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The Warrior's Damsel In Distress
Meriel Fuller
Enchanted by his captive!The Lady of Striguil is fleeing from the tyrant who stole her birthright, and threatens her still. Disguised as a nursemaid, Eva is horrified when her enemy’s handsome brother rides into her life, unveils her…and takes her captive!The Count of Valkenborg is on a mission to fulfil his dying brother’s wish and return the runaway. But the warrior hasn’t counted on the battle Eva will spark between his duty and his growing desire for her…
Enchanted by his captive!
The Lady of Striguil is fleeing from the tyrant who stole her birthright and threatens her still. Disguised as a nursemaid, Eva is horrified when her enemy’s handsome brother rides into her life, unveils her...and takes her captive!
The Count of Valkenborg is on a mission to fulfill his dying brother’s wish and return the runaway. But the warrior hasn’t counted on the battle Eva will spark between his duty and his growing desire for her...
Beneath the solid weight of Bruin’s hand Eva shifted, sensing his distraction.
Did he realise how close he was standing? His knees bumped against hers, rustling her velvet skirts. She could see the individual stitches on his surcoat…satin stitch, chain stitch making up one of the embroidered lions, the gold thread interspersed with blue. A labour of love.
A bolt of longing shot through her, earthy and visceral. Her mouth parted in a silent gasp, air pleating her chest. His nearness acted like a balm, soothing her frayed nerves, easing the tension in her back. But in truth it did far more than that. A kernel of need grew at the base of her belly—slowly at first, like a newborn fire, smoking and spitting until it burst into flame…incandescent. Wild insanity ripped along her veins—a primal yearning that stretched every sinew in her body to near breaking point, vibrating and aware.
If only she could lean into him, rest her head against his chest and squeeze him tight to her. And more…
MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now, with a family to look after, writing has become her passion… A keen interest in literature, the arts and history—particularly the early medieval period—makes writing historical novels a pleasure.
Books by Meriel Fuller
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Conquest Bride
The Damsel’s Defiance
The Warrior’s Princess Bride
Captured by the Warrior
Her Battle-Scarred Knight
The Knight’s Fugitive Lady
Innocent’s Champion
Commanded by the French Duke
The Warrior’s Damsel in Distress
Visit the Author Profile page at at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
The Warrior’s Damsel in Distress
Meriel Fuller
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To J. Now we are 50! xx
Contents
Cover (#ueccf50ea-c222-5430-aa93-4c024b805ab5)
Back Cover Text (#u369310e8-b0d8-54f0-9f05-a8c88f27e09b)
Introduction (#u3ca6f631-c15e-514b-b889-b560ff055b3e)
About the Author (#u0779850d-0c0d-5f9f-a3a4-6f17f77932fc)
Title Page (#u90d66478-cd2e-5d09-bdc2-527b115c49b2)
Dedication (#u587283b8-16bc-5f9c-9157-5921b2587714)
Chapter One (#ue8acb87b-422c-5159-b77c-c598f26961dd)
Chapter Two (#ube6af1f4-ba84-5e28-8dbc-844d73e8fa56)
Chapter Three (#u212b92fc-93e5-57b3-a90d-238b58aec246)
Chapter Four (#ubd8026dc-e834-5676-9647-01854cfeaedc)
Chapter Five (#ub52c2e98-f86f-5d36-898b-e8d4c2b2cd0d)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u82f3086d-98f3-5441-803a-e0a1d07e1d96)
The Welsh Marches—January 1322
‘The day grows chill, my lady.’ Eva eyed the tall, slim woman at her side. ‘Shall we take the children inside now?’
With the sun sinking rapidly, she had climbed with Katherine up the gentle hill from the castle, watching her friend’s three young children laugh and scamper up to the edge of the forest, their woollen cloaks bright, vivid, against the dull winter colours. The ground was iron-hard on this north-facing slope. Untouched by the sun all day, frost clung to the long grass, white-fringed, lacy.
Breath emerging in visible puffs of air, the two women had paused at the point where the rough open grassland met the shadow of the overhanging trees, turning back to look down at the castle below. Their elevated position emphasised the castle’s dramatic location above the town: perched on a stony outcrop above the river, the jagged curtain wall was built directly on to the limestone cliffs. The low rays of the sun bathed the numerous turrets in a haze of orange and pink, transforming the river cutting through the densely wooded valley into a solid silver ribbon, a flat trail of light.
Katherine’s pale skin glowed with the exertion of the climb. She smiled. ‘Let’s stay out a bit longer, could we? It’s so beautiful up here.’ She tugged her fur-lined hood up over her silken veil and gold circlet, tucking gloved hands into the voluminous folds of her woollen cloak. She frowned at Eva’s thin threadbare gown. ‘Are you warm enough?’ Worry edged her voice.
Eva laughed, her blue eyes glowing, sapphires of light. ‘You must stop this, Katherine, remember? Stop showing concern for me. You must treat me as a servant, a nursemaid to your children, otherwise people will notice, start asking questions. And those people might talk and he will find out where I am.’ Her voice wavered and she chewed down on her bottom lip, hating the wave of vulnerability surging through her. ‘You must behave as if you care nothing for me.’
Behind them the fractious breeze stirred bare trees and a group of large black crows huddled forlornly on a swaying branch, wings folded inwards, brooding outlines silhouetted against the brilliant sky. And through the scrubby outline of trees, the slender curve of a moon appeared, milky white, almost invisible, transparent.
‘But I do care about you. You are my friend.’ Katherine’s voice trailed away miserably. ‘I find it so difficult, having to treat you like that, seeing you dressed like this...’ She glanced disparagingly at Eva’s garments: the coarse strip of linen that served both as a wimple and veil, covering her glossy chestnut hair and winding around her neck, the simple cut of her gown and under-dress, patched in numerous places, the apron tied around her slim waist. No cloak, no gloves. The only reminders of Eva’s past life were the good leather boots and fine woollen stockings hidden beneath her hemline.
‘I have no other choice. You know that,’ Eva whispered. The children raced around them in a circle, darting in and out of the women’s skirts, playing tag, shrieking with laughter as they snatched at each other’s clothes, then raced off again.
‘You will always be the Lady of Striguil to me, Eva. What that man did to you...’
Eva shook her head, hunching her shoulders forward. Her eyes filled with unexpected tears. ‘Please, don’t speak of it. I’m here now, thanks to you, and that’s all that matters.’ Shivering in the icy air, she wrapped her arms across her bosom, aware that the children had stopped running and were pointing at something on the distant ridge. A flash of light on the horizon, reflected by the sun. She took a deep, unsteady breath. Katherine’s words had kindled a rush of familiar panic, a surging terror that gripped at her heart, her throat. How long would it be? How long would it be before she could acknowledge what had happened to her without being reduced to a useless, quivering wreck? It had been a whole year now, yet the slightest reminder turned her to a stuttering idiot. She had to be braver, more stalwart, if she were ever to put those awful days behind her.
‘Horsemen,’ Katherine announced, following the children’s pointing fingers. ‘Heading this way.’ She dropped her gaze, uninterested, retying the loose strings of her youngest daughter’s cloak.
Eva narrowed her eyes, bracing her feet wide on the icy hillside: a stance of mock courage. Her skirts swept around her, the biting wind pinning the fabric to her slim legs. Fear trickled through her belly, a chill runnel, as if her mind already knew what she was about to see. She focused on the black figures, advancing swiftly. Not horsemen. Knights. The dying sun bounced off their shields, their chainmail, forcing her to squint. Friend or foe, it was difficult to tell. But whoever they were, why were they here, in this remote corner of the Marches? Her terror grew, lodged in her throat, and her breath stalled.
‘There’s no other reason they would take that path,’ she stuttered out. ‘There’s nowhere else to go, but here. We need to go back. Now.’ Her voice emerged jerkily, low and urgent. ‘Come on, Katherine.’
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Katherine rounded her brown eyes in astonishment. ‘Surely they’re only travellers, looking for somewhere to stay the night? They’ll find lodgings in the town.’
‘Maybe.’ Eva’s lips tightened warily. ‘Maybe not. King Edward has not stopped punishing the Marcher Lords who rebel against him. He is determined to quash them.’ Seizing the hands of the two youngest children, she began to stride purposefully down the hill, her generous hem whisking at the ice-covered grass to leave a long dark trail. If she and Katherine walked quickly they would be back within the castle walls before the knights arrived. The horsemen still had to make their way through the forests to the north of the castle and then pass through the soldiers on the town gate. Eva prayed this would delay them long enough for the castle guards to throw the bolts across the gates and keep them out.
Katherine ran to catch up with her, her cloak billowing out like a wing. ‘But they wouldn’t bother with me, surely?’ Doubt shadowed her features. ‘A widow, living alone with my three children? And my trusty nursemaid, of course.’ She squeezed Eva’s forearm. ‘The King has long since forgotten about me; he’s too busy fighting his battles.’
‘But you are his niece and therefore his responsibility. And you are the widow of a rebel lord. You hold the fortunes of three men: your father, your brother and your husband, God rest their souls. You are rich, Katherine, and therefore useful. Remember, I thought the same before Lord Steffen plucked me from my castle. I thought that I was safe.’
But Katherine failed to hear her. She seemed distracted, looking back up the slope. ‘Where’s Peter?’ Katherine’s oldest child had an annoying habit of scampering off and hiding at the most inconvenient times. ‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose, the note shrill and wavering.
‘Here, take these two.’ Eva handed Katherine her daughters, darting a concerned glance towards the figures on the far hillside, galloping at full pelt down from the ridge. Had they spotted them up here, colourful cloaks pinned against the drab-coloured grass? ‘Go now, run, and bolt the gates behind you. Don’t let those people in, whatever you do. I’ll find Peter.’
* * *
Dropping his reins on to the glossy neck of his destrier, Bruin, Count of Valkenborg, twisted his tall, lean body in the saddle and reached for the satchel strapped to his horse’s rump, extracting a leather water bottle. Sidling to a standstill, the huge animal pawed the ground impatiently, jerking its head upwards in irritation, iron bit rattling against enormous teeth. Bruin pulled off his helmet, giving it to a soldier riding alongside him, and pushed back his tight-fitting chainmail hood. Vigorous blond-red curls sprang outwards. He pushed one gauntleted hand through them, the icy air sifting against his sweating scalp. The leather glove rasped against his chin. There had been no chance to shave the short hairs from his face in these last few days of continual riding and now his beard glowed red, like the Viking beards of his ancestors. Dragging off his gauntlets, he slipped frozen hands through the chainmail openings across his palms to open his flagon.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ he murmured as he failed to undo the stopper. Clenching his fingers into his fist a couple of times, he encouraged the blood to run through his numb veins. ‘God, but it’s cold!’ Balancing the flagon on the saddle in front of him, he blew into his cupped hands, a hot gust of air, rubbing them together briskly.
Moving his horse alongside his companion, Gilbert, Earl of Banastre, laughed. ‘You, of all people, should be used to this kind of weather!’ With his face obscured by his helmet, his voice was muffled, an odd, hollow sound.
‘What, because I was born across the North Sea? It’s warmer over there, I swear. And definitely flatter.’ Bruin’s grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, finally removing the stopper with his teeth. Tipping his head back, he gulped the water down with relish, wiping stray drops from his mouth with his chainmail sleeve, the silvery links glinting in the low sun. ‘Is Melyn much further?’ Tucking the bottle away, he rolled his shoulders forward, trying to relieve the strained muscles across his back. ‘We’ve been riding for a long time.’ He yawned.
