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dispassionate tone of her voice, as if it was a foregone conclusion that Draven kept whomever he wished in his control, for however long he liked.
    “A little more than a fortnight,” he answered after a pause. “I was kept in the lowermost chamber at Chepston—not the most pleasant of places to take a sojourn—as I’m sure you know, if you ever had the misfortune to see it,” he added, hoping to shift the conversation away from himself and back to her again.
    “Only once,” she breathed, her face stiff and her eyes unmistakably haunted behind their glittering hardness. “It was enough.”
    Before he could question her further on it or anything else, she stood, the movement so quick that she had to catch the tray to keep it from toppling off the table with the cup of wine and loaf of bread. After steadying it, she grasped his empty pottage bowl and spoon, murmuring something about needing to retrieve his clothing as she turned away, walking halfway to the door before he could muster the presence of mind to summon her back.
    “Wait!”
    She stilled with her fingers on the latchstring.
    “I need to ask you something, lady,” he said, his voice gruff.
    “What is it?” she murmured, still not facing him.
    “When I fell ill, you could have fled and been rid of my claims on you—yet you stayed and helped to heal me with your powders and herbs. I want to know why.”
    She twisted a bit, back toward him—just enough to glance over her shoulder at him. The haunted look was there, still, in the depths of her eyes, though it warred now with a steely resolve that might have knocked him back onto his bolster was he not already resting against it.
    “I have my reasons, Braedan de Cantor,” she said softly, “though I will not be sharing them with you or anyone else. Just know this: You are not alone in wanting your measure of justice against Draven. Our path in seeking that end may not be the one I had intended for myself, and yet here it is—and here I am, ready to take up my part in it. It is all you need to know.”
    Speechless, Braedan watched her swing back toward the door, lifting the latchstring and pushing the panel open.
    “I will be back with your clothing in a short time,” she murmured before she walked out the door. When the wooden slab cracked shut behind her, he realized that her evasive answer had only succeeded in leaving him feeling more stunned and unsettled than ever.
    He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and releasing a sigh of pent-up frustration. His conscience gnawed at him; he’d lashed out at her in an effort to keep her at arm’s length where she would be less of a danger to his balance and his unruly emotions. The memory of the way he’d talked to her stung him, even though he knew there had been no other choice. She’d gotten too close with her softness, her gentle need—and the feral intensity of his response to her had been too great. It was unexpected, the way she’d made him feel, and so he’d deliberately hurt her, forcing her retreat. It had worked perfectly; she had left him as soon as it wasfeasible, a clear indication that he’d achieved his goal.
    Sighing again, Braedan threw his bandaged arm over his eyes and sank farther into the stuffed ticking of the pallet, one thought nagging relentlessly at the back of his mind…forcing him to question why, then, he felt more out of control than ever where the maddening and all too enticing Crimson Lady was concerned.

Chapter 5
    I t was an unusually hot sun for springtime, Fiona thought as her mount followed the narrow path deeper into Wulmere Forest. The warmth beat down through branches gently furred with the lace of newly unfurled leaves, creating a patchwork of gold and green all around. She heard the soft clumping sound of Braedan’s steed just behind her, picking his way over mossy ground and winter-thawed bracken, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax. The rocking, easy sway of her mare lulled