Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

"…Lo, there did I see my destiny when I gazed across the room on that fateful night…."

The Chronicles of Sir Sean de Lara

1206 – 1215 A.D.

"D id you ever imagine what Adonis must look like?"

Alys was lying horizontal on the great bed that she shared with her sister. She was half-dressed for the evening meal, most of her time having been spent in the land of silly daydreams. Sheridan had been attempting to hurry her up for the better part of two hours. But Alys moved, as always, on her own time.

"No," Sheridan was gazing into a polished bronze mirror that was strategically affixed to the chamber wall. "I have not imagined that. And you should not waste your time. You must finish dressing or I swear that I will leave without you. The bishop will be here at any moment."

Alys turned to watch her sister as she pulled a bonecomb through her silky dark-blond tresses. Sheridan's hair was thick and straight, while Alys had more natural curl than she could handle. Still, Sheridan was able to roll her hair with strips of cloth at night, resulting in cascades of curls for the following day. In a world where beauty was judged on natural attributes, Sheridan often felt inadequate as far as her hair was concerned. But she did possess the loveliness of face and figure so as not to feel completely unattractive.

Alys never thought her sister was unattractive. In fact, she was proud and jealous of her beauty at the same time. She finally decided to push herself off the bed and go in search of her hose, which could take some time to locate. She was a messy girl and her clothes were generally strewn all over the room.

"Surely my savior has the face meant for Adonis, do not you think?" Alys bent over when she came across her shoe. "Did you not notice how handsome he was?"

Sheridan was in the process of pulling the front section of her hair back and securing it with an enormous comb in the shape of a butterfly. "I noticed how big he was, to be certain. The man was three times your size."

"But he was beautiful," Alys sighed.

Sheridan had not given him a second thought, but she did seem to recall unnaturally clear blue eyes and a square, firm jaw. Upon deeper reflection, she supposed he had been rather handsome in a rugged sort of way.

"I presume so. I did not give much notice."

Alys found her hose. "Do you suppose he will be at the feast tonight?"

"If he is one of John's vassals, I am sure he will be."

That prompted Alys to move faster. She yanked on her hose, affixed the garters, and put on her shoes. Then she snatched the comb that Sheridan had been using and began furiously brushing her hair.

Sheridan frowned at her sister's pushy demeanor. Fortunately, she had finished securing her own hair and moved aside so that Alys could have full control of the mirror. She went to the wardrobe to collect her slippers.

"Good Lord," she grunted as she bent over for the shoes. "She cinched my corset far too tightly."

"Who?"

"The maid."

"Oh." Alys had brushed her hair so roughly that it was turning into a giant frizzy ball of red hair. She smoothed her hands over it furiously. "Look, now. What do I do?"

Sheridan went to her rescue. They had been through this routine before, too many times. She put beeswax and a slight amount of oil on her hands and smoothed them over her sister's hair, again and again. Most of the strands tamed, but some clung to her as if alive. It was like trying to tame a wild beast.

"If he is there tonight, do not make a fool of yourself," she muttered as she smoothed Alys' hair. "You already thanked him. There is no need to throw yourself at his feet."

Alys was appalled. "I would do no such thing."

Sheridan worked the oil into the ends of the hair until it was absorbed. "I know you far too well, baby sister. What have I told you before? You must be cool and pleasant. 'Twill make you more appealing than if you lay at his feet like a door mat."

Alys made a face, rolling her eyes. Then she yelped as her sister pulled a single, painful strand. "I am sure he will want to dine with me if he is there, do not you think?"

It was Sheridan's turn to make a face. Alys never listened to reason, from anyone. Finished with the hair-salvage, she fastened a delicate black hairnet over Alys' head to compliment the red dress with black accents that she was wearing. When all was said and done, Alys' wild mane was nicely contained.

"There," Sheridan said. "Now you look presentable. Have the maid beat the wrinkles from the dress before we leave."

The little maid they had brought with them from their home at Lansdown Castle was in the larger antechamber airing out the heavy cloaks her mistresses would wear. The woman came when Alys beckoned, bearing the large paddle made from water reeds normally used to beat bed linens and rugs. The red-haired sister put her arms up and the servant girl went to work, smacking out the wrinkles from the linen that had formed when Alys had lain all over the bed during her daydreams.

With Alys finished, Sheridan returned to her final touches so that she would be presentable before the finest courtiers in England. It was, in truth, intimidating. She gazed at herself in the mirror, assessing her reflection; she wore a gown of iridescent green, like the color of the sea on a warm summer day. The sleeves were long with trailing cuffs, the neckline daringly low, and the bodice tapered at the waist to emphasize her slender torso. A lovely necklace of rough-cut emeralds finished the look.

As she inspected her face, she noticed that her lips were chapped again. She had to constantly rub a solution of beeswax and salve on them to keep them from cracking and bleeding. On special occasions, she added a touch of ocher to the mix and turned her lips a delightful shade of red. It was perhaps a bit much, and a little daring, but she liked the result when she was brave enough to do it. Tonight, she decided, was just such a night.