Gilbert tipped up the visor of his helmet. He sighed. ‘The journey would have been a lot quicker if the rebels hadn’t burned all the bridges over the river.’ White hair straggled out from beneath his chainmail hood. The metallic links, a few flecked with rust, gripped the fleshy folds of his cheeks in a perfect constricting oval. He inclined his head to one side, a questioning look crossing his face. ‘But I’m surprised you, of all the knights, should volunteer to accompany me,’ he chortled. ‘Surely such a task is beneath a soldier of your calibre? That’s why the King decided to drag me out of my comfortable retirement and send me to escort Katherine de Montague. Why did you not travel north with Edward? Flush out more of the rebel barons?’
‘The King wanted me to go with him,’ Bruin replied, shrugging his massive shoulders. ‘Even offered me double the normal amount of gold.’ His eyes darkened, glittering pewter. ‘He’s pleased to have me back after...’ A muscle flexed in his jaw.
‘After your year adrift with Lord Despenser.’ Gilbert threw him a brief smile.
Bruin scowled. ‘I swear you have the ability to make even the most awful things in life sound good. I was a mercenary, outside the law. Raiding and plundering merchant ships in the Channel.’ His mouth tightened, a wave of guilt coursing through him. ‘I was out of control after Sophie’s death and well you know it, Gilbert. I’m not proud of what I’ve done.’
Gilbert’s eyes flicked over to his younger companion, startled by his blunt admission, the raw desperation in his voice. He had heard that Bruin blamed himself for her death. ‘But the King has brought back Lord Despenser out of exile and forgiven him, just as he has forgiven you.’ Anxious not to dwell on the subject, Gilbert pushed at Bruin’s shoulder with a rounded fist, a friendly gesture. ‘It’s good to have you back, even if it is just to help me escort Lady Katherine and her children.’
‘I came with you for another reason. When my brother heard where you were going, he asked me to accompany you.’ Bruin paused. ‘He wants me to find someone for him.’ Staring out into the lattice of pine trees that clustered each side of the track, his grey eyes adopted a bleak, wintry hue. ‘Steffen seems intent on righting past wrongs, absolving himself of all his sins. He’s dying, Gilbert.’ His voice held little emotion, for he and his brother had never been close. Stronger at birth, Steffen had always been his parents’ favourite and indulged as such. Spoiled. As a sickly child, nobody expected Bruin to survive. But he had survived, and when he started to become well regarded for his prowess on the battlefield, drawing congratulations from all around, Steffen’s spoiled character seemed to spiral out of control, developing into a deep resentment towards Bruin. He wanted the accolades for himself.
‘I am sorry.’ The older man drew his grizzled brows together. ‘I forgot that you saw your brother at Deorham. He sustained a wound from the Battle of Durfield, I hear?’
Bruin shook his head to clear the memories clouding his mind. He sighed. ‘Yes, a head wound. It’s a bad one.’ He remembered the ragged gash above his brother’s ear, blood congealing in the blond-red strands of his hair. ‘The physician doesn’t expect him to survive much longer. I only hope I can find this woman before—well, in time.’ He kneaded idly at the bulk of his thigh, leg muscles bunched and heavy beneath the fawn wool of his leggings. A wave of guilt passed through him. How churlish of him to dwell on their troubled relationship. His brother was dying.
‘Someone he loved?’
‘I’m not certain. Maybe.’ Bruin frowned, a defined crease appearing between his copper-coloured brows. After their years apart, seeing Steffen again had been a shock. Racked with fever, his brother had thrown him a thin, wan smile from his sick bed. Scrabbling at Bruin’s arm, eyes rolling wildly, Steffen had begged his brother to find this woman to ease his troubled mind, to find peace in death. He talked of her dark brown hair, her blue eyes. He also talked strangely, incoherently, about a butterfly, the mark of a butterfly. And he had given him a name: the Lady of Striguil.
* * *
‘Peter, where are you?’ Eva called quietly. A drift of frost-coated leaves littered the twisting track through the woodland. Her feet crunched through them, purposefully. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she stopped for a moment, listening intently. Her face was rigid with cold, cheek muscles stiff, inflexible; the tip of her nose was numb. Where was the boy? Was he watching her from a hiding place, a smug smile pinned on his face as he heard her calling? The sun was dropping quickly now; soon it would be dusk and he would be much more difficult to find.
She hoped Katherine had reached the safety of the castle by now. A great shudder seized her body, catching her by surprise. The sight of those soldiers in the distance, the sun bouncing against swords and shields, aggressive and intimidating, danced across her vision, taunting her. She hugged her arms about her waist, clamping down on another wave of fear. Katherine was probably correct; they were men looking for bed and board for the night, nothing more.
A flash of red snared her vision. A glimpse of colour between the drab brown, silent trunks. Then a giggle, swiftly stifled, carried down on the scant breeze.
‘Peter, you little wretch!’ Eva bounded forward. ‘Come here!’ She could see him now, darting in and out of the oak trees, his sturdy nine-year-old legs skipping over mossy rocks, red tunic flying upwards as he jumped down into a shallow ditch. But Eva was faster, stronger, than the small boy. The past had taught her, taught her how important it was for a woman to be fit and strong, to at least attempt to try to match the physical power of men, although she knew it was impossible. Katherine had mocked her gently, but understood: Eva’s need to take herself off every day, to walk and run, to keep her body strong. Now, her feet sprang across the solid ground, nimble and fast, the toned muscle in her thighs and calves powering her forward. Flying along the track, she advanced on the boy’s sprinting figure, stretching out her arm towards the bobbing tunic, the tuft of blond unbrushed hair.
‘Got you!’ Grabbing the frail bones of the boy’s shoulder, she spun him around, cheeks flaring with anger. ‘For God’s sake, Peter, why do you not come when we call you? Do you think this is a game? There are strangers about; we need to return to the castle!’
‘I’m sorry, Eva.’ Peter hung his head at her sharp tone, shivering slightly. Tears welled up in his eyes, leaking slowly down the side of his face. ‘I was having so much fun; I didn’t think.’
‘Nay, don’t cry.’ Eva wrapped her arms about his bird-boned shoulders, hugging him. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted. Let’s go back.’ Her linen head covering had come adrift as she had run; now she rewound the coarse material about her head and neck, throwing the loose end back over her shoulder.
‘Come,’ she said to Peter, extending her arm towards him.
He threw her an unsteady smile and took her fingers, gripping strongly. The shadows of the forest deepened steadily: individual trees losing their definition, trunks blurring together into one dark mass. Soon they would be unable to see without a light. Heart thumping, Eva lengthened her stride, dragging Peter along with her, the thistly undergrowth scratching at their clothes. At last they reached the fringes of the forest, the castle lights and town fires twinkling in the valley below. She sagged with relief at the welcoming sight. Of the horsemen, there was no sign.
They scampered haphazardly down the slope, leather-shod feet slipping on the icy grass. Eva lost her footing only once, sliding down on to her side, but quickly rolled to spring up into a standing position once more, pulling Peter with her. He was grinning, loving the adventure. She smiled back, reassuring, but inside her heart was tense, stricken with anxiety. She had had enough adventures to last her a lifetime; she had no need of any more.
A stone wall, four feet thick, encompassed Melyn Town and Castle, an extra line of defence constructed by Katherine’s ancestors out of hefty sandstone blocks. As far as most people knew, the only way through this wall was via the town gatehouse, manned day and night by Katherine’s house knights. But Eva knew differently. She headed for a clump of hawthorns clustered together at the point where the wall ended at the cliff edge, high above the churning river. Behind these thorny shrubs, laden with red berries, was a narrow door, a secret entrance known only to Katherine’s closest confidants.
Pushing back the curtain of ivy, Eva twisted the handle, forcing the stiff iron latch to rise. She clutched Peter’s hand. The castle was before them, a short walk away. The moat gleamed with glossy blackness, surface like grease-covered silk, weed-strewn depths treacherous even to the strongest swimmer. Eva’s stomach gave a queasy flip; she looked away. A guard walked along the battlements, his burning torch flaring down on to the water, a wavering light. The gatehouse with its two circular turrets loomed up before them, a wooden drawbridge crossing the inky waters of the moat. Even in this crepuscular gloom, Eva saw that the drawbridge was down. Katherine had chosen not to listen to her after all.
‘Careful,’ she whispered to Peter, crouching down so that her face was on a level with his. ‘I would stay here, out of sight for the moment. Only come when I call you.’
‘And if you don’t call?’ A faint whine laced his voice. He was tired and hungry, Eva knew that. But those knights might have come through the town gate already; she had to make sure the castle was safe.
‘Then run and hide,’ she replied, trying to keep her tone light, jolly. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you and I don’t want your mother coming after me in a rage if something happens to you.’
Peter grinned. One of his top teeth was missing, giving him an impish air. ‘All right,’ he agreed, poking the toe of his boot into a tussock of grass. ‘I’ll stay here.’
Eva walked slowly up the path towards the gatehouse, heart thumping erratically. The stone walls rose before her, studded with moss, giving the façade a lumpy, diseased appearance. A climbing rose straggled out over the low, pointed arch, bobbing, adrift, ripped from its moorings in a previous gale and never secured again. The silence of twilight crowded around her; only the rippling sound of water from the moat and an owl’s lonely hoot hollowed out the dusk.
Fingers brushing stone, she rounded the bottom of one circular turret. The portcullis was up. She peered into the narrow entrance, slightly irritated by her over-vigilant behaviour; she had managed to frighten everyone, both Peter and his mother. Lit by a single torch, the cobbled passageway was empty, leading to two closed wooden gates at the far end that gave access to the drawbridge. A single guard leaned against the sturdy criss-crossed planks, chin hunkered down to his chest and his arms folded tightly, so that his gloved hands could tuck beneath each armpit for warmth.
‘John,’ she said, recognising him, stepping forward into the torchlight.
His head jerked upwards in surprise. ‘Eva,’ he exclaimed. ‘Finally. The Lady Katherine was concerned. She said you were looking for Peter. Did you find him?’
‘I did. He’s waiting outside until I call him.’ Her shoulders slumped in relief. ‘There’s no one else here?’
‘No,’ said John. ‘Those horsemen probably found an inn in the town. Or perhaps they were travelling further, maybe to Dodleigh.’
‘I’ll fetch Peter.’ Happiness, coupled with relief, bubbled up in her chest. Spinning on her heel, she strode out of the gatehouse.
Stopped. A hand flew up to her mouth in horror.
A group of knights clustered before the gatehouse, reining in their mounts. Metal bits and stirrups gleamed in the feeble light; chainmail shone. Their approach had been silent, stealthy; they must have slowed the animals to walking pace for the last few yards over the spongy grass. So they had come here, after all.
‘John!’ Eva called out, her voice stricken with panic. ‘John, come here, now!’
The lead horseman lifted his visor, his face lined with tiredness. White hair clung to his creased, sweating forehead. ‘Don’t be frightened, maid,’ he spoke slowly. ‘We come in peace.’ The three golden lions of the King decorated his red woollen surcoat, gleaming threateningly.
John moved alongside her, holding the flaring, spitting torch aloft. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’
The knight leaned forward in his saddle, gingerly, as if trying to ease some pain. The saddle creaked beneath his weight. ‘I trust we have reached Melyn Castle? The home of Lady Katherine de Montagu? The niece of King Edward?’
‘Aye, my lord, that is correct,’ John answered.
‘In that case, I have a message for the lady, written by the King, her uncle, and I have orders from him to deliver it only to her. No one else.’ The old knight produced a scroll of parchment from his saddlebag, and waved it at them.
