Ollie lifted a handful of foaming tankards as the inn door opened. His brown eyes picked out the expensive cut of the newcomer’s clothing as he raised the tankards in brief greeting, then set them on the bar.

  “Welcome, stranger,” he called, raising his voice above the friendly row that filled his tavern.

  He caught sight of a gloved hand raised in answering salute as the newcomer made his way to a vacant table along the wall. The tavern was busy tonight; two caravans, a squad of royal scouts and one of the baron’s patrols, newly returned from their route, and that was before he counted the local farmers back in from their fields.

  With a smile, Ollie swept the payment for the latest batch of tankards into his apron pocket, then bustled over to where the stranger was sitting. The door opened again as he reached the stranger’s table, but this time, when he glanced toward it, Ollie frowned, seeing the local baron’s youngest son entering the inn. The newly arrived lordling was one of his least favorite customers, and Ollie sighed.

  The stranger followed his gaze, blue eyes observing the newly arrived lordling from beneath a mat of yellow hair, then taking in the barkeep’s displeasure. Ollie wondered at the sudden spark of interest that crossed the man’s face.

  “Shut the door after you, Master Rockwell!” the innkeeper bellowed and watched to make sure the lord’s son obeyed.

  The door slammed shut with a bang of annoyance, and a nattily-dressed young man strode through the evening crowd to seat himself opposite the stranger. Ollie opened his mouth to object to the impertinent lordling’s behavior, but the young man was already in full flow.

  “You’re new around here?” he asked the stranger, though he knew full-well the answer.

  Ollie winced, hearing the edge of sneering superiority at home in the young man’s tone.

  “Not particularly,” the stranger replied. “Are you?”

  Ollie’s wince turned into a smirk, and abruptly became a straight face when Rockwell glanced toward him. He almost laughed as the young lord blushed with quickly roused temper.

  “But you must be new,” Rockwell spluttered. “I’ve not seen your type around here before.”

  Ollie’s laughter died. Rockwell had made the stranger’s ‘type’ sound like something found beneath the offal heap at the back of the inn. He was about to rebuke the youngster’s rudeness when the stranger shrugged.

  “I’d be surprised if you had,” the man conceded. “My type doesn’t often visit these parts.”

  Ollie shook his head in surprise. It was a rare man who didn’t take offence at Rockwell’s arrogant words. He listened as the lordling made an attempt at guessing the stranger’s origins, while making it sound as though the local bandits were descended from someone more honorable.

  The stranger’s cheeks darkened slightly, the first, faint flush of anger beginning to show. The glow faded as quickly as it had come and the man bowed his head so that his face was hidden, for a moment, in the shadow of his golden fringe. When he raised his head again, all evidence of temper had vanished and the first faint creases of annoyance had been replaced by a small smile.

  Ollie wasn’t sure he’d seen the flush at all but he wasn’t taking the chance of losing a customer to Rockwell’s unruly tongue.

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  “Right, that’s enough, my lord,” he started. “I’m sorry but you’re…”

  “Let him stay, innkeeper,” the stranger interrupted.

  “Stay?” Ollie was stunned.

  “Stay,” the stranger told him, and it was more a command than a request.

  Ollie wondered if he should be affronted at being ordered about in his own establishment, but let his curiosity get the better of his hurt feelings.

  Rockwell had the gall to grin.

  “For that, stranger, I’ll buy you a drink!”

  “Wine then,” came the reply. “Meluka’s brew from the Year of Ants.”

  “And I will have my usual, barkeep,” purred the baron’s son.

  “Very well, Master Rockwell, Stranger,” Ollie replied, nodding to both before he hurried away.

  What business was it of his if the stranger wanted to be insulted? He didn’t care—as long as the drinks were paid for and plenty more were bought. Meluka’s brew, it was an unusual request and somewhat pricey. Rockwell might yet regret his generosity.

  “So,” began Rockwell, once the innkeeper had left, “what brings you to Cragsley?”

  “Curiosity,” the stranger replied.

  “Oh?” Rockwell wasn’t sure he liked this answer. “Of what kind?”

  The stranger sighed.

  “Perhaps it isn’t curiosity so much as true boredom.” This time the stranger’s voice held a touch of arrogance as he replied.

  Rockwell frowned. That tone mirrored his own superior drawl far too well. With an obvious effort, he quelled his impatient retort and asked another question.

  “Boredom? I cannot imagine anyone becoming bored enough to want to visit my father’s tiny backwater.”

  “It’s possible,” the stranger assured him. “My master was sick and tired of hearing rumors of gallantry untried. It seems that some young baron from these parts thinks it requires little more than false and empty boasts of dragon-slaying to win a bride from the Outlands. My master has sent me to tell him that much more than empty braggartry and an unblooded blade are needed.”

  A faint ripple of amusement spread through the inn, and normally rowdy discussions concerning the weather or the breeding performance of local livestock died to nothing as the baronet’s conversation offered greater entertainment.

  Rockwell blushed and quietly tamped out the new-lit tobacco of his pipe.

  Ollie arrived with the drinks, and wondered what had passed between the two. For the first time in his life, Rockwell overpaid and then dismissed him without demanding the change.

  The young baron’s eyes never left those of the stranger and the anger in Rockwell’s expression made the innkeeper wish he had arrived in time to hear the stranger’s words. He would have stayed by the table to hear what else transpired but someone called for ale and he hurried to answer their demand.

  The stranger noted his going, although his gaze stayed on Rockwell’s face. His blue eyes sparkled as Rockwell studied him in return and Ollie knew what the young lord was seeing.

  Thick, yellow hair hung loosely down the stranger’s back, kept from his face by two, thin braids that stretched from his temples to a narrow braid at the back of his head. His skin was tanned and smooth. He…

  “This baron, the man that I seek,” the stranger gave Rockwell no more time for contemplation. “He thinks, when boasts fail, that harrying maidens as they walk in the forest is an acceptable form of courtship.”

  His voice hardened. “My master wishes me to teach him otherwise.”

  Rockwell’s blush deepened. The stranger leaned back in his seat, seeming to stretch and relax. Around them, the chatter was slowly quieting. Surreptitious elbows and suddenly assaulted shins, passed the message from patron to patron, that young Lord Rockwell was about to take a fall.

  “Of course,” the newcomer continued, “I am just a messenger, nothing more.”

  He reached for his wine, lifting it to his lips and sipping as he eyed Rockwell over the rim of his cup. The young baron seemed to be having trouble getting his words out.

  “I should think such a messenger would have the means to reinforce such a message,” Rockwell eventually sputtered, trying in vain to make his voice sound cold.

  The stranger smiled and shards of emerald played in the depths of his eyes. In a deceptively calm voice, he replied, “Only if the, er, young baron chooses to challenge me over the matter.”

  “Well, I am he!” Rockwell stormed, rising from his seat and dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. “Prepare to defend yourself!”

  The table shuddered, the tankards rocked, and all around them, the tavern finally fell silent. The stranger glanced briefly at Ollie hurrying across the room toward them as he replied.

  “Is that a challenge?” he asked, his voice a lazily amused drawl designed to provoke Rockwell’s temper even further, and he propped his boots on a nearby chair with well-practiced arrogance.

  “It is,” came Rockwell’s hot retort.

  “In that case,” the stranger told him, taking his feet from the chair on which he had propped them and sitting up straight, “you had better sit down.”