“Ow!” There was a moment of tingling, then a sharp sting flushed over her palm and fingertips. “Ow ow ow.” She shook it out hard, but that didn’t stop the burning, or the tiny red welts that bloomed sudden and complete on her hand.

“That was a fool thing to do.” His voice cut her, and Felicity didn’t know which stung more, the nettles, or the fact that his sharp words probably constituted the most he’d said to her for some time.

“Whatever. It’s no big deal.” She wanted to shoot him a defiant glare, but felt her chin begin to quiver, and so turned her back on him instead.

Her hand was killing her, but she wasn’t about to let him see that. “Let’s just see if you’ve successfully murdered little Bugs or not.”

“Och, lass—”

“My name’s not lass,” she snapped. Felicity heard him rustling at her back, but she refused to turn and look at him. She’d not be able to bear it if his face was as cold as his words had been. “Don’t get me wrong, lad, I dig the ochs and ayes and all that. But I haven’t heard you say my name once. Do you even remember my name?”

“Felicity.” His voice was taut, the single word containing an apology, a scold, a plea. “Of course I know your name. It’s a beautiful name. It suits you,” he added quietly. “Turn around, Felicity. Please.”

Drawing her features into a careful blank, she turned.

He stood there, the sharpness of his gaze blunted into something approaching tenderness. Rollo stretched out his hands, and she saw he’d filled them with fistfuls of oblong green leaves.

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

“Dock leaves, las—” He crooked the corner of his mouth into a gentle half smile, and she felt suddenly warmed deep down. “A docken plant, Felicity. For your hand.”

He stepped carefully toward her, crushing the coarse leaves between his fingers. He reached for her, took her hand, and it was as if an electric shock arced between them. He drew a sharp breath in between his lips, and she swore he’d felt it too.

He rubbed her palm and fingers with the weed, and, mesmerized, she watched the play of bones and tendons under the skin of his hands. They were broad and masculine, just a little dirty, but not coarse, and she was desperate to feel them on her.

As he rubbed, she tried to imagine whether his touch would be rough or gentle. Would he grab her and claim her, or stroke lightly, teasing her?

She could just squeeze his hand, she thought. Right then and there, just squeeze it. Maybe give a quick, saucy little rub of her thumb on his palm. Would he glance up, look longingly into her eyes? Kiss her like he almost did in the dress shop?

Or, what would he do if she just tackled him? Simply grabbed the man and kissed him. She could jump him and they could roll to the ground in a passionate embrace. Unless, of course, they landed in that evil mint stuff. All that stinging would put a damper on things.

The stinging. She realized the sting on her palm had disappeared.

“Wow . . .” Smiling, she looked up at him. But his eyes were shuttered once again. Feeling herself deflate, she pulled away and thanked him quietly.

“Hush,” he said suddenly.

She glowered. This time she knew she hadn’t said anything.

A brisk shake of his head and a firm grip on her arm alerted her that something was wrong. He leaned down, taking his cane where he’d laid it on the ground at their feet. He held her gaze as he listened carefully.

“What?” she mouthed, and then she heard it. The distant sound of men singing. A kick of fear hammered her heart against her chest.

Though Rollo’s face was calm, Felicity sensed the shift in his posture. Tensed, poised, like a wary wolf measuring approaching intruders.

He looked from her, to the thick tangle of birch and alder that had shadowed their path, and then back again. He gave her a quick nod and, holding her arm, led her with surprising stealth into the woods.

Her breath was loud in her ears, but she felt unable to calm herself. His steady hand on her was the only thing keeping her focused.

It’s okay, she told herself. She knew she was being as quiet as possible. I am the only one who can hear my heart pounding.

“We must get back to the horses.” His whisper at her ear startled her.

Trembling now, she mustered a nod, straining to hear where the men might be, how many there were. What would they do if they found them?

The woods seemed suddenly loud around her. The rustle of leaves as birds flitted from branch to branch. The tinkling sound of a faraway stream.

A trick of the trees sent another sound bursting to them, abrupt and close. It was the men, shouting, singing, laughing. Her legs froze.

She felt Will’s hand graze the small of her back. It was warm, and she realized how fear had made her skin clammy.

“Be easy, Felicity.” He gave her waist a squeeze. He gestured to a break in the trees, carefully guiding them to where he’d tied the horses for grazing. “Easy, lass.”