His huge destrier snorted, canting to the right impatiently, revealing the five or six other horsemen behind him. The other men were much younger, bodies sitting lithe and easy in the saddles, not showing any of the aches and pains displayed by their leader. Eva watched as another knight lifted off his helmet, resting it on the saddle before him, turning to murmur something to his companion.
Silver eyes shone below slashing eyebrows; a shock of brindled hair, wayward, vigorous. And the shadow of bronze stubble across a square-cut jaw. She recognised him instantly. A low cry, unbidden, ripped from her. Her heart smashed in fear against the wall of her chest.
It was the man who had made her life pure hell. The man who had stripped her of all her worldly goods, all her possessions, her livelihood. He had returned.
Chapter Two (#u82f3086d-98f3-5441-803a-e0a1d07e1d96)
Terror loosened her mind, logic unravelling. The ground dropped away, tilted. She staggered back, her arms flying outward, clawing the air, battling some invisible attacker. Her limbs sagged, as if someone had stripped the muscles from her legs and replaced them with wet, useless rope. Shocked, reeling, a sob tore from her throat, a raw, guttural sound that split the air. No, no, not him! How could he have found out where she was?
Eva sprang away from the gatehouse, unthinking, darting back the way she had come with Peter. Pure animal instinct drove her; she had to run, escape. A shudder tore through her at the thought of him catching her again; he would surely kill her this time, after what she had done. She stumbled forward, boots snagging on lumps of tussocky grass, keeping her gaze fixed on the line of oaks beyond the town walls: the forest; her refuge and a place to hide.
Peter’s slight figure emerged from behind the shrubs where she had left him, a worried expression on his thin face, flushed red with the cold.
‘Go to the castle, now!’ Eva gasped out as she rushed towards him. ‘It’s me they’re after, not you. You will be safe!’ Reaching out, she gave him a little push, as if to emphasise her point.
‘I want you to come too,’ he whined, catching at her sleeve, slowing her step momentarily. His bottom lip trembled.
‘No! Do as I say!’ Her breath punched out in truncated gasps. Wrenching the fabric from his grasp, she pulled away, biting her lip at the brusqueness of her words. But it was the only way. Peter was a sensible boy; he would understand when she had time to explain the situation. ‘Go to the castle now!’ His mouth trembled as he turned and began to run. Watching his bobbing flight, her eyes watering against the icy chill of evening, she realised the knights hadn’t moved from the gatehouse, clustered around John, talking to him. Was there the smallest possibility that they hadn’t noticed her? But she couldn’t take the chance, not with that man; she knew what he was capable of. Eva spun on her toes and took off, her step light and quick, like a startled deer.
* * *
‘Who was that?’ Gilbert asked John, turning to watch Eva’s flying figure, her wimple white in the gloom. ‘I had no idea the sight of us all would be so intimidating!’ His mouth turned up at one corner, quirking into a half-smile. ‘I hope you believe me when I tell you we have no intention of causing trouble.’
‘She’s Lady Katherine’s nursemaid,’ John explained, stamping his feet against the cold creeping up his legs. ‘She takes care of the three children.’
Gilbert sighed, leaning to one side of the saddle to ease his aching hip, silently cursing his old bones. The muscles in his neck hurt, his spine tingled painfully, and he couldn’t wait to drop out of the saddle and into a hot bath. But the Lady Katherine would need her nursemaid for the journey on which they were about to take her. ‘Then I will have to fetch her back.’
‘Nay, allow me.’ Bruin eased his horse alongside Gilbert’s mount. ‘My horse is fresher than yours, and...’ he grinned, a teasing light entering his metallic eyes ‘...I’ll wager I will catch her in half the time it would take you.’
‘I’m not about to argue.’ Gilbert smiled wearily at the younger man, holding out his gloved palm in a gesture of defeat. ‘I’m too old to be gallivanting around the countryside. But for God’s sake don’t frighten her. I have no intention of riling Lady Katherine any more than we have to and that includes scaring her nursemaid half to death. Did you see the girl’s face? As if she had seen a ghost!’
Bruin rounded his eyes at him, an expression of feigned surprise. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Me, Gilbert? Who do you take me for? Some sort of mercenary who goes around threatening the lives of innocent people, terrifying them out of their wits?’
‘Precisely.’ Gilbert’s voice was gruff. ‘You know who you are, Bruin, what you have been. Your time at sea after—after what happened. It’s hardened you. But you need to forget that now and tame your ways. Go easy on the girl. She is not your enemy.’ He eyed the fleeing figure. The maid was already on the far side of the town wall, almost up to the treeline, a pale outline of flapping skirts against the swiftly darkening hillside.
No, thought Bruin, as he kicked his heels into his horse’s rump, wheeling the animal around, that girl is not my enemy. Reaching down, he plucked the flaming torch from the gatehouse guard, ignoring the man’s protest. Guilt flooded through him. My enemy is within, like a noose around my neck.
* * *
Lungs bursting, scrabbling for air, Eva reached the trees, leaning against the nubbled bark of a trunk to rest for a moment, gulping precious air back into her body. Blood roared in her ears, thumping horribly. Sweat trickled down her spine, her arms, gathering uncomfortably beneath the linen cloth wrapped around her neck. She had pushed her body onwards, forcing her legs to move faster, harder, and now they ached, the muscles sore and painful. But this was nothing, she told herself, nothing compared to what that man would do to her if he caught her. The urge to wrap her arms around the tree and sink downwards to rest was overwhelming, but she stamped on the feeling, jerking her head upwards, staring into the dark forest beyond. In there, she would hide.
A shout forced her to turn. Her legs shook with fear at the sound, strength sapping. A knight was in pursuit, cantering up the hill at an easy pace, a burning brand shedding a flicking, spitting light across the sparkling steel of his helmet. How had he managed to get through the gate so quickly? Surely his horse was too big to have squeezed through that slight gap? But it was the older knight, she decided, judging from his slow speed. He would never catch her. Whipping around into the shadows, she set off again, feet dancing along a path that twisted and turned through the silent oaks. The glimmer of moonlight gave her just enough light to see by, the track disappearing off between the massive trunks. But if she could see it, then so could he.
She dodged sideways, plunging into a bundle of scrub and brambles higher than her head. Thorns tore at her skirts, but she fought a way through, pushing aside the lacerating tendrils. She would find somewhere to hide, a place where she could crouch down, catch her breath. Sheltered from the icy air by the tree canopy, the forest floor was muddy, squelching and sucking at her leather boots. Breaking free of the snarling brambles, she emerged into a clearing, the ground mossy and sinking, and she stopped for a moment, listening.
No sound. Nothing. Maybe he had given up on her.
She strode on with renewed energy, with the faintest trickle of hope that she had lost her pursuer, intending to plunge into the darkness on the other side of the clearing. If memory served her correctly, she was at the highest part of the woods; from here the land sloped down gradually to meet the river. She would have to hide herself soon, otherwise she would be cut off by the impassable sweep of water.
Stepping forward, she failed to see the animal trap set beneath a drift of grey curled leaves. Her foot pressed down on an iron bar, releasing a spring on toothed jaws to snap them tight against the rounded muscle of her calf. Pain shot through her leg, burning, visceral; she dropped to the ground, slumping sideways with a howl of pain, clutching at the metal around her leg. Her head spun; waves of dizziness surged behind her eyes, light splintering across her vision. Nausea roiled in her belly. She bit down on her lip savagely, willing herself to remain conscious, tears of agony coursing down her cheeks. It was well known that the townspeople left out the traps in the undergrowth to catch their food. How could she have been so stupid as to leave the track?
Pulling herself upright, leaning forward, she tried to prise the metal jaws apart, aghast at the blood soaking through her stocking. She tugged ineffectively at the cold metal; her arms seemed to have lost their strength. At her own puny weakness, a sob of sheer outrage spluttered from her lips; her hands dropped to the mossy ground and she laid her face against one upraised knee, weeping softly in sheer frustration. If she were quiet now, then maybe he would never find her.
But Bruin had heard the cry, carried on the wind. A wavering shout, keening, animal-like. The woman he pursued. Wrinkling his long, straight nose, he turned his head from side to side, trying to decipher the sound’s direction. Where was she? He had left his horse at the woodland edge; the heavily muscled animal would struggle to make any progress through the dense trees. Springing down, booted feet sinking into the spongy earth, he had followed the track, his long-legged stride light and fast, despite his weighty chainmail hauberk. His hair was bright, a flame against the dark trunks; he had given his helmet to another knight for safekeeping and now relished the freedom from the cloying metal.
Raising the burning brand high in his fist, he whipped the torch around as he walked, searching for traces of the maid’s flight on the ground, in the bushes alongside the path: a broken branch, a disturbed scuffle of mud. Piles of decaying leaves deadened his step. He paused, listened, ears tuned to the silence, with an instinct honed from years of fighting, of tracking enemy forces. After that single drawn-out scream there was nothing, nothing but the crackle of the torch, the frantic squeaking of a disturbed mouse as he passed by. In the distance, he could hear ducks calling on the river, the compressed sound strident, disjointed. But although there was nothing to turn him in one direction over another, he sensed the girl’s presence, the tense curtailment of her breath as she waited for him to pass. She was hiding nearby, of that he was certain.
The flickering light fell on brambles, torn awry. She had left the path. He plunged through the rent in the undergrowth, thorns scraping against his mail coat sleeves, dragging at the fine red wool of his surcoat. His pace did not falter until he sprang into the clearing and saw what had happened.
Sitting, her whole body hunched forward, folded inwards, the maid appeared to be asleep. Her face was buried in one knee, a slim arm wrapped around her head, as if trying to protect herself. Her other leg lay flat upon the ground, skirts bunched up, the teeth of an ugly metal trap gouging into her flesh. Blood stained her woollen stocking, running down the outside of her leather boot, trickling steadily.
Bruin cursed. Twisting his leather belt so that his sword lay to one side, he dropped to his knees beside her, driving the torch into the muddy ground. Close up, the poor quality of the maid’s garments was pitifully evident: a loose sleeveless over-gown constructed from a coarse mud-coloured cloth over a fitted underdress of lighter brown. Threads unravelled at her cuffs, fraying dismally in the light. She wore no cloak, her slight figure trembling in the evening air. He grimaced; his winter cloak was packed in his saddlebags, otherwise he could have draped it around her shivering shoulders. He adjusted the torch carefully so the light was cast over the mess of her leg.
The girl’s head rose slowly. The pale oval of her face, wrapped tightly in her linen veil, stared unseeingly at him for a moment, her expression hazy, unaware. In the flaring light, her skin held the creamy lustre of marble, polished and smooth, untouched by blemish or freckle. Her eyes were huge, sparkling orbs fringed with long, velvety lashes that dominated her face; in the twilight, he couldn’t see the colour. Then her eyes rounded, her head jerking back in horror, and she started hitching away from him, palms flat on the ground, yanking the trap with her. A chain and long pin secured the trap into the earth; they rattled, clinking together as she tried to pull back, the iron teeth tearing deeper into her skin.
‘Stop,’ Bruin said firmly, leaning forward to seize her shoulder, to prevent her moving backwards. ‘You’ll only hurt yourself more.’ He nodded down at the rusty trap, her mangled flesh. ‘I will take it off.’
‘No! Go away! Get away from me, you...you barbarian!’ she spluttered inexplicably, wriggling her shoulders roughly from his grip. ‘Move back!’ With quicksilver speed she grabbed the torch, wresting it from the ground with a strength that belied her diminutive stature, and swung the flame haphazardly in front of his face. Cruel, lacerating pain scythed through her leg at the jerky movement. Bruin lurched back instinctively, to avoid being burned.
