Sterling took a deep breath, inhaling as much of the crisp morning air into his lungs as he could. It was a beautiful day for a hunt; slightly overcast but brightening by the second. The men at his side walked on through the brambles, conversing unobtrusively with one another. Douglas guided them all. As head of his guard and one of Sterling's oldest friends, Douglas knew these woods and their pitfalls better than any man. So he always rambled on ahead, ushering them away from the coarser terrain and keeping his eye out for game. So, when he crested a small, grassy knoll and lifted his bow, poised to shoot, they all fell stationary and silent. Sterling did as the others, falling immobile and observing his comrade diligently. When Sterling discerned Douglas' unusual hesitation, he hurried on ahead to his side, the question of his indecision already formed upon his lips. But saw the object of Douglas' vacillation soon enough when he ascended the hill himself and saw Douglas' arrow aimed straight for a frightened girl with her back against a tree.

Sterling shunted Douglas' targeted armament away from him and bellowed. "Are you deranged? She's just a girl!"

Then he was jogging down the steep slope of the small hill toward her, inclined to come to the aid of the defenseless maiden but, as he approached, she pulled a dagger as swift as a fox and held it out to him, suspended straight against his throat. He came to an abrupt halt and raised his hands in surrender. Behind him, he noted the familiar sound of half a dozen men nocking their arrows. They would have them all trained on her, ready to shoot if she should wound him. She held the dagger steadily enough but he could see the trepidation in her eyes and knew that she was purely petrified.

"Whoa," he said evenly, keeping his hands raised in surrender and his voice as tranquil as possible. "It's alright. We aren't going to hurt you."

"That hasn't been my experience with men," she retorted, and he noticed then what sort of condition she was in. Her dress was torn in many sections, mostly at the hem, presumably due to a frenzied excursion through the gorse. She was covered in muck and a few crimson stains that, alarmingly, most closely resembled blood. Her hair was unkempt, tugged from its former coiffure and inundated with twigs and leaves. And the dagger, which she held so vigilantly poised at his throat, was covered in blood as well.

"I promise," he claimed, gradually lowering a hand. She flinched at the movement but allowed it. He touched the flat of the blade with his index finger and then gently pressed the tip of the dagger down, away from him and its point of contact at his jugular. "We aren't going to hurt you. My name is-"

"Lord Sterling Huntington," she concluded for him. His mouth dropped open slightly in wonder.

"You know me?" he questioned.

"I know whose land I'm on."

He narrowed his eyes, examining her intently. Even now, covered in dried blood, six arrows aimed directly at her heart, the girl stood tall, head held high, dagger in unshaking hands. Her equanimity was on a level that was to be venerated. Her unflappable courage and quick witted remarks only served to heighten the mystery of her persona. Sterling had never before encountered a woman who remained so confident when placed under the obvious strain that whatever the night's affairs had comprised of. Then again, he had never met a woman who had managed to pull a dagger on him. He liked to accredit himself with relatively quick reflexes but this girl's agility had put him to shame.

"Who are you?" he inquired.

"No one," she countered.

"Well, why is no one running about my lands with torn clothes and a bloody dagger?"

She didn't answer him then. Just fixed her gaze in an emboldened glare and stood her ground. Curious.

"What happened to you?" he tried again but was met with the same cold silence. The girl was stubborn. It was infuriating. After a moment, he sighed. "Well, I'm not going to leave a maiden alone in the forest. At least allow me to escort you home."

"No!" she exclaimed and then it was as if she were even more aware that the two of them were not alone. She glanced uncomfortably at the men around them who kept their keen eyes on her, bows still raised in anticipation of any attempted skirmish. "I mean, I don't have a home. I did. But I'm afraid I don't anymore. I can't go back."

He studied her for a moment, tilting his head to one side inquisitively. He placed a hand on his chin and held that hand up at the elbow, taking a step backwards to survey her. Her dress was stained and mangled but beneath the filth was fine silk. It was neither ragged nor old but seemed almost new and desirably fashioned with unique features that Sterling hadn't seen in any of the gowns that the provincial noblewomen wore. She spoke with the accent of the gentry, not the harsh vowels and drawling consonants of the common folk. And there was the matter of her posture, poised and perfect even in this time of great stress. Even now, torn and tattered as she was, he imagined he could install a book atop her head and it would reside there flawlessly balanced.

"You speak rather eloquently for no one," he told her and was impressed to find that the only hint of her surprise was the slight parting of her lips. Otherwise, her composure remained perfectly intact.

"My father was a librarian," she finally confessed. He smiled, pleased to be making progress in this otherwise obstinate exchange. "A good one. He liked to fancy himself a historian of sorts as well. He made good money on a few projects for important lords such as yourself. That is, until he got into gambling. He had some debts. Some men came to collect and he couldn't pay so they slit his throat right in front of me. Then they came for me but I ran. They followed me for most of the night but I think I lost them."

She looked away from him for the first time, down to her mud soaked shoes and ruined dress and he was reminded of the terrified young girl he had initiated this conversation with. The men behind him stirred, obviously changing their opinions on the threat level of this situation. Sterling had never considered himself to be in any sincere jeopardy but he could not deny the impression that something was not quite right. Her account appeared supported by the evidence as well as any tale could be but it was the slight perceptions that urged his reluctance. A librarian's daughter who wielded a knife with the dexterity of a trained soldier? A young girl who witnessed her father's slaughter before her very eyes just a night previous but met them now confident and unyielding?

"What about the blood?" Sterling probed. The girl looked down at her ruined dress and the crimson stains that blotched it. She stared at them for a moment, as though she hadn't realized they were there until he had indicated them.

"My father's," she told him.

"No. On the dagger."