She wasn't aware that Alys was also watching her as she went through her closing preparations. Alys' blue eyes grazed her sister, from head to toe, wishing yet again that she had been blessed with even half the beauty her sister had. Though their facial features were similar, Sheridan's were refined and delicate and Alys' tended to be broader. Sheridan had lovely white teeth, with slightly protruding canines, that added charm and character to her beautiful smile. Alys had slightly protruding front teeth that made her look like a rabbit. Sheridan also had a slender neck and shapely shoulders, whereas Alys' neck was a bit thick. In fact, her entire body was a bit thick; not fat, but full. Sheridan had a trim waist made even more slender with the corset, which only made her breasts appear rounder and firmer.

Alys often wished she had been born in Sheridan's figure. Perhaps it would have made a difference with the men she had fallen in love with. Perhaps they would have stayed. But she wasn't bitter, strangely enough. It was simply something she lived with.

A knock on the door sent their hearts racing with excitement. The little maid flew into the antechamber and opened the door for Jocelin, Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury. A rotund man who had been close friends with their father, Jocelin had taken it upon himself to assume the paternal role for the girls when their father passed away suddenly the year before. Lillian, their mother, had not fared well with the death of her husband and the family had been in emotional need. Jocelin had stepped in, not only for the family's requirements, but also as a promise to Henry St. James.

The men had been united in their alliance against the oppressive monarchy that had driven a bitter wedge through the heart of the country. Henry's death was unfortunate, as there was still much to accomplish in that arena and Jocelin knew they were well on their way. Tonight, the first festival feast of the year would be an excellent opportunity to assess the growing opposition and reaffirm alliances. The king, allies and enemies alike would be in attendance and Jocelin was eager to gauge the playing field.

Unfortunately, the notion was on Sheridan's mind as well. He knew the moment he looked into her angelic face that she was thinking the same thing he was. Henry St. James had no sons, and Sheridan had been inevitably directed into the role. She was the eldest child, intelligent and wise, and like her father in every way. She would have made a fine son and heir, and Henry had raised her as if she had been male. Truth be known, part of the reason Jocelin had assumed Henry's mantel to keep Sheridan out of trouble. As Lady Bath's daughter, she wielded the power of an important earldom and in these days of political upheaval, wise council was needed more than ever.

"Greetings, ladies," Jocelin said in his great booming voice. "How lovely you look this eve."

Alys grinned and spun about to display herself. Sheridan shrugged off the comment and accepted her cloak from the maid.

"I am told de Warenne is on his way to London," she said. "He was an old friend of my father's. When he arrives, I should like to see him."

Jocelin helped her with the heavy, fur-trimmed garment. "We will both see him upon his arrival. Tonight, I have arranged for us to be seated with the Bishop of Coventry. William is a very old friend and a strong supporter of our cause." When Sheridan turned to face him, adjusting the neck of the cloak, he lowered his voice so Alys would not hear. "We will speak to him about arranging a meeting with the other allies."

"How soon can this be done?"

"I do not know. There are many we must arrange this with, and it must be done in all secrecy. Should the king discover our plans…."

"He'll arrest us all and execute us for treason."

Jocelin bobbed his head with resignation. "It is possible. I also understand that William Marshall will be at the feast tonight, another mark in our favor."

"William Marshall?" There was excitement in her tone. "Do you think we could arrange to sit with his party? No offense meant to the Bishop of Coventry, but William Marshall is legendary. The man has served three kings and I, for one, would be eager to bask in his presence."

Jocelin patted her shoulder patiently. "In time, little one. You do not invite yourself to the Marshall's table. You wait to be summoned."

"But…"

"Tut," he held up a finger, cutting her off. Now was not the time to continue this discussion. To change the subject, he lifted his voice to Alys. "Are you ready, my dear? There is much food and festivity awaiting us. We must hurry before it is all over with."

Alys bolted from the door with Jocelin and Sheridan close behind. A small contingent of the Bishop's men and of St. James' men await in the hall, commanded by a knight who had been Henry's captain for many years. Neely de Moreville was a powerful man with an unspectacular face, but of calm and good character. He bowed to the ladies, paying particular attention to Sheridan.

"If my lady is ready," he extended an elbow.

Sheridan took his offered arm and followed him down the corridor. Jocelin and Alys were immediately behind them, followed by four St. James guards and four Ecclesiastical guards.

The Tower of London was a labyrinth of dark corridors, a grand hall and cramped rooms. It had recently seen some expansion; a new moat had been added, filled by water from the Thames, and several buildings and apartments were added on the south side of the White Tower. The largest addition, however, was the Bell Tower that loomed high above the fortress.

The group left the east apartments and crossed the bailey towards the White Tower. The feast would be in the keep's great hall. Sheridan's gaze moved over the new, enlarged surroundings.

