Aylee hated feeling stuck. During her entire life, she had not known the frustration of captivity, not even to her parents' home. They had given her free reign over her schedule, her travels, her activities. At Lady Willen's house, not only had Aylee to stay indoors more than ever in her life, she also had to bend to Lady Willen's every fancy, running around the house and property to retrieve whatever effects the woman might need to help the many hapless marshers or villagers who came to her. When they did come, though, Aylee had to hide away and stay out of sight.

"That, my dear Aylee," chided Lady Willen one day, after Aylee had stayed with her for over two weeks, "is why you must stay out of sight when I tell ye to." Aylee could just make out the gait of Mistress Lorne as the woman strolled through Lady Willen's courtyard.

Though she wanted to roll her eyes, Aylee refrained. How long would she have to endure the old woman's delusional self-assurance? As if Lady Willen had insight into the inner workings of the universe! Whenever Aylee presented a case for leaving the house, Lady Willen would make up some superstitious discouragement to dissuade her young houseguest to stay inside

"Have ye not seen the sun?" Lady Willen would say. "It has a distinctly red glow, and that bodes ill for your excursion."

"Your eyes wear a tinge of green today. Sunday is a bad day for green-eyed maids."

"I distinctly remember hearing a fox in the yard last night. 'When a fox smells the home, the youth cannot roam.'"

Aylee wanted to point out how she had lived her whole life without acknowledging any of these superstitions and had, until the current time, meandered through life with few problems. With Lady Willen, though, Aylee sensed that the superstitions only masked her true reasons for restraining her young charge. Any reason Aylee could offer for going outside would no doubt find a contradiction in wisdom.

"You do realize that when you appeal to such mindless platitudes, I grow more determined to defy you. Not to mention that my eyes are more blue than green." Aylee informed her after Mistress Lorne had left.

Instead of taking offense, Lady Willen bared her yellow teeth in a mischievous grin. "My dear child, I would think less of you if you did not defy such rubbish."

"Well," Aylee gasped in exaggeration, "then why do you insist on saying it?"

Lady Willen broke into a full out cackle, and Aylee pursed her lips in impatience. "Young Aylee, when one goes on the run, one often loses sight of those things that make up one's character. By the God, I am just ensuring that you are confident in your philosophies."

"For one thing, I am not on the run. I wish I were. Instead I sit here and grow roots to your floor. And for another, you should know that I long ago rejected everything that I could not see. I don't believe in all that ghostly rubbish. Or your God, for that matter."

"Careful!" Lady Willen cautioned. "You are right in saying that most superstition is mindless imaginings, but dear Aylee, that is not to say that we can only trust in what we can see. We cannot see Providence, but I believe you will find that you are not entirely without divine guidance on your journey to come. Growing roots, indeed!"

"Indeed, I am. I will grow old and die here all because a scoundrel decided to claim me! The gods are arbitrary and capricious if they exist. Like men, just because I please one god does not mean he will have the power to help me when another rises against me. Especially now that my so-called rescuer has turned out as worthless as my attacker."

"If you believe in many gods, then you could be right. With only one God, though, I must either believe him good or bad, powerful or weak. I see purpose in all that I encounter. True, though, that the circumstance of the young gentleman is curious," Lady Willen allowed. "I felt certain he who brought ye here possessed an honorable character, yet the rumors speak such infamy. I am not yet convinced that I am wrong. Stories morph and conflate, and often the truth can be found in the lies, but in a severely altered form."

"Oh, certainly. Because men are known for their honor," Aylee murmured.

"Some men are, and they would as soon lose their life as their honor."

Aylee considered for a moment, her heart unwilling to accept what her mind had firmly decided. According to the reports she had heard, the so-called Jess had proven more unscrupulous even than Malchus. Did this “Friend Jess” seem of a character to leave a trail of victims behind him? Not from what she had seen with her own eyes; in fact, he had gone out of his way to show her kindness. What selfish interest could he have in preserving her if he were ignoble? She knew, though, that “the undead must paint their faces with life, or they would send their victims fleeing.”

She had known him only one day. How could she claim any knowledge of his character in such a passing moment? For all she knew, and having heard the evidence of a scheme from their own lips, Aylee could believe Jess the servant and Itchy the noble. The fact that Itchy used such a ridiculous name? The insecurity of Jess and the confidence of Itchy? Maybe the men had pulled off an even greater ploy than anyone suspected. Maybe Jess had only come to rescue Aylee at the behest of his friend.

“There are reports, it is true, of a noble – though they alternate between a noble himself, roaming the forest and ravaging the towns, and a political sponsor who has hired a troop to manage mayhem. I have not yet discerned which seems more likely, and no one can deny the riots from the steeple. There are some other reports as well, though..." Lady Willen offered tentatively. “Of a different sort.”

"Reports of what?"

"I am hearing of a stranger,” the old woman began, “who has traveled around the region and paid for repairs to those who have suffered at the hands of the others; one who rolled up his shirtsleeves to help the men rebuild; one who offered refuge to the maids who had suffered dishonor."

Hope surged in Aylee’s chest against her will ."So, you think Jess is this second stranger?"

