From a mile outside the city of Brampton, Jameson could smell smoke, and he stared past his long shadow cast by the rising sun to what seemed a burnt-out husk of a village. The slow trot of hoofbeats pulled his attention from the heartbreaking scene before him, and he turned to a moment of relief.

"What kind of monster would do this?" Aylee queried disbelievingly as she approached him. She had hoped to dig for information regarding the excursion the previous night, but as the sight before her unfolded, her schemes faded behind the rage. What had happened to the town before her?

"I know the type of monster," Jameson leveled. “One who has escaped the justice he deserves.” Realizing the harshness of his words, he caught himself, glancing toward Aylee to see if he had shocked her. He could make out the gentle silhouette of her form where she sat poised upon her mare, and she seemed as infuriated as he.

“I know the type of monster as well,” she offered, “though the scale of this is beyond my experience.” How could he sit there so calmly on his horse, speaking to her with full self-possession in the face of so much insanity?

With her new perspective on the difficulties of life, she could not stare into suffering unmoved. She had felt at first only a modicum of affliction from her experience with Malchus, and she had begun to assume that their run-in had affected her little. As she moved away from everything that reminded her of the fateful alley, though, she found her mind reliving the events at random and distressing moments. They colored her new horrors with a near-uncontrollable fury.

She no longer watched the pain of others with detached compassion; instead she seethed over the cruelty of the world. Was this not how the world worked? Did not most people either participate in or overlook horrors every day? Well, maybe Jess could peer into misery and remain unaffected, but she could not.

Without another word, she turned her mare and made her way to the back of the troop. Jameson watched her go, unexpected pity rising in his heart.

"She suffers," Itchy declared in unison with Jameson’s thoughts.

"She does, Itchy. But she says little. Do you think it wise to let her roam freely, to let her see what is happening to these villages? Surely she would benefit from as much as sense of security as we can manufacture."

"Let her roam freely, friend? How exactly do you propose to stop her and maintain this charade? I might wish, as I worry that her mind might break on some level." Itchy pursed his lips in consideration.

“No, we cannot restrain her of course, and maybe we worry too much…She is stronger than we think, if I read her correctly,” Jameson assured him. “I am sure her spirit troubles her, but her instinct is sound. Besides, we cannot allow the distraction of working too hard to make her feel safe if we are to manage our objective. We have made her safe in fact – her feelings must not concern us too much at the moment. Instead, we need to consider our course going forward – in light of this destruction.”

“I believe our course must find a way to encompass this new development,” Itchy insisted, waving toward the little town.

“Hours, Itchy! We left this village only a few hours ago. How has someone wreaked so much havoc since the setting of the moon?” Jameson shook his reins, beginning the trek into the city. He had not enjoyed any of the most recent excursions into the villages of the area. He had visited Ponsit before its ruin, but only hours after he left, it suffered attack. Now Brampton had fallen before he had even managed his meeting. His scouting expedition the night before had revealed no evidence of impending doom, but by morning, the town lay in ruins. How could he have missed a small army of brigands?

Brigands, he wondered? Rumors had circulated among the men of something more than brigands. Of a rogue noble, wanton and shameless, ravaging the towns on some attempt at amusement. A bored, self-indulgent noble, of an age to manage such a series of feats? Jameson knew every person of nobility for a hundred miles, and only a few shared his youth. Perhaps ten at best. Jameson felt sure that none of the young men would have perpetrated these crimes, and of the corrupt, none were given to licentiousness – more of greed and power games. The antics of the current times did not speak the games of nobles, yet somehow the cities still burned.

Until Jameson could discern a motive for the crimes, he could not predict them. Until he could find the culprit responsible, he would find it difficult to create a conjecture. At least the number of major towns in the region that had not faced ruin grew smaller, so the possible targets grew fewer. An ironically positive development. Still, eventually, Jameson would find the scoundrel and set him to justice. In the meantime, he would have to satisfy himself with cleaning up the messes.

Even if he could follow on the heels of the supposed noble, seeking to right the wrongs, no "hero" could restore lost possessions, unburn buildings, or unsully a woman's honor. At most, Jameson might hope to offer solace for those injured by another. Though he had begun his project desiring justice, intending to reestablish his father’s authority, Jameson found his original goals subjected to more pressing needs. Political machinations seemed insignificant in light of the abject suffering of those he encountered.

If policies of plunder continued to proliferate, Jameson would not have time for anything else. How much damage could this stranger inflict by the time Jameson figured everything out? Jameson needed an army for either purpose, and armies did not rise on the wings of charity. Instead, they required thirst and hunger and pain to drive them out of their comfortable lives – perhaps a convenient coincidence in the circumstances. Dare he take advantage of these people's suffering to benefit his own cause, though?

Even if his plan would forward the benefit of the recovering towns, it felt mercenary to ask them to help in their own aid, as if he were taking advantage of their anger at the devastation. Then again, to rise in defense of one’s own family and one’s own village represented the most just and right use of resistance. Staring at the smoke, he imagined that many men inside held similar fury to his own, and to unleash it in the name of justice would prove productive for them.

Only an hour later, Jameson withdrew from the smoldering city, a cloud of indignation swirling around him as he rode away. If he had continued his egress uninterrupted, he might have determined on some violent course in his fury. Fortunately for his conscience, Itchy approached him about fifty yards from the edge of the camp.

“A word, Friend Jess?” he begged.

Jameson inhaled a centering breath and dismounted his horse. “What is it, Itchy?” He forced calm into his tone.

“I have some reports from the men who canvassed the town, and though I hesitate to bring it to your attention, I feel I have no choice.” As if performing his usual duty, Itchy reached for the horse’s reins. In fact, Itchy wished to free the horse from the master’s hand before unleashing the unpleasant tale.

“Please, Itchy. A moment.”

When Itchy glanced up, he saw the distraction of his friend and followed the man’s eyes to the spot where they gazed. Aylee approached them, her countenance no more troubled than usual.

"You'd better hope that Malchus doesn't happen upon me while you are daydreaming," she teased as she neared them – she wondered that she could quip regarding the man who had upended her life and attempted the worst of infamies, but she found that laughter gave her a strange power over her perpetrator in her mind. Even with the view of the smoldering village, she found that teasing Jess also brought her relief. I have lost my mind. "What thought has so enthralled you?" she prompted, needing to divert her thoughts.

"Not one to share with a lady," Jameson murmured. Though Itchy could sense his simmering mood, Aylee did not seem to.

"I'm not a lady," she reminded him seriously. "You, of all people, should remember that, milord."

"Aylee…” he reprimanded soberly, “this is not a time for levity."

“If I wait for the proper time, then there will never be opportunity for humor,” she scoffed under her breath. When Jameson finally pulled himself out of his fog of frustration to look at her, he noticed her own melancholy, and his heart moved him to patience. "Why should I not address you thus?” she continued, mocking lightly. “Afraid someone will find you out?"

Taking a breath, Jameson forced himself to composure. "There is nothing to find. I just don't like it when you say it. It breeds mistrust among my men. Besides, what would you do if someone called you milady all the time?"

"I would laugh," she offered smugly.

“Which means now is the time for levity,” Itchy mumbled from beside her, and Aylee stifled a snicker.

The sound brought Jameson’s eyes to appraise the pair, but he could not quite gauge the nature of their exchange. Just how familiar were they?

"It would be quite amusing,” Aylee continued as if nothing had happened. “I think I might force my brother to call me milady from now on. I will tell him that you commanded him."

"Maybe I will," Jameson offered his own smile, pleased to find himself included in her teasing.

"You won’t, but I will make him nonetheless.” The thought seemed actually to have pleased and distracted her, as well. “I shall convince him so completely that you commanded it that he will not need confirmation from you."

"Very well, milady.” Jameson nodded his head as a bow. “I shant interfere in your little game."

"Thank you, milord." She returned his nod.

Though he shook his head, he said nothing, and with a laugh and a toss of her hair, she once again turned toward the troop. Aylee often spoke with such audacity that one could believe her incapable of fear. Yet, Jameson could not forget her tears on the night he had brought her to camp. No doubt she possessed fears; she just held them close and guarded them tenaciously. Instead, she doled out much more benevolent sentiments among his men.

“Her mood altered quickly,” Jameson noted to his companion.

“You raised it, it seems.”

“Or you did,” Jameson leveled.

“Friend Jess, the effect I can have on her is limited and superficial. It is your approval that lifts her heart. That, or her egotistical pleasure at having a lightening effect on such a morose countenance as yours.”

Jameson shot his friend a glare, but watching Aylee’s buoyant demeanor as she left, he had to admit her effect on him. In fact, he could also not miss the general joy and tranquility that followed Aylee wherever she moved within the camp. He had chastised her for her levity, but she had managed to break through a thick fog of fury in his head and dissipate it into a manageable cloud of worries.

“Well, speaking of my morose countenance, why don’t you inform me of whatever it is that is going to ruin my night,” Jameson prompted, suddenly much more able to hear even unpleasant news.

“I would rather not.”.

“Just tell me, Itchy,” Jameson sighed.

“Very well. According to our men, you are the one who has set these fires…”

“I?” Jameson’s thoughts quickened, and he spun indignantly to his companion. “Did I set these fires and then return to see my work?”

