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He hadn’t planned to enter the match, but now that he had, Graeme was determined to win.

Some wielded the staff passably well; others had not so much as picked one up before. Only two of the participants, both Kenshire knights, proved a challenge.

Not surprisingly, after four matches, only he and one of those challengers remained on the field.

“Not bad . . . for a Scot.”

Graeme ignored the man’s taunts. He picked up the staff and held it at his side, waiting.

“You know the rules by now,” shouted the steward. “Begin!”

The Englishman was better than him. More practiced. Extremely skilled. More than twice, Graeme felt the staff sliding from his hand, the only recovery a brief respite from another hit.

He had one hope of winning: endurance, one of his greatest strengths. He met each hit with one of his own, avoiding most of his opponent’s thrusts. Ignoring the pain in his thigh where he’d been hit, Graeme countered with a thrust of his own. Then finally, amidst cheers and shouts from the spectators, he ended the match with an upward thrust so powerful his opponent’s staff flew into the air in the opposite direction of his body, which now lay prone on the ground.

“We have a victor,” cried the marshal.

Oddly, the faces surrounding him were friendly. The men clapped him on the back, congratulated him, and asked who he would choose.

Damn.

Graeme had forgotten about that custom. Of course, the whole purpose for this fight among unmarried men was to choose a champion. One who would crown the queen at this evening’s feast.

Geoffrey threw his arm around him. “Well done. For a Scotsman.”

“Why are your men not more hostile toward me?” he asked bluntly as they made their way from the training yard toward the keep.

“Richard,” he answered. “The late earl was a champion for peace, and his father before him. Neither tolerated hate, and as a former reiver, I know better than anyone that there are well-intentioned people on both sides of the border. And ill-intentioned too, of course.”

The Waryns’ story was known up and down the border. After Geoffrey’s inheritance was stolen, he and his uncle had turned to reiving to support their family. And though he thought as Geoffrey did—that a person’s actions defined them, not their country—there were plenty of men and women who did not.

“That’s quite a legacy to uphold.” Graeme stopped and looked Geoffrey in the eyes. “I will not allow brigands and lawless miscreants to reverse a thirty-year-old tradition. Richard’s father facilitated the first Day of Truce, did he not?”

“His name was Spencer. And aye, he did.”

“I mean to uphold the ideals of that truce, and any man, or clan, who believes otherwise is no ally of mine.”

Geoffrey nodded. “Then it seems I truly do have another brother in the north.”

“You do.” And he meant it. Once Graeme committed himself, and his clan, he would honor that commitment.

“But more importantly,” Geoffrey smiled, looking up at the keep. “You’ve a decision to make tonight.”

“The queen.”

“Aye, the queen. Any idea who you’ll choose?”

The question wasn’t who he would choose but how he’d forgo their required dance. Because, as Geoffrey had not so tactfully mentioned, Lady Gillian was not for him.

5

“Oh, Gillian, look at you!”

Thank heavens for Sara. Not that she needed an escort. It was just . . . she’d only worn this gown once before. Just before his troubles, Gillian’s father had welcomed a nobleman whom he’d been considering for an alliance. Her mother had commissioned this gown for the man’s visit, but Gillian’s suitor had been promptly thrown out of Lyndwood after making a crude comment about the amount of skin the lovely dress revealed.

She had not worn it since. It was her little sister who’d reminded her of it, and Gillian had anxiously packed it away for this night.

“Do you like it?”