Sheltered by the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

fill it as his sister had, the color was better on her than on his sallow-complected sibling.

      At his entrance, Rowena looked up quickly, expectant yet nervous. Shifting his sword, for in his haste to come here, he had not surrendered it to his squire, Stephen sat down beside her. “Good morning.”

      “Good morning, milord,” she whispered. “Forgive me for not rising.”

      He waved his hand. “No matter. How is the ankle?”

      “Far more swollen than yesterday, I fear. Ellie has gone to the well for cold water.” She set down her mending with a small shrug. “I had to do something while my stalks dry. Mending was the only thing I could manage, and Lady Josane was quick to take my offer. But,” she hastily added, “Ellie has promised she will get everything I need to make your rope.”

      Stephen shrugged. “Both are always needed, I suspect. Although I have neither mended nor made rope in my life. I expect my fingers would be too clumsy.”

      Rowena looked down at his hands.

      The urge to wiggle his fingers raced through him, just to bring a smile to her face. But ’twas not the time for jocularity. Nor was he the type to engage in it.

      “I’ve just returned from your hut,” he said grimly.

      Rowena drew in a quick breath as apprehension flashed in those pale blue eyes.

      Her lips parted, then shut firmly as she looked away. In her lap, her hands shook. Would they be cool if he covered them with his own? Suddenly, the room was becoming uncomfortably warm, and Stephen was glad he’d left the door ajar.

      “You found something that disturbs you,” she commented.

      He glanced around. Though this cramped chamber was one of many in his manor, before last night he’d not stepped foot in it, let alone sat in one of its chairs. This whole wing was new to him. ’Twas Josane’s business to deal with the kitchen and maids’ quarters.