This man wore darkness. She saw it in his hair—a fall of straight black locks loose upon his shoulders—and in the eyes that met hers briefly before he focused on her bloody hand.

She’d sensed that darkness in him when he rode down on the crossroads, a thing of spirit as much as appearance. Some great trouble or sorrow rode within him. For all that, she sensed no cruelty. And och, aye, he carried beauty also.

Had she ever seen such a countenance? Narrow and elegantly sculpted as that of a raptor, his face tapered from sharp cheekbones to a strong jaw now well covered by black beard.

Above those eyes—black as the gaze of a raven—slanted two eyebrows like wings, fleet and mobile. Even as she watched they drew together over his bulwark of a nose, and black lashes swept down.

“Forgive me. I must have cut you when I slashed those ties. Let me see—how sore is it?”

He smoothed away the blood with strong, graceful fingers—touched her blood, her being—and Tansy quivered again. For an instant she felt so dizzy she feared she might tumble from the great horse’s back, but the knight’s arm anchored her.

She found her voice. “A small price to pay, Sir Knight. Would you no’ say?”

That returned his eyes to hers. They gazed at one another so intimately, so deeply, Tansy felt a connection take hold between them.

Was that just the last remnant of the spell she’d woven, vibrating? She could not tell.