Книга - To Tame A Warrior’s Heart

To Tame A Warrior's Heart
Sharon Schulze


The Lady Catrin Had Survived A Nightmarish PastNow her willful ways had plunged her headlong into danger - and into the arms of Nicholas Talbot, a man whose very presence stirred up emotions she had long thought buried forever.He Alone Could Protect The Lady Catrin From Her Enemies Yet Lord Nicholas Talbot felt like a fraud. For beneath his thin coat of nobility lay a troubled past, and an even more troubling passion for the lovely Catrin, a woman who could never be his… .









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u44b8889a-9b7d-522b-842e-efab2eb1530a)

Excerpt (#ueb91110e-9871-53b9-990d-821593878d47)

Dear Reader (#ud45bc76d-f531-5765-b421-52ef4ea9905b)

Title Page (#ucf8bd1bf-6835-5856-ad8a-45ab44d489b6)

About the Author (#ue9906ec3-c21b-575e-9e2d-514d4153559a)

Dedication (#uec1b7ca6-9a77-5399-a645-83b778f508d6)

Prologue (#u1089c716-1e77-52a0-84dd-45710197d06f)

Chapter One (#u9a64bd8f-7684-599a-8652-6a7b9c2eff0f)

Chapter Two (#u63f123ad-387d-5b11-806e-dec68a73325f)

Chapter Three (#u319016d3-e1ee-5780-aa17-6e4af9f7138e)

Chapter Four (#u4927592a-555c-5ca3-8998-57dc60047fa2)

Chapter Five (#u7b9a0813-99c0-5f0b-bb03-9da405359129)

Chapter Six (#ud1000e92-bb1f-5679-9e28-b252fb3fb239)

Chapter Seven (#u16606701-a981-507b-8b44-09f18cd028f9)

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)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




An odd expression crossed Nicholas’s face as he looked at her.


Catrin followed his gaze and looked down. Her gown had slipped low over her bosom. Her face heated—no wonder he stared! She tugged the fabric higher and pulled her cloak tight about her.



A chill swept through her, washing away the pleasurable heat Nicholas had kindled. She must have been mad to let things go so far.



From the moment he had touched her, she’d had no control over the situation…



No control over herself.



She’d become a creature possessed by needs, needs she’d do well to ignore.



What had she been thinking, to fall into Nicholas’s embrace so easily?



She hadn’t thought at all. It seemed she could not trust herself in Nicholas’s presence.



That would not do. She pushed the soft, wonderful feelings deep and tried to bury them beneath her usual prickly facade…


Dear Reader,



Sharon Schulze’s very first book, Heart of the Dragon, gained her an RWA Golden Heart Award Nomination, some terrific reviews and a K.I.S.S. Award from Romantic Times. This month the March Madness author returns with To Tame a Warrior’s Heart, a stirring medieval tale about a former mercenary and a betrayed noblewoman who overcome their shadowed pasts with an unexpected love. Don’t miss it.

With The Lieutenant’s Lady, her fourth book for Harlequin Historicals, author Rae Muir begins an exciting new Western series called THE WEDDING TRAIL. This month’s story is about a hard-luck soldier who returns home determined to marry the town “princess,” a woman who sees him as little more than a way out of an unwanted marriage. And USA Today bestselling author Ruth Langan is also out this month with Ruby, the next book in her ongoing series THE JEWELS OF TEXAS. Ruby is the delightful tale of a flirtatious young woman and the formidable town marshal who falls under her spell.

The Forever Man is a new title from Carolyn Davidson, the author of Gerrity’s Bride and Loving Katherine. This emotional story is about a spinster who has given up on love—until a marriage of convenience to a widower in search of a new life for himself and a mother for his two sons heals her broken heart and teaches her to trust in love again.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books, available wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.



Sincerely,



Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3




To Tame A Warrior's Heart

Sharon Schulze















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




SHARON SCHULZE


is a confirmed bookaholic who loves reading as much as writing. Although she has a degree in civil engineering, she’s always been fascinated by history. Writing about the past gives her a chance to experience days gone by—without also encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!



