suddenly aware of what she’d done. Her gaze drifted down to the ground, and she held the branch as though it were a sword hilt. Her sleeves stretched against her arms, and he could see the outline of her lean muscles.
Cold water from his swim dripped down his torso, down to soaked trews. Honora’s stare travelled from his feet, past his thighs and stomach before she met his firm stare.
‘Stop chasing after me, Honora,’ he warned.
Her lips pressed tightly together, her green eyes flashing fire. ‘I wasn’t chasing. I was trying to save your ungrateful hide.’
Ungrateful? He hadn’t needed her help. Did she still believe he was a spindly lad of sixteen, unable to defend himself? Not a chance of that.
Ewan took a step closer, but she raised the limb, as though she were contemplating striking him.
‘Do not even consider it.’ Wrenching it from her hands, Ewan cracked it over his knee and tossed the pieces aside. ‘Go back to your father, Honora. I’m not the man for you.’
‘I wouldn’t want you if you were the last man in England.’ Honora sent him a furious look before she picked up her skirts and fled his presence.
Ewan picked up his fallen weapons and stepped past Beaulais’s unconscious form, his fury rising higher. Why had she interfered? Beaulais might have retaliated before knowing she stood behind him. She could have been hurt.
Damn her. Nothing had changed, not in five years. She lacked faith in him, but he wasn’t about to justify his fighting skills to her. He had nothing to prove, especially not after today’s victory.
He cast a glance at the unconscious man at his feet, his annoyance rising. And by the look of it, thanks to Honora, he’d just made another enemy.
Ewan shared a trencher with Katherine, ensuring that she had the choicest pieces of roasted pheasant and smoked herring. The Baron had spared no expense in the feast, and Ewan revelled in the food. His favourite dish of blanc-manger was the most exquisite he’d ever tasted. The chicken paste had a hint of almond milk, sugar, and the light crunch of fried almonds gave it texture. It made it easier to keep his mind off the pain of his arm.
But even as he ate, he was uneasy about what had happened with Beaulais. The man would not hesitate to retaliate. The only question was when.
‘You haven’t lost your appetite, I see,’ Katherine remarked, in an attempt to make conversation.
‘Would you care for more?’ Ewan broke off a portion of gingered salmon, but she shook her head, declining.
Though he gave Katherine his full attention, he was well aware of Honora on his opposite side. He offered her the same courtesy, in order to maintain appearances, but he could see the shuttered anger in her expression.
Beaulais staggered into the hall some time later, his gaze livid. A piece of linen was wrapped around his forehead, and he joined the other suitors at the lower table. Conscious of the man’s venomous glare, Ewan stared back, willing Beaulais to look away.
Instead, the nobleman drew a dagger, letting the blade flash in the torchlight. There was murder in his eyes, a visible threat.
Honora wouldn’t be foolish enough to confess she’d brought Beaulais down, would she? The Norman lord wouldn’t take kindly to being struck by a woman. And though Ewan was confident he could handle the man’s anger, he wasn’t so sure about Honora. She was far too reckless.
A harper played lively tunes, breaking the silence and redirecting the attention of the guests. Ewan ignored Beaulais and reached for a strawberry. Bringing it to Katherine’s lips, he complimented her beauty. As she blushed and accepted the fruit, his elbow accidentally brushed against Honora’s. She jerked away, her eyes narrowed.
‘My pardon,’ he apologised. From the way Honora shrank back, it was as if he’d struck her.
Then her expression changed, and she lowered her voice. ‘You’re bleeding.’
He glanced at his tunic sleeve, which had darkened in colour. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You need to tend the wound. It’s deep.’
She acted as though his arm had been severed. Though the trickle of blood irritated him, it was hardly serious.
Ignoring her insistence, he offered her a piece of fruit. ‘Would you care for a strawberry?’
She shook her head slowly. In her eyes, he saw worry. And though he wanted to make a lighthearted response, something to make her smile, he knew it wouldn’t work. Honora had always been able to see past his teasing.
And he was still staring at her with a strawberry in his hand. He turned and fed the succulent fruit to Katherine. Honora stiffened, as though he’d hit her.
Was she jealous? He couldn’t believe that to be true, for she’d claimed she wouldn’t wed him if he were the last man in England.
He watched her speaking to Sir Ademar. A strand of dark hair came loose from her veil, hanging against her neck. The curve of her cheek was soft, unexpectedly delicate. When he reached for his tankard of ale, he caught her light fragrance, a hint of apples. She had tasted just as wild and tart as the fruit when he’d kissed her.
He drank deeply, trying to push the idle thoughts away. His reaction had been instinctive; it would have been the same with any woman. They had been friends once, but if he wasn’t more careful, he’d make an enemy of Honora. He didn’t want to cause any more awkwardness once he wed Katherine.
As the feasting wore on, the ale flowed more freely. Katherine excused herself to speak with the other ladies, and Ewan went to watch several games of chance. He was weary from the day’s fighting and leaned up against the wall after the trestle tables were pushed to the side. His brother Bevan was still talking to the Earl of Longford, but his expression was glazed as though he, too, wanted an escape.
Ewan reached out and touched the sleeve of his tunic, which was slick with blood. Damn it, Honora was right. His arm was growing numb from the bleeding, his body weakening.
‘Whom did you pay to fight on your behalf?’ a male voice interrupted from behind him. ‘One of the maidservants, perhaps?’
It was Beaulais. Ewan sensed a blow coming and stepped sideways, causing the Norman’s fist to strike the stone wall instead. Beaulais’s face turned purple with rage, and he clutched his hand.
‘Your fighting hasn’t improved, I see,’ Ewan commented. When another punch sliced towards his face, he blocked it, cracking his fist across Beaulais’s jaw.
The Norman countered with a blow to his arm, and Ewan sucked in air, the pain rippling through him. He slammed the full force of his fist into Beaulais’s stomach, but the man followed through with another hit to his mouth.
Ewan tasted blood and threw himself to the ground, knocking the nobleman off his feet. Rolling back up, he grasped Beaulais and lifted him up high. It was an act meant to demonstrate his strength and to humiliate his opponent. A gasp resounded through the crowd, to his satisfaction. With his muscles burning from the strain, he tossed Beaulais into the dirt.
Leaning down, he lowered his voice so only Beaulais could hear. ‘Don’t threaten me again, Norman. Or the next time, you’ll be unable to rise without help.’
He stood, facing the crowd of people. Lord Ardennes appeared indifferent to the fight, while Katherine was horrified, her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment. Honora didn’t spare a glance towards Beaulais, but the gleam in her green eyes revealed a hint of pride. It was quickly replaced with anger. Ewan suspected that if they were alone, she’d blister his ears.
To Katherine, he gritted out, ‘Forgive me', and turned to leave. His eye was swelling up and blood ran down his arms.
He passed his brother on the way to the stairs, and Bevan sent him a warning look. The silent censure irritated his already-foul mood. He’d had enough of this night.
As