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Elizabeth sighed. “They will do.”

She returned to the great hall and went to Sir John. “Can you sit up to drink?”

He came up on one elbow, and the movement must have hurt, but all he did was inhale swiftly, then give her a smile. She felt the force of his personality, his confidence, all shown off with the startling whiteness of his teeth.

Awkwardly, she held out a horn.

He glanced down at it, then back up at her, grinning. “Could you remove the stopper?”

She blushed. “Aye, of course.” What was wrong with her? she wondered. Her own betrothed had been more handsome than this man, but there was something so…direct about the way that he looked at her. It seemed unusual. And then she realized that as the daughter of an earl, she’d always been treated with distance and respect, even by the men who thought to pursue her should her betrothed not arrive.

But this man looked at her with obvious interest, with frankness, and she felt…flustered.

She handed the horn back to him, and as he raised it to his lips, she saw more bruises and swollen fingers. Did he have broken bones?

“Please allow me to help,” she said, reaching for the horn.

He eyed her without expression, and then nodded. She held the horn to his mouth, slowly pouring. She was quite near to him in this position, just above. His keen eyes remained focused on her as he drank.

She watched him, too, the way his mouth pursed to drink, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. A drop of ale escaped and slid across his cheek and down to his neck.

She lowered the horn, and for a moment, they continued to stare at each other. It was the strangest thing—to be in a bustling great hall, sharing a glance that seemed full of…intimacy.

“Might I have a drink?” said a deep, amused voice.

Elizabeth broke the shared gaze with Sir John and shook herself from the unwelcome trance. She was blushing, and it somehow seemed a weakness. She hurried to the other pallet on the floor.

“Would you like me to hold the horn for you, Master Sutterly?” she asked.

The man had an open friendly face, but she did not feel as compelled to stare at him as she had at Sir John. She didn’t know if that should comfort her—or cause her a deeper worry.

“I am surely not your master, Anne. Please call me Philip.”

He took the horn himself, gave Sir John a superior grin, and began to drink. Elizabeth looked between them with amusement, sensing a friendship rather than only the relationship of a master and servant.

She forced her mind back to what was important: her friend imprisoned in the tower in her place. How had Anne spent the night alone? Was she hungry? Did she think Elizabeth had been discovered? If only Elizabeth could go to reassure her, but all she could do was wait for the healer.

Luckily, the village was not too distant, and soon Rachel arrived, carrying her leather satchel. Elizabeth held her breath as their eyes met, but Rachel only nodded.

“Anne, me thanks for seein’ to the wounded men,” Rachel said.

Elizabeth found herself nervously fingering the wimple covering her hair, glad to hide beneath it. Her people had been true to their word, and even the villagers knew of her masquerade. But how far would this information spread before it fell into the wrong hands?

Elizabeth stood back as Rachel brought forth jars of ointment and soft cloths. The two men watched her warily, and Elizabeth knew that Rachel’s youth and prettiness always surprised people who expected a healer to be a wizened elder. Rachel’s mother, the previous healer, had died at far too young an age, leaving Rachel her secrets. The woman had learned them well, and all in the castle and the surrounding countryside trusted her.

Rachel put her hands on her hips and looked down at the men. “I understand that ye both were attacked by thieves.”

Sir John nodded, an expression of pain crossing his face at even that small movement. “There were five of them. Philip and I caused an injury or two, but the odds were against us.”

“And where be you hurt?”

Elizabeth felt awkward as the men took turns describing their injuries, pointing to their stomachs and faces. Sir John, whose crutch lay beside him, mentioned his concern that his leg was broken. Rachel moved his limb about, and by the whiteness around his mouth, even Elizabeth could see his pain.

“I must see the extent of the injuries,” Rachel finally said.

She glanced around and saw Milburn watching them from across the hall. Rachel’s eyes met Elizabeth’s once more, and Elizabeth thought she saw a faint reluctance.

“Anne, I’ll need yer help removin’ some of their garments.”