"I have never seen such a large structure," she said. "Surely this is the strongest and most impregnable fortress in the world."

Neely took any opportunity to speak with Sheridan. Being his liege's daughter, he had watched her grow from a sweet child into a dazzling young woman. But he knew his place, well aware of their difference in station.

"It has quite a history, my lady," he said. "Especially over the past few years with the contention of power between King John and his brother, Richard."

"I heard tale that John laid siege to the tower several years ago while Richard was in the Holy Land."

Neely nodded. "Richard's chancellor, William Longchamp, initiated a massive expansion project, the results of which you see now. John took advantage of his brother's absence and attacked the new defenses. Longchamp was forced to surrender not because the fortifications failed, but because the Tower ran out of supplies."

Sheridan thought on that a moment. "'Twould seem that John will stop at nothing to gain what he wants."

"Keep that in mind, my lady."

Having served the House of St. James as long as he had, Neely had been trusted with their innermost secrets. He was well aware of Henry and Sheridan's position on John. He was, in fact, extraordinarily uncomfortable that she was here at the core of King John's wickedness. It had been, in his opinion, foolish of her to come, but this journey had been planned for a long time and nothing would stop Sheridan from accompanying Jocelin in her father's stead.

Neely knew more than he let on about the king, as did Jocelin. They both knew the man had no morality. He had been known to seduce the wives of his advisors while the men were powerless to stop him. For those who tried to resist him, he had them thrown in the vault and took the women anyway. Sometimes the men were left in the Tower to rot. One did not refuse the king and live to tell the tale.

Which was why they were particularly fearful for Sheridan. She was a magnificent creature and it would only be a matter of time before John saw her. When that time came and the royal summons arrived, Neely was still uncertain to what he should do. Jocelin wanted to whisk her to a convent if and when the occasion came. Not even the king, with as much trouble as he had historically experienced with the church, would violate the sanctity of a convent. But the problem was that once she was committed, she would have to remain. For a beautiful young woman and the heiress to a massive earldom, that was not an attractive option. Therefore, being in London, at this moment in time, was risky in more ways than one.

Sheridan knew none of this, of course. They had decided not to tell her for fear of upsetting her. Though she was a stable and wise girl, still, they were attempting to protect her. No use in worrying over something that they could not control. But they could be on their guard.

The entrance to the White Tower loomed ahead. The keep was constructed of pale stone that gave it a ghostly glow in the moonlight. It was so tall that it appeared to touch the night sky. The St. James party mounted the steps and entered the small foyer immediately inside the structure. There were two stewards there to greet them, ushering them further down the corridor and into the great hall beyond.

Lansdown Castle was a grand enough place with a large hall. But even the homey fires of Lansdown's hospitality could not compare to what they soon witnessed. It was as if they had entered an entirely new world; never had Sheridan seen so many tapers, slender beams with gracefully lit tips. They gave the hall an unearthly glow. The room was also very warm, not only from the amount of people in it, but because there was an enormous fire in the two massive hearths that bordered the east and west walls of the room.

More servants greeted them, dressed in finery affordable only in the house of the king. There were several long tables, all decorated with phials of wine and seasonal fruit. Nobles, such as they do, sat on benches, tables, and all around the room. They were everywhere, the men who harbored such power in England. On Neely's arm, Sheridan watched it all quite closely. It was an intimidating sight.

Power and wealth reeked from every facet of the massive, fragrant hall. While Neely deposited Sheridan at the table and faded into the shadows, as other knights did as their masters took seat, Jocelin sat between Sheridan and Alys. Their soldier escort fell back against the wall directly behind them. The party was barely settled as Alys snatched her goblet and held it aloft for wine.

A servant was at her side almost immediately, filling the goblet. Alys downed her allotment and demanded more. Sheridan settled herself on the bench, smoothing her gown and kicking off the dried rushes that had adhered themselves to her slippers. All around the room gathered groups of men and women, the gaiety of laughter filling the warm, stale air. In the gallery above, a group of minstrels played a haunting tune. Sheridan twisted her head around, watching the group overhead for a moment, before returning her attention to the brilliant room.

"Do you see anyone that you recognize?" she whispered to Jocelin.

Jocelin's sharp eyes scanned the hall. It was like being in a roomful of predators; each man had the look of both killer and prey. There was an odd air about the place, of both suspicion and friendship. His gaze came to rest on a group several yards to their left and he visibly perked. "See there," he said quietly. "The Bishop of Rochester and his party. And I also see with him the barons Fitz Gerold and Fitz Herbert, men from the Welsh marches."

"Do you see de Warenne?"

"Nay."

"Coventry or Rochester?"

"Not yet."

Sheridan tried not to be too obvious about staring. "If you point out these men to me so that I may recognize them," she whispered, "perhaps I will be able to set up the meeting we've all longed for. No one will suspect a lady in these circumstances of subversion."

Jocelin cocked an eyebrow. "'Tis only subversion if what we are attempting to accomplish is thwarted. If successful, we shall be loyalists."

