For two hours, Jameson had galloped hard past the meadows and wild hedges of the countryside. He hated that he had forsworn his cloak, because the late harvest wind had grown near icy in its bite, and rain threatened in the western sky. Itchy seemed unaffected by the cold, but he had slept snowy winters in the shed with only the hounds to warm him. Then again, a fur coat would provide perhaps a better protection than the finest down.

"You need not have returned yourself, Friend Jess," Itchy had shouted over the pounding hooves.

Jameson merely glanced at his companion, unwilling to pursue the argument any farther than they already had. If Itchy had returned to Bennigton to retrieve Jameson's belongings, the townsfolk would rightly divine his place as servant. Though they could not undo the damage done, they could plant some doubt. Jameson needed to be seen in the role of subordinate, not master. Despite his distaste for the idea, he would need to seek out the merchant’s son, Malchus Lorne, to explain away the noble trappings from before.

With Malchus Lorne holding a position of importance in the town, what the young man believed would disseminate throughout the community. If Jameson had not blundered into the town in the first place, he would have sought the only intelligent tradesman of consequence there, but the exercise would most likely have proved futile anyway. The man had been forced into a punitive system of purchasing from a great distance and selling at a fixed cost, and so he would not be readily available for consultation. An unfortunate circumstance.

Even more unfortunate, because Jameson would have enjoyed an excuse to visit the merchant, whose lovely daughter had encountered him on his first visit to town. He had sat in a carriage, feeling the walls like a sepulcher as his danger pressed in on him, but the strange mix of contentment and defiance on the young woman’s countenance had drawn Jameson out of his melancholy. Malchus Lorne had set his sights on the girl, and Jameson prayed that she had better sense than to reciprocate the attention. If Lorne succeeded in obtaining her, the alliance would solidify his power in the sizeable town.

Jameson ran his fingers over the little silver pin that had fallen from the maid’s hair that day. Though he had seen it fall, he had known Itchy would disapprove of the curiosity that drove the ranking noble of the entire region to forage around in the dirt after a trinket. “At least let me get it, if you have to have it,” Itchy would chastise, and Jameson would have to explain why he wanted the thing in the first place.

Of course, it had been a foolish exercise, he knew. The woman was likely a rebel – or at least a sympathizer – but she was young, and he found a significant measure of compassion inside himself for the general rebel. Certainly not the leaders, since they tended to run toward the unscrupulous, but the average villager? One in ten had suffered a fairly egregious injury at the hand of a noble, and women more often proved the victims.

Aylee Hembry did not carry herself as a victim, though. No, when he had seen her, she had worn expressions of intention and passion, and Jameson could not get the vision out of his mind: the amusement and compassion that had painted her visage that day, her reluctant approval when she had watched him return the gold to the poor young mother, and perhaps most, he remembered her audacity when she had glared at the degenerate Lorne. That was the glare of a rebel, Jameson smiled. He could not escape his admiration. Since it would never amount to anything and would hurt no one, he saw no harm in holding on to the little pin. It would remind him that some people in the region held as much internal nobility as any with a title, and Jameson owed them his protection and care.

He had seen all the beauty that money could buy, but he had never preferred practiced beauty to natural allure. The young woman – Miss Hembry, Jameson believed – stood at an elegant height, neither willowy tall or childishly small. From her crown flowed deep brown hair which reached almost to her waist and, under the noontime sun, had flashed mahogany undertones. At court, women had adopted the fashions of nearby kingdoms, knotting their tresses into high coifs and hiding them under costumed hats. He much preferred the simple and natural fashions of the bucolic communities that clustered on the far west of the region, far from Capigan. Mostly, Jameson had appreciated the young woman’s expression: intelligent and defiant and amused. Her liveliness provided an icon of contrast to Jameson’s current somber state.

Somehow, despite the respect that the young Hembry woman commanded, Malchus had offered undisguised disrespect toward her, and the ease of his speech led Jameson to believe Lorne often spoke in such a manner. Still, despite his distaste for Lorne, Jameson mostly remembered the moment with complacency, since the maid had stirred a marked appreciation within his own chest. Apparently, Malchus liked her as well, and with the advantages of a pretty face and the experience of a tradesman's daughter, the young woman would no doubt provide the most practical of benefits to the predative tradesman's son.

Over the last chilly mile of riding, as the rain began to fall, Jameson's mind had bounced over and around the portreeve, the young tradesman, the merchant's lovely daughter, and manipulating his own identity. Finally, he had approached the conjunction of the forest, the marsh, and the town and had begun to hone in on his next course of action. As if to punctuate Jameson's thoughts, upon stepping from the edge of the forest at Bennigton, he had almost collided with a charging horse – the horse of Malchus Lorne. He might effect his purpose with little effort!

Jameson paused, however, on recognizing the expression on Lorne’s face – an expression all too familiar for Jameson.

Rage.

Without needing to look, Jameson guessed to which house his erstwhile companion sped. On the previous day, Jameson had let a room only two houses away from the new portreeve, and Malchus, his hair slowly plastering down across a purpling bruise on his cheek, seemed bent on reaching the office of authority. After allowing Malchus a few moments to pass by without seeing him, Jameson rushed to his own apartment's door. Only once his belongings had left would Jameson maneuver to disclose his cover story. Within a five minute, Jameson and Itchy had loaded their few remaining effects into a rented curricle, handed them to a page with instructions for delivery, and now stood poised to go in search of a local pub to sell their tale.

"She as good as assaulted me," sank the words from the stairs of the portreeve's flat. "She grabbed a stone and clobbered me upon the cheek. If her father cannot control her while he is away, then you must forbid him from leaving town."

Intrigued, Jameson paused before mounting his horse, and glancing at Itchy, he nodded toward the stairs. A moment later, the pair could hear the scuffling of boots where they descended the steps from the upper story. When Jameson saw Malchus, he recognized the lie in the man's words. The man's cheek had not felt the bite of a stone.

Jameson wondered if the "she" spoken of could be the merchant's daughter; certainly, thoughts of the two had preoccupied him a few moments before, but the coincidence seemed unlikely. Surely a man like Malchus Lorne would make a habit of pursuing maids, though few if any would hold the determination to resist him, Jameson imagined. Aylee Hembry, though?

Remembering the fire in the girl's eyes, Jameson recognized that if she had struck Malchus with a stone, his cheek would have cleaved in two. Either he spoke of a different woman, or he lied about the stone altogether. Since Jameson felt Malchus more than likely to lie, he hoped that by listening a few more minutes, he might hear the assailant's name. The thought that the merchant's daughter had attacked Malchus carried too much amusement to ignore, especially in Jameson’s current sullen mood. More likely than stone, young Hembry likely had employed a fist or a palm to inflict the paltry bruise on the strapping man's face.

"A change of plans, Itchy,” Jameson murmured. “Order me to hail Lorne.”

“What?”

“Order me to hail him!”

With a disapproving glare, Itchy adopted a supercilious attitude. “Boy,” he offered loudly, “Assist our friend. He seems in need of aid.”

The booming voice had the desired effect, and Malchus Lorne turned to assess the noise.

“Friend,” the miscreant asserted, and Jameson flashed a smile at his servant.

“Forgive me, Master Lorne. I have been directed to assist you.”

“Directed?” Malchus bounced his eyes back and forth between Itchy and Jameson, obviously skeptical. Itchy had donned almost a comical sprawl on his horse, which aped to a ridiculous degree the languid manner of a nobleman.

“Um, it’s just that we understand how difficult can prove the mayhem in the wake of a complicated woman.”

“We?”

“Yes…we.”

“Well,” Malchus offered, though he obviously held some suspicions, “it is no matter. The portreeve and I must pay a visit, is all, on the matter of an unfortunate disturbance.”

"Let us come with you part of the way," Jameson smiled, certain that he could convince the boor of the desired narrative.

"I don’t see why not. Master Shellin and I have business in the direction that you now seem to travel."

Jameson smiled internally, an expression that did not escape Itchy, who threw off a warning glare. No, whatever Itchy preferred, Jameson intended to find out if his suspicions were correct – if Malchus Lorne intended to confront Aylee the lovely young woman from before, accompanied by a figure of authority.

"We are headed," Malchus offered his story unbidden to his new companions, "to the house of my father's competitor, the tradesman of whom we spoke last time you were in town."

"The lady’s father then. Do you have business with him?" Jameson had guessed rightly.

Malchus and the portreeve exchanged glances. "In a manner of speaking. Not so much with him as with his daughter you spoke. I see you remember her… "

Apparently, Jameson’s face had revealed his admiration for the woman. "How could I forget her?"

"How indeed?" chuckled the portly, white-haired portreeve.

"Well, her temperament is not so pleasing as is her countenance. Late yesterday evening, I sought her out to offer her a chance at an advantageous business arrangement. With her father out of town for the next few weeks, I figured her the most competent to consider my proposal."

“Fathers do tend to get in the way,” Itchy muttered from his lounging perch on horseback.

“Wait, what is he saying? About fathers?”

“It is nothing,” Jameson shrugged, glaring at Itchy as if in reprimand. In truth, the servant had proven his genius once again, offering a perfect opportunity for Jameson to lure out his companion’s tale. “We are desperate to hear your misadventure with the young maid. Please continue.”

“Well, as I was saying,” Malchus peered back at Itchy with all the curiosity the young noble could wish, “With her father out of town, I figured her the most competent to consider my proposal. I mean, her brothers are young, and her mother does not possess much sense.”

Jameson doubted the statement, largely because a woman like Aylee Hembry likely grew from heartier stock than a witless woman. What had the man done to the poor maid?

"Your proposal?" Jameson prompted.

"Well, quite literally, my proposal. I thought the woman might find the idea enticing to become my wife."

