“You would feign to be French?” Bartholomew asked. “But you do not understand the language.”
“I would scarce be the first in such a situation.”
“Particularly if she had come of age in an abbey,” Fergus replied. “Perhaps the nuns spoke only English.”
“And Latin at their prayers,” Bartholomew added.
“I do know my prayers,” Anna said.
“Praise be,” Bartholomew teased.
“You would not wish to be seen as a heathen,” Leila said, and Anna wondered at the heat in her words.
Fergus nodded approval. “No solution is perfect, but I think this one that will work sufficiently well.”
“I fear she will be tested and revealed,” Bartholomew said, and his concern had merit.
“We will not linger overlong in the baron’s hall,” Fergus replied.
“Just long enough to collect our due,” Bartholomew agreed.
“And you have said that we must always be together, husband mine,” Anna reminded him sweetly. “Surely you can ensure that any error on my part is turned aright?”
“I shall have to try,” Bartholomew said grimly and she could feel that his body was more taut.
Was he afraid for her?
Did he truly mean to defend her?
The possibility sent a strange warmth through Anna, though she knew she could protect herself. She spared a glance to her own crossbow hanging from Bartholomew’s saddle and wished for its weight in her hand once again.
But she would keep her word to this confounding knight.
If only because she suspected that Bartholomew anticipated otherwise.
“Now tell us of this baron,” Fergus invited again. “We must know all we can of the lion before stepping into his den.”
*
Haynesdale forest was utterly unfamiliar.
Bartholomew had hoped that the lands of his home estate from the road would conjure some memories of his past. He had hoped that a glimpse or a view or a hillside would inspire a recollection that proved his connection with this holding. He had the name memorized, and he knew its seal, but he yearned for a sense of homecoming.
Like the one Gaston had experienced at Châmont-sur-Maine, or the one that Fergus anticipated at Killairic. Bartholomew wished above all else to know where he belonged.
To be home and know it well.
Yet these forests were no different from any other.
It was true enough that he had been taken away from Haynesdale when he was but a young boy, but still he reasoned that he should recallsomedetail. There was none. The forests were clearly lush with game, the land gently rolling, and he had occasional glimpses of water through the barren trees.
But as much as Bartholomew admired the view, he could have been anywhere between Scotland and Constantinople. He could have ridden a road he had never visited before. He could have erred, but he knew the name of the holding as well as his own name. His mother had impressed that upon him, at least.
In more ways than one.
It was strange to have his return anticipated, even in a tale, and he recognized that revealing his truth too early could be a fatal error.
How didanyknow that he had survived?
