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Her small shrug was meant as an apology for deceiving him, for destroying the easy moment he had been enjoying with his marshal.

“Good eve, my lord.”

“Good . . . ,” Conrad sputtered, unmoving. “What are you . . . Cait, no.”

She gave him a smile. “Aye.”

He was not placated.

“You cannot . . . what are you doing here? Nay, don’t tell me. It does not matter. You are going back.”

She gestured to the night sky. “In the dark?”

He glared at the half moon as if it were King John himself.

“Come. With. Me.”

She didn’t move even when he turned from her. Even when she was gently pushed by one of Conrad’s men.

“Now,” he barked. And as much as she disliked orders, Cait followed this one. She couldn’t stay outside with the men, after all, and it was unnecessary to make him even angrier. She tried to ignore the stares and whispers as she walked by.

His was the largest tent, large enough for him to stand inside. Pushing back the flap, he allowed it to close behind him, not bothering to keep it open for her. Oh, he was angry.

Cait took a deep breath, her hand on the flap. This was precisely what she wanted, was it not? Conrad as a captive audience. A chance to explain, as best she could, and find out if coming to England had been as big a folly as it seemed.

Ignoring the snickers behind her, Cait opened the flap and stepped inside.