“Not you specifically, I should say. The men heard tales of Lord Capigan and his band of soldiers, pillaging the villages in the west, moving east now toward the center of the Banda.”

“Lord Capigan? It would have to be Capigan’s ghost!” Jameson insisted. “Have not they heard the reports of my death? Father and I counted on the rumors.”

“The rumors we court often evade us, while those we flee find us. Some have heard the tales, though, and the more superstitious do believe it is your ghost, bent on some revenge from the other side. The more rational among the people, though, have offered their own explanation.”

“What could explain this?” Jameson countered.

“Well, unfortunately, I think maybe we did. The duke, the men say, has circulated the rumor of your death because he found out that you were illegitimate and could not inherit his rule. As a result, you have embarked on a campaign to destroy the domain you cannot possess.”

Jameson ran his hand through his hair. Had he, in fact, rendered his own goal impotent by the fiction he created? A spoiled noble, rebelling against his father and wreaking havoc? How would he convince the men he applied to for support to donate resources to a potentially infamous campaign? He was now removed from the seat of power that could have taken the sting out of the tale.

“I think it might be wise to accelerate our design,” he pronounced. “Or reality might be rendered moot.”

As Aylee moved away from Jess, she rode as slowly as she could manage. She had hoped to catch them unawares and overhear their speech about what had happened in the town. Unfortunately, they had noticed her approach, and they completely ceased speaking before she arrived. Her mind had stuttered at Jameson’s notice, and she had ended up uttering nonsense before riding away.

Had she turned into a blubbering idiot around him? When she considered the memory of him before his midnight run, bumps erupted on her skin. Whatever his actual title, if any, he was very clearly the most powerful person she had ever encountered. Her mind upbraided her, though. She knew with certainty that no human deserved so much veneration, and she wondered what other demons tormented her mind that had produced such fragility within her.

Once she had meandered past several trees and had taken post on the other side of a tent, she peered back at the men. They had turned to take in the village again, and Aylee could discern the murmur of speech. For several days, she had hovered on the edges of propriety trying to discover some evidence to enlighten her as to the character of the leader of her little wandering band of soldiers.

Rumors had circulated among the men, and they matched those that had reached the marsh before Jess had whisked her away. According to the men, either Lord Capigan or Lord Capigan’s ghost had set the fires. Well, she knew the folly of ghost stories, and Lord Capigan lay a dozen leagues away in the castle.

She couldn’t doubt the reality of the fires, though, nor the fact that Jess and his men followed on the heels of – or sometimes preceded – every one of them. Breaking into her thoughts, a draft of wind carried a tone across the distance to her ears.

“This seems such a drastic step…” she finally made out Itchy's voice.

“Is there any response,” Jess answered, “too excessive if we are to accomplish our goal?”

Aylee paused to exchange pleasantries with a young soldier, taking the opportunity to peer back at the pair at the front of the troop. Itchy stood glancing over at his friend, a look of deep frustration etching the taller man's features. In contrast, Jess glared with something approximating hatred at the billowing smoke rising from the town before him. With such an expression, Aylee could not discern if he hated the town or the destruction, and she found herself confused by his words. What did he mean, an excessive response?

Frustrated, Aylee turned again to the rear of the troop, seeking out the place designated for her with the other non-soldiers. After more than a week, she had grown accustomed to the aged faces of the horse-tender and the cook, the smith and the tailor. Mostly simple men who did not question the reason they had left their homes. With good pay and a promise of work, they willingly followed any leader, though Aylee imagined that if they had found themselves called upon to commit heinous acts themselves, they would have refused. Aylee could not imagine such indifference. She might communicate a cool sassiness to her host, but she did not feel that which she communicated. Never in her life had indifference held a grip on Aylee Hembry.

On the other hand, what difference could any of it make for her? With her fear for her family, she felt helpless to refuse Jess’s aid, so, she would just have to snoop around for answers to her questions. For more than a week after Brompton, she tried her best.

Finally, during one of the many nights Jess had left his friend behind, Aylee stared over at Itchy, certain that if she could not make out the character of the leader, she could at least discern the disposition of his friend. A fierce loyalty stood between the two men, but it seemed to flow both ways. How much did Itchy know – or at least suspect – about his friend? When she looked at Itchy, she saw the dull, complacent face that only an honest man could wear, and she sensed that if forced to lie, his face would speak what his lips would not. Aylee determined to test him regarding Jess, to dig for a revelation in a more indirect manner.

Gliding to him, she greeted him with her best approximation of a disarming smile. “So, our fearless leader is off on a quest, eh?”

“Hardly a quest, I venture,” he shrugged, though she noted the tensing of his shoulders. “More a friendly meeting with some family acquaintances.”

Aylee breathed in deeply, determined to patience. “Family acquaintances?” she pressed.

“Just friends of his father.”

“Was his father a tradesman, too?” she queried, and Itchy peered at her suspiciously.

“His father was in much the same business as Jess.”

“Then who pays him?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Who pays Jess? No tradesman would take on a charge like me without payment, and he refused money from my mother. Who is going to pay him?”

Itchy shook his head. “Not everyone requires payment for kindness – if they did, would it truly be kindness?”

“In my circumstances, it would be folly to expect kindness. So, who pays him?”

“You are persistent, are you?” Itchy offered with grudging admiration. “You will just have to take it on my word, which I realize is not much, but Jess is just one of those people. His payment is knowing that he has helped a woman in need.”

“Then his payment relates to my being a woman? Does he regularly offer ‘aid’ to women so that he can claim payment?” she demanded.

Laughing, Itchy crossed his arms over his chest. “You are quite a work, young lady! You have described someone as opposite from Jess as a man could be. I misspoke – I should have said ‘a person in need.’ His only reward is the conscience that he can face with peace when he lies in bed at night. Though, with you, I’m not convinced that conscience is the only concern – though I am sure it is the highest one.”

Aylee dropped her eyes, hoping her deep breaths would blow away the blush that threatened to color her cheeks. Would Itchy cease his infernal loyalty to Jess and just notice her himself? If he would not offer her any quarter regarding Jess, she needed him to respond to some form of persuasion!

Turning to him, she peered coyly down at the ground, raising a finger to twirl in her hair. When he did not speak, she peered far up into eyes of questioning amusement. “You are very good to him,” she pressed, pouring as much coquetry as she could manage into her tone.

“No better than he deserves,” Itchy countered, smirking at her display.

Aylee let her face blossom into a smile, and she reached for his hand, using it to lead him to a large stump that someone had set up as a bench by the tent door. The evening chill tried to force its way through her cloak, but the clothing was heavy and warm thanks to Jess, and she was not uncomfortable. Somehow, Itchy did not seem aware of the cold, in his shirt sleeves and trousers. She was toying with him, but he really was a beautiful man, with his near-black hair and his ebony eyes, angled slightly in evidence of some exotic heritage. Maybe he deferred to his friend, but he shouldn’t, and the reality raised her defensiveness, both for herself and for Itchy.

Once seated, though, he pulled his hand away, his expression all amused indifference.

“I have neglected you of late,” she began.

“I have been busy, and you have much on your mind.”

“Still,” she continued, tracing a swirl of color on the cloth of her skirt. “I know so little about you. I have spoken with over half of the men in the camp, and I could tell you much about their lives, but I have never asked you.” She raised her eyes to his, adopting as much interest as she could manage. “Have you lived in Banda all your life?”

“All my life,” he echoed, unaffected.

“Which village?”

Itchy considered the kennel, substituting it for the town he did not wish to reveal. “Just a tiny place on the far east. More animals than humans, really.”

“Are your parents alive?”

“My mother is,” he allowed. “My father was killed in a hunting accident when I was twelve.”

“I am so sorry,” Aylee murmured, shame taking form in her thoughts. “I should not have pried into matters so personal. Still, do not feel compelled to speak to me if you do not wish to.”

“I am not compelled, Miss Aylee. It no longer pains me. My parents were aged when I was born, and my mother is already in her seventh decade.”

“You cannot be yet thirty.”

“I was, I guess, a miracle child. My sister is two decades older than I.”

“I imagine the family was very happy to have you.”

“I am very lucky,” Itchy smiled, and Aylee remembered him again – the beautiful man. The beautiful, indifferent man. Even if she could suppress her guilt, what made think she could read him rightly? How, in her current state, did she believe she could manage intrigue and investigation?

“I – I think that I should return to my tent,” she stammered.

“What is the matter?” he prompted, his compassion stirred by her sudden distress.

“It is fine, Itchy.” She stood to her feet. “I believe it is time for my evening meal. I should not have bothered you with my insecurities.”

Itchy also stood to his feet, and to her shock, he reach for her hands. “We are friends, Miss Aylee. You cannot offend me by your questions.”

She could not look him in the eye – he was tempting her to continue her search, though she did not feel equal to the task. Well, if he was encouraging her, she would let her heart make her appeal. “It is not offense I fear.” She pulled her hands away, turning her back on him. “If I am to be your friend, I must speak in honesty. And if I speak in honesty, I am not sure that you will want to be my friend.”

“Because you will ask me questions I cannot answer?”

“Because I will ask you questions you cannot answer…” She turned back to him, suddenly filling her words with sincerity she hadn’t intended. “Because I am stretched like cloth on a hook, unsure of which way I will spring when someone tells me the truth.”