"Clearly an enlightened thought," Jameson smirked with veiled sarcasm. "Though you didn't think it necessary to request permission from her father?"

"Surely in this age, a woman may make her own decisions. So, this woman - "

"You said her name was Aylee Hembry?" the name rolled off Jameson's tongue, and he recognize then how unlikely he would have remembered her name.

"Yes, Miss Hembry," Malchus agreed, "did not just reject my proposal, she added injury to insult by striking a stone against my face."

"A stone?" Jameson feigned shock. "Fortunate for you that she had little strength, or I think thy face would wear a gash as adornment." If the young maid had taken such a drastic step, either she possessed a rabid temper or Malchus had imposed upon her. Jameson definitely considered the latter thought the most likely, and his mood began to simmer.

Malchus turned quizzically to Jameson, obviously irritated that someone could accuse him of altering the story. Upon considering the thought, he took on a more guarded enthusiasm in his narrative. "Yes, very fortunate. Regardless, I believe I am due some redress. My honor has been brought into question, and I must seek recompense for the wrong done to me."

"With her father out of town?" Itchy wondered, registering Jameson’s sense of insult at the incivility. If Itchy did not intervene, Jameson just might try to reveal more of his authority than would serve at the moment.

"Well, not so much recompense right now," Malchus allowed. "No, I just want to inform the mother of my requirements so that she may share them with her husband when he returns. I will, of course, visit him upon his arrival, but I do not want him to face my accusations unexpectedly."

"Very benevolent of you. And the portreeve?" Jameson nodded at the official, not intending a slight to the law man.

"A mere technicality to confirm the seriousness of the charges against Miss Hembry."

"Seriousness?" Would a man really admit to an injury by a woman to punish her for resisting his unwanted advances? Not a man of substance, Jameson knew.

"I will not have my honor maligned."

If you had any honor to begin with, Jameson leveled silently. "Well, how can that be helped now?"

A wicked grin split Malchus's face in half. "She can marry me. If she does, then I will forget her offense, and no one else will question the past."

Unbidden, a pang of fury twisted Jameson's gut – he could imagine Itchy shooting out warning thoughts behind him, urging caution. Of course Jameson would avoid a conflict if at all possible, but in light of the implied confrontation with the young lady, Jameson would not stay aloof. To what lengths would Malchus go to force this Aylee's hand, and such a milksop to hold such a maid! Unpalatable. Jameson registered with surprised that he could find room in his heart for anger from a cause beyond his father’s betrayal, but apparently he could. In a way, it was why he was roaming the forest – to preserve his father’s good name by stopping the abuses of power. "So, you would marry her after she struck you? It seems to me that such a woman would possess poor character for a wife."

"Character can be taught," Malchus sneered. "A firm hand can direct a wayward woman."

Jameson itched to slug his companion across the jaw. Only a coward would use physical punishment to correct a woman, and Jameson could not stomach the thought of such a fate for the spirited maid. Especially because Malchus would no doubt need to resort to much violence to control such a one as she.

"Well, I'm sure if anyone can bestow character, it is thou," Itchy interrupted, determined to remind his friend of his presence. Rein it in, friend, he willed silently.

“Thank you.” Malchus offered Itchy a nod, clueless as to the insult. “And I would willingly offer my character as a mentor for you gentlemen. Please, to what did you refer earlier about fathers. Have you, too, encountered some maid with a recalcitrant father?”

Jameson just barely restrained a curse from escaping his lips at the idea of Malchus and his bestowing character upon anyone, but he did manage, though Itchy eyed him suspiciously. “It is a personal matter, I'm afraid.”

“Look, I recognize that you are both of some rank, so you might encounter dilemmas about which I am ignorant, but perhaps I, or the portreeve here, might offer a modicum of insight.”

Even through the carefully crafted words, Jameson could discern the base inquisitiveness that fueled Malchus's offer. Perfect, he smiled internally. “Not of rank – not really, just…rising merchant class,. I guess not so different than you. And I do not imagine that you possess much familiarity with the political maneuverings of the eastern portion of the duchy, what with the much-lamented blurring of the classes. But like your dilemma, it involves a maid.”

Jameson glanced back at Itchy as if for permission, and after receiving a nod, wove his tale. “I desired a maid, but my father would not let me take her because he did not want to be associated with someone of a lower status. Not that he said that. Instead, he claimed that it was not right of me to take her, that I would no doubt leave her with a broken heart and soiled reputation.”

Malchus shook his head. “It is true that nobility often restrains itself more than human nature demands, though not all act as scrupulously as your father – he might have disregarded such deference for the girl. It is the right of one with power to utilize the resources available to him. If the gods see fit to imbue power on a man, the lessers should not escape punishment for disrespect of their betters. As Miss Hembry will soon learn.”

Glancing ahead, Jameson focused on the sight before him to resist responding as he wished. He took in the sight of a comfortable home where it rested neatly within a small yard. It was clean and well-apportioned, and he sensed that it belonged to a man of means. Since only two merchants worked the town, Jameson surmised it must belong to the Hembry family. Malchus paused his progress several yards from the small porch, as if to finish the conversation before the confrontation with the family.

“Again,” Jameson corrected, horrified by the cruelty of his companion, “we are not noble, and I did not intend to leave the woman, but to raise her. So, when I lobbied some of my father’s allies for support, I expected little fallout from my impertinence. Well, my father caught wind of my schemes and removed the maid to some far-off cousin of hers, and to ensure that I did not create an uprising, he set me out of the house. If not for my friend’s benevolence, I would find myself quite without resources at the present. Still, I do not believe my father in earnest, as he has not yet disinherited me, so I cannot resort to open rebellion – I certainly will not offer you my real name, not that of my friend.”

“But what will you do with yourself until he lets you return?”

“We intend to build a living in much the same way your father has, though in trade more than as a merchant. With the current instability, it seems some daring will garner a payoff. I will gather men to travel with me – largely for protection from the raids – and will offer to transport goods between villages for a price.”

“My dear sir, that is quite a brilliant enterprise, but unfortunate that you are force to it by the small-mindedness of your father. So much production over a simple maid. You must gain your independence and then take what you desire, as I would.”

“No doubt you would, friend, but I'm afraid I keep you from your intended path. Pray continue. We will go on our way.”

“You are welcome to stay with us for a spell, eat our food and use our maids.” Malchus chuckled at his ill-aimed humor.

“I do not think you would wish it,” Jameson contradicted, “as the governor in my region has promised punishment for any who renders me aid. My companion is beyond the reach of my father, but few others would be.”

“Very well, then. I appreciate your honesty, though there is no reason to suspect that anyone would find you out. Of course, I will accept your refusal, but perhaps you need not manage this alone. I believe we all might be of service to each other if we were to join together.” Malchus kept throwing glances at Itchy, obviously hoping to peek the interest of the “superior” companion. “I have a small contingent of citizens from the community with which I train, and they will follow me wherever I ask. I could help you both.”

“Oh, we have already acquired enough resources to begin,” Jameson countered quickly, mortified at the thought of being associated with the rake. “We have our own band of men who offer us assistance in certain of the tasks that we undertake. We are quite content with our current situation.”

“Well, then, I will let you on your way. I'm afraid you may not wish to participate in this conversation," Malchus leveled malevolently, peering across the small clearing that now lay before them.

When Itchy rode up beside them, he adopted a bored air. “You need not rush, friend,” he droned. “Attend your friend if you wish.”

Gratitude rushed through Jameson, as a sudden wish had arisen in him to see the young maid's story play out. My father’s image requires it. With Itchy’s intervention, Jameson could do just that. "Thank you, sir. That seems a helpful idea.” Turning back to Malchus, Jameson pressed his own scheme. “I have an idea. If you walk up to the Hembry home with the portreeve, you will immediately be seen as a threat. Perhaps I may aid you. Perhaps the young woman's mother would prove more amenable if you approach her with a less alarming companion. Only if she proves uncooperative would you need to hail the portreeve."

"Perhaps..." Malchus allowed.

"And until then, I will accompany you as your second. I have been told that I possess a friendly, compassionate face. Perhaps the mother will respond better to the presence of an uninvolved party."

After a moment's reflection, Malchus seemed to relax, a smile spreading across his face. "I like the idea," he nodded. "Master Shellin, stay here. After the young man – what did you say your name was?"

"Uh, er, Jess," Jameson stammered.

"Well, Master Shellin, after Master Jess – or so we shall call you - and I have a friendly word with the mother, I will signal you if I require your assistance."

"Alright, then" the portreeve allowed. "Just a wave of the hand." The older man seemed somewhat relieved to avoid an unpleasant confrontation.

"Got it," Jameson answered for both of them.

As he strolled beside Malchus Lorne, Jameson brooded over the universalities of life. Power attracted evil; he had seen it in his own house as factions rose to gain favor with his father. Now he saw it with Malchus and the new portreeve. A powerful authority could keep evil in check, but the weak-minded portreeve seemed destined to find himself slave to Malchus and his avarice. What havoc could such unprincipled behavior wreak in a small, unprotected town? Though he had learned all the political concepts through his education, he could not regret encountering them in fact because, should he succeed in his current campaign, the experience would minimize his patience for the unscrupulous and greedy.

Fortunately, Jameson did not possess a weak mind, and he had convinced Malchus to leave the portreeve behind. Before he and the hot-headed young man had crossed the courtyard, a well-dressed and accommodating manservant opened the front door and met them at the hitching post, to which the servant tied the two horses.

"Might I be of service?" he offered graciously, his accent tinged with a provinciality which painted it with charm.

"If I may, kind sir," Jameson began. "Is the man of the house available?"

"I'm afraid, sir, that I am the man of the house today."

"Well, my friend here has a matter of high importance that he felt needed immediate attention."

"I will do my best, sire."