There it was again: the “lass” thing. He caught it too and shot her a shrug and a half smile, a flash of humor to gird her. And she thought this man could call her whatever he wanted, as long as he kept doling out those rare glimpses of warmth.

The men’s voices were closing in, and the sound echoed strangely underneath the canopy of trees.

“Now.” Gripping her waist tight, he pulled her across the final yards. His right leg swung in a stiff jog.

A thick carpet of bracken slowed their progress, much of the fern reddened into the color of late summer. The rustle was unbearably loud, and she sensed a change in the approaching men.

Will and Felicity hurtled from the trees. The contrast between the oppressive copse and the wide-open air was dramatic, and she gulped in a lungful of fresh oxygen.

The horses were oblivious to the threat, and greeted them with vacant eyes, chomping on grass with docile focus.

Will had his hands on her from behind, and she shivered at the feel of him, powerful at her back, sweeping her up and onto the saddle in a single, fluid motion.

He was on his own horse in an instant, cane tucked between thigh and saddle, urging the animals back and away down the drover path.

“Ho there!” a voice called from behind. Rollo glanced back, and the grim look crossing his face made her afraid to turn around.

Will wore a dirk belted at his side, and he pulled it free, slapping the flat of the blade on her horse’s rump, sending it careening from him.

“Will!” she shrieked, yanking hard on the reins, trying to slow the animal down. In the back of her mind, Felicity knew she needed to get out of there, but terror muddled her. She knew only Rollo, and wanted to stay by his side.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” she chanted, her voice hitching, breathy and frantic. Her horse reeled and spun to an uneasy stop, and she watched the scene unfold. Three men on three burly ponies stood there, surrounding him. “Will, watch out!”

He resheathed his dirk, and she screamed again, “What are you doing?”

The cane was in his hand. He tossed it up, catching it by the base. Standing high in the saddle, he cantered past the knot of men and swung, whacking one sharply on his temple with the cane’s silver handle.

A hollow noise like a golf club clocking a ball resonated to her, a grotesque sound that sent a peculiar, animal shot of elation through Felicity’s veins. The man slid to the ground, his mount turning and making a wild-eyed dash into the woods.

She caught the quick, nervous glance shared by the two remaining men. Will, however, was methodical. He appeared to think nothing of the two beyond what he’d sized up, and his face was utterly still as he set to dispatching them as neatly as a farmer would till a field.

Not waiting for either of his enemies to strike first, Rollo slid the cane through his grip and, kicking his horse into an abrupt gallop, closed the short distance between him and the closest man. Gripping the silver handle, he jousted the man in the throat. The man toppled backwards, and the horse skittered away, its rider hanging limp from the side of the saddle.

“Hup, hup,” was all she heard Will say as he reeled his horse about in a tight circle. The animal gave a single, brisk toss of its head, but was otherwise still.

The sight astounded her. This creature that had seemed just minutes before like a normal, perhaps slightly worse-for-wear horse, was now fit for a dressage arena.

One man remained, and, thumping his legs hard at his horse’s belly, he charged Will, a broadsword swinging wildly before him.

“Watch out!” she shrieked again, but Rollo was cool, and merely ducked, his hair wild from the near miss.

Using only his seat, Will spun his horse once more. He tucked the cane back under his thigh, swapping it for his dirk, which he had out and ready.

The men charged each other, and Felicity’s heart slammed hard against her chest. There was no way Will’s short dagger could be a match for the long blade of his opponent.

Rollo was like stone in the saddle, standing slightly in the stirrups, utterly calm. The other man whooped, riding hard for him. A black grin bisected the man’s face, thinking he had the advantage. Felicity heard her own hollow screeching as if from a distance.

She saw Will shift ever so slightly. His left calf twitched, left foot cocking out at a sharp angle. And she gasped as Rollo’s horse danced one, two, three perfect steps to the side. An elegant little prance, and Will was to the man’s left.

He’d switched the dirk to his opposite hand, and leaning in, easily sliced the man’s neck as he galloped past.

Felicity’s cheer stuck in her throat. Sensing a body near, she looked down to see an ugly man staring back up at her. It was shocking, and surreal, this gap-toothed face gazing hungrily up at her.

He came to her as a vivid snapshot, his close-cropped hair a faint yellow dusting on the top of his head, thick beige clinging in his smile, as if he’d not sucked all the bread from his teeth. And he held her reins in his hand.

“Will?” His name was a tremulous question in her throat, swallowed at once by the clamor of hooves galloping toward her.