"There is no one that disputes our rightness," her voice grew stronger. "No one on earth that would dare to…"

Jocelin cut her off. "Look," he almost gestured but caught himself in time. "There is the Earl of Arundel. I haven't seen the man in years."

Sheridan caught sight of a short, red-haired man as he disappeared into a well-dressed crowd. Before she could comment, Jocelin crowed again.

"And look there," he bordered on excitement. "William Marshall in the flesh."

Sheridan found herself gazing at a man that was relatively close. He was tall and lanky, with thinning gray hair. When he turned in her direction, she was struck by the sharpness of his gaze. His eyes fell upon Jocelin and he walked straight for him. Jocelin rose to his feet and extended a hand.

"My lord," Jocelin said. "It's been a long time."

William Marshall brushed his lips against Jocelin's papal ring. His dark eyes twinkled. "Too long," he said. "I am surprised you have managed to stay out of trouble since the last I saw you."

Jocelin grinned. "Who has been spreading such lies? Trouble is my bed fellow. We're good friends and keep each other company."

William laughed softly. Then his gaze fell on Sheridan and he bowed gallantly. "My lady."

Jocelin took the opportunity to introduce her. "My lord William Marshall, may I present the Lady Sheridan St. James, eldest daughter and heiress of the late Henry St. James, 3 rd Earl of Bath and Glastonbury."

The Marshall appraised her courteously. But Sheridan felt as if God himself was scrutinizing her. She curtsied before the man and he took her hand chivalrously.

"My lady," he greeted. "I knew your father. He was a righteous and cunning man."

She smiled, mortified that her lips were twitching with nerves. "Thank you, my lord. May I say that it is indeed an honor to finally meet you."

"And you."

"May I introduce my sister, the Lady Alys."

William turned to the redhead. "My lady."

He took her hand in a gentlemanly fashion and touched his lips to her fingers. But that was the end of it. With a lingering glance at Sheridan, the Marshall turned to Jocelin and the two of them lowered their voice in private conversation. Sheridan looked over at her sister, now on her third goblet of wine. Alys was gazing adoringly at the Marshall.

Sheridan went pale.

"Oh, no…."

*

The feast commenced when the king entered the hall. It was with great pomp and ceremony, as befitting the monarch. Barons called to him, women waved at him. John, a short man with a droopy eye and noticeably bad hygiene, gestured benevolently to the group in the hall. It was reminiscent of the Pope making his rounds among his admiring subject, with all the flair of a holy parade. Some of the older men who had served his father were less friendly towards him, yet there was respect as due the king.

It took several minutes for the king to make his way to the dais where the royal table was lodged. Festooned with a variety of fine goblets and a huge centerpiece of marzipan sculpted into naked cherubs, John took his leisure time in reaching his seat. He was more intent to linger over the adoration of his subjects.

Jocelin watched him with disgust.

"He is not his father's son," he grumbled. "Henry was ruthless and deceitful, but at least he could call himself a man. His son lacks even that privilege."

Sheridan leaned in to him. "I hear they call him John Softsword because of the loss of all of his holdings in France."

"'Twas ten years ago that he acquired that name," Jocelin said. "That name and a few others."

Sheridan suppressed a grin. "I was not allowed to hear those other names, Your Grace."

"If I know Henry's mouth, then I doubt that is true."

Her smile broke through and she lowered her head so that the others would not suspect her joviality was at the expense of the king. She collected her goblet and took a long sip of the tart wine. Glancing up just as the king took his seat, she noticed several soldiers and retainers to the rear of the royal dais. Though most were finely dressed nobles, some wore weapons and armor. One man in particular looked familiar; he was so enormous that he was twice the size of nearly every man in the room. About the time she began to realize where she had seen him, Alys grabbed her arm.

"Look, there," she hissed. "The knight behind the king, dressed in full armor. Do you see him?"

Sheridan's initial shock sharply cooled. "I do."

Alys' fingers dug into her flesh. "My savior! He is behind the king!"

Jocelin couldn't help but hear the commotion between the girls. Alys had jostled him about in her excitement. "Here, here, what's this? Who are you two talking about?"

The girls leaned close on either side of him, their focus on the royal party. "The massive knight that stands to the king's right hand," Alys was pointing and Jocelin took her hand and put it in her lap. "Do you see him?"

Jocelin found the source of their curiosity. His eyes narrowed. "Aye," he said slowly. "I see him."

"Who is he?" Alys demanded.

Jocelin watched the large man for a moment before answering. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Because he saved my life today," Alys said, oblivious to the tone of Jocelin's voice. "I… I had an accident."

Jocelin looked at her then, sharply. "An accident?"

Alys didn't want to explain herself. "Aye, I… I fell. He saved me. Who is he?"

By this time, Jocelin's behavior had Sheridan's attention. She wondered why he suddenly looked so tense. She tugged on his sleeve gently.

"Do you know him?"

