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“God’s blood,” he roared as she’d taken advantage of his scream of surprise.

She fell, none too gracefully, from his horse. Her head had cracked the road, but Clarissa could not pause to bemoan the wound. Picking herself up, a quick feel of her temple confirming she had been, in fact, bleeding, Clarissa did the only thing she should.

Ran.

Clarissa knew she could not outrun a horse. There were trees, aye, but none thick enough for her to hide in. And her attacker would likely have been able to find her.

But that’s when she spotted Jon.

Clarissa had never seen a sight so welcome as the fletcher. As they rode, every noise making Clarissa jumpier than she was already, she learned the arrow maker had recently come to Highgate looking for work. She also learned that her unlikely helper had lost the gold ring in his hurry to rescue her from the reiver.

A good man, though a terrible guide.

Jon’s scream pierced the otherwise tentative quiet, sending her heart leaping into her throat. Luckily, she sat in front of him, so when he toppled to the ground, she managed to stay seated. Had the reiver come back? Was her friend dead? Clarissa dismounted before she could think it through, intent on helping Jon.

An anguished voice stopped her.

“Clarissa.”

She had just knelt beside the fletcher. Blood oozed from a dagger wound in his shoulder onto the dirt road beneath him.

“Aidan?”

He pulled her up so quickly, Clarissa would have fallen had he not steadied her.

“He’s hurt.” She tried to pull away.

Aidan spun her around, his gaze finding the wound on her head. “What happened to you? Did he—”

Finally breaking free, she scrambled back down to the ground. “He’s hurt,” she repeated. “His shoulder . . . Aidan, do something.”

When Aidan didn’t move, she realized how he had come by that wound. A dagger handle stuck out of his shoulder. She was going to be ill. Aidan had . . . he must have thought . . .

She stood and shoved him toward Jon, words tumbling out of her. “He did not hurt me. I hired him as a guide. He’s from Highgate, the—”

“Fletcher.” Finally, Aidan knelt down beside them. “How did he . . . Clarissa, did he do that to you?”

While Jon bled to death, Aidan glared at her head. Nay, nay, she could not allow him to die!

“Nay, it was not him,” she shouted. “I will explain later. Will you please help him?”

Jon groaned in response.

With a final glance at her, Aidan said, “Turn your head.”

She trusted him, and so she did as he asked.

Aidan was here.

She’d hardly had time to reconcile that fact in all the excitement. Had he come looking for her? She’d wondered if he would be too angry to want her back. Too angry to look for her. But this was, after all, Aidan. Protecting others was his specialty.

“Clarissa, hand me my waterskin.”

It took a moment for her to find it. When she turned back around, Clarissa froze.

Aidan was not wearing a surcoat. Or a shirt. His broad muscled shoulders moved in perfect unison as he ripped his linen shirt to shreds.

“Clarissa? The skin?”