Irritation flashed through him. He was used to men following his command immediately, without question, and yet this chit was physically threatening him, ordering him away as if she were the Queen of England! He was tempted to walk away and leave her to fend for herself. Another nursemaid for Lady Katherine’s children could be found, surely? But he supposed he ought to try; Gilbert and the rest of the knights would certainly have something to say if he returned empty-handed. Bruin raised both hands in the air, a gesture of surrender, keeping his voice deliberately calm, slow. ‘Look, I’m going to help you, don’t you understand? I’m not going to hurt you.’
His measured tones reached out to Eva through the dancing panic of her brain. His voice seemed different. And yet it was him, surely, the same man who had ordered her abduction? This man had the same bronze-coloured hair and sharp-angled cheekbones, the square-cut chin? And yet the voice from all those months back, the voice that had shouted and bullied her, had been silky smooth, with a subtle threat to every word. Although he looked the same, this man also spoke with an odd, foreign inflection that hitched his tone with a low, guttural melody, twisting the vowels. But how could she be certain he was not him? She could not afford to take any chances.
‘I don’t believe you!’ she whispered. Her body shook, beset with uncontrollable trembling. The brand wobbled alarmingly in her grip. ‘What you did—!’ A sob stopped her speech, as she glared at him fiercely, her shoulders sagging inwards. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bruin growled at her. He sat back in his heels, skin creasing between coppery brows. ‘Did you hit your head when you fell? You’re not making any sense!’ Flakes of snow drifted down between them in a lazy spiral, hissing as they hit the torch flame, one by one.
‘How can you forget?’ Fear twisted her voice. A residue of tears clung to her bottom lashes, tiny diamonds sparkling. Beneath the ill-fitting gown that she wore, her chest rose and fell quickly. The light slanted across her eyes, revealing depths of the most astonishing blue: like the shimmering sea at noon, shot through with golden streaks.
Bruin’s heart jolted oddly and he shook his head, clearing his fanciful thoughts. Something was not right here; the maid spoke as if she were acquainted with him, yet he could swear that he had never met her before. He would have remembered. Remembered those beautiful eyes, that sweet oval face. The precise curving line of her top lip.
‘Do you know me?’ he asked brusquely. His voice was husky and he cleared his throat. ‘Or are you muddling me up with someone else?’ Could she have met his brother? It seemed unlikely; his brother had been at the King’s side for the past few years and Edward never ventured this far west.
‘Do you really need to ask that question?’ Her voice was low, halting, as if she were frightened of the answer. The words staggered out of her; she held the muscles in her body taut, almost to the point of collapse, teetering on the brink of unravelling completely.
He loomed over her, this big hulk of a man, tough and intimidating, the man who had terrified her days and nights, until she had finally given in to his demands, exhausted by the days of relentless torment. His hair was more tousled than she recalled, the bronze locks falling forward across his brow. His face was leaner, shadowed furrows slashing down from high cheekbones to his jaw. He was taller.
Wait. Her mind was playing tricks on her. No man would be taller, it wasn’t possible. She tilted her head, sticking her pert nose in the air, and frowned. Embroidered across his tunic was a crest that she did not recognise: black and red lions on a gold background, a crown above. Was she mistaken about this man’s identity? The frantic beat of her heart gradually slowed, the burning brand in her hand giving her confidence. The flame created an effective barrier between them, preventing him from coming any closer. Doubt sifted through her. ‘How did you find me? How? Who told you where I was?’ she asked.
His eyes gleamed like pale frost, a glittering icy fire. Her questions made no sense. ‘No one told me. You ran away; I followed you from the castle.’ Frustration, tightly held, laced his voice.
‘Not now,’ Eva hissed at him. ‘Before. Who told you?’
‘No one told me anything,’ he replied bluntly, dismissing her questions with a cool, detached look. ‘I have never seen you before.’ Uninterest bordered his tone; he glanced pointedly at her leg, the blood on her woollen stocking. ‘I need to take this trap off and stop the bleeding.’ He leaned forward and she thrust the torch out instinctively, a quick vicious movement. She wasn’t sure who this man was, but she had to be careful. There was a crackle and the acrid smell of burning hair.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ He made an impatient sound between his teeth, almost a snort, plucking the brand easily from her fingers. He stuck it firmly back into the ground, out of her reach. ‘Stop playing games with me.’ His voice was laden with deadly intent.
‘Go away!’ she hissed at him. Vulnerability flooded over her; she wanted to cry at the unfairness of the situation. ‘I would rather have the Devil help me than the likes of you!’ She pushed at his huge shoulders, the mail coat links rippling against her chill fingers, attempting to shove him away, but he was immovable, an enormous, unwieldy rock. She thumped down on his shoulders, small fists banging ineffectually. ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’
Bruin chuckled at the maid’s ridiculous threats, the false bravado threading her voice. Who did she think she was? She spoke as his equal, yet she was only a nursemaid, a lowly servant. Her feisty, combative behaviour should have made him angry, annoyed, but instead he wanted to laugh. Her shrill tone bounced off him like darts against a drum skin. He couldn’t understand why she was so frightened of him and this misplaced fear, obstructive and stubborn, was slowing him down. The quicker he took her back to the castle, the quicker he would be able to undertake his brother’s quest. And time was not on his side; Steffen was dying. He needed to remember that.
The snow was gathering strength, falling more thickly now. He blinked away the flakes stuck to his lashes. With gauntleted hands, he grasped the toothed iron hoops and prised them apart with a snap. Muscles bulged in his upper shoulders, rounding out the tight flex of chainmail. Eva sucked in her breath, a sharp, tearing gasp as pain radiated through her calf.
‘There was no other way,’ Bruin said, watching the tears pool in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed red, as if the cold air had slapped her.
‘Yes, there was,’ she bit out, a sob stifling her voice. ‘You could have left me alone.’ She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. The teeth of the trap had ripped ragged holes into her stocking, beneath which her skin was purple, bruised with ugly puncture marks, some bleeding heavily. But she was free, free of the awful iron cage. She tried to move her leg, tentatively, but the pain was too great. Unconsciousness threatened, blurring the edges of her mind, hazy fingers of oblivion eager to drag her down.
‘Out of the question,’ he said, gruffly. ‘No one would leave you out here, on your own. Who do you take me for?’
Him. I thought you were him. Eva cleared her throat, nibbling at her bottom lip. But now, she was almost certain he was not the same man. She took a deep shaky breath, the muscles binding her chest and torso relaxing. Failing to answer his question, she wriggled her hips around awkwardly, crawling on to all fours, intending to stand. The gleaming lions on his surcoat wobbled in front of her vision. Nausea roiled in her belly, a sickening lurch. The air around her loosened, shifted; suddenly she found herself incapable of holding herself upright. She began to tip, slowly, sideways.
‘Careful.’ The man caught her upper arm, supporting her, propping her wilting frame against him.
Her stomach churned dangerously; her forehead was clammy, sheened with a faint sheen of sweat. ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Eva spluttered out in panic. Oh, God, no. Not in front of him!
‘No, you’re not,’ he responded, his low voice close to her ear, the air from his lungs sifting across her skin. ‘Take deep breaths...there.’ Grasping her shoulders, he lifted her so that she was sitting on the ground again. His face was alarmingly close, silver eyes sparkling mere inches from her own. ‘You’ve had a shock. That’s why your head is spinning. You must keep still.’
Eva clamped her eyes tightly together, fighting the rolling waves of sickness, willing her head and stomach to settle. Snowflakes landed on her face, tickling gently. His hands were heavy on her shoulders; she could smell woodsmoke on his skin and clothes. A strange sensation looped through her chest; the muscles beneath her ribs contracted, involuntarily.
Opening her eyes, she pinned her gaze to a muddy streak across her skirts, mouth set in a straight line, determined to show this man that her nausea, her near-fainting, was merely a temporary weakness and not part of her character. ‘Who are you?’ she asked through the drifting snow. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Bruin, Count of Valkenborg.’
Not him. Not the same man. Thank God.
Chapter Three (#u82f3086d-98f3-5441-803a-e0a1d07e1d96)
‘Valkenborg,’ she repeated stupidly. ‘I have not heard of that place before...’
‘I am from Flanders,’ Bruin replied, sensing her tension easing, the fractional wilt in the maid’s slim frame. But why would knowing his name cause her any comfort? He was a stranger to her. ‘From across the North Sea.’
‘I know where Flanders is,’ Eva snapped. She raised her eyes to his wild auburn hair. Above the fiery bristles covering his jaw, the determined slash of his cheekbones created shadowed hollows, giving his face a lean, wolfish look. He looked so similar to Lord Steffen, the resemblance was uncanny, and yet, he was not him. Her heart plunged at the intimidating sight of him, but not with fear. With—what? He was too close, too overpowering. His rangy build hunkered over her like a Norse god of old, torch flames touching his skin with a golden patina, his lashes stuck white with snow. The man shed physical energy like shooting stars. Her hands trembled; she tucked them forcibly into her lap to disguise the shake.
Beside them, the light guttered ominously, the flame dipping and sliding, blue-tinged. ‘We’ve tarried long enough. We need to go back to the castle before this light fails,’ Bruin muttered. ‘And before this wretched snow becomes too deep.’ His gaze swept the maid’s neatly wrapped wimple, the delicate wrists resting in her lap, her slim calves poking out from beneath her gown: a swift assessment. ‘Take your stocking off so I can bind the wound.’
Eva’s head jerked upwards, eyes rounding in horror. ‘No. I cannot. You know I cannot.’ She stuck her chin in the air, bridling at his high-handed tone. ‘It would be improper.’
‘Improper or not, we have nothing else.’ He dragged off his gauntlets, throwing them to the ground. The creased leather made a scuffling sound across the newly fallen snow. ‘Unless you want me to do it for you?’ He grinned unexpectedly, diamond eyes flashing in challenge.
Damn the man! His big knee was planted heavily in the spreading cloth of her skirts; she tugged at the material ineffectively, wanting to be free of him. Turning away, she lifted her skirts to release the ribbon that secured her stocking top to her thigh, fumbling awkwardly with the fragile ties. The icy air, the large feathery snowflakes, tickled her naked skin. For some reason, she seemed incapable of undoing the ribbon; her cheeks grew hot as she repeatedly failed to release the tight knot.
Strong, sinewy fingers pushed hers aside, tearing the pink ribbon in half and smoothing the stocking down her bare leg, his palm intrusive, shocking against her satiny skin. Eva squeaked in outrage, rocking back at the rough contact as he hauled off her boot and stocking; threw them into the snow. Never, ever, had a man touched her like that! His hand knocked against her toes and she curled them downwards, recoiling at the abrasiveness of his calloused palm. A strange heat staggered through her chest, flexing the muscles of her diaphragm. What on earth was the matter with her? Her mind felt besieged, wooden and loose, as if it were not functioning properly.
‘I can do it!’ Eva flared at him. ‘Stop manhandling me!’
Bruin raised his eyebrows. ‘This is hardly “manhandling”,’ he replied coolly. ‘I’m trying to help you.’ Ripping lumps of moss from a decaying piece of wood, he packed the wound on her leg. ‘And anyway, you’re too slow; we’ll be sitting in darkness if I let you do it.’ Winding the stocking around her leg, he bound it tightly, lifting her leg to wrap the limp wool behind her knee. His movements were deft, efficient, his careful touch minimising the spiralling pain. Tearing the end of the stocking in two to make a knot, he secured the makeshift bandage.
‘There,’ he said, sitting back on his heels. Snow fell around him, spangled flakes landing on his massive shoulders, dousing the bright flame of his hair, flecking his red surcoat. Seizing her leather boot, he cupped her foot, cradling her heel. ‘Shall I put this back on?’