Jameson could no longer restrain Malchus, and the irate man jumped in with predictable impetuosity. "I mean to speak to the hellcat that gave me this!" Malchus almost shouted, pointing to a purpling bruise that had begun to darken his cheek.

Blind-sided by the unexpected vitriol, the servant's mouth popped open, and he spoke not a word for several seconds.

"My friend has misspoken," Jameson soothed. "He means to speak to the young maid who is the eldest child of your master."

"A fiery one, she is," the servant nodded, still a bit offended, "but I will take issue with the gentleman calling her such a name as he has."

"And I," Malchus reared up to his full height, towering over the meek servant, "will have retribution for the offense that she paid me this evening."

Jameson rocked back into a relaxed stance, fighting his instinct to mirror the miscreant’s stance of aggression. Not yet, he told himself. He could not play the hero at the cost of his father’s cause.

"Perhaps the young gentleman should send his own father, or take a day or two to cool his ire before he commits an offense against a respectable family."

"Perhaps," Malchus hissed, "a servant would do well to keep his tongue if he does not wish to land in chains." Raising his hand, Malchus signaled to the portreeve, and the round figure rolled swiftly across the courtyard.

"You err, Master Lorne," Jameson advised in a hushed tone. "There is no need to involve a legal authority in this matter."

"You err, Master Jess, in thinking that you have any wisdom that I require. As a stranger in these parts, you're as likely to land yourself in stocks as the servant here."

The effrontery against his office drew Jameson’s ire, but he refrained his impulse to act on it. He could not practice that position for the moment. Besides, his humankindness stood offended enough to signify, and he could act on that portion of himself.

"Now, I dismiss you from your service as a second." Malchus waved Jameson away like a nuisance. "The portreeve will assist me in anything I might require from here on."

Too many reprimands rose in Jameson's mouth to give vent to, so he exercised immense self-control and said nothing at all, instead unhitching his horse from the post and using the rain as an excuse to lead it slowly away under the covered walk between home and the barn. Once around the corner, he reined in the animal and took up post just near enough to hear the conversation between Malchus and the servant.

"Master Lorne," the servant offered conciliatorily, "your young friend is right in one thing. I am your servant, and you need not appeal to legalities to accomplish your will with me. Short of allowing you to harm the family, I will allow you any request you ask."

Well played, breathed Jameson. He walked slowly to the edge of the house, heading ostensibly to the field that led through the marshes. If he could manage it, he would like to hear the conclusion of the last few minute's events. If the servant failed to perform his duty, Jameson just might have to throw his plans out the window and interfere in a major way.

"I believe," stuttered the portreeve, "that the proper course here is to have a small word with the mother, just to inform her of your formal charges."

"No woman can receive formal charges, your eminence," the servant corrected wisely.

"No, no, nothing of the sort," the portreeve agreed. "But a woman can hear, and a woman can convey, and that is all that we wish of her."

The servant hesitated, faced with the authority of a governor, but after a protracted minute, he turned to enter the home in apparent acquiescence.

"Might I suggest, Friend Malchus, that you offer a small amount of restraint with the mother?"

"Restraint?" Malchus fired angrily. "Did the daughter show restraint with me? I will pay her back blow for blow when she is my wife!"

"My," the portreeve hemmed. "Perhaps you will not have her as wife if you say as much to the mother."

"Is there a law against hitting my wife? Besides, what right do they have to withhold their daughter from me. You have assured me of receiving rank in a short while, and when I have received it, the law will support my right to compel a woman of lesser rank to marry me, regardless of her family's protest. Then, if she wants to play in such a rough manner, I will play in kind."

Malchus almost seemed to anticipate such a future, gleefully considering the details behind his eyes. Everything inside Jameson itched to fly at the man and finish the job that Aylee Hembry had begun, only stopping when the man's broken limbs were rendered incapable of harming a woman. There were times that he wished his father would have taken tighter reins on the laws of the region, though Jameson recognized that the establishment of laws to protect the poor or weak would have required all-out war among nobles in many cases. For the time being, while the culture ran as it did, all Capigan could do was refuse a seat at court for miscreants with wealth. As I have every intention of doing when I take my office.

Finally, the lovely mother alighted from the front door, younger than Jameson had expected, and she wore such a mantle of tranquility and confidence that Jameson almost laughed at what he now expected to be an interesting confrontation. "Friend Malchus," she spoke in a clear, strong voice, deep and warm with a powerful femininity. "Am I to understand that you have complaint against my Aylee?" Jameson could detect the faintest of quivers in the woman's tone, and he recognized a deep concern for her daughter in the slight revelation of emotion.

"Mistress Hembry, I advise you not to stand between me and the resolution of my offense. If you cooperate with me, the rest of your family will not suffer any negative repercussions for your daughter's inappropriate behavior." Though Jameson had intended to take root for a while and hear the conclusion of the exchange, a motion in the corner of his vision divided him, and he began to consider whether he had not better move.

From behind the barn, only a 20-foot span from the gathering in front of her home, Aylee set up surveillance on the man who had assaulted her. She had heard enough from the conversation over the past several minutes that her opinion of Malchus had sunk even lower, and her opinion of the companion had hardened into distaste. Aylee would not let the likes of Malchus Lorne threaten her family under any circumstances. If he thought that he could compel Aylee Hembry to marry him, Malchus Lorne lived in delusion. He had defiled her, not in the worst way though he had tried, but certainly against her will and in a manner that revealed an evil character deserving of reprimand. She would correct him if he mistakenly believed that he would victimize anyone else in her family.

Fortunately, the barn door stood just far enough open for her to sidle along under the roof’s overhang and into the straw-strewn edifice without drawing attention to herself. On a set of hooks opposite the door rested the fireshot, and Aylee smiled when she saw it. The weapon wouldn’t kill the man, but it would cause him enough pain that he would think twice about trying to intimidate the Hembrys. Portreeve be damned, she rebelliously directed toward Malchus as she reached to retrieve the weapon. A moment later, her feet followed her thoughts.

From nowhere, as she rounded the edge of her house into the covered corridor, a set of hands arrested her, and one of them jumped from her arm to her mouth. The motion effectively shut off any protest before it could escape. Simultaneously, a whisper brushed against her ears, warm and sweet like an afternoon's breeze. Warm and sweet or not, its owner had a lot of nerve to grab her while she held the fireshot.

"Calm yourself," the deep voice soothed. "You will only harm your mother if you rush in with your weapon." As he spoke, the voice's owner released her just enough to wrap his arm around her waist in such a way that she could not move an inch toward Malchus and her mother. The impertinence! she complained silently.

With all her might, she kicked and flailed, eventually digging her fingernails into the flesh of the man's arm. Since he had restrained her arm which held the fireshot, it hung limp in her hand, her finger far from the trigger. She fought desperately to free her weapon.

"If you don't stop fighting," the voice informed her in a hushed tone, "I will carry you into the barn, take the reins off a horse, and use them to restrain you. Perhaps I'll find a kerchief to cover your mouth, as well."

For an instant, the threat drew a greater determination from Aylee, but after another couple of minutes, the fight fled her. She could not budge from the man's grasp, and he seemed as determined as she to win the battle. Somehow, he did not seem to bear the same threat as had Malchus earlier in the evening.

"Now, listen to your mother. She is wise and has done you right."

Aylee became aware of her mother's voice, barely discernable above the patter of raindrops, as it calmly explained that Aylee would not be available for several days. "Of course," she offered, "I thought it strange that my daughter would leave without informing me more than an hour in advance. Still, she is twenty years old, and she is my most level-headed child so far, so I trusted her. Perhaps I erred. But I assure you, sir, I will inform her as soon as she returns that she must see the portreeve at once. And we will seek to find out her destination as well."

Relieved Jameson slackened his grip on the girl, and she took the opportunity to twist almost out of his grip. He pulled her to him, now facing him, with such force that he heard her breath escape her abruptly. "Sorry," he whispered a laugh as he loosened his arm just a tad. Every muscle in her body seemed poised to explode into motion if he relaxed again, and a flash of lightning revealed rage on her face. Her hair, which seemed damp from the rain, had dried and waved around her face. Her blue eyes, rimmed by long lashes clumped by moisture, flashed with challenge. Even with the defiance, though, Jameson had to wonder if tears – rather than the rain – had dampened the lashes. Otherwise, why would they still be wet even when her hair had largely dried.

The impression stirred anger again in his chest at the disrespect of Malchus Lorne. Buttressed by the portreeve as he stood, what person would not blame the authority that allowed such infamy? Who would not turn rebel against a politic that did not interfere with the collusion of cruelty with power. I will interfere, he promised silently. Apparently, though, Aylee did not crave Jameson’s compassion, because as soon as she saw his face, her intent expression morphed quickly into one of ferocity and fury.

"You!" she almost shouted, and he clapped his hand to her mouth so quickly that he feared he had slapped her. A convenient clap of thunder had obscured the sound, otherwise the crew at the front of the home surely would have heard her.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered in her ear. "That was harder than I intended. Keep your voice down! If you show yourself now, I fear that Master Lorne will find a way to injure you worse than he already tried to." He lowered his hand from her mouth.

"Or," her lips curved into a deliciously eager smile, "I will shoot him, and he will never impose on me or any other maid again."

"And what of your father?" Jameson chastised. "How will your shooting a competitor's son reflect on your father? How will it affect your mother, your brothers and sisters?"

"Sister," she corrected petulantly.

"Regardless, you cannot shoot an unarmed man right in front of the portreeve and walk away unscathed."

"Why?" she challenged. "What will you do to me?"

"I? I will do nothing, but the portreeve will no doubt arrest you on the spot.

Confusion raised her eyebrows into the most disarming expression Jameson had ever seen. As her eyes drew him in, his arms followed, and before he realized it, he had pulled her closer to him once again.

