Bayard was well aware that he was being pursued.
Indeed, in the past few years, he had learned to be uncommonly aware of his surroundings. And he knew the rhythm of his own steed’s hoofbeats well enough to recognize the missing beast’s presence. The palfrey behind them started and stopped, which meant it carried a rider whose dictate it followed.
Bayard knew who that rider must be. Annoyance simmered through him. Why would she flee only to trail him? What manner of feminine game was this? Indeed, a man could readily conclude that she sought to vex him apurpose, perhaps to hold his interest.
His Esmeraude had no need of such a ploy. They rode onward, Bayard setting a pace that he knew his palfrey could readily match, and he pondered the complexities of women.
Or more accurately, of one
