The lady sighed; her lips tightened. She opened eyes of the darkest brown and looked straight ahead, staring at the canvas wall as if gathering something within her. She turned to look at Alberon. There was such weariness in her young face, such stony, hopeless pride, that Wynter could not help but feel sorry for her. Then the lady heaved herself to her feet and Wynter realised with horror that she was pregnant. Under her full skirts it was difficult to tell just how far gone she was, but a goodly seven months by the looks of it. Wynter glanced back up into the lady’s face, unable to hide her shock, and the lady made brief, expressionless eye contact before looking back to Alberon.
‘Lady Mary,’ he said. ‘I would speak with you. To that end, I shall be happy to introduce the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke. She would be more than pleased to make your acquaintance, should you desire it.’
Wynter curtsied slightly. She watched the lady’s expression, waiting for the usual Midland distaste at her father’s unique title. But to her surprise, the lady’s face opened slightly, and she seemed to lose some of her reserve.
‘Protector Lady?’ she asked. Her musical accent gave the title a lovely poetry. ‘You are the great Lorcan Moorehawke’s daughter?’ Wynter nodded, pleased, and the lady smiled in welcome, clasping her hands at her breast in the formal gesture of delight.
Alberon formally introduced the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke to the Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden, and Wynter crossed to take the chaperone’s proper place at the lady’s left hand.
‘Thank you, your Highness,’ said Mary, her gratitude genuine. ‘What a pleasure!’
Alberon regarded her with pursed lips. There was a laden silence where his reply should have been. Mary’s eyes flicked uncertainly to Razi, then back. She glanced at Oliver. Both men were watching her with unreadable expressions.
Her face closed over again.
From this side of the tent, Wynter saw her companions anew, and the change in perspective was a little shocking. Razi’s dark face was rough with stubble, his clothes dishevelled. His hair, unruly at the best of times, was an uncombed mess. Despite his courtly posture and his smooth manner, he looked unpredictable and wild. By his side, Alberon was hard-faced and speculative, his silence a deliberate act of hostility. Oliver stood at their backs, solid, deep-rooted and darkly ready. He gave the impression of a man waiting to strike.
All three were at least a head taller than the two women before them, all armed, all staring across the barely furnished tent from a position of absolute power. The priest, standing out of Wynter’s line of sight, was an unknown quantity. Wynter felt a strange and unexpected rush of protectiveness towards the woman by her side.
‘Your Highness?’ ventured Mary. ‘You wish something from me?’
Alberon jerked his chin at the folding chair. ‘Sit,’ he ordered.
Mary’s hands tightened briefly into a sudden, anxious knot. Then she seemed to force herself to relax, and, smiling, she curtsied in gracious welcome.
‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘How happy I am to receive you to my quarters. Please, allow me to make you comfortable.’
She swept her hand to the rope-cot, as if offering a golden couch strewn with velvet cushions. For a moment, this struck Wynter as a rather pathetic, peculiarly female thing to do, but then she saw the discomfort in the men’s faces and she was filled with admiration. In the face of such courtly hospitality, how could any gentleman behave other than civilly?
Mary stood waiting, her arm out, her face politely expectant. It was a horribly shaky, desperately fragile form of self-defence, but Wynter thought it gave the Lady Mary a strange type of power, an undeniable dignity and an air of unbreakable self-worth.
Alberon fumed, his jaw working.
Oliver shifted his eyes to the wall.
Razi blinked. Then, to Wynter’s great pride, he pushed his sword back on his hip and bowed. ‘You are kind, Lady Mary,’ he said, ‘and we are most obliged. Will you not also take a seat?’
Mary nodded graciously and settled herself into her little chair. Razi lowered himself onto the low bed with as much dignity as he could muster. It took him a moment to arrange his long legs, but he managed to do so in the end, without looking too much an awkward fool. He gazed blandly at his brother. Alberon glared, his lips tight.
‘Protector Lady Wynter,’ murmured Mary, leaning back and looking up. Wynter, seeing her