"I think...I am convinced that the stories whispered in the pubs and worship halls do not adhere strictly to the facts of the case, and that patience will bear out the truth."

"Maybe the whole thing has been managed for politics – the raids, the nobleman, the soldiers, the dissidents. Maybe the duke – " Aylee conjectured.

"The duke? Then you have decided on that rumor?"

"He seems to have sanctioned some very cruel policies of late. What better way to allow for stricter political controls than to create unrest? Circulate stories of raids and ruffians. Perhaps all of this is part of a plan by those in power. Create chaos, offer succor.”

“That does not sound like the Duke. He has specifically refused to hunt power in the past, as some rulers have done in other regions. In fact, many blame him for his populist tendencies. For him suddenly to leave all that behind? I do not see it.”

“Then he has grown tired, stepped back and allowed someone else to decide and enact policy. Perhaps my nobleman – I mean, the…tradesman – plays a role in this somewhere…"

"Thy nobleman?" Lady Willen chuckled.

"You know why I call him that."

"I know exactly why you call him that," the old woman grinned. "And I see you have resorted to quite an elaborate history to protect yourself from your interest in him. Still, your point is well thought out, though I think the option still exists that there are many elements at play – not a well-controlled political contrivance, or at least, not by the Duke. I like to hope that he could not sanction this. I met Duke Wilmington, during my days in court, and I tell you he is an honorable man.”

Her shock yanked Aylee from misery for a few minutes. “Your days in court?” she choked.

“Ye did not think my title a mere appellation, did ye? I spent six weeks in the duke's court around the time of his son's birth. In fact, I attended his wife before she died. She was an amazing woman, and how the Duke loved her! Everyone did. I believe the people chose Wilmington because of her. And I have heard a rumor – very surreptitious and contained, but I still retain contacts. A story of the heir’s unexpected death of a mysterious illness. The tale has not made it to the barrooms and pubs as of yet, but it soon will.”

“Young Lord Capigan?” Aylee wondered. The young earl’s reputation had grown almost to mythic proportions among Aylee’s contemporaries, young ladies craving a hero and an icon. For Aylee, such adulation neared the preposterous, and she had dismissed his greatness as legend. To hear of his death, though, humanized him, as well as Lady Willen’s account of the father’s love and the mother’s goodness. To lose a young man to such a tragedy – a living and breathing man rather than a legend – could not but awaken her pity.

“It is why the death of her son is so cruel – ” Lady Willen continued. “If the Duke has lost his mind, or if he has lost his strength, it is because Jameson was his last link to her. She taught him goodness, something for which he was already inclined, and he has carried it in her honor all these years. Has taught it to his son. I don’t believe that even if Lord Capigan’s ghost returned, it could prove cruel or infamous."

Sucking in a breath, Aylee stared for a minute before she found the self-possession to continue. “Well, whatever the situation,” she asserted, “it cannot signify for me. I will need to guard myself in my position of insecurity, and I will not seek trouble where it does not affect me. If Lord Capigan’s ghost leaves me alone, then I will return the favor. Malchus Lorne is enough of a problem without my worrying about the entire province.”

Lady Willen, apparently drained of gossip, turned her attention to the teapot on the stove, and Aylee found her mind unable to rest. Rather than move, Aylee just laid her head down on the table in front of her. Malchus Lorne is enough of a problem. Indeed. Since her encounter with Malchus, she had found her mind on full alert so often. She had not yet had a moment to process the effect on her of his assault. When she tried to think about it, she found herself retreating into her own mind, to a hollow fog that would not part so she could examine what had happened. But Aylee desperately needed to figure out how she would go forward, and she would not know how to do that until she figured out how to avoid a repeat of the past. She found that, as long as she let herself remain in that impenetrable fog, she could analyze small pieces of her experience in an objective, chronological fashion.

If she delved too deep, though, emotion panicked the thought out of her, and she sometimes did not wake from the tempest for hours. Lady Willen seemed wiser than ever as she distracted Aylee with simple tasks, calling on her just as she might spiral into anxiety, requiring her to focus on a small and manageable task. Though Aylee feigned irritation, in her quieter moments, she could only be grateful for the interference. It kept Aylee from despair.

It kept her from wondering what about her had made Malchus come after her. It kept her from worrying about what she needed to do differently to make sure no one ever did it again. It kept her from feeling as if there were some inherent defect in her that allowed him to take such advantage of her – that would attract other unscrupulous men.

If she examined the last thought closely, she had to upbraid herself. What had happened to her was not particularly horrible compared to what many women endured. Men in her city, by default, felt entitled to demand what they wished from women, and in matters of accusation by women, men were given the benefit of belief. Not, Aylee knew, because people actually believed them, but because there was so much difficulty in bringing indictment against a man – especially a man of influence. Discount a woman’s word? Simple. Women were “emotional, unthinking simpletons.” They had no mind for business or the hardships of earning their keep, so they couldn’t be relied upon to see things with any understanding. They were “vindictive creatures when crossed” and so therefore could not be trusted. It also did not help that on occasion a woman proved duplicitous, that she falsely charged a man with infamy for her own avaricious purposes. Those occasions gave the powers-that-be justification to discount all of the genuine complaints by women in the town – that and the fact that most women settled into a fairly comfortable existence despite their struggles or the struggles of others. No one wanted to upend their own comfort once they had found it.