The bishop shook his head. "I do not know him, but I know of him." He lifted his cup, regarding the ruby liquid inside. "If you must know, the barons call him the Lord of the Shadows."

The disclosure caused both girls to look back to the royal platform. "Lord of the Shadows," Alys repeated dreamily. "That's marvelous."

Jocelin gulped from his chalice. "Nay, young Alys, that is not marvelous. The man is a demon."

She was indignant. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that he is the Devil's disciple. He is the king's protector and used by the king for the most evil of purposes. There is no man in this kingdom that does not fear him. His presence, his very name, is synonymous with pain and death. If you see the man, run for your life."

The girls looked at the dais with a bit more recognition and dread. "What do you mean when you say that the king uses him for evil purposes?" Sheridan almost didn't want to know.

Jocelin debated whether or not to tell her; de Lara would be the one to come for her should she catch the king's eye. "Evil, Dani," he said quietly. "The king sends de Lara to commandeer women for his conquests."

Sheridan tried not to appear too horrified, but Alys was unimpressed. "But what's his name?" she insisted.

"Sean de Lara."

"Sean," Alys whispered, feeling it roll across her tongue. "Sir Sean de Lara. What a beautiful name."

Jocelin turned on her. "Listen to me now, Alys. I know your penchant for the opposite sex. I know of your na?ve views and your trusting ways. Though I do not know the circumstances of de Lara's involvement in your accident, I will tell you this; stay clear of him. Remove him from your thoughts. He is no prince to sweep you away nor a man to be trifled with. I promise you that the only reason John still sits upon that throne is because of de Lara. No one is brave enough to attempt his removal, and the man is deadly in more ways than one. Not only is he physical power, but he has intelligence. His tactical knowledge is without compare. No army will go up against John during these times because of de Lara's very presence. You will, therefore, heed my words; forget him. Harbor no false notions of his good character."

Alys' eyes were wide with disappointment. Her gaze moved from the bishop to the dais and back again. "Are you sure? He didn't seem that way to me."

Jocelin patted her hand. "I am sure, little Alys."

She didn't look convinced, but to her credit, said nothing more. During Jocelin and Alys' conversation, Sheridan's gaze never left de Lara's distant face; she had remembered the man from their afternoon encounter. He was three times her size, that was true, but he wasn't misshapen or ugly as a giant would be. He had crystal-blue eyes, the clearest she had ever seen, and a square jaw that projected power and astuteness. His features had been even and extraordinarily attractive. In fact, the man positively reeked of masculinity. He was striking.

Nor had he been impolite or unkind to them. He had, after all, saved Alys' life. At no time did she receive the impression of death or hazard from him. He seemed polite and chivalrous. Puzzled, yet resigned to Jocelin's words, she returned to her goblet and put the notion of the mysterious Sean de Lara out of her mind.

The meal was lavish and plentiful. Huge slabs of pork and mutton were on display, served by the fancily-dressed servants. William, Bishop of Coventry, eventually showed himself; a slight man that reeked of alcohol, he seated himself and several retainers across the table from Jocelin and the St. James women. He greeted Jocelin amiably, introduced himself to the ladies, and spoke well of Henry St. James. He seemed congenial enough. But he finished the otherwise normal conversation by running an inviting foot against Sheridan's leg.

Strange that his gesture did not shock her. She had heard tale of men of the church seducing women and had seen a few questionable actions in her lifetime, enough to know that these men were not entirely celibate. It was well known that they could be quite corrupt. She casually shifted so that her leg was not within reach of his dirty toes, but it seemed the bishop had long legs and managed to stroke her ankle once again with his cold digits. When she cast him a baleful glance, he ran his tongue over his lips and grinned.

Disgusted, she rose from the table with the whispered excuse to Jocelin that she was in need of the privy. She couldn't even look at the Bishop of Coventry, infuriated that his leering attention had forced her from the table. He had managed to unnerve her enough so that she needed to collect herself. That was not a usual occurrence with her; Sheridan was normally steady in a world filled with flighty women. But the events of the day and the excitement of the evening had shaken her otherwise steady constitution. She needed a breath of air. When Neely tried to follow her, she called him off.

She walked from the warm, fragrant hall and out into the corridor. It was several degrees cooler in the long hall. There were an abundance of guards and servants about, each one of them asking to assist her. Sheridan shook the first two off but allowed the third, a young lad dressed in red bloomers, to show her to the door. He took her to a small exit seldom used that led out into the yard just south of the Tower. Long, stone steps led down to the dirt below.

The moonlight illuminated her way, a bright silver disc against the night sky. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she glanced up to admire the evening. It was a lovely night and she inhaled deeply of the winter fragrance. From the cloying warmth of the hall to the airy chill of the evening, it was refreshing. She thought over the bishop's actions for a moment longer before putting it out of her mind. The man was a supporter of their cause and she could not let anything interfere, not his apparent lust or her distain. If it happened again, she would be forced to speak to him in no uncertain terms. She hoped it would be enough.