‘I’m surprised you even ask me,’ Eva replied haughtily. Heat radiated across her exposed ankle. His deft fingers tightened fractionally around her fine bones; tiny darts of heat pulsated upwards from the point where he held her. ‘You seem to do most things without asking.’
Ignoring her, he eased the boot carefully around her ankle, securing the wooden toggles that held the pliable leather in place. Eva threw her skirts down over her feet. The damp from the ground had begun to seep through the thin layers of her gown; she shivered. High up in the trees an owl hooted, a lonely drawn-out cry, echoing through the stark, crooked branches. Picking up his gauntlets, Bruin sprang to his feet. He adjusted his belt over his lean hips, bringing his sword around to swing diagonally across his left leg. Semi-precious stones gleamed in the hilt; a strip of red leather, creased and worn, bound the sword handle, a gold circular disc decorated the top. Pulling the torch from the ground, Bruin held out his hand. ‘Do you think you can walk?’
‘I can try.’ Eva hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand, the ridged web of sinew. His nails were clean, clipped short. Since her imprisonment she had actively avoided the company of men, developing a hesitant wariness in their presence. It had become second nature to her, an added protective layer. She couldn’t allow what had happened to her once to happen again.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, take my hand!’ A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead; he shoved it back in frustration. What was the matter with her? Why did the maid resist every single offer of help? ‘Don’t you trust me?’
Her eyes darkened. ‘Why should I? I have no idea who you are! You look like a barbarian!’ Her gaze flickered over the blond-red stubble coating his jaw, the flick of messy, rumpled hair, the size of him.
‘No more than any other knight,’ he countered, rubbing his chin ruefully, noting her pointed stare. Maybe he should have taken time to shave before he had started the journey that morning. ‘And you seem to have enough of them at the castle.’
Not like you. The thought whipped through her, a streak of fire. This man was young, only a few years older than herself, with every muscle in his body honed, not an ounce of spare flesh on him. Katherine’s knights were older, grizzled, barely capable of running for more than a few yards. They had the experience, aye, but were no match for this man’s physical ability.
‘I’m right to be cautious.’
He sighed. ‘I agree, but you can be too cautious. You saw that I came with those other knights to the castle. You have to trust me.’
But I don’t trust them either, Eva thought. She sighed. She had little choice in the matter; this man was her only way out of the forest and it was growing late. A snowy twilight drew around them like a dark sparkling curtain. Katherine would be worried. Tentatively, she raised her hand and he pulled her upwards. Tottering for a moment, she placed her full weight gingerly on the damaged leg.
Bruin watched her face pale, her skin grow waxy. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it? Let me carry you.’
‘No, give me a moment. I’ll be fine.’
‘There’s no time,’ he responded gruffly. ‘Here, hold this.’ He shoved the brand towards her, closing her fingers decisively around it. ‘Take care not to burn any more of my hair; I have no wish to be completely bald by the time I reach my horse.’ Pulling on his gauntlets, he bent down, sweeping her feet from beneath her, one arm under her knees, the other around her back.
‘I don’t—’
‘I don’t care.’ Bruin cut off her speech, his tone low and forceful. ‘You’ve held me up long enough. We’re going back to the castle and we’re going like this, whether you like it or not.’
* * *
Hoisting her high against his chest, he carried her back through the trees, through the scurries of falling snow. His stride was purposeful and sure, never losing his footing across the lumpy, uneven ground, ignoring the over-arching brambles that clutched and snagged at his surcoat, at the flowing hem of the maid’s gown. Sensibly, she had fallen silent, quiet in his arms, but he wasn’t fooled by her chastised demeanour. Her shoulder muscles were tense, contracted against his upper arm; she kept her head positioned stubbornly away to avoid touching him, refusing to let it rest. He grinned suddenly; her neck must be hurting like hell with the strain of maintaining her distance from him. Her hip curved temptingly against his forearm, the faintest smell of lavender rising from her skin. His chest squeezed with unexpected delight.
Eva gripped on to the torch, holding the flame out before her like a ship’s figurehead, her knuckles white. The memory of this man’s over-familiar touch on her flesh was branded on her brain: a scorch mark, throbbing, vivid. The way he had plucked at her stocking. The way his fingers had rasped against her soft skin, leathery and calloused like those of a peasant, and yet he was obviously high-born, a count in his own right. The air shivered in her lungs. The wound on her leg was sore, making her unsettled, unsure of herself.
She gritted her teeth, hating her incapacity to walk on her own two feet, hating the fact that this man had to carry her. His confident domineering behaviour rattled her; his assumption that she would blithely follow his orders, no matter what. She had always been able to look after herself, even more so after what had happened to her; she resented his intrusion, this foisting of unwanted intimacy upon her. His chest pressed against her shoulder, flat plates of hard muscles rippling against the curve of her upper arm, but she was unable to shift away any further, his arms held her too securely. His horse waited on the outskirts of the forest, cropping the few wisps of spindly grass that poked up through the settling snow, jangling the bit irritably between its teeth as they approached.
‘We’ll ride back,’ Bruin announced, shifting his grip on the maid. His short beard scratched against her wimple; she jolted back at the inadvertent contact. ‘Hold tight to that torch.’ He turned her in his arms, clasping her waist to lift her into the saddle, but to her surprise, he placed her up front, nearer the horse’s neck.
‘Oh!’ Eva said, surprised, rocking forward to grab the horse’s mane for balance. Her grasp loosened on the torch; she almost dropped it. She sat with both legs dangling to one side, hip wedged up against the animal’s neck. Why had he not placed her in the saddle? ‘I thought you said I was going to ride!’ Her voice juddered slightly, panic slicing through her veins. A beat of pain streaked through her leg.
‘You are. But I’m riding, too.’
‘No, no, you’re not. You’re going to lead the horse.’ The words jabbed out of her before she had time to contemplate their impact. He couldn’t be near her again; the closeness of him tangled her brain, made her lose her train of thought. He flustered her.
Bruin’s chin shot up at her imperious tone, his eyes, mineral dark, glittering dangerously. ‘I am riding.’ Rummaging in his saddlebags, he extracted a thick woollen cloak, handing it up to her, frowning. ‘You give yourself of lot of airs and graces, my girl, for one in such a lowly position. Why, anyone would think you were a noble lady, not a servant dressed in rags. By rights, you should be walking alongside me.’
Eva flinched as if he had hit her. Her mouth snapped shut. She grabbed his cloak with her spare hand, bundling its voluminous folds in her lap, staring rigidly ahead with flushed cheeks. Good God, this man made her forget who she was supposed to be! Not Eva, Lady of Striguil, but Eva Macmurrough, nursemaid to the Lady Katherine’s children. She needed to watch her step, remember to behave in a manner appropriate for a servant. ‘I apologise if I’ve caused offence,’ she replied eventually. ‘Lady Katherine encourages all her servants to be outspoken. She prefers it that way.’ Her reasoning sounded limp, pathetic.
‘Really.’ His response was caustic, disbelieving, silver eyes scrutinising her wan face. He had seen the sudden lurch of her body at his accusation, the flare of panic in her eyes. What was she hiding? Her high-handed manner, the regal tilt of her head—all was out of kilter with her appearance, with the clothes she wore. But then, her feisty, stubborn behaviour matched no other woman he had ever met, ever, in his whole life. The girl was a complete puzzle. ‘Well, you’ll just have to put up with my unwanted presence.’ Sticking his booted foot into the shining stirrup, he sprang into the saddle behind her. The horse shifted sideways under his added weight. ‘I’m sorry it will be such an unpleasant experience for you.’
Lifting the cloak from her lap, Bruin laid it around her shoulders, pulling Eva against his hard torso to tuck in the edges firmly around her. She wrenched forward instinctively, unwilling to submit to his control of her, unwilling to let him win. The torch dipped precariously.
‘Give me that,’ he said, taking the torch from her. ‘We can’t afford to lose the light.’ He gathered up the reins in one hand. ‘Do you behave like this all the time? I pity the poor man married to you!’ Circling her with his arms, he jabbed his knees into the horse’s sides, setting the animal in motion, the jerky forward gait of the animal forcing her to grasp at his arm.
‘I’m not married,’ she bit out.
In the flickering light, he traced her haughty profile, the stubborn jut of her chin, and chuckled, a long low rumble in his chest. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Your father must be wringing his hands trying to find someone for you!’
The luscious sweep of her eyelashes dipped fractionally. He caught the fleeting trace of vulnerability crossing her face, swiftly masked. ‘My father is dead, as is my brother. Killed by the King, fighting to protect their land!’ she blurted out, then clapped her hand across her mouth. Why had she not curbed her speech? She rode with a man who had arrived at the castle with a knight wearing the King’s colours. It was easy to guess where this man’s allegiances lay.
‘So your father was a rebel,’ he said slowly, ducking his head to avoid a low-hanging branch, steering the horse through the last few trees at the woodland edge and out on to open ground. His eye trailed across the flushed curve of her cheeks, the ebony hair curling out from beneath her linen wimple. ‘With his own land,’ he added significantly. The saddle leather creaked as he adjusted his weight slightly.
A hot prickling sensation swept up her spine. She had made a mistake. Playing the role of a servant, she should have remembered that her family would have nothing, no land or estates, being entirely dependent on their master, or in this case, Lady Katherine. ‘No—no! I meant—his lord’s land.’
‘I see.’ But in truth, he didn’t see at all. He had caught the false note in her tone and wondered at it. What was she doing with Lady Katherine? Maybe the chit’s mother was living at the castle, too. As he tipped back in the saddle, leading the horse down the snowy slope to the castle, he told himself that the maid was not his concern. He shouldn’t care. But strangely, he realised that he did.
* * *
‘My God, Eva! What happened to you? Where did you go?’ Katherine emerged through the arched doorway leading to the great hall, her graceful body silhouetted by the light spilling out behind her. Her willowy slenderness was encased in a sleeveless gown of patterned red velvet, cut low at the sides to reveal a tight-fitting underdress of rose-pink silk. Descending the wooden staircase, set at right angles to the door, she came down into the bailey. At the bottom of the steps, she paused, hugging her arms around her chest to ward off the cold. ‘Goodness, it’s freezing! We were so worried, especially when Peter came back and told us you had run off into the forest.’
‘I’m fine,’ Eva said, pinning a wide and hopefully reassuring smile on her frozen face. Her muscles ached from the short journey down the hill, her spine stiff, strained from the constant effort of keeping herself away from the knight at her side. Bruin’s arm had roped around her like an iron clasp, winching her continually against his chest. His cloak warmed her; the felted woollen folds lay snug about her shoulders, the fur edging tickling her chin.
Wheeling his horse around to the steps, Bruin reined the animal in, jumping down in one easy movement to land on the snow-slicked cobbles. He handed the torch to a stable lad who came running up. Rolling her shoulders forward, Eva stretched out the tense muscles in her neck, pert nose wrinkling slightly. How on earth was she going to climb down from this enormous horse without landing in a heap at Katherine’s feet?
Katherine turned to Bruin. The hanging pearls in her silver circlet bobbed with the movement, gleaming faintly. ‘Thank you, my lord, for bringing Eva back. Your men are all inside.’ Her breath hazed the air. She tilted her head to indicate the lighted doorway behind her. ‘Please, give your horse to the stable lad. Go and help yourself to some food.’
Bruin inclined his head graciously. ‘I thank you, my lady. But—’ his eyes flicked up to Eva ‘—your nursemaid has hurt her leg. Is there somewhere I could carry her?’