“Let’s manage the direction of the spring then, Aylee.” He reseated himself and patted the spot at his side in invitation – apparently sincerity had worked better than her scheming. “Ask me something. Something that is my truth to give so you can know that you have one friend at least.”

She didn’t miss that he called her only by her name, dropping the “Miss” that had characterized his conversations with her. Obediently, she seated herself next to him. “Something that is yours to give?” she pondered.

“As long as it does not compromise Jess,” he insisted.

Narrowing her eyes, Aylee clinched her fists as she said, “Everything you say has to include that, doesn’t it? He holds his own secrets from you…why are you so determined to trust him?”

“He, hold secrets? Of what kind?”

“Well,” she stammered, “I’m not entirely certain, but I observed him when he hid something from you.”

“What exactly did you observe?” he demanded.

How did she make it sound as illicit as possible? “The other day, after Brompton burned, he waited until your back was turned and he pulled something from his pocket. When he glanced at you, he wore a guilty expression, and when you turned back, he quickly replaced it in his pocket before adopting a casual mien. I drew the distinct impression that he had taken something from Brompton that he did not wish to show you.”

“It’s not very polite to spy on people,” Itchy accused, and Aylee suddenly felt defensive.

“I wasn’t spy – I just happened…”

“Oh, do not bother yourself, dear Aylee. A woman in your position cannot be too careful. Still, I can assure you that any secrets Jess keeps from me are harmless. He has a boyish habit of worrying about my approval, and he sometimes hides things he thinks I will disapprove of – but never anything of significance. Now, this secret of mine.”

“The secret,” she agreed, too charmed by the idea of Jess’s insecurity to remember what she was supposed to say. Not Jess, she insisted. He held no insecurities. She knew that wasn’t true, but she had stubbornly refused to remember his moments of anxiety and his awkwardness when he apologized to Lady Willen. Aylee turned back to Itchy, determined to place all her efforts in charming the secrets out of him. “The secret,” she prompted, gripping his hand. “Now, you must understand – I will not tell Jess.”

Itchy started to pull away, but Aylee clung stubbornly to his hand. “Wait, Itchy! What I want to ask is personal, but I believe you have withheld it from Jess. I just need…If you will tell me this, then it will signify something symbolic.” Though she looked away from him as if pained, she shifted her weight toward him so that she leaned just beyond a proper distance, to where his body warmed the air at her back. “If you are willing to tell me this, then I can be sure you aren’t just forwarding his agenda.”

“Aylee…”

She turned to look into his face, gazing at him through her lashes. “Please, Itchy. I know that you accept his every claim, but I have to know that on some level, you can act independently of him. In a way, this will help his cause. The more I trust you, the more likely I will believe you see him true…”

If Itchy hadn’t known Aylee better, he might suspect her of attempting to manipulate him. What was her game? “But what could manage so much security for you? I’m starting wonder if you are going to ask for the secret keys to a storehouse of treasure I know nothing about, what with all your posturing.”

Forcing even breaths, Aylee lay her other hand on top of their joined ones. “It is not that. I am only afraid that you will take offense, though I believe it will bring me comfort.” She pause. She didn’t know why she found the question so significant, but she had a feeling it would change things between her and Itchy, and therefore, between Jess and Itchy. And in so doing, it might give her the confidence that she retained some control over her incomprehensible situation. “What I want to know – what you have not told him is – what is thy name?”

Itchy started, taken aback by the query. Of course she had known Itchy was not his name, but how had she known he had held it secret from Jameson? Regardless, he pondered the question, considering whether there would be any harm in sharing it. It might help her to hold something so personal, maybe strengthen her trust. Still, sharing something with her that had so obviously irritated his friend? It was a risk.

If she was at a game, though, she played it ill. Knowing his name offered her no strategic advantage – it gave away no important information. In truth, his reasons for withholding it from everyone stemmed from purely childish sensibilities. No one in Capigan knew his mother’s language, and the idea of anyone – of potentially everyone he met – butchering his name in their attempts to say it brought up more anxiety than he wanted to deal with. He liked life to be simple, if not always easy. Why stir up more complexity than absolutely necessary? And the refusal to Jameson had always just been a friendly game, a brotherly jest that offered lighthearted banter.

What could it hurt?

When he leaned in to speak the name softly, she closed her eyes as if in pleasure. If he interpreted the gesture in that light, better for her purposes. “What a beautiful name!” she murmured, honestly struck by the exotic tones. “So, thy mother and father do not hail from here?”

Somehow, Aylee had scooted so close to him that she peered directly up into his eyes, and Itchy gritted his teeth in irritation, quickly sliding away so they sat at a more proper distance. “They do,” he corrected, oozing indifference into his tone, “but their parents do not. My mother could not entirely let go of her parents' ways.”

To his surprise, Aylee dropped her pretense and laughed with genuine irony. He much preferred the natural ease to her affected maneuverings. “Mothers are like that, aren't they?” she sighed. “My mother is the same. In fact, my little brother still calls me 'Eyelid” because my mother insists on spelling my name the old way. No one knows how to pronounce the letters 'E-i-l-i-d-h.' It looks like Eyelid.”

“And so you see my dilemma,” he smiled. “I can only imagine what the Banda tongue would make of my family’s language – at least yours remains familiar to the marshers and the like. And besides, the sound of your name is lovely.”

When Itchy ventured the compliment, Aylee flashed him a brilliant and sincere grin.

“You are a good and kind friend,” she squeezed his hand affectionately, and Itchy was finally able to pull it away without too much awkwardness. “Jess has chosen well in his confidences,” she continued. “Perhaps if such a choice reveals character, I have less to fear from your companion than I had believed. I trust you will keep my secret and will not call me 'Eyelid.' I promise I will guard yours with my life.”

“Not your life, please, miss. Just with your power. Your life is too valuable to sacrifice for my pride.”

Aylee stared at the man with high diversion. The thought of pride residing in the humble man's breast seemed comical, but she nodded her acquiescence. “I will guard your secret, but as you wish it, not with my life. I only hope that the secrets you guard so sacredly are valuable enough for the price you pay.” What strange affection for her she now read in Itchy’s eyes. Amazing what a well-received secret can create, especially in the mind of a virtuous person. Aylee tried not to feel like she was corrupting innocence.

“Miss Aylee,” Itchy ventured, and the affection submerged under a swell of some sense of rebuke, “You must know you have misjudged him.”

Frustrated, Aylee turned her back on him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Unless you can relieve me with the truth of his identity, please do not speak of it. Why talk of him at all? I had rather talk of you.”

“But you have accused him in your mind, then have given him no opportunity to defend himself by speaking your accusations aloud.”

Clinching her fists to her sides, Aylee spun on him with irritation. “Is it possible,” she wondered, “that you are too close to him to form an objective opinion? I do not doubt your honor, dear friend – you have proven yourself honest and good. I merely wonder if you have known him too long to see clearly what he has set out to do on this journey.”

“I have proven myself nothing except more approachable,” Itchy insisted with the slightest hint of his own impatience, “which is by intent so he is not bothered. He has important tasks that he would neglect were I to allow him to worry over you. No, he has set out to right a wrong. I know the whole story.”

The admission stung, though if anything, it proved Itchy’s honesty yet again. Still, she would make a point to seek out Jess for herself. If there were some reason to keep her away from him, she wanted to know. “Yet while you trust me with your most precious secret,” she prodded, “you will not trust me with that one.”

“That is not my secret, Miss Aylee. I can only gift you with my own. To share another person’s secret is to abet thievery. But his secrets do not make him dishonorable. You cannot judge his forthcoming by comparing it to mine, since the revelation of my secret would cost only myself, and that price small.”

At least he doesn’t run his fingers through his hair when he’s frustrated with me like Jess does, she thought before reminding herself that she had no business noticing what Jess did. “But for as long as he lives in deceit how can I trust him?”

“Discretion is not deceit…” Itchy insisted. He gazed deeply into her eyes, but she read no fervor in her favor. No, only the fire of loyalty burned in his gaze, and she turned her back again before she could stamp her foot like a child. “I implore you,” he adjured her, “not to repeat these questions to another soul in our camp. I understand your insecurity – you have endured great difficulty – but you know not of what you speak. I can assure you that when all is revealed, Jess will redeem himself wholly both in your eyes and in the eyes of all who now question him. If you undermine him, though, you undermine your own good and the good of more people than you could conscience. Please consider your words more carefully from now on.”

Aylee stared across the little clearing at a darkened knot that punctuated a tree trunk several yards away. How had the conversation turned thus? She had worked so hard to make inroads with him, but he had held himself away as if he were water afraid to encounter her fire. He would give her no quarter, and he instead spent all of his energy furthering the cause of “Jess.” Friend Jess, she sassed, hoping the internal disrespect would ease the growing discontent her conversation with Itchy stirred.

Though the giant man spoke with the utmost kindness, he refused to react to any intimation she made toward him. In fact, he had almost conquered her instead of the other way around, and she found herself doubting her own thoughts about Jess. Could Itchy really prove so blind as to trust a miscreant? Would he shrug off the possibility of infamy? Even more important, what if he were right? On even the slightest chance that Itchy could know the whole truth, Aylee could not malign the leader either to Itchy or to the troops, regardless of her suspicions. She glanced back at Itchy where he still sat on the log, but his taciturn expression only irritated her, and she began to march away without taking her leave.