A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, teenagers Patrick and Christina, and their miniature dachshund, Samantha. She is the current president of the Connecticut Chapter of RWA; in her spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.



Readers may contact her at P.O. Box 180, Oakville, CT 06779.


To the Connecticut Chapter of RWA—what a group!

Your friendship and support mean more than I can say.

Special thanks to my editor, Tracy Farrell, for her

patience and encouragement—and for recognizing

Nicholas and Catrin when she met them again.




Prologue (#ulink_99e1a06b-7f91-5c48-b7d7-faa371a63c56)


England, 1214

After a lifetime spent fighting for others in distant lands, he had finally returned to England to take his rightful place among his kind. Tall, strong, handsome—a warrior blessed with skill and grace upon the battlefield.

And between the sheets, rumor had it.

Lord Nicholas Talbot appeared the embodiment of knightly virtue, a nobleman born and bred.

King John knew better.

How it pleased him to bend Talbot to his will, to watch as the arrogant young lord danced warily through the intricacies of Court. Sooner or later, Talbot would trip and reveal his true self to the world.

That thought brought a pleasure of its own.

But until he did, his liege lord would make use of his skills, send him to the far reaches of the kingdom, if he wished.

And if Talbot did not obey, ’twould be an easy task to expose his shame to the world.

King John smiled. No matter what the deed, how could Talbot refuse?




Chapter One (#ulink_41d9f52a-f5a8-595a-a37b-0b3b90860705)


The Welsh Marches

Hooves clattered against the rocky path, the sound echoing through the mist-shrouded trees. Catrin shifted in the saddle; the shiver that ran down her spine owed little to the icy moisture covering her like a blanket. Never had the journey to her cousin’s keep at l’Eau Clair seemed so long—or so ominous. She pulled her cloak snug at the throat. Perhaps ’twas her impatience to arrive that made her nerves feel stretched to breaking, not the threat of an unknown menace hidden just beyond her view.

A pair of men rode ahead of her, another behind, to protect her. But she could sense their unease, hear them mutter low-voiced prayers as they scanned the thickening fog. She should never have brought them, the least skilled of her brother’s guard; she feared they’d prove a meager defense.

A soft whine caught her attention and she drew her mare to a halt. “Idris, come,” she called to the wolfhound who trotted at her side.

She surveyed the dripping trees as he rested his massive head against her leg. “Is anyone out there? Go see.”

Idris nudged her, then dropped back to the edge of the forest, head moving from side to side, ears cocked.

Catrin urged her mount on before turning to the young man who rode beside her. Padrig’s bony face appeared calm, though his skin looked pale as a fish’s belly. His bright blue eyes perused the area as if he were already the warrior he hoped to become in Lord Rannulf Fitz-Clifford’s service.

“Mayhap we should have waited for Ian,” she murmured.

“Nay, milady, there was no need.” Padrig sat straighter in his saddle. “Though Lord Ian’s company would be welcome, of course.”

Despite Padrig’s brave words, he was afraid, to judge by his pallor. Though fourteen, nearly a man, he had led a sheltered life until he came to them. Yet he craved adventure, and the chance to become Rannulf’s squire, with the same fervor she’d seen in her brother at that age.

She’d been wrong to leave without Ian, she’d realized as soon as they’d reached the forest. Her sense of unease had grown, so that now only her fear of retracing their tracks kept her moving onward, toward l’Eau Clair.

They’d have been safe with her brother’s escort, for no one would dare threaten the Dragon—Prince Llywelyn of Wales’s enforcer. But now…

She should never have risked Padrig’s safety, nor that of the others, for her own selfish impatience.

Her cousin Gillian would give birth when God—and her body—willed it, whether Catrin was there or not. And likely manage just fine, despite Gillian’s protestations to the contrary.

“You don’t need the others, milady.” Padrig looked down at the gleaming sword at his waist, then glanced up, his cheeks red. “There are five of us, enough to protect you. Isn’t that what you told Father Marc before we left Gwal Draig?”

