She frowned, blinking. He was speaking to her as one might a child.
Her father nodded. “Aye, Aislynn, as Sir Jarrod has indicated, the hour grows late for you as well.”
Aislynn did not remind her father of the fact that she was often at her duties until far past this hour. “Perhaps it is past time for me to retire. Good night, Father.”
She bowed in Sir Jarrod’s general direction and slipped toward the doorway as her father halted her, kissing her on the cheek and saying, “Good night, little one.” It was something he had said countless times, but this night, before this man, it gave her a decided feeling of discomfort.
She was infinitely aware when Sir Jarrod’s dark eyes fixed on her and it was all Aislynn could do to meet them as he said, “You have my thanks, Lady Aislynn. I will not allow myself to impose upon your usual routine again. I know how the young need their rest.”
She felt the chagrin that flashed from her own eyes to his. Then quickly she forced her gaze to fall, bowing and making a hasty exit.
Was the man mad? And what was wrong with her father, to have treated her like a child before the other man? Needing her rest, indeed. She was a woman, some nineteen years of age.
Her reactions to Jarrod Maxwell had not been those of a child. But this thought brought only deeper discomfort, for she would never have him know that.
Not sure whom she was angrier with—herself, her father, or the knight—she stalked in the direction of her chamber. And as she went, she could not help wondering that one of them had not offered to carry her poor exhausted little person to bed.
The momentary image of herself in Jarrod Maxwell’s arms caused her body to heat in a new and far more disturbing way that made her groan her anger aloud.
Jarrod rose early and went down to the meal.
Although his attention was mixed and had been since arriving at Bransbury, he did his utmost to concentrate on what must be done to find his friend. Jarrod could not help feeling that there was something about that drawing of Jack, something that kept prodding at the back of his mind. Yet he could not quite determine what it might be.
He remained distracted by thoughts of Aislynn Greatham. Although he had realized that he was drawn to her because she was Christian’s sister, that realization had not lessened the surprising strength of his reaction to her.
In that one instant last night when he had touched her hand, and then again later, for the briefest moment, when she had seemed to be looking at him as if…
He shook his head to clear it. He did not want to think about the way she had been looking at him, nor his unfathomable response, that strange tugging inside him. She was Christian’s sister.
It was far better for his peace of mind to think on the obvious anger in her gaze as she had left his chamber the night before. Clearly she was an unpredictable young wench to show such resentment in the face of his and her father’s consideration of the late hour.
Jarrod paused at the entrance to the hall and realized that only a few of the servants were stirring. He felt a sense of relief that he need not linger to break his fast with the family. It was surely due to his uneasiness over not only Aislynn’s but also her father’s making such an effort to see him made comfortable.
Jarrod was not accustomed to being the brunt of such coddling. He was a soldier, not visiting royalty. Even at Avington, with Simon and Isabelle, he had gone about, as he was accustomed to, without so much fuss.
Last night had been his first bath in a tub in some time. His baths were taken in whatever body of water he might come across. And that was the way Jarrod preferred it. He required no luxuries and wanted none. He neither wanted to become soft, nor to become beholden to anyone.
Yet he could not deny that the warm tub of water would have been relaxing had it not been for the fact that he kept getting images of a pair of periwinkle-blue eyes each time he closed his own.
With a silent groan of frustration, Jarrod approached a slender, dark-haired woman in a clean woolen gown and said, “Might I trouble you for a slice of bread and meat?”
As she passed an assessing brown gaze over him, putting hard, muscled arms on her narrow hips, he realized it was the woman, Margaret, who had come to Christian’s chamber the previous night. “You may, my lord, but would it not be better to eat a proper meal?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Yet I would get an early start.”
She nodded. “As you will, my lord.” She paused then before going. “It is good of you to come, my lord, to help to find our lord Christian.” He could see the sudden misting in those brown eyes. “We are sore grateful to you.”
Feeling uncomfortable with her emotion and gratitude, Jarrod nonetheless reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. “He is my friend.” He was not acting out of some selfless wish to help, but out of his own desire to find Christian. Jarrod wished they would all see that.
Her gaze registered understanding and she bowed deeply in return, then went on her way.
His discomfort with her thanks, with all of their thanks, had not lessened as he received the food with a self-conscious nod and strode from the hall. As quickly as his horse could be fetched, he left the keep, turning his mount to the open countryside at a gallop.
Although Jarrod knew that Lord Greatham had questioned everyone in the immediate vicinity of Bransbury, he began at the beginning. He needed to set some order in his mind to his own search.
The village lay nestled to one side of the castle, but Jarrod moved directly off to the left of it. He meant to leave the village for later as he moved around the demesne in a circular motion.
Each man, woman and child must be thoroughly questioned. Without even realizing, someone might have seen Christian as he left. If he could find such a soul, Jarrod would then know which road and direction he had taken.
Yet thorough as he was, helpful as all he spoke to were, Jarrod learned nothing new that day, even though he spent all the hours between leaving the keep and long after dark on his effort. Neither did he the next day.
Though he did see and discuss what he had been about with her father, Jarrod did not see Aislynn Greatham during either of those two days, returning to the keep after she had retired. He told himself that he had no care for this either way.
His last thought each night was of her, but this was because she was Christian’s sister and he was sympathetic to her pain.
Chapter Three
Aislynn woke quite early, after a restless night—as each night had been since Jarrod Maxwell had arrived at Bransbury. She kept telling herself that his speaking to her as if she was a child did not plague her in the least.
Yet her agitation worsened when she remembered how she had felt as his black eyes looked directly into hers. It was as if he were looking into her soul, making her feel far from the child he believed her to be.
She tried to wish Jarrod Maxwell had never come to Bransbury, but the very notion was shockingly painful. Surely it was due to her belief that he would be able to help them find Christian.
Even though there had been no real developments in the days the knight had been at Bransbury, she was not willing to relinquish hope. She was, in spite of all that had happened in her life, including the early death of her mother and her brother’s long absence, an optimist at heart. And it was this sense of optimism that she drew on to assure herself that she would conquer this strange fascination with Jarrod Maxwell.
She parted the heavy rose velvet curtains at the side of her large