"Excuse me!" she protested, pressing her hands against his chest. Startled, he let go of her altogether, stumbling back into the rain.

"Again, I'm sorry," he coughed, blinking against the raindrops. "I seem to forget myself around you."

"Well, see that you don't, portreeve," she leered as she raised the fireshot to point directly at his chest.

"Wait! Wait!” he laughed. “I am not the portreeve!"

A liar, she accused silently. "Ha! I spoke with Malchus right after I saw him meeting with you, and he said he had just seen the new portreeve."

"Is it at all possible," Jameson countered, amused by her spirit, "that he had met with the portreeve before you saw him with me? I merely met him in the street. And why would the portreeve hide in the shadow and eavesdrop on an important meeting as I have done today? No, that little man standing next to Malchus now is your new portreeve."

"Oh," the tip of the weapon dropped part way to the ground. Aylee thought of the several impressions of her companion that she had taken that day, from bored noble to dear friend to kind benefactor. True that his association with Malchus rendered his every word suspect, but Aylee found herself unusually confused as she tried to discern the veracity of the man’s words. Malchus’s unexpected upset of her long-held views of the world had tarnished her usually astute discernment regarding people. She had no idea whether she stood ensnared by a villain or a hero. "Well, then, who are you?"

"My name is Jess.” He crafted the story as best he could with the water streaming over his face. “I am a tradesman, a supplier for men like your father."

“A tradesman?”

“You speak the word with skepticism. Is there a rivalry between merchants and tradesmen of which I am unaware?”

“That is not why I am wary. You do not seem a tradesman.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Why were you in a carriage – dressed like a noble.”

Licking his lips, Jameson stilled his thoughts before he continued. “It is a scheme that we employ, my friend and I. Something to investigate the need for our services in a town. If we walked in as tradesmen, the local merchants would consider us competition. So, a rented carriage and a believable story gives us a more talkative populace in a town.”

“A rented carriage? You have chosen ill in Bennigton, since so many disdain nobility.”

“Including yourself?” he wondered, trying to suppress his hopefulness.

Of course, she did not judge all nobility as scoundrels, but with the way he looked at her – hopeful and fascinated and…she would say yes, whatever her true opinion. “I hold my own reasons to distrust nobility, as do most people in Bennigton at the moment.”

So, she was at least a rebel sympathizer if not a Steepler, Jameson realized. And she currently held a fireshot aimed at the chest of the heir. He needed to manage his own safety however strong his urge to assuage her upset.

“Then it is good for me that I am a tradesman,” he smiled, and Aylee’s thoughts divided over whether or not he spoke the truth. Her distraction cost her, as the fireshot in her hands lost its precise aim and pointed down toward her captor’s feet rather than dangerously at his chest. He took advantage of the circumstance, and before she could process the fact, he had leaped back under the eave and grabbed the weapon from her slackening grip. By the time she realized what he had done, he was holding it at arm’s length to the side. She lunged for it, but he just wrapped her around the waist again, restraining her to keep her from the dreaded shot. Aylee cursed herself for her carelessness. Still, he had made no overtly threatening move outside of protecting himself from a gun – a perfectly defensible action.

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"I'm sorry, but I can't have you brandishing that thing around, obsessing over shooting Malchus."

"Aaaach," she growled menacingly. When Aylee finally calmed, Jameson let her go, not wishing to share the dampness from his clothes. "You seem sorry for many things," she upbraided him, "yet you do them anyway."

"Fine," Jameson smiled at the pretty young maid before him. "Other than the excess force when I covered your mouth, I have not truly felt sorry for anything I have done, as they were a necessity and for your benefit. The sentiment was a courtesy so that you would not think ill of me."

"Oh, no ill.” She felt her usual rebellious spirit surge into her with welcome strength, infusing her tone with defiance. “None at all since you said you're sorry. Forget that you restrained me against my will. Forget that you are colluding with Malchus. Forget that you took your own liberties with me while you held me in your grasp. Forget that you stole my gun."

"Took my own liberties?" Jameson disputed.

"Do you think that I am deaf or cannot feel? You smelled my hair as you held me in your arms, and I do not imagine that you had any need to hold me quite so close or for quite so long. Your words will not exonerate you where your actions do not."

“I did not smell your hair,” Jameson mused, struck by her contrariness. He wondered why his conscience did not defend him against the other charges. Because they are so laughable as to require no answer. While her accusation of his awareness of her in his arms could not easily be dismissed. "Perhaps you did slug Malchus without provocation." He regretted his words immediately because a look of the utmost misery painted her face. Jameson took her hand in his, peering at her with all earnestness. "Dear maid, don't cry,” he appeased. “It was in jest, I assure you. I understand that under the circumstances, my words seemed petty and insulting. You have my deepest apologies." He wanted to kick himself. Now I am like Malchus, because I have made her cry.

After a moment, Aylee raised her eyes, still tinged with unhappiness, to meet his. "He did deserve it,” she insisted, fully aware of her village's view of a woman's reliability. “Please believe me."

"I do," he agreed.

"And please do not ask in what way. It is so humiliating."

"Of course not. It is not proper. Though, perhaps," he urged, "you need to tell someone so that when the time comes for you to stand against his public accusation, you will have a witness to stand with you and confirm your story."

Aylee stared out at the moon where it had found a crevice between clouds, and she pondered the shimmering rain along with Jess and his words. Despite what she had perceived of his exchanges with Malchus, the young tradesman spoke with unusual consideration – more in line with his kindness to the young mother in the square. Certainly not what she would have expected when she first encountered him in conference with Malchus, or laughing at her with his taller friend. It seemed foolish to listen to the man, interwoven as he seemed with her assailant. Rubbing her hand across her forehead, she took a deep breath. As conflicted as she felt about the man before her, she did not have leisure to care. He was an ephemeral shade, destined to pass out of her thoughts before it could establish significance. No, she had to concern herself with the very concrete reality that she had unleashed a torrent more intense than the relentless raindrops into her everyday world that would not soon pass away.

How she wished to share everything with her mother and seek the woman's wisdom! Had Aylee done the right thing? Could she have found another way to escape Malchus? Yet, she had not even spoken to her mother since the incident. Even when she would manage to see her mother, Aylee felt no guarantee of the privacy such a conversation required, surrounded by housemaids and little siblings.

"What am I going to do?" Aylee lamented aloud, clapping her hand over her mouth as she recognized who she had complained to.

"Well, if you can’t tell your mother,” he offered naturally, as if her seeking his advice were an expected occurrence. “Perhaps you have a friend you could tell."

"No, I don't mean that,” she let herself continue. Why not? He will be gone in half an hour. “I have several friends I could, and will, tell. Malchus deserves a ruined reputation. But where will I go right now? I can't stay with my mother. She told Malchus that I went away, and I think that is exactly what I have to do if I am to protect my family."

"It is not your job to protect your family. It is your father's."

Aylee pursed her lips at him. "It is not just my father's, and you would be foolish to assume that I am not capable of protecting my family and myself. But thanks to the new portreeve and the new laws, my father must travel for two weeks or more at a time. He will not be able both to protect his family and to feed them."

“Perhaps you would be better served not to cast that information out to every listening ear…” Huffing a breath, Aylee bit her lip. What had she been thinking? Fortunately, the man did not seem anxious to take advantage of the fact as he continued past her nervousness. "Your brothers?" he continued.

"Too young. Perhaps Chester is old enough, but he possesses none of the fire that would drive off Malchus Lorne, I assure you that."

"Apparently, you have it," Jameson couldn't restrain his grin.

She returned his amusement with a subdued smile. "Certainly," she agreed. "But, no, there is no one." Her survival instincts battered at the back of her mind, screaming for her to stop talking to this man, but he seemed both compassionate and intelligent.

"Friends?"

"All of my friends live close by and would have to answer to Malchus for protecting me. I could not ask them to sacrifice so much."

From outside the barn, Aylee recognized the shuffle of a footstep as a gust of wind blew a spattering of raindrops toward her. She froze, then thoughtlessly leaned into her companion’s side. He placed one arm defensively across her shoulders, turning to cover her from view while he raised the fireshot toward the corner of the barn. "I am surprised," came the warm strength of Mistress Hembry's voice, "that Malchus and Shellin did not hear you for all the ruckus you made, Aylee Hembry." When she rounded into view, she stopped in her tracks. "Aylee, who is this?"

Jameson dropped his arm from Aylee's shoulders, then slowly lowered the weapon.

For a moment, Aylee could think of nothing to say, but she managed to stammer a confused "friend" amidst her babbling.

"Hopefully," Jameson explained, "what she is trying to say is that I am here to help her. Please forgive the intrusion."

"I don't believe I have ever seen you around our town before."

"Only once," he nodded, "have I visited your village. Less than a week ago. I had to return today to claim some things that I had left here, but I encountered the situation with Master Lorne, and I couldn't leave this young maid to fend for herself."

"Oh, so all your conversation with Malchus stemmed from an attempt to help me? No self-serving intention? Quite the conversation you had with him for such a purpose. Besides,” she muttered. “I would have been fine without your help.”

Raehan Hembry glanced at her daughter in surprise. "Aylee Annwyn Hembry, where are thy manners?" she chastised. "I assure you, sir, I raised her better than this."

"Not 'sir,'" Jameson insisted, glancing at Aylee. Perhaps the mother did not seem the rebel type, but youth often gravitated toward resistance where age and wisdom did not. "Friend Jess is fine," he insisted.

"You also raised me better than to spend time alone in a barn with a man whom I barely know," Aylee sassed, but a look from her mother silenced her. Aylee's mother seemed completely taken in by the young stranger – as Aylee herself had been, if she were honest. But she expected better from her mother. She could not fathom how such a wise woman as Raehan Hembry could turn wide-eyed and gullible for a charming smile. The realization turned Aylee recalcitrant.