Lord, no! ‘I can walk now, thank you,’ Eva interrupted briskly. She had no wish to be beholden to this man any longer than was possible. His powerful presence made her feel vulnerable, weak, traits that she had striven long and hard to erase from her character. She had already said too much to him. Gripping the horse’s mane, she slithered down haphazardly, Bruin’s cloak clutched to her middle, unwieldy folds gathering heavily around her, the hem falling to the cobbles. She landed with a thump, gasping, eyes watering at the pain radiating up her leg. She willed herself to remain upright, steady, beneath Bruin’s glittering gaze. Tipped her chin in the air, proud, resolute.
‘What did you do?’ Katherine was at her side, holding her arm. Eva flicked her gaze towards Bruin, annoyed by his continued presence, not wanting to talk in front of him.
Interpreting her hostile expression, Bruin smiled, lifting his eyebrows in faint mockery at Eva’s obvious rebuff. He passed his reins to the stable boy. ‘I see I am dismissed.’ He nodded brusquely towards Lady Katherine, ignoring Eva. ‘Call me if you need any help.’ Climbing the wooden steps two at a time, he disappeared beneath the ornately tiled archway.
‘Oh, God!’ Eva pressed her palm to her forehead. As the stable lad led Bruin’s horse away, she was forced to release her hold on the horse’s mane; wobbling slightly, she hopped over to the handrail of the steps, clutching at the polished wood. ‘What a nightmare! That man is hell on earth!’
‘But handsome, if truth be told,’ Katherine said, following Bruin’s commanding figure as he vanished into the great hall. ‘Why did you run away? What on earth possessed you?’ Her breath billowed out like a cloud into the snow-filled air.
Eva swept the loose end of her linen wimple back over her shoulder. ‘That man—’ she jabbed a pointing finger towards the doorway ‘—that man looks exactly like that thug who abducted me. Lord Steffen. I wasn’t thinking straight; I saw that hair, those eyes, and I thought, my God, he’s come back to fetch me, to finish what he started.’ Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper. ‘Remember, Katherine, I escaped before Lord Steffen discovered the full extent of my inheritance; I suspect by now he’s worked out what I hid from him. The man’s so greedy; he’ll want the rest.’
‘He wouldn’t come back for you; it’s been too long.’ Katherine’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘He’s too busy stealing the riches of other unfortunate heiresses.’
‘But I was the only one to escape from him,’ Eva replied. ‘He’s the sort of man who would never forget a slight. He will claim revenge for something like that.’ Shivering, she shifted her feet from side to side, wincing at her throbbing leg.
‘I think you need to stop worrying,’ Katherine said. ‘Let’s go inside. Martha can look at your injury.’
‘Have you found out why those knights are here?’
‘No, I was so concerned about you, I hadn’t the wit to ask. The old knight has asked for bed and board, for one night. I assume they plan to travel further into Wales.’
Eva’s eyes narrowed to a sapphire glint. ‘I don’t like it; they wear the King’s colours and yet they are bothering with the likes of us. Why?’
Katherine shivered. ‘Do you think my uncle has plans for me?’ She glanced up at the front of the castle, at the warm glow of light spilling out from the open door, and chewed worriedly on her bottom lip. ‘I should hate it—’ her breath caught ‘—if we were taken away from this place.’
‘Just be careful what you say in front of them. At least until we know why they are here. Despite our lack of menfolk, they will regard us as rebels to the Crown.’
A sift of vulnerability crossed Katherine’s face. ‘I hope you are wrong, Eva.’ She shook her head decisively, as if dismissing the unwelcome thoughts. ‘Now, can you manage, or shall I fetch someone?’
Eva pursed her lips together, staggering awkwardly to the steps. Snow whirled around her, driven into the sheltered bailey on a sharp little breeze. Bruin’s cloak dragged on the cobbles, hampering her movement. She swung the wool from her shoulders, dumping the cloak into Katherine’s arms. ‘Here, have this; I can’t move at all!’ Placing her uninjured leg on the bottom step, gripping the rail, Eva pulled herself up with grim determination, slowly, one step at a time.
‘Eva, this is impossible! This will take all night. Let me fetch someone to carry you.’
‘No! You go ahead, Katherine. It won’t take long,’ she replied stubbornly. She could not allow herself to be carried into the great hall, in full view of everyone, in full view of Lord Bruin’s mocking gaze! Sweat gathered along her hairline with the effort of hauling herself up. Katherine remained alongside her, matching Eva’s pace until they finally climbed the one shallow step into the great hall.
The raftered chamber was full of people, eating, talking and laughing. Fresh straw covered the flagstone floor; dogs trotted up and down between the trestle tables, scavenging for scraps of food, the occasional bone flung in their direction. A huge fire roared beneath the thick limestone lintel of the fireplace, situated halfway along one white-plastered wall. Giant, ornate tapestries decorated the plain plaster, each one a riot of coloured thread, depicting scenes of hunting, or great battles. Katherine’s family crest, the golden falcon of the Montagues, was everywhere: in the ornate bosses set into the curving ends of the rafters, above the windows, embroidered extravagantly across the door curtains, gold thread against blue velvet.
Katherine’s hand on her elbow, Eva slumped on to the nearest bench, the peasants alongside nodding briefly at her without ceasing to shove food into their mouths. Their eyes paused momentarily on her wan face, gazes shifting away immediately. A nursemaid was of no interest; she was one of them, a servant of the Montagu family. Peering across the rows of bobbing heads, the faces flushed with mead, Eva checked the knights seated at the top table at the other end of the hall, making sure that he, Bruin, was as far away as possible. Sitting next to the older knight, his gold-red hair shone out like a beacon. He was laughing at something, tipping his head back. The sinews in his neck wrapped powerfully around the shadowed hollow of his throat, up into his bristly beard. An extraordinary sensation unfurled in her belly, a flickering pang of longing. She couldn’t explain it.
‘You’d better go up there, Katherine. Leave me now, otherwise it will look strange that you fuss over me so much.’
‘If you’re sure...?’ Katherine hesitated, bundling Bruin’s cloak against her middle. ‘I’ll send someone to fetch Martha; she can help you to your chamber.’
‘I’ll eat first,’ Eva said. ‘Please, don’t fuss. Just go. And try to find out why those men are here.’
Chapter Four (#u82f3086d-98f3-5441-803a-e0a1d07e1d96)
Gilbert watched Katherine’s stately figure move through the great hall. Her progress across the uneven stone floor was slow, as she stopped to engage in conversation along the way: she chatted with the peasants who worked in the fields, the soldiers who kept the castle safe from intruders. She smiled and listened with attention, dropping her head considerately if an older person spoke too quietly, the gemstones on her long fingers flashing in the candlelight as she reached out to touch a shoulder or cup an elbow, before moving on.
‘The perfect lady of the manor,’ Gilbert said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘What a shame I have to take her away from all this.’ Reaching for the earthenware jug of red wine, he poured himself another goblet. A bead of liquid spilled from the mouth of the jug as he set the heavy vessel back down clumsily; it landed on the pristine white tablecloth, spreading out in a crimson circle.
‘When are you going to tell her?’ Bruin speared a slice of pork with his eating knife, depositing it on his pewter plate. The meat was well roasted, crispy. His belly growled; he was hungry after the full day of riding.
‘Tonight. But after I’ve eaten. She’ll take the news badly and I have no intention of missing such a fantastic spread of food!’ Gilbert patted his stomach. ‘But I’ll give her two or three days to pack, which means I can avail myself of this wonderful hospitality for a little longer.’
‘Two or three days?’ Bruin grinned at him. ‘Is the King not waiting for her?’
‘Edward will meet me at my castle in a sennight.’ Gilbert wiped his greasy mouth with a square linen napkin. ‘That gives me enough time to travel there with her and the children. Goodness knows how many wagons she’ll need. You know what these women are like.’
A wisp of memory snaked out, gripping Bruin by the throat; the sparkling granite in his eyes dulled instantly. No, he thought, no, he did not know what these women were like. He crushed the stem of his goblet, the angular pewter work pressing into the coarse pads of his fingers. He had pushed his own chance away and then it had been too late. His heart pleated in on itself, folding tighter and tighter. For the last year, by his own choice, his world had been reduced to a solely masculine one, harsh and brutal.
‘But...of course...’ Gilbert spluttered into his goblet, suddenly realising the insensitivity of his words, remembering, too late, what had happened to Bruin. ‘I mean...’ His kind-hearted voice trailed away, bereft of words.
‘It’s fine, Gilbert.’ Bruin stared bleakly out across the great hall, seeing nothing. Sophie’s death, her tragic, pointless death, was well known amongst the circles of nobility, both here in England and across the Channel. After what had happened, unable to deal with the mantle of guilt that hugged his shoulders, the judging glances, Bruin had abandoned King Edward and followed the exiled Lord Despenser into the relentless life of a mercenary, living on his wits, fighting and battling on the open sea, uncaring whether he lived or died. But when King Edward summoned Despenser back to England, he had persuaded Bruin to come back and fight for him again. And he had come, for he had realised that fighting was the same, anywhere. It gave his black soul a reason for existence, even if that existence was as barren and cold as his heart. There was no softness in his life, no feminine fripperies or tinkling laughter. Those things were not for him. Not now. Not ever.
‘Did you hear me?’ Gilbert’s voice nudged Bruin from his thoughts.
‘Sorry. What did you say?’ He gulped his wine, dragging his mind away from his memories.
Gilbert smiled. ‘I see you found the maidservant. What happened to her?’
Bruin forced his mind to concentrate on the present, staring at the food steaming slowly on his plate: roast pork, parsnips, a hunk of crusty bread. ‘She was caught in an animal trap and hurt her leg.’
‘Unlucky.’ Gilbert drew his breath in, sharply. ‘But why did she run when she saw us?’
Bruin shrugged his shoulders. ‘She says she mistook me for someone else.’ He remembered her beautiful eyes, fear dilating the pupils as he approached her. ‘Someone who looked like me, apparently.’
‘Who could possibly look like you?’ Gilbert teased, thumping his pewter goblet down on the white damask tablecloth, chuckling at his own wit. Then his stubby eyelashes flew upwards as he looked at Bruin. ‘Apart from—’
‘My twin brother,’ Bruin finished for him. He rubbed at the coppery bristles on his chin. ‘I did think that. It’s possible they have seen each other, I suppose,’ he continued slowly, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought they moved in the same circles. And besides, I don’t think Steffen even ventured into Wales; he always had his sights set firmly on the English castles. But it doesn’t explain why she reacted as she did.’
Gilbert grinned. ‘I hate to say it, but it sounds like you completely terrified her. And frankly, I’m not surprised. You’re in full chainmail, you haven’t shaved...’
Bruin held his hand up. ‘Enough,’ he said, laughing. ‘I know—I’ll make an effort for the morrow.’ Disquiet threaded through him. He had no wish to go around scaring women; Gilbert’s words hung on his shoulders like a chastisement. Had his time as a mercenary changed him that much? Fighting and plundering had given him a warped sense of satisfaction; at the time, he was out for revenge, but against whom? He didn’t know. All he knew was that Sophie was dead and that it was his fault.
Gilbert raised his goblet in welcome as Katherine climbed up to the dais. Half-rising from his seat, he bowed his head respectfully as she approached the table. Bruin and the other knights followed suit. She slipped in beside Gilbert, handing Bruin’s cloak across to him. ‘Here, my lord. Thank you for bringing my nursemaid back to me.’
‘It was nothing,’ Bruin murmured. Eyes, as blue as a kingfisher’s wing, leapt across his vision. His heart jumped at the memory. He scanned the hall, the throng of heads and bodies. He had watched her limp through the door, leaning heavily on her mistress, but then she had disappeared into the throng of people. He would have noticed if she had left; the only way out of this hall was by the main door, or through a curtained alcove set opposite to him, presumably leading to bedchambers above. Every woman in the place seemed to be wearing identical white wimples, drab-coloured dresses.