Maybe Aylee’s problem arose from the fact that she had lived a different life than most women, in a world where women held as much importance and respect as men. Where they could request their preferences and receive consideration. Aylee wondered how many women – women who did not bear so phenomenal a family as she did – had been forced to endure indignity and violation by society’s desire to maintain the status quo.

Aylee, unconcerned and ignorant about the precepts of society, had helped a poor, overworked woman receive justice from Malchus Lorne, and Malchus Lorne did not like justice for himself – especially not delivered by a woman. He liked power, and society let him use his power over women with few repercussions. The portreeve would have done nothing, and neither Aylee’s too-old father nor her too-young brother could have demanded recompense for her honor. They would not have made her wed Malchus, but they might have died trying to enforce the justice that the government would not.

Jess helped you, a voice whispered in her thoughts. Her mind wanted her to examine the anomaly, but Aylee refused. The turmoil took precedence over the respite, especially because she knew that if she counted on the respite and it proved false, the fall would crush her. As she now stood, she at least could stand – a little dazed and disoriented, but on her feet. At least if she counted on turmoil and it did not materialize, she would stand on stable ground. She needed to retain her own footing and not lean on a support that might prove counterfeit.

All of these thoughts she could examine in the little pocket of clarity in her mind, but once her images wandered back to the small corridor where Malchus had trapped her, thought revolted, and the fog thickened. Instead, her body started to relive its sensations – the rapid breaths, the thrumming heart, the weakening of every muscle that held her erect – and Aylee’s mind turned itself off whether she wanted it to or not. Her examination came to an end, and the weakness frustrated her. If she could just face her fear, step beyond it, her mind would work again - she just knew it. But her mind refused, and her body seconded the motion.

To the woman's credit, Lady Willen left her poor charge alone for the duration of Aylee’s internal struggle. All at once, though, and just as Aylee’s body began to replay her panic, the rasping hum of a marsher folk tune broke through her thoughts, and a second later, a tiny hand lowered itself on Aylee’s shoulder.

“Now, Aylee, my dear,” the woman began, “ye hast nigh a span on me, and there are some cobwebs in the corners of the rafters that need clearing.”

Dumbly, Aylee glanced up at the tiny woman with the straw broom held out in front of her. Taking a fortifying breath, Aylee stood to her feet and grasped the implement from her host. “Of course,” Aylee agreed dully. She had no intention of heading back down her memories until more time had spent after the events, and the activity offered by Lady Willen would provide some distraction. For not the last time, Aylee recognized in the near-ancient lady a keen insight and wisdom.

The mindless chores helped. Still, the only real distraction from her horrible situation came in the memory of a different moment. Miss Aylee, Jess had spoken with apparent compassion, I told you that you will be okay – why do you give way to worry? Nearly devoid of prospects, she had drunk in his words as ambrosia. She worried because she did not know who Jess was and if he would prove true.

Buttressed by her protective instinct, Aylee had always found herself the strong one in her family – when her father traveled. She knew her own strength. She trusted her own strength. Her mother claimed that mankind was not intended to overcome every obstacle by his own strength alone, but after Malchus, Aylee was even less willing than before to trust another person with her well-being. Somehow, though, “Friend Jess” had lifted some of her burden, relieving her of her need to stay strong, and she wondered if her mother was right.

Her mind instantly rejected the possibility.

“Friend Jess,” it reminded her, had colluded with Malchus Lorne on that first day in Bennigton.

“Friend Jess,” cornered by Raehan Hembry, had hinted that he used a false identity.

“Friend Jess,” if Aylee decided to associate him with the rumors, may have pillaged and ransacked numerous defenseless villages and communities.

It didn’t matter anyway, because “Friend Jess” was gone, and Aylee had to take care of herself.

As if in answer to her thoughts, as Aylee stepped toward the small bedroom to kindle the bedroom lamp, a cry arose from the front of the house.

“Aylee,” Lady Willen shrieked with uncharacteristic drama. Though she tried to consider mundane reasons the woman would have fallen to panic, Aylee could think of none. She sprinted to the kitchen to find Lady Willen gaping out the window, a skillet in one hand and a blade in the other.

"My horse, Aylee! You must saddle my horse and flee at once.

Aylee followed Lady Willen's gaze, peering through the smoky glass at a scene of chaos. With torch in hand, a man sat on a high steed. Behind him rode several others, some mounted and some on foot with torches. Even more impressive than the sight was the sound, a raucous mixture of shouting and laughter, clanking metal and clopping hooves, all punctuated by the occasional shout of “Spite the peer!” from the men of the marsh. Aylee’s heart began to pound, her instinct tapping into her fear from that day in the corridor. When she heard the baritone voice of Malchus, her heart rate doubled and her strength faltered. With the endless days of waiting, she had somehow not envisioned such a scenario, Malchus with reinforcements, the violence of battle, and the sights proved more intimidating than Aylee could have imagined.

