Jenny, who'd been about to sit down amidst the pile of fur rugs, stopped in mid-motion at the unfamiliar gentleness in his voice and stared at him. Uneasiness coursed through her, inexplicable but tangible as she gazed at his proud, aristocratic face. It was as if he had stopped thinking of her as his enemy and was asking her to do the same, and she knew not how to react.

As she gazed into those fathomless silver eyes, some instinct warned her his offer of a truce could make him more dangerous to her than he had been as her foe, yet her mind rejected that notion, for it made no sense to her. Surely she could only benefit from a surface friendship between them, and, in truth, she'd rather enjoyed their lighthearted banter as she stitched his wound the other night.

She opened her mouth to thank him for his offer, then stopped. It seemed a betrayal to thank her kidnapper for his leniency, to pretend that all was forgiven and that they were-well-friends. Furthermore, although she was relieved that she had apparently made him trust her, she felt ashamed for the trickery and deceit she'd used to accomplish it. Even as a little girl, Jenny had been forthright and open-an attitude which had oft landed her in disfavor with her father and which ultimately led her to challenge her unscrupulous stepbrother to a duel of honor, rather than trying to beat him at his own game of deceit. Openness and honesty had gotten her banished to the abbey. Here, however, she'd been forced to resort to trickery, and although all her efforts were being rewarded, and her cause was worthy, she felt somehow ashamed of what she was doing. Pride and honesty and desperation were waging a war inside of her, and her conscience was being assaulted in the fray.

She tried to think what Mother Ambrose would do in this situation, but she simply could not imagine anyone daring to abduct the dignified abbess in the first place, let alone toss her over the back of a horse like a sack of grain, and all the other things Jenny had endured since coming here.

But one thing was certain, Mother Ambrose dealt justly with everyone, no matter how provoking the circumstance.

The earl was offering Jenny trust-even a sort of friendship-she could see it in the warmth of his eyes; hear it in the gentleness of his deep baritone voice. She could not, dared not turn his trust aside.

The future of her clan depended on her being able to escape-or else being easy to rescue, for they'd surely at least try that before they surrendered. For that, Jenny needed freedom of the camp-as much as possible. Shameful or no, she could not be righteous and scorn his trust. Nor could she refuse his gesture of friendship without jeopardizing his trust at the same time, but at least she could try to return his friendship with a degree of sincerity and honesty.

Having decided that after a prolonged period of silence, Jenny looked at the earl and lifted her chin and with an unintentionally cool nod, she accepted his offer of a truce.

More entertained than annoyed by what he misinterpreted as her "regal" acceptance of his leniency, Royce crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the table, one brow arched in speculative amusement. "Tell me something, Jennifer," he said as she sat down among the furs and curled her shapely legs beneath her, "when you were in the nunnery, were you not warned to avoid the seven vices?"

"Yes, of course."

"Including pride?" he murmured, distracted by the candlelight glinting in the golden threads of her hair as it cascaded over her shoulders.

"I'm truly not proud," she said with a bewitching smile, well aware that he was undoubtedly referring to her tardy, rather ungracious acceptance of his truce. "I'm willful, I suppose. Stubborn, too. And headstrong. But not, I think, proud."

"Rumor, and my own experience with you, would lead me to think otherwise."

His wry tone made Jenny burst out laughing, and Royce found himself captivated by the infectious joy, the beauty, of it. He'd never heard the music of her laughter before, nor seen it glowing in her magnificent eyes. Seated on a pile of lush furs, laughing up at him, Jennifer Merrick was unforgettable. He realized it as clearly as he realized that if he walked over and sat down beside her, there was every chance he was going to find her irresistible as well. He hesitated, watching her, silently recounting all the reasons he ought to remain right where he was-and then with carefully concealed purpose, he did the opposite.

Reaching out he picked up two tankards and the flagon of wine from the table beside his hip, then he carried all three over to the pile of furs. Pouring wine into the tankards, he handed her one. "You're called Jennifer the proud, did you know that?" he asked, grinning down at her enchanting face.

Unaware that she was plunging lightning-fast into dangerous, uncharted territory, Jenny shrugged, her eyes dancing merrily. " 'Tis merely rumor, the result of my one meeting with Lord Balder, I suspect. You're called the Scourge of Scotland, and 'tis said you murder babes and drink their blood."

"Really?" Royce said with an exaggerated shudder, as he sat down beside her. Half-jokingly he added, "No wonder I'm persona non grata in the better castles of England."

"Are you really that?" she asked, puzzled and fighting down a sudden absurd surge of sympathy. He might be Scotland's enemy, but he fought for England, and it seemed grossly unfair if his own people rejected him.

Raising her tankard, Jenny took several sips to steady her nerves, then she lowered the heavy vessel, studying him in the glow of light from the tallow candles on the table across the tent. Young Gawin was at the opposite end, seemingly engrossed in the endless task of polishing his lord's armor with sand and vinegar.

The English nobility, she decided, must be very odd indeed, for in Scotland, the man beside her would have been judged an exceedingly handsome hero and welcomed into any castle where there was an unwed daughter! True, there was a certain dark arrogance about him; the hard, rugged contours of his jaw and chin were stamped with granite determination and implacable authority, but, when taken altogether, it was a boldly masculine, handsome face. It was impossible to guess his age; a life spent in the wind and sun had etched lines at the corners of his eyes and grooves beside his mouth. She supposed he must be much older than he actually looked, since she could never remember a time when she didn't know the tales of the Wolf's exploits. Suddenly it occurred to her that it was very odd indeed that he had spent his life in conquest, yet he sought not to wed and have heirs to inherit all the wealth he must certainly have amassed.