It was actually quite cold for January and Sheridan was without her cloak. But she enjoyed the cold, unlike most. She found it invigorating. She moved away from the steps, strolling into the yard and gazing at the Wakefield Tower several hundred yards to her right. It was a massive cylinder framed against the black sky. Now and again she could see the guards upon the wall walk, going about their rounds. It was a busy place, this living, breathing heart of England. Another few steps had her at a large oak tree that stood solitary and alone in the vastness of the empty yard. Glancing into the thick branches above, she heard a voice behind her.

"My lady is without a cloak," the tone was so low that it was a growl. "'Tis cold this eve to be taking a stroll without cover."

Startled, she whirled around. De Lara was standing a few feet away. She had never even heard him approach. All of the things that Jocelin had told her about the man suddenly came crashing down and it was an effort to keep steady.

"I… I enjoy the cold, my lord," she hoped her voice didn't sound as startled as she felt. "This is nothing but a balmy eve."

Sean stood his ground, his clear blue eyes focused on her face. Never did they wander in an evil or suggestive manner. Nevertheless, Sheridan was on pins and needles as they confronted one another.

"Bravely spoken," he said. "Where is your cloak?"

"Inside."

"Then I shall go and retrieve it for you."

"That is not necessary, my lord," she said quickly; too quickly. "I shall return to the hall. You needn't trouble yourself."

The glimmer in his eyes changed, though his expression remained unreadable. "No trouble at all, Lady Sheridan. 'Twould be my pleasure."

Sheridan could see that he would not be deterred. Remembering Jocelin's words, panic began to snatch at her. "No need, I assure you. I shall return to the hall this instant."

She was halfway to the steps by the time he replied. "Why would you want to return to that den of depravity and gluttony? You are in much better company out here with the moon and stars."

She paused although she knew, even as she did it, that she should probably continue running and never look back. "It is a lovely evening, of course."

He began walking towards her, slowly. "Then why do you run like a frightened rabbit? This is not the woman I met this afternoon. She was far more controlled and coherent."

The panic that pulled at her suddenly gripped her full force. She threw out a hand as if to stop his forward progression. "Come no closer. If you try to take me to the king, I'll scream as you have never heard screams before. I'll fight as you have never seen a woman fight. I'll… I'll kill you if you try, do you hear me?"

It all came out as a rapid stream of high-pitched threats. Sean stopped in his tracks and his eyes widened. After a moment, he broke out in laughter. In all his years, he'd never seen or heard anything so hilarious. For a man who had not openly laughed in ages, it was a liberating experience.

"So that is why you run?" he said, sobering. "My lady, I assure you that I have no intention of taking you to the king."

Sheridan's heart was thumping in her chest. She could hardly catch her breath out of sheer fright. But above her racing emotions, she realized one thing; de Lara had an amazing smile. His straight, white teeth were bright against the moonlight and dimples that carved deep channels into both cheeks. Had she not been so terrified, she would have been completely entranced.

"What…?" she swallowed, torn between wanting to trust him and the inherent instinct to run. "You mean you have not come here to abduct me for the king's… the king's…?"

He shook his head. "Nay." His voice was a rumble. "I saw you leave alone. I came to make sure that you did not come to harm."

There was something in his manner that put her at ease. It was probably foolish, but she felt it nonetheless. "But I am not your concern, my lord. Why would you do this?"

"Because a woman wandering alone is not safe," he said. "However, after your threats of great bodily harm, I would hazard to say that you are no ordinary female."

"I am not."

"You can more than likely take care of yourself."

"I have been known to win a fight in my time."

"Is that so?" He appeared genuinely interested. "Against what mighty warrior, may I ask?"

She pursed her lips reluctantly. "Only my sister. But she packs a wallop."

"Of course, I have no doubt," he said sincerely. "She seems the fighting type."

"She is."

The conversation died for the moment, but it wasn't an uncomfortable pause. Sean stood several feet away, watching the reflection of the moon off the lady's fine features. As he had noted in his initial impression of her, there was nothing imperfect about the woman. He shouldn't have followed her outside, he knew that; but he had seen her from the moment he'd entered the great feasting hall and, try as he might, he couldn't seem to ignore her. When she left, he had followed. He didn't know why. He didn't even know what he was going to say to her should he have the chance. But here he was and the conversation had come easily.

"Are you really going back inside?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I probably should. My family will wonder what has become of me."

"I would be deeply honored if you would walk with me for a few moments."

If you see the man, run . She couldn't shake Jocelin's words. But the knight standing before her didn't seem the death and destruction type, at least not at the moment. His manner was quite gentle. It emboldened her. Never one to shy away from the truth, she looked him squarely in the eye.

"For what purpose?"

He was silent for a moment. Then, a well-shaped eyebrow slowly lifted. "Because it is a lovely evening and I should enjoy the company of a lovely lady."

She considered his kind request. "Won't the king be looking for you? I am told that you are his protector."

