Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) by Glynnis Campbell, Sarah McKerrigan

though they chattered worriedly amongst themselves, the castle folk began to walk purposefully toward whatever task they’d been assigned.
    But Pagan suddenly stepped in front of her, blocking her view with his imposing chest.  “Wait!” he barked over his shoulder.
    To Deirdre’s consternation, they did.
    “How big is this army?” he asked her.
    She clenched her jaw.  What did it matter?  Did the fool not realize the need for haste?  “I don’t know,” she muttered impatiently.  “They were mounted knights.  A dozen...maybe more.”  Bending past his broad shoulder, she yelled, “You, lad!  Quick!  Gather the livestock within the walls!”  She tried to sidle past Pagan, but he blocked her way again.
    “From what direction?” he asked.
    “Would you move?” she growled.  “You, you, and you!” she commanded, pointing at her best archers.  “Man the battlements!”
    Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Fire only at my command!”
    Deirdre almost choked on her outrage.  “ Your co-...This is my castle, sirrah!  Do not think to—“
    ”From what direction do they come?” he asked again.
    “The south,” she hissed.  “How dare you usurp my authority!  I’ve defended this keep for years.  You’ve been here but one day.  I will not have you countermand my orders!”  To prove her point, she issued another command.  “Angus!  When the beasts are in, drop the portcullis!”  At least, she thought, the wedding had served one useful purpose—the castle folk were already safely congregated within the walls.
    “Is it the English?” Pagan asked.
    She tried to push past the brute, but he was as unmovable as a deep-rooted oak.
    He seized her by the shoulders then and held her still, though in truth he pinned her more with his fierce gaze than his hands.  “Is it.  The.  English?” he asked, as if he were speaking to a halfwit.
    “Aye.”  She bit out the lie, not caring a whit whether the invaders were English or not, only wanting the meddling Norman to get out of her way.  “Aye, ‘tis the English.”
    “You’re certain?”
    Now her patience was at an end.  This was the reason one didn't send a Norman to defend a Scot's holding.  If Pagan had spent any time in the Borders at all, he'd know that Highlanders, their only other enemy, fought afoot in sheepskins, not mounted and in armor.  She shrugged off his hands.  “If you do not remove yourself this instant, I swear by all that’s holy—“
    ”How many battles have your men fought, milady?”
    “What?  I have no time for your chin-wagging, sirrah!  Do you not understand?  We are under attack!  Let me—”  She tried to heave him out of her path again, to no avail.  If only she’d brought a dagger to prod him...
    ”Answer me.  How many battles?”
    She made daggers of her eyes instead.  “My men train in the tiltyard all the—”
    “How many real battles have they fought?”
    The question gave her pause.  She compressed her lips, reluctant to answer.  “‘Tis no matter.”  She wanted to lie, tell him they’d fought in dozens of wars, but she could not.
    “How many?”
    “None, but—“
    ”And how many times have you been under siege?”
    “Never,” she admitted.  “But my people have been well trained.  They know what to—“
    ”I’ve commanded armies in a dozen battles,” he boasted.  “And I once survived a siege of half a year.  I know what to do."
    Why she should believe him, she didn't know.  She still suspected he was but a landless knight-errant.  Yet the cool confidence in his eyes, as cocksure and annoying and superior as it may be, was also reassuring.  Pagan wouldn’t let Rivenloch fall.
    But what she told him was also true.  He’d been there only one day.  She knew the castle, knew the land, knew the people.  She could better manage them.
    Before she could explain, Colin skipped up, clearing his throat.  “Did you, my lady,” he asked, lifting his brows