Unlike her previous encounter with the brute, however, she now stood in defense of someone weaker than she – a familiar position, with so many younger siblings. Rather than succumb to her fear, she raged against it, and with that rage she found strength. Steeling herself, Aylee reached behind her and grabbed another knife from where it rested on the table. She swept a large wooden mallet up with the other hand and headed toward the front door.

"Aylee Hembry! You do as I say! Take my horse. If you don't, you'll get me killed."

"If I do, you'll be killed anyway. Do you think the kind of men who associate with Malchus Lorne will possess the scruples to spare an old woman?"

"Aylee, no!" she heard from behind her as she pressed her way past the wooden barrier.

Right before Aylee's eyes, insanity had erupted in the courtyard outside Lady Willen's house. The torches had attracted many of the nearby marshers, armed with branding irons and farming tools, and they now waged battle against a small troop of men. Aylee paused to search out the face she expected. As anticipated, Malchus Lorne sat astride his horse, torchlight revealing his grim satisfaction as he watched his companions effect mayhem.

"Come back here, Aylee!" Lady Willen insisted clasping the younger woman by the arm. Aylee shook her off.

"Go back inside, Lady Willen. I will be fine."

"You will not be fine. Listen to your elders!"

"Too late," Aylee retorted, stepping off the doorstep and striding directly toward Malchus and his steed.

When Malchus spotted her, Aylee's strength faltered. In his eyes she saw fury - fury and hunger - and she had not quite determined what sentiment motivated her outside of fear. How powerful were his thoughts! Fury, hunger, greed, lust, flickering and shadowed by flame and night.

If she hadn't at that moment heard Lady Willen's bellow from behind her, Aylee might have lost her resolve, standing there in the middle of the courtyard's chaos. As it was, Aylee wrenched her eyes from Malchus and turned back to assist Lady Willen. What was she thinking raising arms at her age? Too many men now lay between Lady Willen and herself, so Aylee began to swing her makeshift weapons in an attempt to clear a path. Lady Willen somehow had done the same, slowly making her way to Aylee's side.

"Aylee Hembry, thou hast lost thy wits!" she barked. "Come back to me, and perhaps we can make it back to the house!"

“I have lost my wits?” Aylee accused. “You should not be out here!”

“Nor you neither,” countered Lady Willen as the pair stumbled past the gate to the garden. Aylee would not retreat, but she did have an idea, and the first step would involve doing exactly as Lady Willen commanded. Without resistance, Aylee fought her way back to the front doorstep, adroitly dodging several of Lady Willen's farm hands where they stood at arms with Malchus's compatriots.

"Finally," Lady Willen lowered her voice to a normal thrum, "ye have listened to sense."

"Nothing of the sort, Lady Willen," Aylee contended as she darted out the back door and toward the stable. A moment later, she disappeared into the building, and Lady Willen sighed with relief.

+++++++++++++++

After riding through the night, Jameson wished he could fly past the last mile before Lady Willen's cottage. His mind kept supplying him a vision of Lady Willen, unconscious on her doorstep and Aylee, flung lifelessly across Malchus's horse. Fortunately, he had not allowed even his imagination to take him any farther down that path, but the vision that plagued him seemed painful enough.

He still could not justify investing so much in the one girl, but once he had begun, he found himself unable to stop thinking about her. As he rode upon the courtyard adjoining Lady Willen's home, a cloud of dust seemed to indicate a tempest in the air. When he finally beheld the spectacle, Jameson understood the accuracy of his prediction. Everywhere, man battled man, most with crude farm equipment or animal brands. Those with the homemade weapons outnumbered those with conventional ones; otherwise, the locals would have lost the battle long before Jameson arrived. When Itchy rode up a few minutes later, Jameson had not moved, unwilling to upset what seemed a fair fight where the right side was winning.

"Have you seen the girl?" Itchy queried, and Jameson shook his head "no." "Are you going to help? I’m not sure it is wise, with these marsher’s view of ‘the peers.’" Itchy wondered.

"Well, I would help the men – regardless of their dislike of ‘my kind,’ but I don't know that I can." He swept his hand out as if in demonstration. "The men of the marsh seem to have things in hand."

"But I don't think anyone could have her in hand," Itchy gestured across the courtyard to the back corner of the house, and Jameson's indifference fled in an instant.

From behind the house, determination poised in her every muscle, rode Aylee Hembry through the shadows, a large wooden mallet in her free hand and her horse's nose aimed directly toward Malchus Lorne. Suddenly alert, Jameson reined up his own horse, setting it on a collision course with hers.

"What the hell is she doing?" Jameson exclaimed.

"Such language, my lord. " Itchy chuckled at the irritation on his master's face. “Now you sound like a tradesman.”

"If she doesn't get herself killed, she will get herself captured – which may be worse!"

