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“She was all alone,” the boy said with dignity. “I thought—”
“You did not think. Murdoc could swat you like a fly. Next time you see the prince’s peace disturbed, you call me or one of the other wardens, understand?”
Wardens? Emma shied at the word like a horse from the bite of a lash. What was this place? A jail? An orphanage?
Her chest hollowed. An asylum?
The boy’s thin face flushed. “Yes, sir.”
Emma’s protective instincts roused. Orphaned or crazy, the child meant well. “He was only trying to help.”
Her rescuer turned his dark, brooding gaze on her, and she felt again that quick clutch in her belly. Tension rose off him like steam.
Her mouth dried. She should not have come down. She was not safe here.
She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed.
“You wanted to help,” he said without expression.
He was speaking to the boy. Emma gathered she was irrelevant.
The child straightened his narrow shoulders. “I—yes.”
“Right. Make yourself useful, then. Fetch a girl to attend the lady.”
The boy nodded and darted away.
“Wait!” Emma called after him.
The child paused, almost quivering in his desire to be gone.
“What is your name?”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Iestyn.”
“Thank you, Iestyn,” she said gently. “I am Miss March.”
“Yes.” His smile flashed. “Thank you, miss.”
He ran off.
Her Viking was still watching Emma with an intent, cat-at-a-mousehole look that made her palms grow damp. She clasped them together very tightly in front of her.
“Miss Emma March,” she repeated. “Formerly of Miss Hallsey’s School for Girls.”
“Aye, I know.”
Emma frowned. Had he read the ship’s roster list? “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
His full mouth quirked slightly. “I know that, too.”
Hot blood flooded her face. “I meant…” Indignation struggled with gratitude. Had he no manners at all? “What is your name?”
“Griff.”
“Just…Griff?”
His thick, dark brows rose. “Griffith ap Powell ap Morgan ap Dafydd.”