"Why did you decide not to marry?" she blurted suddenly, and then could not believe she'd actually asked such a question.

Astonishment registered in Royce's expression as he realized that, at twenty-nine, she evidently regarded him as being long past the age of eligibility for marriage. Recovering his composure he asked in amusement, "Why do you think I haven't?"

"Because no suitable lady has asked you?" she ventured daringly with an impertinent sideways smile that Royce found utterly bewitching.

Despite the fact that many such marital overtures had been made to him, he merely grinned. "I gather you think it's too late for me?"

She nodded, smiling. " 'Twould seem we're both destined to be spinsters."

"Ah, but you're a spinster by choice, and therein lies the difference." Enjoying himself enormously, Royce leaned back on an elbow, watching her cheeks pinken from the heady wine she was drinking. "Where have I erred, do you think?"

"I couldn't know that, of course. But I suppose," she continued after a moment's consideration, "that one hasn't an opportunity to meet very many suitable ladies on the battlefield."

"True. I've spent most of my life fighting to bring peace."

"The only reason there's no peace is because you keep disrupting it with your evil sieges and interminable battles," she informed him darkly. "The English cannot get along with anyone."

"Is that right?" he inquired dryly, enjoying her spirit as much as he'd enjoyed her laughter a moment before.

"Certainly. Why, you and your army have only just returned from fighting with us in Cornwall-"

"I was fighting in Cornwall, on English soil," Royce reminded her mildly, "because your beloved King James-who happens to have a weak chin, by the way-invaded us in an attempt to put his cousin's husband on the throne."

"Well," Jenny shot back indignantly, "Perkin Warbeck happens to be the rightful king of England and King James knows it! Perkin Warbeck is the long-lost son of Edward IV."

"Perkin Warbeck," Royce contradicted flatly, "is the long-lost son of a Flemish boatman."

"That is merely your opinion."

When he seemed disinclined to argue the issue, she stole a look at his ruggedly chiseled face, "Does King James truly have a weak chin?" she blurted.

"He does," Royce averred, grinning at her.

"Well, we weren't discussing his looks in the first place," she said primly as she digested this information about her king, who was said to be as handsome as a god, "We were discussing your ceaseless wars. Before us, you were fighting with the Irish, and then you were in-"

"I fought the Irish," Royce interrupted with a mocking smile, "because they crowned Lambert Simnel king and then invaded us in an attempt to put him on the throne in Henry's place."

Somehow he made it sound as if Scotland and Ireland had been in the wrong, and Jenny simply didn't feel well enough informed to debate the matter adequately. With a sigh, she said, "I don't suppose there's any doubt about why you're here, now, so near our borders. You're waiting for more men to arrive, then Henry means to send you into Scotland to wage your bloody battles against us. Everyone in the camp knows that."

Determined to guide the conversation back to its former, lighthearted topic, Royce said, "As I recall, we were discussing my inability to find a suitable wife on the battlefield, not the outcome of my battles themselves."

Glad for the change of subject, Jenny deliberately turned her attention back to that problem. After a minute she said, "You must have been to Henry's court and met ladies there?"

"I have."

In thoughtful silence, she sipped her wine, while contemplating the tall man reclining beside her, his leg drawn up, his hand resting casually atop his knee, completely at ease in a tent on a battlefield. Everything about him bespoke the warrior. Even now, at rest, his body exuded predatory power; his shoulders were incredibly broad, his arms and chest bulged with muscle beneath his dark blue woolen tunic, and the muscles in his legs and thighs were clearly outlined by the heavy, black woolen hose above his high boots. Years of wearing armor and wielding a broadsword had hardened and toughened him for battle, but Jenny couldn't imagine that such a life could possibly benefit him when he went to court, or even prepare him to fit in with the people there. Although she'd never been to court herself, she'd heard all sorts of stories about the opulence there and the sophistication of its inhabitants. Suddenly she realized how horridly out of place this warrior must look and feel in such a place. "You-you don't feel at ease with the people at court?" she ventured hesitantly.

"Not particularly," Royce said, distracted by the myriad emotions playing in her expressive eyes.

His admission struck her tender heart and made it ache a little, for Jenny knew better than most how humiliating and painful it is to feel out of place amidst those very people one most wants to be accepted by. It seemed wrong, unfair, that this man who daily risked his life for England was shunned by his own people. "I'm certain the fault is not with you," she said charitably.

"Then where do you suppose the fault lies?" he asked, a faint smile playing at the corners of his chiseled lips. "Why do I not feel comfortable at court?"

"Are we talking about your feelings when you're with the ladies, or with the gentlemen?" she asked, feeling a sudden determined urge to help him that was the result of one part pity, one part strong wine, and one part reaction to his unwavering gray gaze. "If it's with the ladies, I might be able to help," she volunteered. "W-would you like some advice?"

"Please, by all means." Suppressing his grin, Royce smoothed his expression into an admirable imitation of earnest gravity. "Tell me how to treat the ladies so that when next I go to court, I'll be such a success that one of them may agree to have me as a husband."