Aylee rode like an arrow, straight to Malchus's side. Just before she reached him, she lowered her mallet and began a swing that reached up over her head. Combined with the speed of the horse, Aylee felt certain that if she landed the blow, Malchus would go down hard. Unbeknownst to Aylee, though, one of Malchus's men had noticed her where she skirted the courtyard, galloping like a whirlwind toward his leader. The man stood only a few feet away from her, and he merely reached out his arm and swept her to the ground, hard enough to make her lose her breath. She lay, stunned, on the dirt of the courtyard.

"Master!" the man cried, drawing the attention Malchus had turned back to the battle when his prey had run for cover. Malchus’s eyes caught sight of Aylee where she lay helpless in the dirt, and he grinned a skeletal grin. Horse's hooves danced around her for several seconds before she stumbled to her feet. Though she had not lost her mallet, Aylee had lost her bearings, and when she stood, she pivoted frenziedly in an apparent search for Malchus.

Jameson would not give her time to find him.

Almost as soon as she scrambled up, she felt herself wrapped in an arm once again and swept unexpectedly from the earth onto a horse. The impact punched the breath out of her and knocked her weapons from her hands. She began to flail her arms, throwing her elbows and twisting her body in an attempt to free herself from her assailant. Finally, her fingernails once again found purchase in the arm that encircled her, and she dug in one hand while she reached over her head with the other in search of a head of hair.

"Aylee Hembry!" came a strangled cry when Jameson finally found his breath. "Would you please let me keep the flesh that currently remains on my arm?"

"Jess!" Aylee gasped, and she attempted to twist in her seat to see him.

"My arm," he reminded her gently.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she released him. "What are you doing here?" Though she tried, she couldn't hide her relief in seeing him. He had come back for her. What had happened to her newfound suspicions?

"I came to save you," he informed her matter-of-factly.

"Save me!" she gasped, incensed. "I did not need you to save me. I was about to knock that ridiculous fool off of his horse, and once I had him on equal footing, he would stand little chance against me."

Jameson laughed at her self-confidence. "Was that before or after Malchus's henchman knocked you off of your steed?"

Rather than answer, Aylee growled. After a moment of fuming, she placed her fingernails back onto his arms, though she did not press them down. "You watch out, Jess Whoever-you are! I feel no more confidence in your honor than I do in his. And I can redirect the fury I had intended to unleash on him. For all I know, you are the man the rumors speak of."

"You really think me as vile as that?” Jameson mused, the possibility paining him.

“Why would I not? The coincidence is unlikely that you seem to appear wherever Malchus is.”

“I appear where you are, and when you are in danger. That is the only ‘coincidence’. Besides, do you honestly believe people could misconstrue a tradesman for a noble, even if I do have an educated manner?”

“No, I do not…,” Aylee leveled, trying to catch the eyes that he riveted to the road before them. “Just as I don’t believe that you just happened to be there when Malchus came for me.”

“Not ‘happened.’ I received intelligence.”

“Received intelligence? Who speaks like that? Certainly, not a tradesman. Who is paying you to carry me away, if you are a tradesman? Or was my mother right in your identity as a noble?”

Jameson did not correct her, only sighed as if bored by her continued prying.

“Am I supposed to just believe your word, though you admitted disguise to my mother?”

“I did not admit –

“Because you are not a simple tradesman.”

Aylee persisted so cunningly that Jameson began to lose exactly where he had left off and how, and he saw danger in her incessant determination to find out the truth. He would need to tread carefully around her to protect his secret…or perhaps he could return the favor and create some confusion in her mind instead.

Leaning his mouth down to her ear, he lowered his voice to an intimate murmur. “If I were a noble – especially this rogue noble who is supposedly wandering the woods – it would seem unwise for you to challenge me while I literally hold you in my power. There would be little to restrain me if I chose to act on my impulses.” He punctuated the words by tightening his arms around her, and for his equivocation, he received the satisfaction of hearing her suck in an anxious breath before lapsing into silence. Once he realized what she might be feeling, though, he regretted his teasing. “I am not responsible for these offenses,” he appealed.

"How would I know what you are?" she retorted, her tone weak. "I have had no opportunity to seek out the truth for myself. I have spent the last few weeks stuck in a cottage with that superstitious woman who thinks that she knows everything."

"And what does she think she knows?" Jameson asked, his tone gentle. He relaxed his grip on her, but she did not lean away, instead leaning back into his chest as he slowed the horse to a quiet trot.

"That there is no way to know, based on the stories, who is responsible for the current chaos in the region, whether a lone agent or a ghost of men’s imagination as they seek explanation for difficulty. I am not convinced, though. Perhaps you are not a tradesman at all…" Aylee cut off her comment, unwilling to offer conjecture on the subject. She would not wonder aloud to him whether an agent of the court or a rogue element had unleashed confusion in the realm, and whether or not he played some role in the current regional drama.

Most likely, he was a tradesman, as he had claimed. His occasional reference to profit fell perfectly in line with thoughts of a businessman, and despite her mother’s hypothesis, Jess had borne no overt signs of nobility outside of a flagrant politeness, a manner which would serve a tradesman well and could therefore be assumed out of economic interest.

As she lost herself in thought, she began to notice the sights and sounds around her. Jess, too, seemed more aware, and Itchy rode up beside his friend.