‘Now, my lords,’ Katherine said, as a servant pushed the heavy oak chair beneath her and she snapped a linen napkin across the red velvet of her gown. ‘Mayhap you would like to tell me what you are doing in such a remote corner of Wales.’
* * *
A dryness scraped Eva’s throat; her tongue, big and unwieldy, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had been chewing a lump of bread for what seemed like hours, unwilling to swallow, worried that she might choke. Her eyelids drooped; all she wanted to do was climb the stairs to her bedchamber and fall into a deep, dreamless slumber. And forget.
‘Hey, Eva!’ A young lad to her right elbowed her sharply in the arm, laughing. ‘You should go to bed! You’re falling asleep at the table!’
She jolted her lolling head into an upright position, staring hazily at her plate of uneaten food. ‘Help me, then,’ she said to the boy. ‘I’ve hurt my leg; I need to lean on you to reach the stairs.’
He jumped up with a puppy-like willingness, springing back over the low bench. Eva eased herself up carefully, grabbing at the boy’s fragile-boned shoulder. She kept her actions deliberately slow, gradual, not wanting to draw any attention from the top table. The last thing she wanted was for Katherine to come rushing down to help. Or him.
Her movements seemed laboured, unwieldy. The long trestle tables, the flaring torches, swam before her vision. Objects seemed hazy, edges blurred and undefined. What was the matter with her? All she had to do was reach that curtain across the doorway. The boy moved forward and she hopped to keep up with him, pressing down on his shoulder, injured leg raised up behind her.
Pushing the curtain aside, she dismissed the boy. A thick rope curved up along the wall of the spiral stairs; that would serve her now. She would crawl on her hands and knees if need be. Her progress was painfully slow, but at last she reached the next floor, hopping along the corridor to the bedchamber she shared with Katherine and the children.
Clicking up the iron latch carefully, she pushed inside, lurching clumsily across the polished elm floorboards to her truckle bed, tucked neatly against Katherine’s large four-poster bed. The chamber was dim, lit only by a single candle in an iron sconce, the flickering flame casting uneven shadows across the bumpy plaster. Over by a charcoal brazier, glowing with hot coals, Katherine’s three children slept, their small bodies bundled beneath huge furs. Angling herself down awkwardly, Eva lowered herself on to her bed, checking the bandage around the wound. Much as she hated to admit it, her leg seemed much better after Bruin’s deft handling. His cool, strong fingers grazing her skin.
There was a muted tap at the door and Martha came in, carrying a jug of hot water. ‘The mistress bid me bring this to you.’ Her eyes flicked to the lone guttering candle and she clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘Ah, I should have brought you another light.’ An earthenware bowl sat on an oak coffer; she poured the steaming water into it, glancing at Eva. ‘What happened to you? They’re saying in the hall that the big knight hunted you down.’
Her heart lurched at Martha’s choice of words. The girl was young, with a sense of the dramatic. Her plump hands dunked a linen washcloth into the bowl; it swirled around, absorbing the water. ‘I hurt my leg, that’s all,’ Eva replied shortly, an involuntary shiver coursing her slim frame. Hunted down. It had certainly felt like that, to hear that man’s shouts, the bulk of his body thrashing through the undergrowth, pursuing her. If it hadn’t been for that wretched trap, she would have escaped him easily.
Martha’s eyes rounded. ‘They’re saying he was an outlaw, at sea with the exiled Lord Despenser.’
Her heart jolted. Lord Despenser. A knight known for his cruelty, his barbaric methods. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ And yet, this knowledge of his past did surprise her, for although the knight had treated her in a brusque, matter-of-fact manner, he had been considerate. Up to a point.
‘Let me look.’ Martha approached the bed. ‘Lift your leg up on to the coverlet, so I can see it more clearly.’ Eva raised her leg. Martha eyed the stocking bound around Eva’s calf, the limp fringes of moss poking out. ‘Did you do this?’
‘He did,’ she admitted reluctantly. A pair of silver eyes startled her vision; she hunched forward uncomfortably. How could that man, that stranger, affect her thus, when he wasn’t even near her?
Martha untied the knot, unravelling the woollen stocking with care. Three wounds gouged Eva’s pale flesh. ‘Mother of God,’ Martha said, ‘it looks like you have been bitten by a dog. I bet it hurts.’
‘Not as much as it did.’ The bleeding had stopped, thank God.
‘But the wounds look as if they might close up on their own? I’ll clean it for you; put a new bandage on. I don’t think you need stitches.’
‘I agree. I have some salve that will—’
The door slammed back on its hinges. Katherine stood beneath the lintel, breathing heavily, her brown eyes furious. ‘He’s only gone and done it again!’ she cried out, marching into the chamber, flinging herself across the bed. Her slender feet, encased in leather slippers, swung clear of the floor. The gold beading worked across each slipper toe gleamed in the shadowed light. ‘That man—will be the bane—’
‘Hush, Katherine.’ Eva put a warning finger to her lips. ‘Don’t wake the children.’ Reaching up, she touched her friend’s sleeve. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Katherine’s face crumpled, about to cry. Then she took an unsteady breath, drawing herself upright, smoothing one palm across the outspread velvet of her skirts, as if to calm herself. Spots of colour burned her cheeks. ‘Those knights downstairs,’ she enunciated slowly, ‘those knights have been sent by my dear uncle, the King, to escort me back to Lord Gilbert’s castle.’
‘But why?’ Eva whispered.
‘I am to be married.’ Katherine raised her head listlessly, her sable eyes enormous, worried. ‘Like you said, Eva, I am a wealthy widow; how could I possibly be allowed to keep all that money to myself? Edward wants to reward those men who have shown the utmost loyalty to him—and I—I am that reward,’ she finished bitterly. ‘Damn him! I knew this life couldn’t last! How I wish I were not related to him!’
‘He can’t do this, Katherine. He can’t force you!’
But Katherine was nodding sadly. ‘He can, Eva. He is the King and my guardian. If I disobey, he will take my children away and throw me into a nunnery. Or worse, he might even kill me. The way he has been behaving lately, the methods he has been using to punish people who go against him, I wouldn’t be surprised. You of all people should understand this, Eva. How men can make your life a living hell!’
With a swift tilt of her head, Eva indicated Martha’s silent figure, a warning to her friend to stay quiet. The servant hovered by the oak coffer, the washcloth hanging between her hands, beads of water dripping into the bowl. Martha’s eyes were avid, alive with curiosity, drinking in her mistress’s words like an elixir.
‘Martha, go. Do not repeat a word of what you have just heard to anyone.’ Katherine’s eyes were hard, stern. ‘Otherwise I will dismiss you instantly.’ Collecting the bowl and jug from the coffer, the maid ambled from the chamber, slopping water as she walked, trailing glistening spots across the wooden floorboards.
Both women remained silent until the door closed. Eva gripped Katherine’s hand. ‘I can’t let them take you like this. Not after everything you’ve done for me. There must be something we can do.’
Katherine’s chin drooped to her chest, a forlorn, disheartened movement. As if she had given up already. Dry sobs racked her body; the pearls in her filigreed silver circlet trembled. ‘And there’s something else, Eva,’ she said, her voice low.
‘What is it?’
‘That knight who brought you back—Lord Bruin.’ Katherine lifted her head, defeat dulling her eyes. ‘He’s asking about the Lady of Striguil.’
* * *
Eva slept fitfully, tossing and turning beneath woven blankets. Katherine had taken a long time to settle; she had helped her undress, brushing her hair with an ivory comb, plaiting the shining strands into two long braids for the night. Now she could hear Katherine’s regular breathing from the high bed beside her, her friend’s slim frame relaxed into a deep sleep against the goose-down pillows.
She stared into the shadows of the chamber, eyes straining with tiredness. With the candle extinguished, only a faint light emerged from the charcoal brazier, one hot coal emitting a feeble glow. Her leg throbbed, but less so now. After Katherine had climbed into bed, she had cleaned the wounds herself, applying salve and rebandaging her leg.
Katherine’s words churned in her mind and refused to let her sleep, worrying at her like a dog with a bone. Why, oh, why would Count Bruin be asking about Striguil? And, more specifically, asking about her? Before Katherine had gone to sleep, she had taken pains to reassure Eva that Lord Bruin had discovered nothing about Eva’s true identity. At the table, still reeling from the news of King Edward’s plans for her, Katherine had informed Bruin that she had never heard of the name Striguil, let alone a lady who resided there and he had seemed to be satisfied with that.
The simple lace at the neck of Eva’s nightgown tickled her chin and she pushed the fabric away, turning her head towards the window. Her braided hair rustled against the straw-filled pillow. Her mind scuttled fruitlessly down one path after another, chased by a pair of silvery eyes, a hard, determined mouth. Through the rippled glass, light from the rising moon tipped over the window ledge and stretched down into the chamber, pooling on the floorboards like milky liquid. How on earth could she and Katherine extricate themselves from this mess?
Beneath the window, a bundled lump on one of the low pallets shifted around, then sat up, furs falling off young shoulders. Alice. Golden hair fell down in a tumbled mass over a white nightgown; Eva’s heart panged with guilt. While she was downstairs, Martha had put the children to bed, obviously forgetting, or simply not bothering, to braid the girls’ hair. The child made a small mewling sound, reaching out towards Eva.
She threw back her blankets, welcoming the distraction of the child from her own troubled thoughts. Tentatively, she placed her weight upon her injured leg, please to find it was less painful now. She moved with a hitching, but bearable gait across to Alice, kneeling down beside the pallet bed.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ she whispered, placing her hand on Alice’s head. The child’s golden hair, exactly like her mother’s, was silky beneath her palm.
‘I feel sick.’
Eva peered into Alice’s face. The child’s skin was pinched, drawn, but at the same time, flushed with a leaden colour. She placed her palm against Alice’s forehead. Her skin was hot. Very hot.
‘You lie down, Alice; I will fetch some water.’ Straightening up, Eva removed the furs from around the child, leaving a single sheet. Alice had a fever, not unusual in someone of her age, but she needed to be cooler, before her temperature raged out of control. She would go down to the kitchens, fetch some water from the well. ‘Don’t wake your mother,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be back very soon.’
Seizing a blanket from her own bed, Eva flung it around her shoulders. She took the candle from the bedside table, touching the wick to the flame within the charcoal brazier, watching it flare. The chapel bell had tolled midnight as she had lain awake with her troubled thoughts; everyone would be tucked up in bed now, especially on such a chill, snowy night. Katherine would have given the guest chambers to the visiting knights, chambers on the other side of the bailey, a lengthy distance away. And thank goodness for that, she thought with relief, as she pulled the door open.
As she stepped forward, her toes collided with a large bulk lying across the threshold.
Chapter Five (#u82f3086d-98f3-5441-803a-e0a1d07e1d96)
Eva stopped. Fear scythed through her, her muscles tensing. She slithered her foot back along the floorboards in a gradual movement, eyes running over the shadowy outline below her. One of Gilbert’s soldiers lay curled across the threshold, surcoat rumpled around brawny thighs, a creased leather belt around his hips. His broad sturdy back was curled towards her.
Breath snared in her chest. She hesitated, poised in the door frame. Frustration pulsed through her; Lord Gilbert obviously believed that Katherine and her children would try to slip away in the middle of the night. He was taking no chances, placing this guard across their door. The man was definitely asleep; she could hear his deep, steady breathing. Could she step over him without waking him up? She had no wish to be seen in her nightgown, hair uncovered and in braids, but Alice’s temperature worried her. To dress appropriately would waste more time; she needed to fetch water for the child now.
