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Barely had the question formed when Bella’s pulse jolted to a race. Joan was moving away from the merchant and returning to her horse.

  She was going to ride away. Bella was going to lose her chance to contact her. To let her know she had never stopped thinking about her. Never stopped missing her. Never wavered an instant in her determination to get back to her.

  It had been hard enough getting Lachlan to agree to come here; he would never agree to go after her.

  Joan neared her horse. Bella froze like a deer in the hunter’s sight. In a moment, her daughter would be gone.

  Every instinct clamored to call out her daughter’s name. To run to her, fold her in her arms, and carry her away from this nightmare.

  But she couldn’t. Dear God, she couldn’t. There were too many soldiers. They would never be able to get away.

  She looked around frantically. She had to do something. She couldn’t just let her go.

  A sign. She needed to give Joan a sign that she was with her. That she hadn’t forgotten her.

  She found it a few feet away, lying on a merchant’s table. Would she understand?

  Sir Alex had a firm hold of one of her wrists, not taking any more chances on her getting loose. But the table was close enough for her to lean over and …

  She snagged the pale-pink silk rose that had caught her eye and deftly slipped it off the table. The merchant, so caught up in the procession, didn’t notice.

  Sir Alex, however, did. “Damn it,” he swore, reaching for it. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  But it was too late. Her brain had stopped working the moment she’d seen her daughter; she was thinking with her heart.

  In one surreptitious motion, she tossed it between the crowd toward Joan. The pale-pink silk rose landed a few feet to her left.

  “Ah hell,” Sir Alex swore, seeing what she had done. He started to drag her away.

  Bella kept her eyes pinned on her daughter. For a moment she thought Joan wouldn’t see it. But then she jolted to a sudden stop as if she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. Even in profile, Bella could see her face pale and her eyes widen. She understood.

  Unfortunately, Joan wasn’t the only one to notice. Though Bella had intended to catch only her daughter’s attention, the distinguished lord walking ahead of her turned at the movement.

  Suddenly, Bella had a bad feeling. Was the rose more of a sign than she realized?

  Joan’s gaze shot in the direction of the crowd. Whether their eyes would have met, whether her daughter would have recognized her in the lad’s garb, Bella would never know. For at that moment, a man grabbed Bella from behind, tearing her from Sir Alex’s grasp and hauling her up against him.

  She’d been caught.

  Lady Joan Comyn was enjoying herself. She’d never heard such ridiculous flattery in her life and couldn’t help but smile at the man trying to sell her ribbons for three times the price she could purchase them for in London.

  She’d had precious little to smile about in the few months since her father had died. Actually, it had been far longer than that, but she tried not to think of her mother—it was too painful.

  Her life was in England now.

  Of her new guardian, Sir Hugh Despenser, Joan didn’t know what to think. Their interactions had been few, and when—such as now—he came to hurry them along, he seemed more impatient and annoyed than truly angry. Of age with her father, he was shrewd—his position as the king’s favorite told her that—and she would not underestimate him.

  As she and Margaret followed Sir Hugh back to their horses, Joan tried not to look at the crowd that was taking in their every move. But she couldn’t help feeling self-conscious. Though she understood the fascination, she was naturally shy and reserved, and uncomfortable with people looking at her. With what had happened to her mother, it was perhaps understandable.

  Suddenly, she sensed a movement out of the corner of her eye. When she looked down, it took her a moment to realize what it was.

  Her heart slammed to a stop. Her breath caught in her chest with the force of a hammer.

  Without realizing what she was doing, she knelt down to pick the item up, holding it almost reverently in her hand. Her eyes glazed with tears.

  Who …? What did this mean?

  Instinctively, she turned in the direction where she’d sensed the movement. Her eyes scanned the crowed, looking for an answer. But there were so many people it was impossible to guess from where it had come.

  Yet one golden-haired man stood out. He held a slim boy by the wrist and looked furious. It wasn’t the anger that made him stand out, however. Tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, he was just about the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Although noticing men was something entirely new for her, once discovered it seemed she could do nothing else. She and her cousins had spent hours discussing the men at the wedding.

  But none of them were like him. He was everything to make a young lady’s heart race, and she was not immune.

  She guessed him a few years past twenty, despite the stubbly beard on his boyishly handsome face that seemed intended to make him appear older.

  She knew he was a warrior by the sword at his back and the simple leather war coat he wore as armor. But he wore no helm, and his sun-drenched hair shone like a cap of gold in the bright sunlight. Short and becomingly tousled, it made him look as if he’d emerged from a loch, shaken out the water, and ran his fingers through the thick golden mane as an afterthought.

  Momentarily distracted by the handsome young warrior, it took her a moment to realize her reaction—and what had caused it—had been noticed.

  “ ’Tis a pink rose!” She heard the hushed whispers filter through the crowd like the ripple of a stone tossed across a pond.

  The villagers would not know her connection to the infamous Lady Isabella MacDuff, but they all recognized the traitor’s symbol.

  Unfortunately, so did her guardian. “What is that?”

  Joan didn’t answer. She saw Sir Hugh’s eyes narrow and knew he recognized what it was. She let it fall from her hand.

  He spun around, scanning the crowd as she had done. “What is the meaning of this? Who threw this?” He turned to the merchant who’d tried to sell her the ribbons. “Was it you?”

  The merchant shook his head vehemently. “Nay, m-my l-lord,” he answered, his voice shaking.

  The morning had taken on an ominous cast. People shuffled uncomfortably, shooting furtive looks around.

  Joan just wanted to leave. Anything that reminded her guardian of her mother was sure to cause her problems.

  She ventured one more glance at the young warrior. What she saw then caused her blood to run cold. Another man had come up beside him to take hold of the boy. He, too, stood out for his height and muscular build. But it was his face that struck fear in her heart.

  She’d been terrified the first time she’d seen him. It had been over two years ago, when the dark, menacing-looking warrior with the scarred face and eerie eyes had woken her as she slept in her chamber in Balvenie to explain why her mother had left her behind.

  Except for her recent visit with William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, it was the only direct information she’d had about her mother since she left. Her father’s hatred for the “traitorous whore” who’d betrayed him had made the subject a closed one.

  What was he doing here? Was it some kind of message?

  Her heart started to pound frantically.

  Joan knew what she had to do. Without another glance into the crowd, she lifted her chin and tossed back her head with all the disdain of the heir of Buchan.

  Lifting her slippered foot, she place it atop the flower where it had fallen from her hand and dug the silken pedals into the dirt with her tiny heel. “It’s nothing,” she said to her guardian. “Nothing that means anything anymore.”

  Her mother was dead to her. She’d chosen her path, just as Joan had chosen hers.

  But when she heard a soft cry in the crowd, her eyes wen