"Well, whoever you are, you have my gratitude. If you had not arrested her, I feel certain that the portreeve soon would have, and I would have been forced to clean his blood off my doorstep."

Jameson stifled a chuckle. Perhaps Aylee inherited her spirit from her mother.

"I have suggested," he offered, "that Miss Hembry travel to stay with some friends, at least until her father returns. Your invention that she had taken her leave of you provides a measure of security both for her and for you, as well as a defense against culpability for you and your family."

Mistress Hembry nodded, impressed with the intelligence of the young man before her. Even if he called himself "friend," Raehan Hembry recognized a noble upbringing when she saw one, as well as an extensive education. He spoke with the subtle and elevated tone of the Banda’s eastern province, near the capital, and she would not feel surprised to learn he hailed from near Capigan. "I agree. Aylee," she turned to her daughter. "I will send Chester with you to Lady Willen, and you can reside there until we find how this plays out."

Lady Willen! Aylee had forgotten completely about her encounter with the old sage. Someone could vouch for Aylee's innocence, as well as for her state of mind when she had left Malchus with his bruise.

"Yes," Aylee exclaimed happily. "Lady Willen will be perfect. She knows all about this horrible ordeal because I ran into her on the way home. I will have nothing to explain, and she will not fear Malchus the same way the rest of the townsfolk do. That new portreeve seems to have removed all constraints that society had before held on Malchus."

Something like a hiss escaped Mistress Hembry. "The new portreeve?" she grumbled. "Ye'll find that the problem lies not with the portreeve, but with the duke," she announced with irritation, and Jameson felt his attention riveted to the woman. "Though I had held out hope. Our sovereign has either grown sick or weak with age, or he has had a change of character, though I think the latter unlikely. Grief can change a man, however.”

“Grief?”

“I am unwilling to spread idle gossip unless it prove relevant to the needs of the community, so forgive me. I should not have spoken it.”

At least it sounds like she may have heard the rumor of my death, Jameson figured gratefully. “You are of the belief, then that our ruler has fallen to some sickness of character or illness? Why do you say that? I have heard little, having traveled through sparse civilization of late.”

“In the past,” Raehan Hembry explained, “the Duke appointed excellent authorities, well thought out and well qualified. Of late, though, I have heard horrors from several of the border towns, at his prompting, and many of our nearby communities have received new political appointments, none of them good. At least our new portreeve is just weak and spineless, not actively evil. "

"Though if he lets Malchus run amok, it will amount to the same thing," Aylee contradicted.

"It will," Mistress Hembry agreed.

Jameson forced himself to equanimity. “We will hope for better,” he offered. “Perhaps this is just a momentary struggle and the Duke will redeem himself. If you will allow me, though, I would like to offer my services to accompany your daughter to Lady Willen's place of residence, once I seek clearance from my companion. I am not sure that your daughter could navigate the trip safely under these conditions, and I can speed her through the rain faster than she would travel on foot. Besides, you need not risk your son."

Such a generous offer, Aylee thought, but what of the man who had made it? What of his exchange with Malchus? I believe you and I might be of service to each other if we were to join together… Her mother’s ready acceptance of the man stirred suspicion in Aylee’s mind, and she found herself glaring at the young man as her mother spoke.

"Well," Mistress Hembry smiled, "I will consider your offer. But Aylee and I must prepare wherever she goes, and she must relate the realities behind the complaint by Malchus. May I offer you a seat at my table, Friend Jess, rather than leave you to freeze in the barn? I have a pot of tea just ready for consumption, if I have judged the time right."

Aylee gawked at her mother. To invite a stranger into her house – with her husband away! Never had Aylee witnessed such heedlessness in her mother, and she wondered what had happened to the woman's usually infallible sense.

"You are very kind, madam. I would appreciate that after my evening's...exertions."

Aylee scoffed at his thinly-veiled insinuations, but Mistress Hembry merely raised the corners of her mouth as if she had heard nothing - or had heard everything.

"Would you mind," Jameson asked, infallibly polite, "if I invited my companion, Itchy, to join me? I’m afraid I could not leave him to soak in the storm."

"Itchy?" Aylee giggled, and her mother gave her a reproachful look, waving her inside.

"If not," Jameson insisted as he watched the girl's retreat, "then I will simply await your word under this cover, or he can enter and I will stay outside. We must give deference to form."

Mistress Hembry tilted her head skeptically, not comfortable inviting two unknown men into her house, but when she glanced in the direction that Jameson gestured, she nodded her agreement. "Deference? Your servant is welcome to rest his feet at our table. Call him over."

"He, my servant?" Jameson scoffed with exaggerated denial. “I’m afraid you have it quite backwards.”

"So," Mistress Hembry laughed, "You are claiming that he is the master and you are the servant? Well, I will not contradict you, since it is apparently important that we ‘give deference,’ as you conveyed. Either way, you are both welcome to rest in my home."

Itchy grinned his snaggling smile at Mistress Hembry as he heard the words at his approach. Aylee had shuffled as slowly as possible toward her home, and when she heard the new voice, she spun to take in his aspect. The taller man from the carriage! She liked the man instantly. For one, he did not set off any of her alarms. He seemed confident but humble – not entitled, as his “friend” did. Still, had his mother called him a servant? The idea brought a snicker to Aylee’s lips. His humble appearance was more likely part of a ploy – maybe a reference to the “persona” the pair had spoken of before. The man, “Itchy,” no doubt a pseudonym, would as likely be a noble as his friend “Jess.” Each carried himself with dignity, but each also showed deference to the other – certainly not a subservient mien on either.

"She's a bright one, she is," Itchy chuckled, and Aylee threw him a sly look at his act. Such overstated commonisms and deference! They had to be feigned.

"Friend!" Jameson reprimanded, though he could not concentrate on his correction because he noticed that the young woman, who had halted beneath the overhang to her door, was staring with amusement and approval at his servant. Not this one, Jameson willed, and then he paused, confused at his own thoughts. He had grown used to the easy teasing between Itchy and women – why would he be bothered by the same with Aylee Hembry, a woman he had met only moments before?

"Look, my lord,” Itchy called him back. “We have not fooled the madame a bit. I'll be skinned if she don't have a good guess as to who you are, what with all your feigned provinciality." Aylee almost guffawed at the over-the-top simpleton act.

"You forget yourself, Itchy!" Jameson raised his voice a tad, and the steel edge of it cut Itchy's vocal cords entirely. Turning to assess him, Aylee began to doubt herself – the sense of authority did not seem part of a ploy, though perhaps this “Jess” was just a talented actor. She guessed it were possible that her mother had discerned rightly. Aylee would have to observe them further to know, but she did not imagine she would have much opportunity beyond the next few minutes, so she shrugged off her curiosity.

"I assure you, my lord," Mistress Hembry smiled, unaffected, "your secret is safe with me. And, no, I have not yet guessed at your identity, so have no fear on that account."

“Not ‘my lord.’ We have both experienced an extensive education in court etiquette, but even an educated tradesman cannot claim that title.” Finally, the group approached the door, and Aylee, who had awaited them before entering, tried to enter the conversation.

“What secret, mother?” she wondered, but no one paid her heed. “My lord?” She had disliked the bored, young libertine from the moment she had first seen him. Her subsequent encounter with him, though, had made her doubt herself. Not only had he aided the mother in the square, he had protected Aylee from Malchus. Add to that the fact that he had treated her with as much politeness as circumstances had allowed, and she found herself drawn to him on some level. But her mother seemed to believe him to be obscuring his identity. How could Aylee trust such a person?

"Not ‘my lord,’," Jameson mumbled to Aylee, "I must ask you not to call me 'my lord.' Friend Jess is all I can allow. To hand me such consequence may bring me unnecessary peril."

“Why would anyone call you ‘milord’?” Aylee searched, unwilling yet to concede to her mother’s impressions of the man.

"There are those,” Mistress Hembry continued as if Aylee hadn't spoken, “who would always pay to find certain characters traveling alone, so you are right to exercise caution, sir. Still, before I allow you to accompany my daughter half a league, I must know. Is either of you a wanted man?"

Certain characters? Wanted man? Aylee had given up hope that anyone would pay attention to her, so she lapsed into silent queries.

"Not in the sense you mean it," Jameson appeased. "We are as honest as any man can claim. Many, however, would pay well to know our identities, so to travel with us carries a measure of risk. We will not go far, though, and none here knows us, despite my companion’s teasing."

"It is apparent when one encounters a perceptive woman. That is all."

"All the more reason to use discretion, my friend," Jameson reprimanded.

"Of course, friend Jess. Though I can also see clearly when I meet a woman of good character," Itchy grinned, both at Mistress Hembry and at Aylee, and Aylee found herself smiling back.

"And you must also recognize a woman upon whom flattery will not work, dear sir," Mistress Hembry smiled indulgently at Itchy. "Fine, young man, you may take her." She nodded at Jameson. "But you will go no farther with her than Lady Willen's cottage until you have spoken with Master Hembry. I am afraid I cannot offer you payment until he arrives anyway."

“Payment?” Jess coughed.

Itchy, sensing an impending misstep, covered his friend’s potential error. “We can wait for your husband, mistress. I must return here next week to close out some accounts, and I will seek you out on that occasion.”

“Yes,” Jess agreed, “And at the moment, we are unable to go farther with her anyway, as we have urgent business a few miles from here. I am unsure whether it would be wise for us to take on a charge anyway.” For either myself or for her.

Apprising the discussion’s subject, Aylee glared at her mother with sudden clarity. "I go with them? You would entrust me to strangers?" Aylee interjected. "I am sure that I do not need assistance only to travel across the marsh to Lady Willen's, a journey I have made at least a hundred times this year!"