After a couple of steps, she turned back, forcing herself to calm so she could appear at least a little reasonable to her intended target. “Know that I wish no injury to the true or the good, and just in case Jess falls into the aforementioned categories, I will not harm him with profligate words. But I think that you neglect yourself too far when you think only of his well-being. He is withholding from you.”

“You are a goodly girl, miss.” The sheepish look returned, married to what looked like regret, and Aylee wondered if she had affected him more than he had let on. “And I am your friend, you must believe. And as your friend I beg you: do not sacrifice your best future for present insecurities.”

Itchy gazed at her with all the intensity he could summon, willing her to believe him, but the intent seemed lost on her, swallowed under a blanket of introspection that suddenly encompassed her. Speaking no further word, she turned away from him and left him behind. She was playing at something, and though he would treat her with kindness, he had no intention of ending a pawn. He watched her for only a moment, escaping to his tent as soon as he was sure she was thoroughly distracted.

What had Itchy just said? Her “best future?” What could he mean by it? It sounded so…permanent.

Her best future…The words tumbled around in Aylee’s mind, and she realized that they stirred a thrill in her gut – she had to ask herself why. Pausing just outside the clearing, she leaned against a treetrunk to ponder the past few minutes of conversation with Itchy.

She had started out on a mission, determined to uncover some nefarious identity for Jess, and she had ended by indulging the thoughts she had suppressed since she had known him – thoughts Itchy had formed into distinct possibilities. Why couldn’t Itchy have just responded to her flirtation and let himself be lured into revealing his friend’s secrets?

Because Itchy is smarter than you thought. That, plus he genuinely seemed to believe what he said, and a sincere person is not easily swayed from his purpose. So Jess was her potential future? Certainly not. Maybe Jess appealed to her baser tendencies, but “best future” sounded like…like marriage.

Aylee laughed out loud as she strolled back to her tent near the main clearing. No, she was in no way thinking of marriage, especially not with a man whose character she doubted. A handsome face, and suddenly she was supposed to think of marriage? A kind word, a sense of security, a charming smile, and she was supposed to lose her mind? Itchy was marrying her off to Jess, and her only hint of his concern for her came from his snatching her out of the arms of a man intending to hurt her. What honorable man would do less? Assuming he’s an honorable man. Though Aylee had noticed Jess’s treatment of her, she was the only woman in the camp.

Though she tried to laugh again as she entered her tent, the humor died on her lips as she sank to sit on her cot. Was she the one disconnected from reality? Certainly, her mind had replayed a dozen times all the icons to his appeal: his swooping her up on horses and his ridged muscles and his teasing words. And his kindness to Chester, and his generosity to the woman in the square, and his going to his knees before me when I cried…

All of which mattered not at all, because she didn’t even know who he was, and she wasn’t likely to any time soon. No way would she move down a road on which she could not continue.

Discretion is not deceit…her thoughts reminded her.

Aylee moved back to the entrance of her tent, peeking out across the clearing at Jess’s tent. She wanted to scream at it to give up its secrets. Why so much mystery? Since it would not share, and Itchy would not share, maybe Aylee could risk a little investigation. She knew she dare not snoop for long – Jess had left with a few men, but since she had no concept of what Jess did on these nights, she did not know for how long he would stay away. Too, Itchy might at any moment exit his own tent. Still, she imagined she could venture a short glance. Creeping across the space, she reached to the door flap, lifting it and peering into the darkness of an unremarkable tent.

On the floor lay a pallet not too different from her own, though longer to accommodate his greater height. A small trunk rested on the opposite side of the small space, and a stump stood for a table, adorned by a stubby candle and some strewn parchments. The practical trappings of a tradesman, albeit an apparently philosophical one, with the books cluttering the foot of his bed. Even her lodgings were better, with her warm fur throw and a hay-stuffed pillow. She suppressed the guilt that tried to chastise her for her judgment of him.

He is not what you have made him to be, her mind insisted. From the beginning, she had labeled him arrogant and entitled. In reality, nothing but her own biases could have held on to that belief after watching him with the troops – after experiencing his treatment of her. Not perfect, of course, sometimes a little dismissive, as if she should just accept his decisions because he had made them. Still, perhaps a good portion of that manner sprang from leading a troop of men. If she could just teach him that he did not hold authority over her the way he did with the men…

Suddenly nervous, she dropped the flap and stepped away. How long had she stared into that tent, pondering Jess? Her heel struck something solid in her backwards motion, and she teetered for a moment on the edge of a fall. She caught herself, though, throwing her weight forward until she barely managed to stay upright – or more correctly, bent forward to shift her momentum. Her eyes thus cast to the ground, she caught a flash of light as a metal object reflected against the brilliant moonlight. She reached down to retrieve it.

It was a small, circular medallion – it resembled the indefinite clasp that Jess had worn in his noble attire. The seal! It bore an unfamiliar insignia: a five-point, bell-shaped flower gilt with a brush of silver, not gold as she had imagined. What from a distance had seemed a branch, up close more resembled a stem lined with crowned goblet blossoms. The bronzed medallion was both beautiful and sinister somehow.

Though her conscience upbraided her, she did not return the little medallion to the dirt. It had lain buried for a while, kicked and dug in by inconsiderate trampling. If Jess did not care for it, she would not bother herself to return it. It gave a significant new clue to Jess’s identity to discuss among the men, if she dared. Stashing it in the pocket of her cloak, she rushed from the tent site and returned to her own. The crisp night air seemed suddenly too unobstructed, and she did not wish to be discovered loitering around the commander’s tent.

With the plight of Ponsit fresh in his mind, Jameson returned to his tent at the front edge of the camp. His meetings almost always ran lighthearted, but he could read the somber undertones that the levity masked. Though they put on a strong face for each other and for Jameson, the men stood, not just angry at the injustices enacted against them, but pained by the suffering of their families and friends. Jameson had dismounted from his horse halfway through the forest trek, needing the slow pace to unwind his fury and allow the possibility of sleep. By the time he had deposited the horse in the corral, his mood had mellowed to resigned frustration.

The sight that awaited him did not alleviate his stress. Before him unfolded an intense exchange between his best friend and the strong-willed young woman who had burdened Jameson for the past few weeks. What had he encountered? For far too many minutes, Jameson concealed himself at the edge of the clearing to observe the pair – he justified the action to himself by claiming his position required him to be suspicious. In reality, though, political considerations had nothing to do with his spying.

No, a mild jealousy had gripped him, and that was why he watched. Why did Aylee Hembry duck her head as she spoke to the lymer? Why did she scoot close to him on the low seat that they shared, and why did she grip his hand with so much intensity? Even more disturbing, what could have transpired between the pair that would upset Aylee enough to wrench her to her feet, to send her pacing and set her arms into a firm cross of defense? Had Itchy insulted her – or rejected her? Jameson suppressed a pang of gratitude at the possibility.

Though he perhaps should have considered the potential for political maneuverings with the near-stranger in his camp, he could not make himself. He had brought her to the camp, after all, and much against her will. How could she have intended intrigue by it? More likely, if she did scheme, it was to find a way out of the camp and to a place where she felt safer. The thought stirred a pang of guilt in Jameson’s gut, as he considered how he might make her feel more settled among his men.

As Itchy approached his own tent, Jameson urged the horse forward, slipping from his mount to intercept his friend before he could enter. He halted suddenly as, just when Itchy disappeared into his abode, Aylee approached Jameson’s own tent. Part of him bristled at the intrusion, but she did not enter. She just lifted the flap and peered through the yawning entrance into the dark. A moment later, she dropped the panel without time to assess anything inside. Was she truly trying to gather intel on him? Or is she just a curious woman, anxious to know the man on whom her well-being depends? He would not yet judge her – he held too much of a desire for her good will.

When she stumbled as she turned to leave, Jameson almost rushed forward to assist her, but he couldn’t let his instincts undermine his caution, so he staid his step. She caught herself and then stooped inexplicably to the ground. She raised to the light what resembled a coin or a badge. Since Jameson did not recognize the object, he did not risk discovery by restraining her. It was not his; still, Aylee did not appear the miserly type. Surely, she bore some other reason for retrieving the scrap of bronze – perhaps she had dropped it in the first place and was merely reclaiming what was hers.

He waited an appropriate span of time to allow Aylee to move beyond earshot, then he approached Itchy’s tent. The whole event had taken less than five minutes, and the lymer would not yet have fallen asleep. “To where is our young charge rambling?” Jameson feigned nonchalance as he tapped on the canvas to summon his friend. “Off to traipse through the wood's edge and find a place to lie amidst the clover?” He watched carefully as his friend formulated an answer.

Stepping from the opening, Itchy followed Jameson’s eyes and seemed shocked at Aylee’s proximity. What looked like a flash of guilt brushed across Itchy’s face, but it was so foreign there that Jameson could not fix it with any certainty. “I don't rightly know, my friend,” Itchy answered noncommittally. “She is not likely to while away her time in useless endeavors, that one. At least, not at this time of night – now.”

“And what does that mean exactly?” Jameson probed.

Instead of his usual direct response, Itchy glanced aside, screwing up his face in thought. “Only that, perhaps while she stood comfortable in her mother's home, she felt freedom to indulge herself in such mindless tasks, but after the blow that she has suffered, she seems more inclined to pensiveness and speculation.”

