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the gauntlet.
    â€œAh, little one,” she whispered sadly, “soon you will be flying skies no man has ever seen. God speed you from your pain.”
    Gently Meg replaced the sparrow hawk on its perch. For long minutes she whistled and murmured softly to the bird. Slowly its clouded eyes closed. As soon as she was certain movement wouldn’t disturb the falcon, she turned to go.
    When Meg emerged from the mews, Dominic le Sabre was standing behind the falconer.
    Her steps faltered as she looked up into bleak gray eyes and a face drawn in clean, harsh angles. Where other men wore long beards or none at all, this warrior had closely clipped his black beard and mustache. Nor did he have long locks of flowing hair to gentle the planes of this warrior’s face; his thick, black hair had been cut short to fit beneath a battle helm.
    Tall, powerful, motionless, Dominic le Sabre engulfed Meg’s senses for the space of one breath, two, three. Then as certainly as she had sensed the death unfolding in the sparrow hawk, she sensed Dominic’s rigid self-control, a fierce dominion over himself that permitted no emotion, no softness, nothing but the icy calculations of power and progeny.
    At first Meg thought Dominic’s self-control was as seamless and icy as winter itself. Then she realized that deep beneath the warrior’s cold restraint there was an echo of suffering harshly contained. The discovery was as unexpected and poignant as hearing a meadowlark sing in the midst of night.
    Dear God, what has this man borne that caused him to deny all but a faint echo of human emotion?
    On the heels of that thought came another, more disturbing one. Despite everything, there was a savage masculine fire in Dominic that called to Meg on a level of her being she had never known she had.
    And something within her was stirring, stretching, answering.
    It frightened her. She, who had walked in fear of nothing, not even the most ferocious beasts of the forest.
    â€œMis—” began William, perplexed by her stillness.
    Meg cut across his words before he could give away her identity.
    â€œGood day to you, lord,” she said to Dominic.
    In front of William’s surprised eyes, Meg touched her forehead, saluting Dominic as though she were a cotter’s wench rather than the lady of the keep.
    â€œThe priest’s small falcon soon will be free,” Meg said to William in a low voice.
    â€œAch,” he said. “The good father will mourn her keenly. He loved to go hunting with her. Said it lifted his soul like nothing but a fine mass.”
    â€œIs one of the birds ill?” Dominic asked.
    â€œFather Millerson’s falcon,” William explained.
    â€œDisease?” Dominic asked sharply.
    William looked to Meg.
    â€œNay,” she said in a husky voice. “It is a battle wound won from a wild hawk, not a plague to empty the mews or dovecotes of their birds.”
    When Meg touched her forehead again and turned to leave, Dominic said, “Hold.”
    He found he was intensely curious about the young woman who had emerged from the mews like flame from darkness, her eyes as green assunstruck emeralds. Those magnificent eyes told much of her thoughts; sadness as she left behind the dying bird, surprise at seeing Dominic in the mews, and…fear? Yes, fear.
    He frightened her.
    Then as Dominic watched, the girl’s eyes changed in the manner of the sea going from day to night. Now nothing moved to give away her thoughts.
    What an extraordinary wench .
    Dominic stroked his closely clipped mustache and black beard as he studied her.
    That hair. Gold and red and russet. It makes her skin look like particularly fine cream. I wonder whom I must pay to have her in my bed. Father, brother, uncle?
    Or husband …
    Dominic frowned. The thought of the wench being married didn’t appeal. The last thing he wanted to do was give the Norman-hating vassals of Blackthorne Keep an excuse to