Simon strode a few steps back to the barn door and looked through the crack, his gaze assessing. He spread his cloak out in the straw and laid down, but kept his sword at his side. “You are true and honest, and I know you are no thief. But Hamon is a rich nobleman and we are both poor knights. He considers men like you and me just one step above the peasants. He was looking for a fight and it didn’t help that you groped his sister. Bloody all, Guy, why do you provoke him? The rift between you two will never end.”
Sir Guy stabbed his sword upright in the soft dirt floor. “I am falsely accused. I’ve never groped a woman, any woman. Certainly not the Lady Avelina. She’s the spiteful type. I refused her advances and she got angry. ’Twas she who stole the emerald.”
Simon rose to his elbows. “Why do dangerous women always seem to find you? You can spot a man who plots against the king when no one else suspects. Why can’t you can tell the difference between a woman you can trust and one you cannot?”
Sir Guy surveyed the dark barn while he spoke to his friend. “I may miss my mark with the fairer sex, but not with horses…” He pulled his sword from the dirt and pointed the weapon at the colt. “This colt is The One. I’ll have a horse with four white socks when I avenge my sister’s and my nephew’s murderers. Morna said so.”
Simon spoke, his voice tense. “Morna isn’t always right. You’ve searched for months now, and the killer’s trail has gone cold. Guy, give it up.”
“Never. Especially, not now that I’ve found my horse. This horse was meant to be mine.”
Sybilla nearly sprang from her hiding place. Sir Guy was talking about Regalo as if he owned him.
The wind howled and a shutter beat against the barn.
Simon jumped up from his resting place, his weapon drawn. He raised his face to the rafters and searched the darkness above. “Let’s move on. This place is not safe, and that colt is strange, not magic…”
Guy shook his head. “We stay. His magic has yet to be revealed. If I’d had more coin to pay Morna, she would have told me what it was.”
Simon snatched his cloak from the floor and flung the garment round his shoulders. “Mayhap she told you all she knew. Now let’s go. I’d rather brave the wind than stay here. Hamon’s men will find us if we don’t keep moving.”
Guy thrust his sword into a round of brown hay leaning against the wall. Dust swirled around him. “Then let them find us. I feel like fighting. When Hamon and his men stumbled into the inn, I could not resist his challenge.” He drew his sword back and held it high over his head. “He weighted his dice. I did not run the cheat through on the spot because we were outnumbered. I will stay the night with the colt. I will fight Lord Hamon and his men should they find us, I will…”
Simon swore. He flung his cloak back down. “God’s feet, you’re as stubborn as a boar. ’Twill be a frost in hell before I go out drinking and gaming with you again.”
Sir Guy swung the blade tip ’round to point at the foal. “Imagine, Simon. Imagine being born to greatness in a barn as poor as this one, to a swaybacked mare too long in tooth to live another winter, and with no one to witness the event but the pigeons in the rafters.”
Simon crossed himself, but kept one eye on the barn door. “Jesú, forgive him. He knows not what he says. He hasn’t been the same since you took his sister and his little nephew.”
Guy scowled. “’Twasn’t God who took them, Simon. ’Twas a man. I intend to find him.” He leaned across the railings, and scratched the foal on the rump. “You will never lack for anything, from this day forward, my fine young steed. If it’s oats and barley cake you want, you will have them. If you want a saddlecloth of silk, you shall have it. There are wrongs I must set right and deaths to be avenged. You are destined to help me.”
Sybilla’s blood boiled. God’s teeth, the man presumed too much.
The wind stopped for a moment, and all was silent, but Simon stood on guard, his jaw muscles tight, his fist wrapped around his sword hilt. “Then I’ll take first watch. You get some rest and figure out how you can pay to keep the colt for the next three years or until he’s big enough to ride. By then you could be dead, given that you fight like a man who doesn’t care much if he wins or loses, or lives or dies.”
Guy clenched his sword hilt, his voice low and resolute. “The man who killed Roselynn and my little nephew will pay. I swear it. For the last six months, I’ve spent my days searching ’cross the countryside for the murderer, and my nights riding, searching in the shadows of the woods where my sister and her son were killed. I’ve vowed to find the killer but am no closer now than when I started. This colt was born to help me.” He pointed to the mare and foal. “We’ll take them with us when we leave, first thing in the morning.”
Sybilla pressed her lips together to halt a gasp. This man, the one they called the Shadow Rider—meant to steal her foal?
Sybilla clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms. Shadow Rider or not, she would defy him if he thought to steal Regalo.
Guy ripped an armful of brown hay from the lopsided roll and chucked the stuff into the stall. “Eat heartily tonight, old girl. Tomorrow morn we leave for Ketchem Castle.”
The hay landed in the trough above Sybilla. Dust and chaff floated down, coating her face and shoulders. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath.
Then she sneezed.
In an instant, Sir Guy leapt across the stall boards, grabbed Sybilla by the arm and pulled her to her feet. As her back slammed against the wall, moonlight streamed down, shining brightly in her face. Cold steel pressed against her throat.
Sir Guy stared, his gaze penetrating, searching. “Who are you, Mistress Green Eyes?” he demanded, his hot breath blowing on her cheek. He eased the blade away, but just enough to let her speak.
Sybilla’s mouth went dry. He smelled of barley ale and wood smoke, and he was so close she could see the welt beneath his bruised eye was turning a bloody-purple hue. Fear gripped her heart and limbs, yet she would not yield. He meant to take her foal, her Regalo, and she would not give him up.
She glared at Sir Guy. His dark eyes flamed with an animal-like quality signaling he would react if she so much as flinched. But, Mother Mary, he had the face of the fair St. Michael—with a swollen eye and bleeding cheekbone, but an astoundingly beautiful face—framed by a mass of thick black hair that curled at the nape of his neck.
Her heart pounding, she clutched her shift to her chest. “I am Sybilla Corbuc. The foal is mine. I will not let you steal him.”
His brows furrowed. “Steal him? What makes you think I’d steal him? I repeat, Mistress Corbuc, for I am certain you heard me the first time—I am many things, but I am not a thief.” He leaned in close. Too close.
Sybilla felt the scorching heat rise up her neck. Her thin chemise did little to conceal her breasts, and the bottom of the threadbare garment had hiked high above her knees. Her woolen hose had slipped down around her ankles, leaving most of her legs exposed. Mother Mary. She was as good as naked and his ready hardness pressed against her thigh.
Sir Guy narrowed his gaze. “What have you been doing, Mistress Corbuc?”
He glanced at the bucket filled with dirty water. “Were not the foal newborn, I would suspect you were up to something else entirely,” he whispered. “’Tis too cold to be undressed, though I must admit, the look of you does much to warm my chilled heart.” He plucked a sprig of hay from her unraveling braid. “You are filthy and your hair is a mess, but what a color. Dark and golden, like cooked honey.”
Sybilla’s knees almost buckled. His face was just a hair’s breadth from hers, his mouth as close as a whisper. His body radiated warmth and strength, and maleness. For a moment, she wanted him to wrap his arms around her and pull