Despite Padrig’s tact, her face heated with shame. She’d fairly screamed the words at the hapless priest when he’d made a last, valiant attempt to stop them. Ian would berate the poor cleric yet again, no doubt, when he returned home and found her gone.

Padrig laid his right hand on the cross formed by his sword hilt. “I am yours to command, Lady Catrin. I will guard you with my life. I swear it.”

She suppressed a smile at his fledgling bravado. Somehow the lad had managed to clutter his head with the foolish tales of chivalry so popular among the Normans. She didn’t deserve such loyalty, but it would be cruel to spurn his gallantry. “I am honored, Padrig.” She reached across the narrow space that separated them, not surprised when he grasped her hand in his and essayed a rough bow.

“Nay, milady, ’tis I—”

A muted sound captured her attention and she tugged her hand free. “Did you hear that?”

She halted her mount and waved Padrig to silence, but only the distorted clatter of hooves met her straining ears. Yet Idris bounded past them, just as she heard the sound again.

A flight of arrows!

“Hurry.” She spurred her horse toward Padrig’s and forced him to the side of the trail. “Come with me.”

A muted cry echoed through the trees, followed by the clash of steel against steel. Catrin slid from the saddle, grabbed Padrig by the arm and pulled him into the forest.

The two rear guards sped by as she drew the boy deeper into the brush. Heart pounding, she dragged Padrig after her, paying no heed to the icy water and branches that pelted them as they stumbled though the leafless trees.

“Where are we going?” Padrig paused to disentangle his cloak from a bramble. “Shouldn’t we help the guards?”

“’Twill do no good if we rush onto the trail and are attacked,” she replied, bending from the waist to catch her breath. “Subtlety—”

A horse lunged past them, eyes rolling. One of her guards dangled from the saddle, blood streaming from his throat and mouth and dripping down his arrow-studded chest. The expression of surprise on his lifeless face would haunt her for a long time to come—assuming, of course, that she had any time left.

Padrig crossed himself, his expression grim. She had to get him away before yet another death stained her soul, but she knew he would refuse to leave her. Even as she struggled to form the words, he grasped her arm.

“Your pardon, milady.” He tightened his fingers and pulled her along. “Fear not, I’ll get you to safety.”

Catrin tugged free of his hold and eased back toward the sounds of battle. He reached for her again. “We can do nothing for them. Come, ’tis best we leave while we can.”

She reached toward him as though in supplication, then snatched at the sword hanging from his belt. The blade slipped free before he had time to do more than curse. “You’ve much to learn, Padrig.” She closed both hands tight around the hilt and stepped away. He’d better not argue, for she hadn’t the strength to heft the weapon for long. But he didn’t know that—she hoped. “’Tis my fault we’re in this trouble. ’Tis up to me to get us out.” She motioned with the sword. “You must go for help. It’s your duty,” she added as indecision crossed his face. “Did you not swear a solemn oath to me? You must go back and catch a horse, then ride for help. I will hide here until you return.”

“I should not leave you,” he protested. “Come with me.”

“Nay, ’twill be easier for you to slip away alone, and you can ride faster.” She brought the sword tip up to rest against his chest. “I order you to go—now, lest you incur my displeasure.”

She could see that he believed she would use the weapon if he didn’t obey her. He ducked his head and murmured, “God keep you, milady,” before he darted into the bushes.

Catrin drew a deep breath and lowered the blade, her attention on the faint trail before her as she wove through the clinging branches. She had no idea of the enemy, their numbers or their strength. No more than three of her guard were left—and herself, of course, though she doubted she counted as much of an asset.

Who could have attacked them, and why? She’d brought scant baggage and rode surrounded by armed men. What possible benefit could they gain?

She reached the edge of a clearing. Setting aside the sword, she pulled up her hood to hide her face. Then, arms braced to stop their shaking, she took up the weapon once more and left the shelter of the forest.

As the wisps of fog drifted apart, she saw that only one of her men remained on his feet, surrounded by three tattered ruffians. They circled him like carrion crows round a dying lamb, blades and voices taunting his vulnerability. The bodies strewn over the ground bespoke her guards’ valiant defense, but for naught. Her men had been outmatched by numbers alone.