“Speculation about what?”

“Who knows?” Itchy hedged. “What would a young woman not question after such an attack – after assaulted by a man, being torn from her home? Perhaps she would mistrust her instincts, her knowledge, her security. Surely, one could find excuse even for cynicism once exposed to the dark realities of the world.” Itchy would not betray Aylee’s doubts, but he would explain them in case they were ever revealed. She had endured much, and she had not yet settled into her new reality. She deserved some forbearance.

So, if Itchy spoke his true thoughts – and Itchy always spoke his true thoughts to Jameson – then the friends were of the same opinion, that Aylee was curious about the leader of the troop, or at least the man who had saved her. Maybe Jameson had read too much into the exchange between Itchy and Aylee. Even if he hadn’t though, if Aylee intended no great attention for Itchy, could he begrudge the man the companionship Aylee offered?

Still, Jameson found himself resenting its contrast with his own relationship with the young woman. Jameson was unused to the level of resistance Aylee Hembry held against him – he was unused to needing to offer pretense to recommend himself to someone. Though James did not overly indulge his son, the position of Duke brought with it a high volume of deference as a rule, and when Jameson wished something, he generally found few impediments. Aylee threw a whirlwind of impediments around her as a shield and from it, Jameson could find no quarter. It both stirred incredible tension in his gut and intense excitement in his mind. “She seems to have grown attached to you, Itchy,” Jameson prodded. “Has she begun to share her secrets with you?”

Any semblance of guardedness from Itchy evaporated under a sudden cloud of discomfiture, and the servant began to hem for an answer that would not mortify him. “Nothing like that; I assure you,” Itchy denied. “I offer her advice or comfort where possible, but she is a kind lady. She does not discriminate in bestowing her smiles and friendship.”

She discriminates against me, Jameson countered silently. “Of, course, you are right,” he stated aloud. “You must be careful you do not ensnare her with your charms.”

Finally, Itchy glared up at his master. “Do not sport with your inferior, Friend Jess. It does not reflect well on your character, and you must guard closely the opinion of those who follow you. I would not nor could not ensnare her, as I hope you are aware. There is only one here from whom she is in danger.”

Jameson shook himself, feeling suddenly ashamed at the cruelty of his comment. True, Aylee possessed that strange ability to like anyone she met regardless of class or appearance. Still, Itchy would hardly entertain such aspirations for himself. Even if Jameson doubted the man's discernment in the matter of Aylee, he did not doubt the man's self-deprecation. No, Jameson had somehow resented both the smiles she bestowed on his friend and the intimacy of their exchange. Maybe Aylee could fall for a lymer, and she had worn such a comfortable and vulnerable happiness on her face while speaking with Itchy – something Jameson had never observed on her face since she had arrived. When Jameson looked at his friend, he still imagined the grime-blackened hair and the yellowed teeth, but when he beheld the man before him now, the lymer seemed to possess a simple refinement and charm; one that would previously never have escaped the sheds of the hounds. One that set him in the courts with all of Jameson’s peers.

Staring after Aylee, Jameson forced himself to equanimity with his friend. “Do not worry yourself, Itchy. I meant no insult, and I do apologize. She is difficult to fathom, and I merely note that she is as likely to attach herself to you as to any of the soldiers, regardless of their birth. If you manage to divine any of her character, feel free to enlighten me. Perhaps it is improper for me to consider the thought at all, though as one under my guardianship, I feel the burden of responsibility for her.”

“I have discovered only that she is of a sound heart, but nothing of her wisdom or perspicacity. She will feel right, but I am not sure that she will think right.”

With such a recommendation, Jameson felt an increase of interest stir inside his chest. He had assumed her judgment of him, but Itchy seemed to think otherwise – and Itchy bore excellent insight. She appeared aloof and skeptical, but according to Itchy, some weakness toward Jameson stirred in her thoughts.

Of course, Itchy could possibly be wrong – Jameson would just have to test her.

Aylee heard the rumble of Jess's voice as she walked, though she could not discern his words. Startled and a tad nervous, she did not turn around, instead hurrying her step to widen the span between herself and the men, just in case Itchy betrayed her secret concerns. As if to fuel her suspicions, she soon heard a footstep quicken behind her, and she spun to find Jess hard upon her heels, robed in only slightly less grandeur than the night on the ridge. No cloak, but the rich clothes and chaperon hat adorned him with almost equal grandeur. Gone, though, were the hard angles, as he wore an apparent softness while he perused her expression. His sudden appearance whisked her breath from inside her chest, and she stumbled.

His hand appeared to steady her, and he peered into her face with a penetrating gaze. “Are you quite well?” he panted, winded from running after her.

After pressing the air smoothly through her lungs, she managed a mostly believable steadiness. “I am well,” she insisted, lowering her chin in a defensive posture. “And I hope you find yourself well.” If he were not managing a ploy, his gentleness was almost offensive, as if he considered her breakable. Not that Aylee actually resented his consideration; no, she found herself trying to mock it so it wouldn’t affect her quite as much as it threatened to.

Jameson released her arm, uncertain of the source of the challenge in her eyes. Had he offended her somehow? This is why I’m here, he reminded himself. To ascertain her opinion of him. “I am well, thank you, but if you will forgive my abruptness, I have not approached you for an exchange of pleasantries. I am in need of your assistance.”

Shocked, Aylee did not answer immediately. “My assistance?” she begged. “I can imagine no way in which I could offer you any aid.”

“In this case, I find you uniquely qualified to offer a service that would otherwise have proven impossible for me to fulfill. I would be quite in your debt.” He turned his back to her, pacing with his hands latched behind him. “You see, I have a few friends who are meeting in a nearby home, and I'm wondering if you would be willing to step inside and answer a few questions for them."

Of course he’s not revealing anything, she complained to herself. "That explains your attire…”

“I’m sorry,” he coughed. “I know it is unusual. I just…it is how these men know me, and to appear otherwise would seem odd to them.”

For the first time since she had met him, Jess appeared sheepish, his head ducking as if to hide, and Aylee swore his cheeks wore a slight blush. She almost laughed aloud, but managed to hold it in. It was the most charming expression she had ever seen on his handsome face.

“The clothes are striking,” Aylee comforted, and she was rewarded with a grateful smile. Steeling herself, she ignored the butterflies in her stomach and pressed forward. “Who are these men? What kind of questions?" she finally ventured.

"Just some colleagues, and they just want to know who you are and what you have observed about me."

"So, you want me as a character reference!" she scoffed. "I'm not sure I am able!"

Jess, bent down to meet her eyes, persuasion oozing from his every pore. "It is your skepticism that recommends you. I need a character reference of a type I believe you uniquely suited to…” He paused, taking in her reluctance. “I promise this is for noble purposes."

"I'm not sure our definitions of noble agree," Aylee murmured, but aloud she stated, "I will do it, but if I don't like the questions, I won't answer them, nor if I can't answer them truthfully. And if I don't like the tone of the meeting, I will leave." His obvious pleasure almost suppressed her anxiety at her softening toward him.

Jess noted that Aylee’s petulance seemed to stir the slightest lilt of an old country accent in her voice. The effect was incredibly charming. "Of course," he nodded. "I would insist on it."

In truth, Jameson did not know exactly what he hoped to communicate to Aylee through the meeting, but perhaps encountering her compatriots – merchants who knew her father through trade – and seeing their reaction to Jameson, maybe she would believe their impressions of him. Whatever doubts she might hold, perhaps the men would reassure her.

Her head held high, Aylee soon followed Jess through the gates of the town and into a large home that stood just inside. Without hesitation, she marched through the door that Jess indicated. She spotted about a dozen men inside, scattered around a cozy sitting room, a fire crackling in a moderate-sized fireplace and several pipes creating a mild haze in the room. A den of thieves, she wondered? Perhaps. Her flesh broke into prickles of anticipation - not quite excitement, but not quite anxiety either. After coughing for a few seconds, Aylee stepped toward the center of the room and broke the silence.

"What is it you want to ask me?"

"Told you she'd be bold, Everett's daughter," one portly man bellowed with a burst of laughter. Aylee's eyes shot to assess him, surprised that these men knew her father. The speaker did not appear overly sinister, but then again, neither had Malchus until she knew him.

"And that she is," agreed another man, tall and lanky.

Their talking of her as if she could not hear began to grate against her patience. "And," Aylee blustered, "she is also in the room and won't be talked about as if she's not."

A stifled laugh from Jess drew her eyes to him, and she rewarded him with a reserved smile. When the first man asked his question, Aylee had to ask him to repeat it.

"I said, young lass, what is your family name?"

"Well, you said you know my father,” she shrilled, her moxie returning. “If you do, then you know my name."

Another chorus of chortles.

"I know your name, but these gentlemen don't believe me."

"Gentlemen?" Aylee muttered before answering the question. "My father is Everett Hembry, a merchant in Bennigton in the neighboring borough."

"And a fine man he is, lass, if a little loud," declared a different man, this one with a bird’s nest of grey-brown hair. The room rumbled with laughter. "How is thy mother?"

"She is well," answered Aylee without thinking, though she had determined not to answer any question directly if she could help it. “I mean...” She huffed, trying to withdraw her answer, but another man rapidly followed his friend.