"On that, you have no choice," Mistress Hembry insisted. "I will not have you attempt it unaccompanied, at night, in a storm – not after hitting Malchus Lorne with a rock. If he can't have vengeance, he will be satisfied only with murder. I would think you would not wish it."

Aylee lost track of her protest over traveling with the stranger when she heard the accusation from her mother. "A rock?" Aylee gasped. "I most certainly did not hit him with a rock! If I had, you can be sure his face would have cleaved in twain!"

"I knew it," Jameson guffawed. "I said that very thing to Itch – " Jameson swallowed his words as he absorbed the look on Aylee's face.

"And what exactly did you know?

"Um, merely that a strike from a stone would cause more damage than Malchus showed."

Though she peered at him through slitted eyes, he merely smirked back, as if amused by her defiance. If he intended to travel to the marsh with her, he would need to correct his impudence, or he might find himself knocked off his horse. Before she could reply, her mother interrupted her thoughts.

"So, what did you hit him with that cause such a horrid-looking mark?" Mistress Hembry demanded.

"I struck with my fist.” Aylee turned back to her mother. “…as hard as I could! Not that I could have fought him, but I wanted to make sure that he felt some pain."

"And that he did," Jameson smiled as Aylee glanced at him. "I can assure you."

For the first time since he had seen her, Aylee flashed a smile of genuine pleasure at Jameson, an amused, knowing sunbeam that radiated pleasure. It drew him in further than he had intended, and for a moment, he forgot the nature of its owner.

"And so would anyone else who attempted to take liberties with me in any way," Aylee leveled into a glare at Jameson, and the spell evaporated.

"And so they should," agreed Mistress Hembry, her lips curved skyward. She had watched “Jess’s” expression morph from a smug, intense pleasure to almost peaked, ill disappointment – a surprising openness of countenance in one of such obviously high stature. "Now, gentlemen,” Mistress Hembry pressed, “Aylee will go prepare for her journey." Turning aside to her daughter, the sympathy in Mistress Hembry’s eyes laced with the ache of losing her daughter for an indefinite time. “I will instruct Mistress Coates and be in to you shortly. Pack a bag with a change of clothes, and wear your cloak against the rain.”

Aylee gripped her mother’s hand. “I know what to do, mother. Just come to me quickly – I want my last few moments at home to be with you.”

Meeting her daughter’s eyes, Mistress Hembry forced a smile. “I will make haste.”

Once alone in the chamber, Aylee peered around at the familiar comfort that she loved almost as much as the field behind her home, trying to ascertain what she should take. She set her cloak on her bed and placed her extra chemise on a cloth next to it. There was no need for an extra tunic, since she wished to minimize her burden.

She held no great desire to leave, but she hated being alone. When would her mother come? Crossing to the recessed shelf on the wall behind her door, she pulled down the sketch of her home that she had drawn several years before. She did not hold any great skill with a pencil, but somehow she had created a recognizable likeness of the place she loved most. She considered carrying it with her, but she knew she was being foolish – her destination lay just over two leagues away.

Placing it back in its spot, she ran her fingers over her books – treasures that she would never have received had her father not been a merchant. They had cost him dearly, and she had never loved them less than they deserved – three books, one gilt in gold, one blue, and one red. Her favorite showed the most wear, the gold one with the title Never Leave, that told the story of a young boy who had survived an orphaned childhood to find friendship and happiness.

Opening it to the middle, she flipped back several pages and read over the lines. He would not tell the girl of his home, it read, for he believed that if he spoke the words, he would never return again, and home was the most magical of moments. Aylee had to wonder. When she was young, the words had seemed silly, though something in them had tugged at her. Of course, there was nothing magical about home, she had reasoned. As she grew older and noticed the world around her, she began to see that – at least in her case – home had been more magical than she deserved.

The thought made her smile, because her favorite line in the book spoke of magic, but the other tomes, Over the Edge and The Treasure Field, had not appealed to her quite as much as the other because they were too fanciful, filled with mythical creatures and lore. Still, Aylee considered all of them her most valuable possessions. You will be back to them, she reassured herself, blowing out a breath as she stepped back to wrap up her bundle.

Nothing else she cared about would make any sense or would not fit – the doll in the corner that she would some day gift to her own daughter, the little stool where she sat and stared out the window on cold mornings, her grandmother’s shawl that would likely unravel on any journey farther than the parlor.

By the time her mother came in, Aylee sat quietly on her stool, the window just cracked so she could peer across her field and over the wildflowers there. Her mother patted the bed so Aylee would join her, and all the stress of the past few hours crashed down upon Aylee at once when her mother wrapped her arm around her. "Mother, what have I done?" she whimpered, tears beginning to fall.

"Well, as I do not yet know the details, I dunna know. But knowing you, I am sure you did no more than was warranted."

"Oh, mother. It was awful! He trapped me. I couldn't escape! I didn't know what else to do!"

"Dear child, no man has the right to take from you anything you will not give willingly, but many will try. In the absence of your father, or a brother with sense," her mother gazed deep into her daughter’s eyes to emphasize her words, "you had to do whatever necessary. If it costs us some inconvenience and difficulty, then we will pay it gladly. Do you want to tell me?"

Aylee pondered for a moment, not sure that she wanted to relive the morning's events. "At the moment, no, simply because I don't want to recount what happened. Will you let me tell you when I can?"

"Of course, child. And ye are safe with those two in the meantime," Mistress Hembry motioned to where Jameson sat with his friend in the living room.

Shaking her head, Aylee frowned up at her mother. "How can you say that? You know nothing of him, and I have reason to believe otherwise. Yet you seem ready to trust him. I wonder that you let me alone with him at all. Are not all men prone to take liberties?"

"Perhaps they are," her mother smirked in agreement, "though most, unlike Malchus, will only take the liberties that you offer willingly."

Aylee gasped in shock. "Mother! You would not imply that I would allow anything...with one of these strangers? I am not as taken in by them as you seem to be."

Rather than reprimand her daughter, Raehan merely touched Aylee's cheek with affection. "You just continue in the vein you have begun, and you will be fine. A woman who guards her virtue so carefully is a valuable woman." Aylee's mother wore a pensive expression, but Aylee could not discern why. Of course, Aylee would guard her virtue, and especially with someone as questionable as the stranger. How could she not? Did her mother not care that Aylee guard her heart and her mind as well? They were as valuable as her virtue, but they seemed easily dismissed by society, at least for a woman. To have them dismissed by her mother felt a type of betrayal. Aylee huffed a frustrated breath.

When a commotion arose near the front of the house, though, she jumped to her feet. Her mother had packed several belongings in a bundle, and she handed these to Aylee now along with Aylee’s coin purse, which held at least double what Aylee herself had placed in it.

"Leave through Chapman's window. The coins should cover any cost required, and I will deal with this."

"But mother, what if you are in danger?"

"If I am right about the young gentlemen in there, I am in very little danger. You might lose your escort, though, because I think they might need to stall Malchus from following you, which is just as well."

"I love you, Mother!” Aylee wrapped her arms around Raehan Hembry’s neck as the woman draped a cloak over her daughter’s shoulders and lifted the hood. “Are you sure it is safe for me to leave you with those men? There is some obfuscation happening with them."

"I am quite safe; I am sure. I love you, too, dear. Don't waste a moment worrying about me; just stay safe. When your father returns, he will sort all of this out. And once Malchus is convinced you are not here, he will leave us alone. Now, go!"

Mistress Hembry shoved Aylee out the window into the rain, pointing toward a path that led beside the meadow and along the forest until it reached the marsh. If Aylee followed the route, the trees and darkness would provide her cover for close to a mile before she had to strike out into an open space. As she broke the plane of the window, she heard Jess's voice and paused to listen. "Dear Malchus, surely you have experienced the hospitality of Mistress Hembry. When she saw me stopped in the downpour to repair my horse's shoe, she offered the services of her steward and invited me in. I have seen nothing of your wayward maid since I have entered this house."

Rather than wait to hear the resolution, though it might decide her future, Aylee dashed from the room and across the small distance toward the trees, praying that no flash of lightning would draw notice to the hooded figure braving the storm. She made it halfway across the clearing before she heard the sound of hooves begin to pound against the earth nearby. For some reason, she could not tell if they drew closer or farther away, and her anxiety spurred her to motion. If she could make the other side of the clearing, she thought she would be able to conceal herself in the trees.

But where were the hoofbeats coming from?

Pausing in her progress, she hunched into the tall grass, pulling the hood far over her face and slowly rotating to get her bearings. The lightning had paused, though some far distant thunder still rumbled, and Aylee could see nothing The form that flew at her nearly ripped a scream from her throat. As it pressed her to the ground, a hand flew to her mouth, knocking back her hood and exposing her face. She could find no purchase for struggle, pinned under the substantial muscle of a brawny man. Utter darkness. Trapped. Panic seized her, and a scream built in her throat. The voice that murmured past her ear, though, stilled her terror instantly. Jess.

“You mustn’t move,” he instructed, and Aylee knew she would not. As she became aware of him, a strange exhilaration stirred in her at the feel of his body on hers, though she recognized the impropriety of her thoughts. Water streamed over him and dripped down onto her face, and when he realized it, he lifted his head higher so that it shielded her from most of the downpour. Should she fight him? Nothing inside her rose to the purpose, instead lying in anticipation at his intention.

“What is it?” she wondered almost noiselessly when he moved his hand off her face. What is wrong with me? she wondered. A man lay atop her, and she was not resisting him, was not complaining? In fact, her instincts wanted to close her eyes and relax into the earth until he decided to free her.

Before he could answer, the hoofbeats she had heard passed mere feet from her position, and they paused for at least a minute, the feet moving but somehow not changing location. Aylee imagined that Malchus was turning his horse to peer around the clearing for clues to her position.