She stifled a cry when her anxious gaze found Idris draped over two men, their throats bloodied. Arrows protruded from his dark hide.

Anger and grief lent steel to her backbone and power to her arms. She held the sword before her and charged into the clearing, her voice raised in her brother’s fierce battle cry.

The three men turned toward her and, ignoring the guard, stalked forward to encircle her.

Her hood had fallen, exposing her tangled braid—a banner proclaiming her sex, should there be any doubt. Too late to matter, she thought with a shrug, and tightened her grip on the sword.

“Here she is, men,” said one, his filthy face twisted into a smirk. He pointed his knife at her. “Think this be the lady we’s sent to fetch?”

Catrin stood motionless, only her eyes moving. She didn’t recognize them. Who would want her this badly? “Who sent you?” she demanded.

“’Tis not for me to say.” He motioned with the knife. “Come now, my pretty, put down the sword. Ye’ll not be needing it.”

“Aye. Only sword we’ll be needin’s right here,” another added. The others laughed when he jiggled the front of his breeches.

Her stomach knotted. Please God, not that! Better to turn the blade on herself than allow these swine to touch her. But she’d take at least one of them with her, she vowed.

The men had relaxed their vigilance, and they continued to ignore the remaining guard. But though the man looked weary to her furtive gaze, she read a message in his eyes.

He would not fail her.

She swung her sword in a wide arc and ran toward the ruffians as the guard rushed forward, slashing about with his weapon.

Her blade sank deep into the belly of the would-be rapist. Numbing pain shot through her fingers and up her arm, but she kept her grip. I doubt your sword will serve you now, you bastard. She smiled in grim satisfaction.

Her smile disappeared when the guard fell. She’d no one to depend upon now but herself. What to do? She braced her foot against her victim’s chest and pulled the blade free, then backed up to maintain her defense.

The thunder of hooves split the air and horses burst through the mists. An armed man rode at their head, his battle cry filling the clearing.

Her attention caught by the sight, Catrin never heard the whoosh of arrows until their barbs sank into her flesh.



Nicholas wiped the beaded moisture from his face, though his glove felt just as wet from the clinging fog. He shook his head to clear the exhaustion from his brain and berated himself yet again for his stupidity. ’Twas foolish not to have accepted Rannulf’s offer of a guide; it would have given him company to ease the boredom of the journey, as well as reassurance that he hadn’t wandered away from the route to Dolwyddelan.

But he’d dared not linger at l’Eau Clair, not when Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd might arrive at any moment Gillian’s cousin was an enigma, a siren who drew him to her even as she sought to keep him away. Since he didn’t understand her allure, he avoided her when he could.

Instead of lingering in comfort with Rannulf and Gillian at l’Eau Clair, he found himself camping along the trail, wet and miserable.

He should have learned patience by now, patience, and how to play the nobleman’s game. But he’d angered his king once again. Look where it had brought him: plodding along a muddy trail through the backwoods of northern Wales. It seemed punishment for every sin he’d ever committed. God knew there were enough of them.

Rapid hoofbeats roused him. Three riderless horses appeared out of the fog, reins flying as they sped down the road toward him.

A signal set his stallion dancing sideways across the path to halt their headlong flight. He dismounted and sought to calm them. Though they accepted his touch, their foam-flecked hides and rolling eyes bespoke their terror.

Blood—a great deal of it—streaked the light gray gelding, although it appeared unharmed.

A strange cry pierced the air. He’d swear ’twas a battle cry, but the voice sounded feminine.

Someone needed help.

He grabbed the reins and tied the three horses together, then took up a lead rein and leapt into the saddle. Sword held high, he spurred his mount and raised his voice in a roaring bellow to accompany the thunder of hooves as they raced down the trail.

Too late!

A slight, dark-cloaked figure crumpled to the ground as he broke through the bushes. Even as he rode into the clearing, more ragtag fighters left the brush to add their numbers to the men already gathered within the clearing.