"And your siblings?"

Aylee considered how best to answer honestly without giving away more than she wished. Discretion is not deceit, she reminded herself, and glanced furtively at Jess as if he had heard the thoughts that exonerated him, After a moment, she decided that her greatest danger lay in representing anyone in her family as vulnerable. "One brother is with the troops,” she offered to buttress her own position before continuing, determined with her next words to present her home as well-defended, too. “The other two brothers are guarding my house with my father, and I'm sure my little sister is tucked away safe inside with my mother." Glaring around the room, Aylee bolstered herself with sheer determination - she would not let the men intimidate her. "Why are you asking me these questions?

"We must know for certain that ye are whom you claim to be before we accept your recommendation of this young man here."

"Recommendation?" she scoffed. "I never agreed to give a recommendation; I probably know less about him than you."

"There is that," a grey-bearded man agreed, "But we understand why that has to remain so. And a recommendation from you would signify little, but a recommendation from Everett’s daughter would prove reliable, we have no doubt.”

“We are one and the same, Everett’s daughter and I.”

“Come on, Barrett. Ye can see Raehan in her blue eyes. Forbear with the girl.”

“Aye, aye,” allowed grey-beard. “Ye art the daughter of Everett and Raehan. You should’ve brought young Chester with ye, for I have a lame sheep.”

“Ye are a lame sheep, Barrett!” bellowed a man with a faded yellow tousle of hair on his head, and the room busted out in chortles again.

All of these men spoke as if they held full familiarity with Aylee and all her family. Chester, indeed! Since Aylee had not traveled with her father in years, maybe Chester had even met some of these men and would have suited better for this purpose. The entire exercise disoriented and embarrassed Aylee, and she felt a marked relief when grey-beard brought the conversation back around.

“Ye have, though, had the opportunity to observe this man over the last few days?" Grey-beard gestured to Jess, and Aylee glanced sideways at her benefactor, half in resentment and half in a desperate need for his support. In truth, he seemed as distressed by the chaos as she, and he blinked at her apologetically.

"Weeks, actually. I have," she leveled. She saw no reason to argue.

"And what has he done during that time?"

During the daylight? she qualified silently. "He goes from town to town," she shrugged petulantly. "He meets with men, I assume in a manner similar to this, or so I’ve been told. Though he has never asked for my 'recommendation' before, so I would not rightly know."

"And has he treated his troop with respect? And yourself? Has he acted in any untoward manner with you?"

In her current state of irritation, Aylee almost hated to answer the question truthfully. She drew in a deep breath, grudgingly supplying her answer. "I would say he has not – he is actually quite respectful, in truth. Never untoward with anyone,” she admitted reluctantly, throwing a glare toward Jess as if she had been forced to an unfortunate revelation, “not that I have seen."

"Do you suspect that he acts differently when you can’t see him?" queried a tiny man from beside a bookshelf which dwarfed him

She adopted as coy an expression as she could manage, mostly to antagonize Jess, not to communicate any ill-opinion to the men in the room. If she listened to her screaming instincts, she should answer the question in the affirmative. It was, however, one thing to hold fears and another to speak them. She would not malign him without certainty. "Well, I hardly know him, and I am not likely to trust any man I do not know well. In other words, I withhold my judgment, at least until I find a satisfactory answer for my questions. First of which is, why does he drag a woman around the countryside with him and his troop of men? I offer nothing, yet he keeps me on. Sometimes against my will. For what purpose would a man do that?"

The little man squinted at Jameson. "What of it, young man? It is a good question."

"I keep her with me to protect her,” he hemmed, surprised at the line of questioning. What did this have to do with the politics of the duchy? “She should know that by now, but she is inordinately stubborn and distrustful. I literally snatched her out of the hands of a miscreant. In fact, I would send her home now, but I would prefer to do so after the threat to her has disappeared."

“Is that true?” demanded the portly man.

Blowing out her breath, Aylee answered grudgingly, “It is…but-"

"Well," little man nodded, "sounds reasonable. And if that's true, Mistress Hembry, you would do well to stay in this young man's company. He is uniquely capable of protecting you."

Confused, Aylee shook her head. Maybe they knew Jess and his father, but Aylee knew nothing of the man. She had not joined his society by choice, and she had nothing to recommend him but his own words, the loyalty of a lifelong friend, and the actions he undertook while in her presence, which could have been put on for her benefit.

Aylee glanced around the room, suddenly stifled by all of the attention. In the few minutes of the meeting, her positive impressions of Jess had largely suffocated under the distress of dealing with an interrogation. She did not currently want to hear recommendations of him. Without a word, she turned on her heel and exited the room. "No one seems to have any more questions," she shot at Jess. “Just lectures.” Rapidly, she dashed through the exit. Whatever he thought of her, she cared little. She had endured enough time on the stage.

Though he wanted to follow her – partially to reprimand and partially to check on her - Jameson had to control how the men in the room took the little information Aylee had provided. Her demeanor as she fled the room spoke agitation, and he worried slightly at what he would hear when he spoke to her next. If she had despised him when she entered the room, she doubly despised him now. With the buzz of discussion reverberating around him, however, Jameson had to force himself back to the purpose at hand. On the down side, Jameson did not consider Aylee's answers to the men's questions as an endorsement, but, on the upside, they were most likely more beneficial than damaging. All he had needed was to have her confirm that he had travelled as he claimed he had travelled. She had done so. With her own doubts about him so mixed into her speech, at least she did not seem biased in his favor.

"Well, Jameson," began Barrett, the man with the grey beard, "I can't say that little girl helped you overmuch in the area of specific character, but she certainly entertained us. At least you have been about the business you claimed."

"And," agreed the small man, Thomas, "the young lady did give you a boost in the sense of general character. For someone whom you obviously admire, you have acted with high honor."

"Though, if you don't have intentions toward her, you should probably find another way to protect her than with your troops," finished Barrett.

Jameson could not imagine how the conversation had turned so far from the expected topic. Intentions? Toward Aylee? The thought had not crossed his mind. Had he somehow communicated to others around him that he held intentions toward Aylee; had he communicated the possibility to her?

Focus! Jameson commanded himself. If he couldn't secure the support that he had come to garner, half of his purpose in the town would remain unfulfilled.

Which in his actions, though, had he conveyed admiration for Aylee Hembry? He could think of no undue attention he had paid her, no overabundance of concern he had shown. Half of the time, he had wished she would just stop talking lest her words undermine the trust of his men. If he regretted her presence among the soldiers, why would those assembled with him assume he admired her? Pushing the thought aside, Jameson looked up at Barrett, fixing his eyes on his audience.

"So, based on the reports you have heard from your comrades in other towns and on the general character and facts Miss Hembry portrayed today, does this mean I can count on your support at the harvest moon? Do you recognize that the rumors you have heard do not refer to me, whatever they may claim?"

"Honestly, Jameson, I think I would support a goat over whoever is setting policy right now. If he would remove our new portreeve, I wouldn't care what character he had." Barrett exchanged chuckles and glances with several men around the room, and Jameson tried not to feel insulted. Still, if the men vowed their support, he would let that suffice regardless of their motive.

"All I ask is that if I call on you to stand behind me, you will do so. Even if the odds seem out of balance. I will not ask any man to risk his life for me, however."

"Your requirements seem quite reasonable, Jameson. No need to beg - it's ungentlemanly," teased Thomas.

“And, dear Lord Capigan, regardless of what that imposter has claimed, most of us have attended court at one point or another. We have watched you rise from a boy, and there is not a one of us who would believe the face of the rumors over the face before us. Rest ye well.”

With such a recommendation, Jameson stood optimistic about the room's mood. The businessmen of a provincial town would always prove the most practical and most ready to support good policies, so Jameson felt confident that the men of the town would support him when the moment came. And he determined also to continue his father’s practice of including the merchant class at court on occasion – these men knew Jameson’s face, and the fact would save him.

Striding from the building, Jameson scrutinized the street around him, taking in what had been a charming town only a few days before. Now, ashen embers stood alongside untouched walls, and Jameson sucked in a breath of righteous anger as the vision brought back to his mind exactly what he had to accomplish. When he had left home, he had intended to undertake a mission driven by personal and familial interests. The more he traveled, the more he began to sense altruistic motives tugging at his thoughts. Though he wouldn’t describe his desire to find Aylee as entirely altruistic. Someone you so obviously admire…

He did admire her, but what exactly did that mean? At the moment, it meant that she had suffered distress at his hands, and he could not leave her to suffer it alone. Whatever he could do to alleviate her unhappiness, he would do so to the extent that he could.

Spying Itchy beside the tethered horses, Jameson hurried to his friend's side, finally able to concentrate on that which he wished to concentrate on. "Where is Miss Hembry?" Jameson begged. He could not forget her expression of strangled panic when she had fled the meeting a half-hour before. Had she feared exposure, or had she – as it seemed – suffered genuine distress at the men’s questioning?

"Did she leave the meeting?" Itchy wondered. "I have not seen her."

A hollow irritation settled into the pit of Jameson's stomach. "Could you have been distracted? Might she have hurried past you without being seen?" Perhaps she had gone to her brother with the troops.

"Of course - I am not infallible - but I did not take my eyes off the troops until I heard your step nearby."

