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left, they’d succeeded.
    But she’d looked so surprised. So hurt, with her wide eyes batting back tears. And failing. One touch to her soft, wet cheek and the next thing he knew—Christ’s chains, what a kiss. Little Evelynn of Chauvere pricked his skin like winter sleet. He had only to glimpse her and his determination evaporated like water over flames.
    Little Evelynn. Ha. She’d matured since he’d last seen her. The budding beauty he’d glimpsed at Giles’ wedding had blossomed, and his hands ached to mold her lush breasts and rounded hips. God, she was lovely. Her appeal differed from the sultry Saracen women he’d seen and the pampered glamour of those further to the East.
    Her chestnut hair gleamed with gold and red highlights. A smattering of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks, and her smiles glowed with wonder. She had an open innocence that called on a man’s goodness.
    He had no goodness left.
    A lady required permanence, something he could never offer. That’s why he’d damn well best avoid her.
    He leaped the bottom three steps into the hall. Armand and William talked at one of the tables; Lady Joan had disappeared. Just as well. He couldn’t summon courtesy right now. He strode out the door, across the bailey to the garrison quarters on the ground floor of the gate tower. From previous visits, he knew where the men lodged.
    “Macsen,” he shouted as he stormed inside. “Indulge me.” He grabbed a sword from those stationed along the wall and headed to an area at the back. The blond grunted and threw down the dice he’d been casting, left hand against right. Clutching a broadsword, he sauntered after.
    When Armand took over Hartley Manor, he’d converted a storage chamber into an indoor practice area, and here Stephen and Macsen faced each other. Macsen stood half a head taller and at least a handspan broader, but Stephen didn’t care. The Viking who’d followed him since France was the only one who could give him a decent workout.
    Stephen took the first swing, and the battle was on. Only their grunts and occasional curses interrupted the squeal and clash of metal. Sweat beaded Stephen’s upper lip, trickled from his brow down his cheeks. This is what he needed. Good physical exertion to take his mind off that kiss. How stupid had he been, when all he wanted was to keep her at a distance? One touch and his intention vanished.
    “As if I didn’t have a brain in my head,” he muttered, dodging a blow. Then he went on attack. “I’ve got—to get—myself—in hand.” Each phrase was punctuated by a clang of blade against blade.
    “What?” Macsen roared as he countered the onslaught. With a quick turn, he leaped on the offensive, and Stephen didn’t speak for a while. But it was no use. The image of sea-blue eyes misted with passion haunted him. Did she realize those mesmerizing eyes reflected her every thought? Every passion their kiss aroused?
    Concentration compromised, he stumbled.
    “By Thor’s hammer.” Macsen twisted as he fought to halt his swing. “Where’s your mind this day, my friend? I could have sliced you like a side of venison.” Panting, he rested the tip of his blade to the floor. “You dropped your guard like a lick-spit squire.”
    Stephen nodded. “My thanks,” he said, gaining his feet. “You spared my neck. Again.” He recalled the day Macsen appeared from nowhere to take down an Assassin at his back. With a gusted sigh, he forced his mind from that bloody day, back to the present. He leaned against the stone wall and swiped an arm across his forehead, glad for the release of frustration the practice provided. “Good challenge.”
    The other knight dropped to a stool formed from a large round of wood. “This is not due to the Dragon, I think. Bad news?”
    Stephen grunted. “The worst,” he said wryly.
    “The lady.” Macsen nodded.
    “The lady,” Stephen confirmed.
    “Very bad news,” his friend agreed, a slight lift at the corners