“What is it?” Itchy prompted.

Jess did not respond, only signaled silently with his hand, and Itchy moved into an advanced position. For several minutes, they crept forward in utter silence, and Jess’s arms tightened around her. As she was unarmed, Aylee rather disliked the restriction. When torches burst frum behind a dozen trees, Aylee sucked in a scream.

With several shouts, and a few cries of “spite the peer!” the band of attackers converged on the two horses. Itchy, unhindered by a passenger, swiftly struck a blow to at least three of the men, leaving two debilitated and one perhaps barely clinging to life.

Aylee wanted to close her eyes, curl herself against Jess’s chest and pray that they escaped, but she knew that would be foolish. Though she had read of the horrors of battle, watching a man cut down before her eyes awoke her to the reality, but she did not have time to grieve, with men assaulting the pair on horses. She was creating greater difficulty for Jess, and she was completely debilitated in her current position.

As Jess swung his sword to the left, therefore, she leveled a kick at the face of the closest man and slid off the horse..

“Aylee!” Jess cried, parrying a blow as he spun to assess what had happened.

“I’m fine,” she bellowed as she scurried past an attacker, who was largely focused on Jess, and hid herself between a sizeable, caprocked stone and the trunk of a massive oak. “Now, use your advantage!”

Searching about her, she spied a broken of branch with a jagged enough end that she thought she might use it as a spear at necessity. No one seemed to care about her, though, all efforts focused on Jess, and on Itchy who was defending his friend.

“Spite the peer!” rang the chant, over and over as the men struck. Jess, unencumbered by Aylee, reared up his horse and knocked one of his attackers to the ground with the hooves. He swung the horse in an arc and used the momentum to slash at the nearest attacker, lowering the number to three. Aylee let herself close her eyes, finally, certain that the latest man struck by Jess had breathed his last, and when she opened them again, her two companions had both dismounted their horses and were engaged in basic duels with the last two attackers standing.

Her eyes had focused so intently on the battles between her companions and the attackers that when the man rose before her, she barely had time to raise the branch to warn him off. He was the man knocked to the ground by the horse, and he had fortunately not come at Aylee with his sword, likely intended to detain her and use her to compel the men to some action. “Your mistake,” she murmured, rearing back with the branch and leveling a blow at the man’s head.

At the last second, he recognized the motion and lurched out of the way, but the blow glanced off of his shoulder and knocked him off balance. Aylee cursed, gathering her skirts in one hand as she leapt atop the stone and raised the branch again. Before the man recovered, she landed another strike to his shoulder, using his prior momentum and the new force to knock him to the ground.

Clambering to the ground, she swung again as the man tried to rise, but he predicted her swing, and he lunged for her legs. She flew back, twisting to avoid the rock behind her, and the man was upon her in an instant. He was not a large man, or Aylee would have held little hope against him, but she wrenched one of her legs free of his grasp as she fell, and she began to kick at his face, trying to free her other leg. When she managed to land a particularly savage blow on his jaw with the heel of her boot, she rattled his grip, and she pulled her other leg free.

She would have made it away with little problem, but her skirts tangled in her shoes, and she found herself fighting them as she tried to scramble into the forest. When the arm encircled her waist, she screamed in frustration at her skirts and began lashing again with her feet.

“Aylee…” came the familiar voice, and once the arm lifted her to her feet, hands encircled her waist and spun her around to the sight of Jess, standing before her, and Itchy, where he was binding her attacker with a length of rope. “You are safe,” Jess assured her, though her pounding heart did not yet believe him, “but it is likely there are others around, and at least three of the attackers got away. If they have reinforcements, we will likely not fare as well.” As he spoke, Jess pressed her back to the horse, and gripping her waist, he lifted her to the stirrup.

She had little choice but to place her foot into the strap or dangle like a doll from his grip, so she placed her foot in the stirrup and climb onto the horse. When Jess swung up behind her, she forced out a breath. Her mind could not clear of the energy from the attack, but her body began to fight her with fatigue. In one evening, she had faced more danger than she had her entire life.

“Perhaps it is not safe to continue with you after all,” Aylee wondered aloud, and Jess stiffened behind her.

“You cannot wander these woods alone at night.”

“Those men were after you and Itchy, not me. There is no reason for anyone to ‘spite’ me.”

“Nor me,” Jameson hedged. “Just a case of mistaken identity.” When Aylee turned her head enough that he could read her skepticism, he pressed forward. “And many men need no reason to take advantage of a woman’s isolation. Men like that? Who have thrown off restraint in the name of some imagined fight for justice? They sometimes justify many things in their pursuit that they would have repudiated in other circumstances. I almost lost my fight when you slid off my horse, so concerned was I that one of them would carry you away.”

Aylee shivered, and when Jess squeezed his arms more tightly around her, she did not complain. Succumbing to her exhaustion and fear, she drifted into a fitful slumber, sheltered from the frigid air by the heat of the horse beneath her, by Jess’s arms around her and his chest behind her. When she grew aware again, after an indefinite time in which she had dozed lightly, her anxiety returned with much greater force. She began to recognize in the sights and sounds that pressed into her consciousness the mutterings of a camp: muted flames that served as torches, the stamping and snorting of horses, the clash of wooden swords where men trained.