She glanced down at the blade in her hands and then back to him. Her eyes met his and he understood. He had seen that expression before in his own father's eyes when he had returned from the southern war. He had seen it in the eyes of his own men, of all the men who had been of fighting age when the war began. It was still there now, haunting their countenance as they drank at a bar or conducted their business. It was the look of someone who had seen death up close and perhaps had produced a bit of it themselves.

"It's alright," he told her as comfortingly as he could manage. "You did what you had to. You survived. You're safe now."

She observed him judiciously for a moment, more cautiously than a young woman had ever looked at him before, and then slipped the dagger deftly into the belt of her dress. It was not lost on him how effortlessly she handled the blade, the finesse with which she twirled it around from hilt to blade before depositing it upon her person. That was a prowess that a woman should not possess.

"Edwin!" he called, not taking his eyes from her. He heard his late father's most trusted friend and advisor converge from behind him, dutiful as always. "Ride on ahead and tell Mrs. Woods to expect us."

Edwin hesitated for a moment but then turned to act as instructed.

"I can find a place for you at my estate," he informed the girl warily. "It will depend on what Mrs. Woods has available but kitchen work, most likely. It isn't the life you're used to but it's a warm bed and steady employment."

She scrutinized him as if considering his proposition. He was astounded by her scrutiny. She was all alone in the woods with no home or family to return to, not to mention the men who were evidently searching for her. He was the Lord of Northbrook. He had no obligation to this girl. It would be perfectly reasonable for him to turn his horses around and leave her in the muck and mire but he was more compassionate than that and he offered her more than a woman of her station could ever conceive of. If she didn't take the occupation he had so graciously provided, she would be out on the streets, if not dead. Any other girl would be kissing his feet at this very moment but she delayed to accept.

Finally, she spoke. "Thank you, my Lord. You're too kind."

She ambled out from beneath the tree, caramel hair glistening in the morning sun. He smiled at her and turned away. They strode back to the horses in comparative silence. The men did not seem too enthusiastic to recommence their vulgar banter from before now in the presence of a lady. The lady was silent herself, lost in thought, it appeared. But Sterling found it peculiar. She had just withstood a night pursued through the woods by murderers who had slayed her father only the evening before but she did not tremble, nor did she cry.

He understood, from his father's behavior upon his mother's death, that everyone mourned differently. But he thought that all women cried. A foolish thought, perhaps, but intriguing all the same.

When they arrived at the small glade where his meager hunting party had departed from their horses, he moved to assist her up onto one of the smaller mares but she swung herself onto the animal's back effortlessly on her own. Douglas caught his eye at that, detecting its oddity as well. He made no remark, only leapt onto his own horse and directed them on at a gallop, back toward his estate. Once on top of the horse and riding, the girl finally appeared to be a bit more uncomfortable. Perhaps she wasn't the equestrian that her former capacity had implied. She now resembled more what one would envisage a young common woman to experience her first time ahorse. Henry, another of his men, jockeyed patiently alongside her and offered his instruction whenever she wandered astray.

Within the hour, they had arrived back at the estate and dismounted beside the stables. Edwin and Mrs. Woods stood good-naturedly anticipating their homecoming. Sterling smiled at the round, affable timeworn woman as he swung his legs from the saddle, feet trouncing the earth ahead of her. She beamed back at him but her delight wavered when she observed the maiden rolling off of her horse behind him.

"Mrs. Woods!" he exclaimed, drawing the old woman's attention back to him. "Lovely to see you. I trust Edwin has enlightened you about our situation?"

"Indeed," she said, surveying the girl who was struggling in vain to wipe the dirt from her arms. "Oh dear."

"Could you find a place for her in my service?"

Mrs. Wood's eyes lighted upon him once more. There was a flicker of understanding there followed by a nod of accord.

"Anything for you, my Lord. The kitchens will do nicely, I imagine."

"As I expected! Thank you, Mrs. Woods, you're a peach," he pecked her on the cheek and she swayed a bit on her feet. "Do see to it that she gets cleaned up before beginning her duties. She's been through enough as it is. We wouldn't want the other servants asking questions."

The ancient cook bobbed her head generously before bustling over to the girl and hauling her away, toward the estate. The men began to retreat likewise, each of them drifting off to their own afternoon entertainments. Sterling was stowing his own horse away back into its stall, an undertaking that he preferred to perform himself, when he heard someone clear their throat and looked up to see his sister. She lingered in the entrance to the stables with her arms crossed. The wrinkled nose an outward presentation of the vitriol she harbored for those she judged inferior.

"You're bringing home strays now?" she questioned, sucking on her impeccably aligned teeth. She examined her nails as if his answer was of no true consequence to her but was purely a matter of unusual gossip that she could spin into a delectable tale for her pompous friends. He sighed, feeling uncommonly weary of her fiendish habits this morning.

"She was lost in the woods, afraid. She had just suffered a trauma, lost her home. I couldn't just leave her there."

"So you brought her here," she huffed. "As what?"

"A servant. Mrs. Woods has given her a place in the kitchens."

His sister stared at him for a moment, her cool blue eyes so like his own that they often gave him the impression of looking in a mirror. Then she broke the eye contact and tossed back the long, curly blonde hair they shared, glancing back down at her nails absentmindedly.

"She's quite beautiful," she mentioned then and something about her tone made the statement seem to be an accusation. "Underneath all the mud and muck, that is. Are you sure that is not why you brought her home?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. His sister was never one to mince words. Had she ever an opinion on a matter, Sterling could rest assured that he would be made aware of it before the conclusion of the conversation. But at the present moment, he hadn't the patience for her opinions nor for her unfounded allegations. He grumbled in exasperation and left her there, standing at the edge of the stables, to walk back to his estate alone.