He could see where this was leading and he wasn't surprised. For the first time in his long, illustrious and hazardous career, he felt a twinge of shame. For once, he wished he could keep his chosen profession out of this. He'd never wished that before and it was a strange awareness.

"Our king is amply protected," he said simply.

He extended an enormous mailed elbow. She gazed at it a moment, her deliberation evident. Then, she looked at him. "May I ask a question?"

"If that is your pleasure, my lady."

"Very well. If I was your daughter and a man of your reputation asked permission to take me on an unchaperoned walk through the Tower grounds, what would you, as my father, say?"

A twinkle came to his eye. "What do you know of my reputation?"

"Probably more than I should."

He didn't lower his elbow. "Walk with me and we shall discuss it."

"We shall discuss it now or I will go back inside."

The twinkle in his eye grew and he lowered his arm. "As you wish, my lady. What would you like to know?"

She felt comfortable enough to ask him. Besides, she was still close enough to the Tower to make a run for it should she anger him. "Are you really as malicious as I have been told?"

His expression didn't waver. "I would not know. What have you been told?"

She didn't want to offend him. But she wasn't sure if she trusted him, either. Surely Jocelin would not lie to her. Brow furrowed in thought, she began to walk. Sean took pace beside her.

"We must be honest, my lord," she said after a moment. "It would appear that you and I are on opposite sides."

"'Twould seem that way."

"Then I am your enemy."

"In theory."

"I had not heard of you before this day. What I was told was quite unflattering."

"To you or to me?"

She looked at him. "To you, of course. I was told that you are not only the king's protector, but that you assist him in his… his dastardly and distasteful deeds. Everyone is afraid of you. Is this true?"

He drew in a long, deep breath. Thoughtfully, he gazed up at the sky. "It is far more complicated than that. Politics always are."

"But you are kind to me. I do not fear you even though I am told that I should. Why are you kind to me?"

"Because you were kind to me."

She stopped walking, lifting her hands in a confused gesture. "How would you know that? I only met you this afternoon. I said but a few sentences to you."

He looked down at her, so diminutive and sweet against his massive size. "It wasn't what you said, but how you said it. Your manner was kind."

There was something in his expression, barely perceptible, that brought her an odd sense of pity. "You are unused to people being kind to you."

His reply was to lift an eyebrow. When he put his elbow out, this time, she took it. They resumed their walk.

"I suppose there are those that would call me foolish for even speaking to you," she said.

He was enjoying the feel of her on his arm. It had been ages since he'd last experienced such satisfaction. "Absolutely."

"And if my family were to see me at this moment, I would be in for a row."

He glanced at her. "They will not beat you, will they?"

She met his gaze. "That is a strange question coming from a man…"

"Of my reputation."

She smiled sheepishly. "I should have worded that more carefully."

He just smiled at her and they resumed their walking in silence. Sheridan was beginning to grow cold in spite of her assertion that she was immune to such a thing.

"You did not answer my question," she said.

"What question was that, my lady?"

"If a man of your reputation were to take your daughter on an unescorted walk, what would you do?"

"Kill him."

He wasn't joking. She knew from the tone of his voice that he had never been more serious. It wasn't a boast, but a fact. In that statement, she could see that everything Jocelin had told her about him was true. He was a man of deeds bred of evil. Still, she did not sense that Sean was an evil man. In their first meeting and now their second, she had never received such an impression.

But the mood threatened to grow odd and strained. She did not want that. Instead, she chose to make light of his comment.

"Do you plan to kill yourself, then?"

He gave her a crooked smile. "Nay, my lady. I intend to behave as a chivalrous knight should."

She stopped walking again and looked at him with the utmost seriousness. "Sir Sean, you have been nothing but chivalrous since our first meeting this afternoon. And for saving my sister, I will always show you kindness no matter… well, no matter what our politics."

Sean was genuinely touched. His life was full of subversion and deadly threats and he truly couldn't remember, in recent times, when he'd had a moment that had been even remotely pleasant. There was no comfort in his life. As wrong as it was, he was finding comfort with an enemy.

"I thank you," he said quietly.

The moment was sweetly awkward. At a loss for words, Sheridan resumed their walk yet again. She could have walked all night on his arm, letting the conversation flow as easily as honeyed wine.

A cold breeze suddenly blew off the river and enveloped them both, swirling with frenzied intensity. When it died as abruptly as it came, Sheridan shivered. Sean noticed immediately.

"My lady is chilled," he said with concern. "I shall return you to the hall."

"I am not cold, truly," she insisted. "I would rather walk."

He looked at her. "Your lips are gray."

She lifted an eyebrow. "We're standing in moonlight. Everything is gray."

The normally unreadable expression turned suspicious. "Even as you speak, your lips quiver. That is not my imagination."