Somehow Jameson knew she hadn't returned to the camp, and he had not spent enough time with the maid to ascertain how she would react to the tension of the meeting. Returning to the meeting's door, he surveyed the surrounding buildings for an easy escape route that she might have taken. He did not really suspect that she had fled completely from the town, but she had sought escape from company, and Jameson peered around to decide where best she could do so.

“It’s fine, Itchy,” Jameson offered distractedly.

To his right, he spied a strange juxtaposition of buildings, where one building seemed to angle toward another in such a way that they must meet. Jameson edged toward the opening between these buildings, and by passing the farthest wall of the first building, he encountered a cozy garden where someone had sculpted nature into a fluid affectation of beauty. He approached the space, hopeful.

As Aylee had disclosed her opinion of him to the men in the meeting – quite against her will, apparently – Jameson had found himself hanging on her words…he is actually quite respectful, in truth. Never untoward with anyone…Had she truly meant the words? Had he actually made inroads past her bias against him?

Sitting among a cluster of topiary trees, Jameson spied Aylee. She had not detected him, and he assessed her a moment before he revealed himself. Though her skin had tanned over her few days of riding, he could just make out the redness around her eyes that indicated spent tears. The tears were real, whatever her motive. She now rested her chin in her hands like an exasperated child, and Jameson felt his eyes drawn to the pout of her lips. Even in sadness, she bore something comical, though not exactly laughable, and Jameson wanted to bring back the teasing smile that she usually wore about her mouth. He wanted so badly for it to reflect the natural state of her mind.

Rather than appear abruptly, Jameson cleared his throat, allowing Aylee a moment to collect herself.

"It seems you have found a rather pleasant refuge here," he prodded amiably, halving the distance between them. He made sure to step out of her path to the exit lest she feel trapped. "It is a shame the camp offers no such refuge."

Aylee sucked in a quick, fortifying breath, unwilling to show Jess the weakness that she had allowed for the last few minutes. Still, she needed to give him some excuse. "I'm disappointed in myself," she offered, hoping to direct her companion's thoughts away from the real cause of her upset. "I shouldn't have shared all that information about my family. If I've learned anything from my father, it's that a salesman will use any means to manipulate his audience. Those men could have been charlatans, and I just confirmed my life's story to them."

Guilt pricked at his conscience – he had not thought of her distress when he had asked her to the meeting, only of offering her confirmation of his benevolence. "I apologize for the untoward nature of their teasing – it was never my intention to expose you to that type of incivility.”

“Oh, I am not so fragile as that…” she contradicted.

“Of course, but those are not men whom you have to fear." In attempt at comfort, Jameson moved to sit in the chair beside hers. “They are merchants from several towns, friends and peers of your father.”

"Is there any man I don't need to fear?" Aylee begged, peering up into his face as if she could read the answer to her question in its features. How she wished she could know whether to fear Jess!

For a moment he peered into the eyes of a desperate pain, and fury rose in Jameson’s heart like a furnace. At first, a righteous fury boiled in his mind at her ill treatment by Malchus Lorne. It was well for the cad that he did not stand within arm’s reach at the moment, because Jameson would have dispatched the justice of his office with little thought for his duty to forbearance or to maintaining his guise. After he had calmed, though, he wondered if she had meant the words for him. He was a man, and she seemed to hold a deep distrust of him. What did she suspect him of?

Pulling a calming breath, he said nothing for several seconds in fear of the tone that might color his words. Instead, he merely entwined his hands on his lap and studied the cobblestone beneath them. Finally, he regained enough rational thought to formulate a probing question. "In your life, how many men have treated you like Malchus?" he queried.

"In my life, Malchus did not treat me a few weeks ago like he has since." She rubbed her knuckles where the soreness from punching Malchus had faded into insignificance. "Only when he found power did he reveal his true character. Perhaps all that restrains men is their lack of power. Fear that they will be punished. Fear of losing what they have."

The words cut him, but Jameson would not leave them to stand. "It is true," he agreed. "Power does reveal a man's weaknesses. There are many men, though, whose weaknesses would prove much less cruel and damaging to their subjects."

"How would you know?" Aylee turned on him, her cold tears freezing into shards of anger. She didn’t know why she was unleashing her frustration on him, but she could not quite hold it in. "Because you believe yourself less cruel and damaging to me? How am I to feel as I am dragged from horror to horror? Better? Safer? And what exactly do you know about power anyway? You think you have power because you lead around a little band of followers? I cannot even tell who holds the power between you and Itchy, despite my mother’s conjectures. Yet you talk of power as if you understand it. Why? Because I obeyed you and followed you into that humiliating meeting? I could easily have rejected you, though, and I walked out of the meeting when I didn't like it anymore. It's not obedience when it's conditional."

Between me and Itchy? he scoffed, his pride rearing its ugly head. He would not attempt to deal with his insecurities at the moment. Instead, he addressed the second part of her diatribe. If she believed him desirous of her obedience, she understood him very ill. “I do not wish to hold authority over you,” he insisted. “And your points are quite valid – these are not pleasant circumstances for you, and if I knew how to alleviate them, I would. I wish I myself had met different circumstances."

Staring through her lashes with cynical eyes, Aylee peered up at him, her features troubled by questions. There was his pain again, but she could not listen to her compassion. Everything about him spoke consideration and concern, yet she could not trust him. Everything in her wished she were back on the horse, her arms wrapped around him, her face pressed against him, carried away from every danger. "How am I supposed to know what to think of you?" she begged. "You ask me to accept a lie about your identity, yet you speak to me as the kindest and most honorable of men."

"If I lie, it is only at the direst need. And I aspire to kindness and honor."

"Well, honor has many interpretations, I imagine.” she persisted. “Does honor deceive?"

“Only for the most honorable of purposes,” he offered in a low voice, running his fingers through his hair. Staring at Aylee, he realized the truth of the words spoken by the men at the meeting. He did admire so much about her, and he hated that she might think ill of him. “Certain things must be guarded for now, but you must understand that it is so unpleasant for me to withhold the truth from you – from anyone, but especially from you.” Though he knew he should not, he reached for her hand, taking it in both of his. Somehow, he believed that he could communicate his honesty by the feel of his skin.

“Pretty words. How often have you used them to persuade the maid of the moment?”

“I – ” Jameson stuttered. “I have never…”

Aylee threw him a skeptical glare. “You are what? Three and twenty? A man like you. I know men like you. Malchus Lorne is a man like you.”

Trying not to blurt out a denial, Jameson clenched his jaw. “I am four and twenty, and I cannot judge Master Lorne in this because I do not know him beyond his infamy. Perhaps there are physical similarities between us, but it seems I have lived a very different life than he.”

“The son of a tradesman? Not likely. I am fully aware of the privileges that come for a man from that life.”

“I live a…sheltered life. And my father is very protective.”

Aylee tilted her head to see him better. Her skepticism softened, though she could not erase it completely. “And your mother? Does she agree with this manner of raising a son?

Melancholy flashed over his brow, but painted with sentiment. “My mother died shortly after I was born. But I know she would respect my father – all that know him respect him.”

“I should not have spoken, Jess. I let my frustration overcome my wisdom. I had no intention of invading your privacy with my words.” Her mind wholly focused on her own distress, she had not recognized that she was treading into personal matters.

“No, with you, I can speak of it. With you…”

“You cannot say that,” Aylee murmured, rubbing a spot between her eyes with her fingers as if in pain. “You cannot say that, Jess. It is not proper.” Still, she did not remove her other hand from his.

“Aylee, you are right. It is not proper, but I am at a loss of how to convince you that I am trustworthy. I need you to understand,” He leaned down to pierce her with his eyes. “Whatever you believe of me, you have misjudged me. Whatever you have heard or been led to hold as true – if I could but know of what you suspect me…”

“If I tell you my suspicions, you will answer them – whether with truth or formulation. How am I to know?”

“Fine…maybe, then, if I offer a truth freely, of my own choice. One that it is mine to give.” He glanced down at their joined hands, his famous insecurity on full display. “Things are as you suspected, as your mother believed: I am not in truth as I have portrayed myself to the world. I am of noble birth.” He raised his eyes again to hers, willing her to read his sincerity. “And I promise you, Aylee, there are very powerful reasons why no one must know my identity.”

Aylee raised her hand to her face, blocking out her view of the world, and breathed deeply as if forcing herself to calm. To her frustration, tears flowed from her eyes once again.

Once again, Jess was beside himself at her distress. “I know that you have suffered much, and you hold many suspicions against me. I am so regretful to cause you any pain. Please, what exactly have I said that has upset you? If I can undo it, I will…” He reached with his other hand to pull hers away from her face, and he lowered it to her lap with the other.

“It is not so much that I am upset,” she gazed at their joined hands as her tears slowed, not believing that she had allowed the contact. “It is that the idea of truth is such a powerful relief. I have begun to doubt my instincts about you, and it has raised such a tempest in my mind that I cannot rest.”

“Your instincts about me which said…?” he urged.

“Which said that you were no tradesman, that you had good reason to amass so many men, that you were –” Aylee cut herself off. She would not admit that she had almost decided to believe in his goodness. If she were wrong, what would he do with such confidence? You’re not wrong, her mind pressed, and it began to play over all the reasons she should trust him. Besides all of his kindnesses to her, she had noted so many little evidences that could not have been feigned. The apparent compassion in his sage eyes or how he gritted his teeth in anger when she retold some story of injustice. Or, her mind reminded her, how attentive he seemed when his lips parted with a concerned “oh” at any somber disclosure from her. Aylee shook her head, forcing her eyes away from his mouth.