"Where have you brought me?" she whispered, suddenly unsure. She leaned further back into his chest, subconsciously seeking shelter in the nearest source of strength.

"This is my camp," he replied. Her anxiety pained him, but he could not ignore the pleasure as she sought the comfort of his arms.

"What do you plan to do with me?" The words choked in her throat, and Jameson shook off his distraction. Was she afraid?

He brought his horse to a stop several yards from the camp, waving Itchy on when the servant rode up behind them. Once Itchy had dismounted, Jameson slid from his own horse, aware that Aylee's breathing had grown jagged with tears. He pulled her down to stand in front of him, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

“Aylee, what is wrong?”

“What is this place?” she demanded, her tone thready. “Why have you brought me here?”

“I guess you have never been in a camp of men before, but I had not thought it particularly deceptive in its appearance.”

“But what do you intend to do with me?”

“Do with you?” He watched her rein in her anxiety, and when she answered, he believed she had altered the words from her original thought.

“Am I to camp in the forest with a – a troop of men? Who are you, and why do you have a troop of men?” Aylee swung her arm in a gesture that encompassed the entirety of the camp.

“I have told you I am a tradesman. With the region in such turmoil, I have engaged a few men to accompany me, in order to avoid the very thing that happened to us tonight.”

“A few men…?”

“If I had not heard of your danger and rushed out without my men, we would not have been attacked. Fortunately, I could not shake Itchy if I tried, because without him, you and I would have struggled back there.” Looking down at her, Jameson noted a marked anxiety on her face. “You do not seem convinced.”

“A tradesman?” She tore her eyes from the camp and raised them to his. “Who is paying you to take me on as a charge?”

He clenched his jaw. “Not all tradesmen require payment for every service rendered. I know several tradesmen who would render aid to a soul in need.”

“But you are not one of them.”

“Look," he began, trying to reason with her. "I know that you have been through a lot, but you are a woman of sense, and it will help us both if you use your reason. Your determination to fight Malchus Lorne yourself could have resulted in much damage to the people who were there to help you. And now that I have brought you here to safety, you are ready to class me with criminals.”

Crossing her arms across her chest, a glare supplied Aylee’s only answer.

“Suppose I am a villain, as you seem to believe. I have twice now held you alone in the woods, fully at my mercy. I encountered significant opportunity to compromise your honor, and I have not done so." He stepped toward her, lifting her chin so he could peer into her eyes. Within them, a golden core burst forth from a deep pool of midnight blue. For a moment he could not speak, distracted by the pull within their depths, and reading his sudden interest, Aylee’s lips popped open in surprise. When he spoke, the words came out low and intense. “Perhaps,” he pressed, “you have misjudged me.”

“Or,” the fire returned to her eyes as she snapped her expression back to defiance, “you do not favor me, and that is why I have so far been safe.”

A strange animal stirred in Jameson’s breast as he stared into her rebellion – Favor her? For the time being, he would not have known any way to engage with a woman that would allow him to maintain propriety and respect his father’s dire situation. Still, some demon within him wished her to understand how he was restraining himself, at least in part for her benefit.If he did not leave her quickly, he feared he would disabuse her of her misconception. Forcing a breath, he leaned closer to ensure that only she could hear. “I assure you,” he countered, not releasing her chin, “that is not the case.” Once he did let go, Jameson turned quickly away, not confident he could maintain his cool if he did not escape the moment.

“Which?” she tossed at his back. “That you do not favor me? Or that I am safe?” Not quite recovered from her mad dash to the camp, her chest rose and fell in a struggle for breath.

Jameson felt his mouth twist in amusement at her cheek, somehow still present even as she seemed poised between anticipation and apprehension. “I will leave that to your own discernment,” he paused to declare before striding toward the camp in search of Itchy. Maybe once she realized she wasn’t a prisoner, she would calm down. Maybe Jameson would even send his lymer to offer relief – she seemed more comfortable with the servant than the master, much to Jameson’s dissatisfaction. Still, he had not seen any other way to protect her from Malchus, and he could not alleviate her distress completely without disclosing his own plan and placing it in peril. If he were to keep her safe, she would have to figure out how to trust him.

Aylee’s eyes opened wide as Jess strode away from her without explanation, but rather than stand impotent, she glared at the back of his head. “Yes, I will trust my own discernment,” she yelled after him, recovering just in time to find her tongue. “Because I don't think you know the answer yourself!”

Even though he heard the jibe, Jameson refused to acknowledge it. If she did not take care, her tongue would one day get her in trouble with authorities who had not sprung from his conscientious upbringing. No doubt her attitude had not aided her in her dealings with Malchus Lorne. Of course, she bore no blame for the treatment of a man who had proven himself a criminal, but she might learn to avoid some of the conflict she wrought upon herself.

"Friend Jess," came Itchy's salutation from across the distance.

"What is it, Itchy?" Jameson answered tersely.