He was right, but she made a face that suggested it was a reluctant surrender. Feeling somewhat pleased with his victory, he turned her around in time to see a figure emerging from the shadows of the White Tower. He caught the glint of a blade and knew before the shape came fully into view that it was an assassin sent to kill him. In his world, it could be nothing else.

Normally, he took a sadistic pride in proving his worth as an adversary. He was the living example that no man could kill the Lord of the Shadows. But this time it was different; he had Sheridan on his arm and his heart lurched with fear for her safety. Sheridan saw the approaching blade and let out a strangled cry a half-second before Sean shoved her out of harm's way.

The assassin wielded the light-weight blade with practiced agility. It sang an eerie cry of death as it sailed through the air, three successive thrusts at Sean's head. Weaponless, de Lara stood his ground as the weapon hurled in his direction. With a defensive move that had him spinning rapidly to his left flank, he ended up behind his attacker. Reaching down, he grabbed the hilt of the sword and used the palm of his right hand to strike a brutal blow to the back of the man's neck. The force of the jolt was hard enough to snap his spine. The man fell to the ground, dead, with his blade in Sean's left hand.

Sean stood there, gazing impassively at the corpse. This was not an unusual occurrence and he had faced better. Sheridan, however, stood several feet away, her mouth gaping in shock. It took Sean a moment to remember that she was still there.

"Are you all right?" he tossed the blade down and went to her. "I did not mean to be rough with you, but I did not want you in the line of fire. I pray that I did not hurt you."

She just stood there. "My lady?" he prodded gently.

She blinked. Then her knees buckled and she threw out her hands as if to grab hold of something to steady herself. Sean was the nearest object and he took hold of her so that she wouldn't fall.

"I think I need to sit down," she whispered tightly.

He looked around but there were no benches within walking distance. He put one arm around her slender torso and took firm grasp of her right arm, holding her fast.

"You'll be all right, my lady," he said with quiet assurance. "I'll not let you fall."

They took a few slow steps in silence. He could feel Sheridan quivering like a leaf and guilt swept him. He held her tighter.

"That man," she gasped. "He was… he tried to kill you."

"Aye," he said steadily.

"But why?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "If you know anything of my reputation as you have said, then you can answer that question."

She took a deep breath, struggling to regain her composure. "I know, but that was so… so bold, so brutal."

"I know."

She looked up at him; he had not even worked up a good sweat. He looked completely unruffled, the same as he had appeared the moment they realized the man was upon them. It infuriated her. "And you are so calm?"

He shrugged. "Panic is deadly. One must think clearly in order to survive."

She stared at him a moment longer before shaking her head. "Then surely I would have died because I cannot imagine being calm in the face of a deadly attack."

"It is an acquired calm, I assure you."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Are you saying this sort of thing has happened before?"

He didn't answer. He continued to walk with her, holding her against him so that she would not collapse. Even when he thought she might be stronger, he continued to hold her simply because he liked it. As they neared the narrow steps that led back up into the Tower, a herd of men came flying through the doorway and down the narrow stairs. Even in the moonlight, Sean recognized the St. James colors.

Neely came rushing at them with his sword leveled. Shaken but not senseless, Sheridan could see what was about to happen and threw up her hands.

"Neely, no," she cried. "Put the weapon down."

He came to a halt several feet away. His dark eyes were twitching with alarm and anger. "Let her go," he shouted at Sean.

Sean was completely calm, completely impassive. "The lady has had a fright." His voice was as cold as ice. "If I release her, she may fall."

Sheridan could see that there was no easy way out of this for any of them unless she took action. She patted Sean gently on the arm that held her. "It's all right," she told him. "I am well now. You may release me as he has asked."

He did as she bade, but his eyes never left Neely. It was like a marauder tracking its quarry. Sheridan sensed the deadly tension as she went over to Neely.

"Put the sword down," she ordered quietly. "Sir Sean has committed no wrong. He has saved me from an assassin."

She pointed to the body several feet away in the shadow of the White Tower. Neely could see it faintly in the dark and he looked at her, puzzled as well as frightened.

"We heard the scream," he looked her up and down. "Are you well?"

"Indeed," she didn't like his hovering manner. "As I said, Sir Sean saved my life. He should be commended."

Neely looked at Sean. The last thing he would do was praise the man. After a long pause filled with hostility, he spoke tersely. "We are grateful."

Sean didn't reply. Though he was watching Neely, his peripheral senses were reaching out to every man around him. There were at least eight. With a lingering glance at Sheridan, he took several backwards steps, fading back into the shadows where the assassin lay. Sheridan held his gaze until he disappeared into the blackness.

When he was sure de Lara had left, Neely turned his full attention on her. "What happened?" he demanded softly. "How did you end up out here? You said that you were…"

She put up an impatient hand. "I know what I said," she snapped, heading back towards the narrow stone steps. "I needed a breath of air. I was attacked and Sir Sean saved my life. Leave it at that, Neely. No more questions."

He shut his mouth, but he wasn't happy in the least. They both knew this would get back to Jocelin and there would be hell to pay.