Jess did not let her move. With his face so close to hers, a flash of lightning revealed the sage green of his eyes, and she noted that he bore a scar under the left edge of his chin. He turned his gaze down to hers when he saw her looking at him, and for several seconds, they peered into each other’s eyes.

She was…beautiful. As the storm raged around them, Jameson could not process anything but the way she looked at him – the way she felt beneath him. It was completely inappropriate, yet he could not remove himself from the intensity of her gaze. For several days, he had felt only flashes of mild alleviation in his sadness. He bore so much responsibility, and he stood in danger of losing so much, but Aylee Hembry gazed at him with some form of comprehension, a compassion that reached into the ache in his chest and diffused it.

When the hoofbeats finally receded, neither of them moved for a moment. Aylee peered up at Jess against the dark, and she noted the lines that had formed suddenly between his brows. What was that expression? Behind the interest – mayhap even fascination – in his eyes, she could read a melancholy undertone, an insecurity that was masked by whatever confidence he had worn in the carriage. She remembered her thoughts then: nobles do not suffer depression. Yet she read pain in his expression.

“Are you injured?” she wondered, reaching her hand to the worry line on his forehead. She hadn’t meant to…it went against propriety – but the intensity of that look! His own shock at the touch erased the expression instantly, and Aylee’s eyes rushed away from his as she suddenly grew aware of the reality of her situation. He seemed to recognize her understanding of the pain that had etched his face, and he lowered his eyes to the ground beside her neck.

“Of course not,” he denied. “I am more concerned that I have injured you.”

“I am not hurt,” she echoed, trying to control her breath. What had she been thinking? She had been thinking that maybe she had been wrong about nobles and depression. Or maybe he was telling the truth, and he wasn’t a noble. It doesn’t matter, she assured herself. I will leave him at the first opportunity. Her embarrassment repelled her from him, and as the hoofbeats slowly eased away from them, Jess rolled off of her to one side.

“Forgive me,” he begged, his voice pained. “I was…”

He seemed unable to finish the sentence, and Aylee found her lip twitching with a smile. Was he as embarrassed as she? “You were fully aware of how inappropriate were your actions?”

“My actions?” he scoffed. “Inappropriate? My actions were entirely appropriate if I were to keep Malchus Lorne from finding you. What caused you to strike out into an open field instead of staying to the edges?” The worry offered a nice distraction from the memory of her hand on his face.

“I did not ask for your assistance,” she admonished, rising to her feet. “And I did not need it.” Irritated, she struck out toward her original goal of the other side of the field.

“Wait! Aylee! What if he decides to come back? If he realizes that he cannot find you? Won’t you come back to my horse so we can ride to Lady Willen’s?”

“I will be well on my way before he comes back. Thank you for your service. I can manage from here.”

Watching her back, Jameson shook his head. The woman was impossible! She bore no weapon, she was completely isolated; how exactly did she expect to fend off Malchus if he overtook her again? Grateful or not – rebel or not – Aylee did not deserve the aggression of Malchus Lorne, and Jameson would not let her stubbornness prove her downfall.

He returned to his horse, hooked on a hitch by the barn. Surely she recognized that riding would prove much more efficient at delivering her to safety! With a quick glance at her back to make sure that she faced no imminent danger, he leapt onto his steed as quickly as he could manage.

Aylee heard the rustling of the grass as Jess rose behind her, but the sound of his steps did not follow. When she glanced behind her, he was scurrying away, and she suppressed a pang of regret. This is what I wanted, she assured herself. What right did the man have to restrain her in any way?

Almost as soon as she reached the other side of the clearing, hoofbeats erupted behind her again, and she ducked behind a large treetrunk as concealment, her heart thundering with the hooves. It burned her up that Jess had been right, that Malchus had come back for her. When the arm gripped her and pulled her up from the ground, though, the face she encountered stirred up rather more exhilaration than terror.

It was Jess.

"Hang on," he commanded, as if she had a choice besides that or die from the fall.

“You again!” she chastised. “What gives you the right…?”

“To protect you? I imagine the urge to do so is enough. Even if I place myself in a vulnerable position in the process.”

"Where is your friend?" she begged, glad that the rough gait of the horse and the pounding of the rain disguised the quaver in her voice. “Has he abandoned you?”

"My friend has a name – it's Itchy, and he is back there saving your family."

Sudden panic filled her chest, "Saving them?"

Sensing her rising anxiety, Jameson slowed the horse to a brisk trot, hoping to communicate the easing of urgency. His linen shirt was soaked through, but the storm had slowed to a light rain, and the moon shone before them. She wore a woolen cloak that would have repelled most of the water. For himself, he could survive a little water to calm her. "Well, not saving them per se, but ascertaining that Malchus stays on his course toward his home. If he does, then Itchy will cross the northern border of your town in the next ten minutes on his way to meet me at our next place of business. To which I will continue after I deposit you at your friend’s home."

"Lady Willen?"

“Though if I'm not mistaken, she is not a titled lady."

Aylee glared under her hood at the back of his head. "And why would a tradesman care?” she sassed. “Or did I hear my mother speaking of nobles..." Aylee would not let on what she had heard of the exchange between Jess and Malchus. Was the man a noble or not? “Not exactly noble,” he had claimed, and to Aylee, the words spoke equivocation.

“Nobles?” Jameson forced a cough. “No, no. Just a misunderstanding about titles, due to my education. Though she did speak of the duke and his strange behavior.”

“So, you don't care about Lady Willen's title?”

“Why would I? As long as no one interferes with my business, I care not whether someone holds title or no.”

That sentiment sounds like a tradesman, she admitted silently, and as he picked up speed, she lost the ability to think. Instead, she found herself mesmerized by the blur of the world as it flew by. Her head spun, and she gripped Jess tighter as she lay her cheek against his back to block out the wind. Though she had ridden horses a thousand times, she had not ridden behind anyone in years, and she had certainly never wrapped her arms around a stranger – a grown man, no less. Though she tried not to register the feel of him, she could not ignore the ridges of muscle, rendered more exposed by the near-soaked linen, that lay underneath her fingers. The feel of him atop her would not leave her mind, and with his focus elsewhere, her mind indulged the memory for a moment before she realized what she was doing.

“Are you quite comfortable?” Jess questioned over the wind, and a definite amusement colored his tone.

To her dismay, she realized that she had begun to move her hands where they lay pressed against his stomach. “I –” she shouted, grasping for an explanation. “No, I am not comfortable,” she finally accused. “I do not trust you, and I fear you might possess some hidden weapon under your tunic.”

“Miss Aylee,” he slowed the horse for a moment, turning his head so he could speak in a lower voice. The rain had stopped, and her hood had fallen down, so he could just make out the waving tresses that framed her face. “I assure you that if I intended to overpower you, I should need no weapons, and in our current situation, you would find no witnesses to hinder me. But feel for weapons if you must.” She felt certain she could see the corner of his mouth rising in amusement, and she wanted to dig her fingernails in where they rested on his sides.

His words both infuriated and embarrassed her, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say. Finally, she leaned forward in the saddle, raising her mouth up to his ear. “And I assure you, Friend Jess, that you would find me more difficult to best than you would imagine, and more prepared than I stood to resist Malchus Lorne. I would not stop at a bruise.”

To her frustration, Jess burst out into uproarious laughter, and he lashed the horse's reins so that they broke into a near gallop. If this woman had any idea who he was! Though he was not sure if she would have behaved any differently. “I think, then, Miss Aylee, that I had best deliver you safely to your destination.”

“See that you do,” she yelled defiantly. She couldn't quite shake her dissatisfaction with the resolution of the moment. As she entered the neighborhood belonging to the marshers, though, all thoughts of Jess fled her mind, and a moroseness settled over her as the horse slowed to a walk. Aylee found herself disappointed that Jess would leave her there, and she wondered why she seemed to prefer the unfamiliar precariousness of the stranger in front of her to the familiar predictability of Lady Willen's cottage. He and his friend just seemed the only people of her acquaintance strong enough and smart enough to resist Malchus Lorne, though perhaps her father could have in his youth. If Aylee were honest with herself, she also imagined a glimmer of goodness in them that made her hope.

"You're going to be fine," Jess spoke reassuringly, and Aylee wondered what she had done that revealed her insecurity. "I do have business all around the region, but I am sure you will be safe here, and I have resources that can bring me news of your situation in the future, in case you require my assistance."

“I do not need you to check up on me,” Aylee countered petulantly. “My family is only a few minutes away, and Lady Willen can raise up fifty men in an instant if I need defending. And your friend needn’t seek out my mother for your payment…” She pulled out her purse. “I received recompense for services today, so I can pay you myself.”

“I don’t want your money…” Jameson gritted his teeth, irritated by the continuous reference to payment.

After a moment of silence, Aylee ventured a question that had bothered her since the barn, and bothered her even more with his continued refusal for payment. The rain had stopped, and she was able to offer the question with as little intensity as possible, lest she raise suspicion at her curiosity. "If not for money, then why are you doing all of this? What do you get out of helping me?” When he had spoken of taking her to the marsh, Aylee had felt sure that it was either a tradesman’s urge to gain a quick coin or a ploy to hand her over to Malchus for even more coin. His behavior since, however, confused her greatly. This “Friend Jess” seemed truly to have rescued her.

"You judge us severely then, though I guess I can’t blame you. Still, I have known many honorable tradesmen, more given to charity than most nobles. In my case, though, this has cost me little. I just happened onto the right place to help you, and it lay within my power to do so."

"Of course. You would have done the same for anyone in need."

"For the most part, though…” he huffed a laugh. “Perhaps the bruise on the face of Malchus Lorne gave me an extra incentive for helping you."