Lifting her bare foot, she stepped over the sleeping body, careful, hesitant, her nightgown filming over the man’s tunic, gauzy hem rustling across the expanse of red wool. With both feet on the other side of him, she paused, glancing down to check that he still slept.
Eyes of granite watched her, twinkling in the candle flame.
Lord Bruin, the knight who had brought her out from the forest. Eva recognised him instantly. ‘Not you again!’ she blurted out, exasperated. Anger pulsed through her, blazing, irresponsible; lifting her skirts, she kicked out towards his stomach with her good foot, a childish gesture, instinctive and wilful. She never reached her target. A lean hand snaked out, grabbing her ankle, powerful fingers grinding into her delicate bones.
‘You’ve quite a temper on you, maid,’ Bruin said softly, pressing her foot back to the ground, releasing her. He sat up, running his fingers through his vigorous bronze curls, hitching one shoulder against the door frame. He had shaved; the lines of his square-cut jaw were revealed, the raw slanting contours of his cheekbones. His sculptured features held a sensual beauty which drew her gaze; her heart jolted treacherously. Bruin folded thick, muscled arms across his chest. ‘You would do well to keep it in check or it will bring you trouble.’
‘It’s the way you are treating us that’s making me annoyed,’ she said, bridling at his words. The memory of his thumb on her ankle taunted her: a heated imprint, tantalising. She clutched at the blanket across her chest, a self-conscious gesture, heart bumping erratically. Hot wax dripped from the candle across her knuckles. The pain bit into her skin, then subsided, the wax cooling swiftly. ‘Can’t you leave us alone for one moment?’
‘And let you run away with your mistress? No doubt she has told you the news?’ Again, that strange lilt to his voice that tickled along her veins, entrancing them. Excitement stranded through her; she stamped hard on the feeling with grim determination. Who was this stranger with dangerous, flinty eyes who had intruded so brutally on her quiet hidden life? A man who reminded her constantly of her previous tormentor. She wanted him out, away. Gone.
‘Aye, she has.’ Eva rolled her feet against the chill wooden floorboards; she had forgotten her slippers. A draught whistling along the corridor chased beneath the hem of her nightgown. Beneath the new bandage, her wound throbbed, pain radiating across her shin. ‘But there was no need to post a guard across our door. She has no intention of going anywhere.’
‘Why wouldn’t she after what she’s just been told?’ Drawing one leg up, Bruin rested his hand on his knee. Moonlight streamed through the bedchamber door, the limpid rays highlighting his ridged and calloused palm, the corded sinew winding across the top of his fingers.
She glared at him archly. Was he trying to trap her into saying something she shouldn’t? His words surprised her; it seemed inconceivable that a man such as this, a man that spoke of war and battles, should understand Katherine’s predicament.
‘Because it’s impossible,’ Eva replied, her voice subdued. Her velvet lashes fluttered down, masking her eyes. She shook her head, glossy plaits rippling like wide satin ribbons. ‘Lady Katherine knows she has no choice; the King is her uncle and she must do his bidding.’ She chanted out the words, the correct answer for the circumstances.
‘But you would run in her position, wouldn’t you? You would take that chance.’
Jerking her head up, Eva frowned. His speech sounded too personal, as if he were prising apart the thoughts in her head. She wanted to rebuke him for his intimacy, but she held her tongue, repressing the words she wanted to say, scared of saying too much. She watched a gob of wax trail down the candle, the guttering flame. ‘What does it matter what I think, what I would do? It’s different for me, I’m only the servant.’ She threw him a false, brittle smile.
‘Are you?’
A hollowness besieged her heart, belly plummeting. During her whole time living with Katherine, not one person in the castle had guessed her true identity. She kept a close guard on herself, careful and measured at all times, moving through her days at the castle like a ghost, a wraith of her former self, unnoticed. A half-life. But this man, with his silver glance that seemed to see her thoughts, forced himself beneath her well-constructed defences, made her forget who she was supposed to be.
‘Of course I am!’ she ground out, snapping the blanket more securely around her shoulders. Fear skittered through her veins.
‘Then where are you going?’
‘Lady Katherine’s youngest child has a fever; I must fetch water for her. Her temperature is too high. And you are holding me up.’
Bruin sprang to his feet, the swiftness of the movement shocking her, his shoulders filling the doorway. ‘I’ll come with you.’ The black and red lions emblazoned upon his tunic gleamed out like a threat, intimidating.
‘There’s no need,’ Eva responded haughtily, tipping her head back to stare into the angular lines of his face. Without a beard, he seemed more dangerous somehow, the honed angles of his face exposed. He towered over her in the moon-soaked shadows. Eva considered herself to be quite tall for a woman, but annoyingly, her head scarcely topped his shoulder. ‘Besides, Lady Katherine and her children might slip away if you come with me, so you’d better stay here.’
Bruin heard the note of sarcasm in her voice, and chuckled. ‘What, and have you slip away instead?’
Her eyes widened, long, curving lashes kicking up towards the perfect arch of her brows. ‘I would never leave Lady Katherine! Why do you think I would do such a thing?’
Bruin inclined his head fractionally. His eyes sparkled over her like diamonds. ‘Let’s just say that I don’t trust you.’
‘But I’m nothing to you, or anyone else for that matter. I’m not important,’ Eva protested, knuckles white and rigid around the candle. ‘Why not go and pester the maidservants downstairs? Why do you persist in plaguing me?’
Because there is something about you that doesn’t add up, Bruin thought. You protest too much about your insignificance. He remembered the way Katherine had supported her, helping Eva to her seat in the hall; how they had murmured to each other, heads together, not like servant and mistress, but more like friends. Everything about the chit made him suspect she was not a servant: her behaviour, her voice—the refined elegance of her beauty, the translucent quality of her skin. Her hair, like ebony silk, bound into two neat braids on either side of her head.
His chest seized. One of Eva’s plaits fell forward, snaking across her shoulder, her chest, the curling end tied with a thin leather lace, swinging down across her nightgown. And through that fine, gauzy fabric, revealed by the treacherous moon spilling through a distant window, he could see the perfect delineation of her shapely legs, her thighs, before they disappeared up beneath the blanket. His stomach muscles tightened, taut, aware.
Jaw hardening, he whipped his gaze away, signalling to another knight further down the corridor. ‘Hey, you there! Guard this door!’ A huskiness curled through his voice, lowering the timbre.
‘But I told you—’ Eva began to speak. He hadn’t answered her question.
‘Come on.’ Bruin ignored her, plucking the candle from her fingers. He clasped her elbow to guide her along the corridor.
At his commanding touch, Eva dragged her arm down to detach herself from his grip, a deliberate action, forceful. ‘No, I can walk unaided, thank you.’ The pulse at her throat beat in rapid momentum, her pale skin sheened in moonlight.
‘Can you? You had to ask that boy for help when you left the great hall.’ Bruin dug his thumb into his sword belt, eyeing her sceptically. The gemstones in his sword hilt winked and glittered, vaguely menacing.
So he had watched her leave then. Those fearsome eyes had followed her, observing her every move while she, unaware of his scrutiny, had stumbled awkwardly towards the stairs. The thought filled her with dismay, worry threading her veins. She must be more careful if this man watched her so closely.
‘The wound’s not deep; it feels much better now,’ she answered him tersely. ‘It was good of you to tend to it.’ But she looked away from him as she said the words and started walking off down the corridor, unable to meet his iron-hard gaze.
Bruin laughed, following her limping gait, the awkward lift of her hip as she countered the soreness in her leg. ‘Are you thanking me?’ Her swinging plaits tormented him; he wanted to grab them, haul her back against his body, savour those pliant curves against his own. The urge swept through him, wild and traitorous. What would it be like, to pull that lithe, slim body against his? To wrap his limbs around her, kiss her? But he knew. His groin pulsed treacherously, tightening, his breath punching out in surprise. Her beauty drew him, entranced him, chipping away at his self-control, his sadness—like sunlight burning through fog, a magical heat against the frozen lump of his heart.
Acknowledging his question with the briefest of nods, Eva continued to walk forward, eyes fixed on the end of the corridor, her nose stuck in the air. Annoyed at her impudence, Bruin shot his hand out, closing around her shoulder to halt her, spinning her around. She gasped at the swift, unexpected movement. The blanket gathered in gentle folds around her neck, emphasising her sweet face, the plushness of her mouth. Above the point where her fingers gripped the blanket, the white-lace edging on her nightgown peeked out, the neckline dipping down to reveal the top swell of one breast. For one insane moment, he wanted to touch his fingertip against the delicate hollow of her throat, to feel the satiny push of her breast against his palm.
Eva glared at him, then saw the latent heat gathered in his eyes, the flash of desire, of intent. Her stomach muscles puddled to a giddy whirlpool, looping dangerously. She had never lain with a man, yet she recognised the savage promise in his eyes, those dark sparkling orbs that whispered of places unexplored. Places she had never been. Every nerve in her body thrummed, strung with anticipation, an expectancy of—of what?
Bruin’s head dipped fractionally, the etched curve of his mouth looming down to hers. The air between them thickened suddenly, solidifying, adopting a soporific, dreamlike quality. Blood hammered in her veins. The rope of her resistance, once tightly bound, now creaked and strained. She was unable to move, feet bolted to the floor, captured by his sparkling gaze.
Then, as if from a distance far away, a child cried, a frantic series of sobs, high-pitched, frightened.
Eva cursed, shoving petulantly at his chest. What in God’s name had she been thinking? Loitering beside him, beside this—this oaf, mesmerised like some foolish dimwit! ‘Can’t you hear?’ she hissed at him. ‘Alice needs me! Stop holding me up like this! What are you doing?’
What was he doing? A fiery insanity had gripped him, turning his loins to pulp. He had been about to kiss her, to run his mouth across those plush, rosebud lips. To delight in the velvety patina of her skin. This wasn’t him; he didn’t behave like this. Why, he hadn’t even touched Sophie during their brief betrothal—if he had, things might have turned out so differently. Bruin’s heart turned over at the memory, a tide of cloying sadness flooding through him. Disgusted with himself, he released Eva’s shoulder. His fingers shook. With a curt nod he indicated that she should go ahead, his arm dropping to his side.
* * *
The kitchens were warm, the fire in the cooking range smouldering gently, banked up for the night with great squares of peat. Flickers of glowing light shone out through the cracks in the turf, reflecting against the pots and pans hung by their handles inside the huge fireplace. An oak table, the boards well-scrubbed to a bleached lightness, dominated the room, earthenware and pewter dishes stacked upon it in piles, ready for the morning. Next to them, Bruin secured the candle in a pool of wax. The flame cast his substantial figure into a huge black shadow on the wall behind.
The well was in the corner: a circular hole covered with a wooden lid, a rope handle in its centre. A wooden pulley sat alongside, secured to the floor, used to pull the bucket up. Favouring her injured leg, Eva walked over to it, bending down to drag the lid to one side. The stone flagstones froze the soles of her feet, numbing the skin. Annoyance shimmered through her at Bruin’s continued presence, at her own foolish behaviour towards him. As if a man should affect her thus! She was tired, that was all, tired and upset by what was happening to Katherine, and he wasn’t helping matters by following her about. But she must behave in a manner appropriate to a servant; much as she disliked it, she must follow his orders. Taking a deep breath, Eva straightened to work the handle on the pulley that would lower the leather bucket down to the water level, a black shining disc far below. She jumped as Bruin moved beside her, his arm jostling her shoulder.
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