with his hands. She carried herself with a bold grace, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high. Her unbound hair, streaked blond from pale to dark, swept back from her face and fell in a mass of wild curls to her hips. Her lashes and brows were dark, a fitting frame for her light amber eyes.
He saw dreams there, an otherworldly vision not quite focused on the here and now. Her eyes captured him, drew him into a place he’d never been.
Swen shook his head and forced himself to look away. Nay, he knew he’d never met her, for if he had, there was no way he could ever have forgotten her.
Peering past her, Swen saw William stoop to toss an armful of branches next to the fire. He then approached them with a strong, determined stride at odds with his bulk and grizzled appearance. “Mistress Anna,” William said, his voice as sharp as his gaze. “Is he bother’n you?”
She snatched her hand free, just as Swen released it. “Nay, William.” She took a step back and nearly bumped into the guard.
William reached out and steadied her. “Have a care, mistress.” She glanced over her shoulder when he spoke, and met his scowl with an inquisitive expression.
She shook out her skirts, then turned to Swen