"Were you worried about my safety?"

Jameson found his lips curve in an unexpected smile. "Certainly, that is a concern. But it was more because I couldn't help but admire the maid who possessed the nerve to slug that man in the face."

Aylee smiled but mumbled a protest. She would not accept flattery for such a thing. "He left me with little choice,” she insisted.

"Many a maid would have made a different choice,” he countered soberly as he dismounted and helped her down. “Either because they desired his good favor or because they felt they could not successfully resist him."

"I felt no assurance of success.” Intensity filled her tone, “but I would rather die than succumb to the likes of Malchus."

Jameson stiffened at the words, gently taking her hand. "Maybe you should tone down the severity a tad. A life is too valuable a price to pay for someone else's transgression."

“I doubt your friend would agree,” Aylee mumbled. “There are attributes valued of utmost importance for a woman.”

“My friend would think very much the same as I do on the subject, I assure you.” I would not allow him to consider otherwise.

Even though Aylee did not know how far to trust her companion, she couldn’t ignore the wisdom in his words, especially considering how counter they ran to the culture’s view of transgressions against women “I will remember that,” she agreed, pulling her hand back.

To Jameson, her admission spoke a degree of softening toward him, and he smiled with a hint of triumph. He had meant the words, but he had not expected her to hear them from him.

"I am sure,” she continued, “that Lady Willen, titled or not, will care for me as well as anyone I know."

"If I thought she would not, I would not leave you with her. Still, I'm sure Itchy would be willing to check in on you if you wish."

“You do not honestly expect me to believe that your friend’s real name is Itchy,” she dismissed the offer, but then a question struck her. “If anything, the name sounds like a pseudonym. Is he hiding something?”

Jameson gritted his teeth, finding that the implied fascination toward another vexed him. Weeks, he realized, he had watched his servant engage in the same dance, but he only sensed protectiveness for it with Aylee. “He has been using a pseudonym since childhood, if that is the case,” he managed. “You would have to ask him why, since he refuses to tell me.”

“Will he not tell you?” Aylee scoffed. “I guess my mother was wrong, then, about who holds the authority between you.” As she plodded toward the cottage, she peered up at her companion’s face, and she could not miss the amused defiance that curled the corner of his lips. Did he resent his friend’s secret?

“Authority?” he hemmed. “No, there is no authority to hold between us. Authority should exist only to protect just claims, not to demand obedience.” He spoke the words as an afterthought, almost as a mantra taught by his father, but he did not miss the curious tilt of her head in response. I am glad I am leaving her, he realize, because she would find us out far too quickly.

Such honorable sentiments, Aylee realized. If they were real and not feigned, he might impress her, but it mattered little. Once he left her with Lady Willen, the identities of the two men would mean nothing to her future. Rather than continue her questioning, then, Aylee reached to open the little gate. Beyond it lay the quaint thatch-roofed home of Lady Willen, one of the few permanent homes in the marsh. "We have arrived," Aylee smiled warmly. Other than her mother's parting kiss, the sight of the cottage felt closer to home than anything she had experienced that day.

Before they could enter the little courtyard, Lady Willen had creaked open her front door and hobbled halfway up to the cottage gate with her lantern. She stared hard at Jameson as if unsure whether to consider him friend or foe. "Miss Aylee, what trouble have you brought here to my step? Thou knowest that I have no wish to involve meself in the affairs of outsiders."

"I assure you, I'll be no trouble," Jameson insisted as he followed the women into the house. Fortunately, the wind had largely dried his clothes, so he did not worry about sullying the pristine little cottage.

"Oh, ye'll be trouble, alright," Lady Willen nodded, seating Aylee and Jameson on two chairs that accompanied a small table in the center of her dirt-floored home. "Loads of trouble. Though I'll grant that it will not be of thy own will. Perhaps I should say this one will bring me trouble." She gestured to Aylee.

"Lady Willen!” the young lady insisted, “you know that I wish you nothing but prosperity and peace."

"Yet, you come here in your hour of need, danger hard upon your heels. What ye wish may not matter."

Out of nowhere, a sob escaped Aylee's lips. She began to shudder, and before she could control herself, tears began to stream down her face. She hated her tears. She wanted to scrub them from her face, but the day's events had finally defeated her, and Lady Willen’s words wrapped her own thoughts up too neatly to ignore. To hear that Aylee’s refuge would cost those she loved – the realization, along with the memory of her near escape with Malchus, nearly overwhelmed her.

Jameson felt beside himself with the flow of tears, as unused to the vulnerabilities of woman as to the misty lands that lay across the sea. Rising from his chair, he knelt in front of her. "Miss Aylee," he urged, "I told you that you will be okay – why do you give way to worry?"

When she glanced into his eyes, she recognized something in them that felt familiar to her, a new acquaintance in her life that had taken up residence in her heart as if it belonged there. She saw pain in his eyes, not just her shared pain, but a pain his own. It seemed what brought him to his knees before her, and so intense was the thought that Aylee doubted her own impression. He blinked his eyes, and it was gone. He was just a stranger who saw a woman in distress. "How can you offer me any assurances?" she whined. His kindness threatened to reach her, but she was not yet ready to trust any man, much less one whom she knew to obscure his identity, one she had observed with her enemy. "Malchus has thrown his lot in with a spineless portreeve. With the law behind him, I have little hope of withholding the scoundrel and his ill intent."

"But there are laws above the portreeve," Jameson insisted, knowing that if he had held his office, he would have acted against Malchus already.

"Ha!" Aylee laughed in his face. "Who? The governor? The minister? The duke?”

“My father is – ” Jameson cut himself off, afraid he had blown his secret before he had begun it. “If you will just have patience, I’m sure the right people will mend this.”

“You think so?” she wondered, and she seemed not to have notice his slip. “Apparently, someone has decided to appoint idiots to positions of power."

Jameson squeezed the hand he held. "Perhaps you are mistaken. Maybe your portreeve slipped through the cracks, and he will be gone in short order."

"Nay!" the old woman chimed in. "She is right. I have ears all over the region, and I swear the duke has gone mad. A once wise man has begun appointing fools. And his troops are out of control."

"Good God, woman! Cease your conjectures!" Jameson spat, slightly shocked at his own disrespect. Still, how could he let her continue to upset Aylee and malign his ill father?

Fortunately, his lapse drew Aylee from her stupor of misery. "Jess Whatever-your-name-is," Aylee chastised, pulling her hand away from his. "You will be quiet, not she. If Lady Willen speaks it, it must be truth. You do not know or you would not open your mouth against her."

Amused shock silenced Jameson more than repentance. During his entire life, no soul had ever spoken to him with such authority outside his father. Had she known the particulars of his identity, she likely would have refrained, but as such, he saw her defense of her friend as quite a display of virtue. Rarely did he encounter a genuine loyalty so unconnected to a deference to consequence. Perhaps his own loyalty to Itchy. "I beg your pardon," Jameson acquiesced. "Lady Willen,” he turned to the older woman, “please forgive me. I just wish you would refrain from saying things that undermine Miss Aylee's sense of security. She has been through enough. Still, I have spoken ill."

"Oh, I'll survive," the old woman smiled, and Aylee watched in amusement as Jameson shuffled awkwardly to his feet, retaking his seat and focusing his eyes on an indistinct spot on the tabletop. “Thou needn't grovel.”

"’Friend Jess,’" Aylee mocked his pseudonym. "Forgive me for chastising you. I have no doubt that Lady Willen can handle the likes of you, much less that bully from Bennigton."

"That I can," Lady Willen grinned.

"Well, in that case," Jameson stood to his feet, and Aylee found herself standing next to him a moment later, "I will leave Aylee in your capable hands."

"And you need to go now?" Aylee had meant the words as a statement, but they squeaked out as a disappointed question. "I mean, my lord," she distracted him from her emotion by using the title he so wished to avoid, "that surely you will need to hear from Itchy?"

With narrowing eyes, Jameson returned the salutation, thus diffusing its significance. "Well, milady, Itchy and I are quite adept at finding each other, so you needn’t worry about us."

"Oh," Aylee whispered mousily. If she had masked her disappointment the first time, she failed to do so the second.

When Jameson studied Aylee's fallen features, compassion filled him again. He had seen the fire and determination in that face, and for her to reveal such insecurity, she must feel a deep distress. He could not stay with her, however, so he did not know how to help. Perhaps, he smiled to himself, I can rally that fiery spirit. His eyes fell upon her bottom lip, which she chewed with consternation, and is it so distracted him, perhaps he could use it to distract her as well. He bent down to whisper in her ear. "You will damage your mouth that way, milady."

Aylee's lips popped open in surprise, and Jameson almost laughed out loud. In some ways, she was quite predictable. Instead of swooning at his charm, as no doubt would have happened with Itchy, Aylee just growled at him. She strode past him to the door. "And with that, I think ye have worn out your welcome." She squeezed the words through clenched teeth, and taking Jameson by the arm, she pressed him toward the door, throwing it open just before she would have bashed his head into it. Though she lacked the strength to force him out in such a way, she managed to accomplish with shock what she would not have accomplished with her limited power. Jameson found himself grinning as he considered it.

“Well, it appears he has thy number…” Lady Willen leveled to Aylee – amusement painting the old woman’s tone – once the door had shut the man out in the night.

“My number?” Aylee gasped, incensed. “I believe that I roundly handled him!”

“Oh, surely handled. He just silenced your panic with his well-placed teasing.”

“Well-placed…?” Aylee peered down at the floor before her, not quite able to assess the accuracy of Lady Willen’s assertion. “Surely, he did not intend – ” Aylee’s pride rebelled against the manipulation, though she couldn’t quite regret the effectiveness of it. Sighing at the door, she turned back to her cup of tea at the table, relieved to be rid of such a potent distraction.