"I understand your concern for Miss Hembry, but I do not think it wise to hide her here. You take lightly the encounter with Malchus Lorne. Even if he is just a small-town ruffian, he has managed to gather a troop. Many a man has risen above his station with less. And with the land in upheaval as it is, you can ill afford to make a new enemy."

“And what do you suggest?” countered Jameson, glancing toward Aylee where she leaned against a nearby tree. “Do we leave her in the hands of fate? I am not prepared to do that.” Apparently, she had decided not to flee – probably because she did not wish to encounter Malchus again.

“You have done that for all the other fair maids of the land.”

“But Providence has thrown her into my path! Surely that means something.”

“I am not sure that you have not thrown yourself into her path, Friend Jess.”

Jameson ran his hands through his hair in frustration, recognizing at least a portion of truth in his friend’s words.

“But no,” Itchy soothed. “I do not think we throw her to fate. Regardless of why she is here, I am glad she is.” He turned his eyes fondly to the figure leaning against the tree. Jameson couldn’t escape the appreciation on his friend’s face.

When Aylee noticed their eyes on her, she pushed off from the rough bark. “If you are going to discuss me,” she accused, “I should be in on the conversation.”

Breathing deeply, Jameson reined himself in. His men seemed naturally to have understood the hierarchy of their situation, though he had not presented himself as a figure with actual authority. He paid the silver and provided the food, so they followed where he led. It had certainly made his job easier. This woman, though, seemed to have no respect for his obvious position among the group. In fact, it seemed his authority which stirred her resistance.

In contrast to Jameson’s exasperation, Itchy chuckled aloud. "She has a point," the lymer grinned. “If you are asking her to place herself in your power, you might offer some explanation for your request.”

Aylee returned the man's grin, forming an instant liking for one who dared agree with her against his leader. In addition to her feeling of kinship, she realized that the young man was actually quite as attractive as his friend, what with his tanned skin and near-black hair. She had not noticed before, but she now saw that a perpetual twinkle brightened the man’s eye, and on the rare moments when he allowed more than a smirk on his face, Itchy's whole being lit with his smile. Not that Aylee would let herself care overmuch.

Wrenched from his reflection by the silence, Jameson noticed Aylee’s perusal of his friend, and his jaw clenched involuntarily. Did she have some interest in Itchy? "For the moment I can offer none," Jameson pressed the conversation forward. "The best that I can do is to send some resources to her friends in the marsh to begin repairs. Between the run-in with the soldiers and the skirmish with Malchus, they will need aid."

That was hardly an acceptable answer, Aylee knew, but the kindness of his offer…Would a heartless cad use his own resources to repair an injustice? Not a self-serving tradesman – certainly not a spoiled noble. Maybe he had merely spoken the words for her benefit. She would not let them color her opinion of him just yet.

She would not let herself ponder it overlong, instead shaking her head to clear the questions from her mind. On the horizon, the sun had just peeked its eyes up over the tallest trees, and the shadows stretched long and dark throughout the forest. Aylee needed a few minutes away from Jess to think - she had not slept well and needed extra concentration to process the night’s events.

“Even if he will not offer me the respect of an answer,” Aylee reached a friendly hand to Itchy, “I appreciate that you understand.”

She released his hand and spun on her heels, gliding silently away from them through the shadows.

“You have a dilemma, my friend,” Itchy pursed his lips at his master. “If you do not tell her the truth, her opinion of you can only sink lower.”

With a sigh, Jameson shrugged. “Are there greater depths still? I do not believe it. I cannot help it, anyway. I must keep my eyes on my goal, not on some troubled woman.”

“Some woman,” agreed Itchy with a grin, and Jameson shook his head, turning away toward his tent. He would not react, though he had to wonder if his friend had developed his own interest in the girl. At the moment, he could not clutter his mind with another worry, so he buried it under all of the other concerns he currently carried as he made his way to his tent.

Once Aylee had escaped the view of the men, she slid down the trunk of another tree, seating herself between two roots that provided a convenient resting place. Friend Jess had, so far, given her no evidence that she should fear for her personal safety, despite his ambiguous words. He had at least offered a generous response to the plight of the marshers, and if he followed through, he might gain in her esteem. For the moment, her only negative impressions came from an overheard exchange between Jess and her pursuer and some vague and shifting rumors. Standing in his presence, neither of those considerations bothered her overmuch.

What concerned her more was her reaction to him. Certainly, she had experienced girlish crushes in her youth, but her mind had always returned her to sense. There was absolutely no sense in how much Jess filled her thoughts, and how she could not see him without her mind recalling the moments on his horse, her arms wrapped around him, her face against his back. Even more amazing, when he had dropped to his knees to comfort her. It was as if the run-in with Malchus had crumbled her internal stability to dust, and now she stood at the whim of every fancy that entered her mind. Surely, she had never fawned over a man – not even internally.

Perhaps losing her foundation had rendered her susceptible.

Except, why then did she not react the same way to Itchy? She found him just as attractive, and more pleasant. Perhaps not as present, and maybe that was exactly what she needed at the moment. A convenient answer to her need did not equal a proper one.