“That I am…”

“I am unused to feeling insecure in my knowledge,” she leveled, not answering his prompt. “In my home, I am the child with the level head. I am the source of reason and calm. Here?” She peered up at the strange sky and the unknown surroundings. “Here, I am helpless and worthless.”

“Aylee Hembry,” Jameson countered. “You are far from helpless, and you are definitely not worthless.”

There it was – his jaw clenching at what he believe her unjust self-censure. Why could she not just ignore him? Hide at the back of his little band of followers, or pretend to prefer Itchy so Jess would defer to his friend? Instead, she found herself seeking Jess out, drawn both by her own desire to aid the struggle behind his eyes and by the compassion, real or feigned, that he offered in return. He was infuriating!

“No, you’re right,” she scoffed, as irritated at his emotion as her own. “I am worse than worthless. I am a burden! You say you have some sort of mission, and if that’s true, you are forced to the distraction of dragging around a woman who is pursued by a base scoundrel. And worse, a woman who doubts and challenges at every opportunity.”

“You are definitely a challenge,” he agreed with a smile.

And the dimple, Aylee complained silently. Did everything about him have to distract her from reason? Though she tried to pull her hands away, he resisted.

“Aylee,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry. I do not mean the words as slander.”

When he did not let go, she stood to her feet and tugged harder. He followed her to his feet, pulling her hands toward him until he could wrap an arm around her. “Aylee, dear woman, surely my words have not offended you. You must acknowledge that you are a challenge. But I like challenges. They keep me honest. I am entirely too inclined to trust my own judgment, and people defer to me far too easily. Whatever you imagine there is probably true. But when you challenge me, I must question myself, which is absolutely necessary for me. I so value your good opinion…”

Aylee stared in shock up into his eyes, completely astonished by the intense interest in them. Unable to move, she unconsciously licked her lips. Though she would not remember making a decision, she ceased pulling away from him and found herself suspended, her face a mere breath from his.

The words floated, unbidden, into her mind. If I am a rogue, Jess had teased her, surely you can imagine how I would treat women. Do you suspect that I would treat you in such a way? No, she did not – not as she peered into the gentle intensity of his grey-green eyes. Her breath sped as she turned to stone in his arms, her sensations fighting her sense.

When he recognized her tension, he relaxed his arms, offering her the option to pull away. Yet she did not, and his heart swelled. “Aylee…” His proximity drugged her, and the way he said her name rendered her immobile. “You need not fear me.”

“Is there any man I don't need to fear?” She queried, her tone barely audible, but the hope in her eyes…

Jess felt a powerful urge to pull her to him, to kiss away the memory of anyone who had ever hurt her. What was he thinking? “I cannot say for sure,” he thrummed, whether in answer to her question or to his own. His free hand raised to touch her cheek, and her lips parted in surprise. Though she should have pulled away, she did not. Her mother's words drifted through her mind, and thrill danced across her skin. Most, her mother had stated, will only take the liberties that you offer willingly. Her eyes closed involuntarily as his thumb stroked down her cheek.

For a moment, Jameson said nothing, watching with bewilderment as Aylee Hembry softened under his touch. In his wildest imaginings, he had not expected to have such an effect on her. Despite his good intentions, Aylee had fought and defied him at every opportunity, yet now she stood, yielding to his touch – and in scandalous circumstances that he would need to analyze when he had some space away from her. Though he indulged himself for a moment in the velvet soft of her skin, he allowed only a moment, slowly lowering his hand and releasing his arm before he could let himself wander down a road he would not take.

She knew above all else, she would regret her tacit acceptance of that touch. When Jess lowered his hand and stepped away, she wondered if she had misread the entire situation. Until she heard the voice.

"I have searched everywhere," came Itchy's drawl from around the corner. “Any luck?” Aylee's eyes opened into wide discs of embarrassed surprise, an effect so charming that Jameson forgot to answer the question for a moment.

"I have just found her," he finally grinned, pinning Aylee with a wicked glint in his eye. "She is well – was just in need of a few moments of seclusion."

Aylee could not pull her eyes away from Jess, and his gaze remained steady and pleased. Her own lips lifted in a mirror of his pleasure, her thoughts beginning immediately to buttress her own wishes with reasons she was right to accept his attentions.

"Well, a man can't blame a girl for needing time away from all these ruffians." Itchy rounded the corner, a smile on his face. When Aylee's eyes darted nervously to the newcomer, Itchy’s mouth twitched – whether in amusement or irritation, Aylee could not tell. The look that passed between the two best friends, however, was loaded with meaning. Certainly, they would not have expected Aylee to understand, but she read definite reprimand in the darker face. On his part, Jess seemed to shrug cockily as if daring his friend to say something.

With a wry glare, Itchy broke off the communication with his friend, and by the time he turned to Aylee, he had painted his usual stupid contentment onto his face. After so many years in the role of servant, he had perfected the art to the point where even Jameson almost didn't recognize its duplicity. “So, Miss Aylee…” If Jameson would not take care, Itchy would. “I was thinking that your tent has been sorely lacking in the comforts of home. Seeing as you are not a volunteer on this journey, you did not enroll in the sparsity that falls naturally to the life. As such, I think Friend Jess and I can dig up some accoutrements that will mitigate your discomfort.”

When he finished the speech, Jameson stared in surprise at his closest companion. It was the longest speech the master had ever heard from the servant to anyone but himself, and the accommodating look the servant wore had never graced his countenance when speaking even to his master. Aylee’s expression toward Itchy bore some intimate guilt, as if Itchy had caught Aylee at some shameful plot. Was there some private agreement between them, something Aylee had just transgressed?

A sense of injury tugged at Jameson’s chest, though he did not express any sign. Was Aylee the kind of woman who would pursue a man and then set him aside when someone of greater consequence showed interest in her? Surely not. Jameson could not know for certain, and something had transpired between the two. He would need to feel for the significance, possibly in conversation with Aylee, but more likely with Itchy. Though, Jameson would need to tread carefully with his friend, because Itchy would defer to his master if confronted, and that would not achieve the understanding he sought.

Pressing down the mild jealousy, Jameson peered curiously at his companions.

“Please, Itchy,” Aylee was countering warmly. “You need not trouble yourself.”

"It is no trouble, Miss Hembry,” Jameson interjected, stepping into her view. “We will undertake the task immediately so that you will have a more appropriate place among us." Jameson bowed respectfully, determined to remind her of his own presence.

"Glad you are safe and whole," Itchy smiled gently, and she reach for his hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“Thank you, friend.” She returned his smile. “It was a close call.”

The exchanged look between his companions awoke James from a stupor, and he peered around at the courtyard as if suddenly just remembering where he stood. He wondered if her “close call” referred to the meeting with the merchants or to her time with him in the courtyard. To his irritation, he realized that the word “friend” flowed naturally from her lips with Itchy in a way it never did when she called Jameson as “Friend Jess.” No sarcasm, no distrust.

A more insidious thought entered his mind after watching the pair, something inherent in his current circumstances…never before had anything or anyone made an inroad between Jameson and Itchy, and what were the chances that in the most perilous hour of Jameson’s life, suddenly his greatest stability would face a weakening?

It meant nothing – he was being paranoid because, even if he couldn’t know Aylee’s full motive just yet, Itchy would never cause him problems. Blowing out a breath, he turned back to Aylee. "We have quite a lot of business in this town,” Jameson continued after a moment, “so we will remain here for several hours, but if you don't mind, I will send a soldier to stand by the garden entry. When you are ready to return to camp, you will not have to travel alone. He will be given strict instructions to stay by the gate, so just hail him when you wish to leave."

"Of course," she nodded coolly. "And again, thank you."

Fortunately for Aylee, the exchange between the friends had alleviated some of the seriousness of the preceding half hour, but her memory of Jess’s hand on her face restrained her levity.

What had she allowed? She knew that she should fear what had happened – she had proclaimed it to Jess himself – but she could not yet regret it. For the first time in her life, she thought she might have experienced the meaning of her mother’s words. “…the liberties you offer willingly.” Whatever her original reluctance, Jess’s kindness had finally reached past her suspicions. Surely, he could not feign as much kindness as he managed. Itchy’s words had also played their part in tearing down her defenses, his assurance that Jess would “wholly redeem himself” once the truth was known.

Maybe Aylee should not have given over her suspicions, but a strange thrill ran with the idea of her mysterious “suitor,” or whatever he may be to her. If he had married his mystery to a rakish or careless attitude, Aylee would not have succumbed. The girls of the village may find a charmer compelling, but Aylee found herself moved, not by gloss and image, but by the subtle character and hidden moments. She would not invest so much that she could not pull back, but now that Jess had stepped beyond the dance of implication, Aylee would let the music play as it would. If the tune rang discordant, she would simply remove herself from the circle.

Rising from her chair, Aylee peeked around the corner at the soldier who waited for her. "Sir?" she inquired. The man stood to attention. "Would you please escort me back to the camp?" She would be very interested to see how Jess treated her now that they had crossed a new threshold.