They beset him at once. As they reached to pull him from the saddle, he freed the string of horses and kicked out, sending one man to his knees with blood streaming down his face. He slashed with his sword and sent another to writhe upon the ground.

Perhaps he might escape this fiasco after all.

An arrow pierced his left arm, sending him reeling in surprise. ’Twas all the distraction the ruffians needed. They attacked in force, cudgeling him with stout branches and pulling him from the saddle. His body jerked beneath the rain of blows.

He hit the ground with a thud and struggled against them, but he was no proof against their numbers. Someone stripped back his mail hood and they continued to buffet him about the head and body.

As his vision dimmed around the edges, his lips curled in a smile.

No one would ever believe Nicholas Talbot died doing a heroic deed.




Chapter Two (#ulink_8924bacf-480f-572e-87d4-72457024326b)


Catrin drifted in a cold, black void of confusion, meaningless words echoing in her head. She sucked in a breath, the inrush of air bringing with it the taste of fresh-churned soil and wet grass.

How did she come to be lying on the ground?

Raucous laughter sounded nearby, summoning up memories of the ambush. Fear held her motionless, lest her attackers notice her again.

Icy moisture dripped onto her face. As her senses sharpened, a wave of nausea swept over her, followed by fiery shards of pain radiating from her back. Gritting her teeth, she focused upon her surroundings.

The earth trembled beneath her cheek, and her ears picked out the muffled sound of retreating hoofbeats, but the voices remained—nay, they grew louder. She risked opening her eyes.

A small group of men, four or five, she thought, stood near a mail-clad body, their speech and gestures agitated. One man stepped away from the others and motioned them to silence. “I say we go after the horses,” he said sharply. “That stallion alone’d fetch a handsome price, and the other mounts’re finer than any of ours. With our pay for this—” his arm swept out to encompass the slaughter “—we can all live like kings.” He moved out of Catrin’s sight, then returned leading a horse. “Come on,” he urged as he climbed into the saddle. “His lordship said we could have all the pickings from this job. That means the horses, too.”

“Aye, Ralph’s right,” another agreed. “We can come back for the rest later. They ain’t goin’ nowheres.” He laughed and poked the body at his feet with a fine sword. “Best get what we can. We been cheated already—I had a powerful ache to ride a noble lady, not a damned horse.”

“Ye still could. She won’t fight you any.” They all laughed. Catrin tensed, the motion intensifying the ache spreading from her back.

“She’s dead, you idiot. I’m not stickin’ my rod in a dead woman! Christ, what fun is that?” He gave a gusty sigh. “Come on, let’s get the horses ‘fore they’re gone for good.”

To Catrin’s relief, they mounted up and rode off, but she feared ’twas a temporary victory. She had to get away before they returned, else she’d be dead in truth.

Or wish she were, she reflected as darkness claimed her once more.



Nicholas lay flat on his back, grateful for the steady drip of cold water onto his face. It soothed his battered flesh and carried him away from the deadly black cloud muddling his mind. Groaning, he rolled onto his side.

A warm, foul breeze wafted across his face. He opened his eyes just as something hot, wet and raspy swept over his cheek.

Was he dead already, and Satan beginning his torment? Only in the devil’s pit would he find himself face-to-face—again—with Lady Catrin’s hellhound.

Nicholas recognized Idris immediately, especially from this angle. At least this time the dog’s teeth weren’t sunk into his throat, and Catrin standing over him, laughing. He blinked in a vain attempt to clear his vision, then propped his head on his hand to stare at the beast. Idris lay sprawled beside him, maw agape and fangs glistening.

’Twas a wonder the dog could move. An arrow protruded from the hound’s back, and numerous cuts marred his dark hide. Yet he’d managed to drag himself to Nicholas’s side.

Could Nicholas do any less than to search for other survivors?

He shifted and raised his uninjured arm, surprised at how unsteady he felt, and reached over to rub Idris’s head. “Why are you here, eh, fellow? Where is your mistress?”

Stomach churning, Nicholas sat up, blinking as his sight alternately blurred and sharpened. By God, he’d felt better after a night of hard drinking! But lying in the drizzle wouldn’t cure his ills, nor protect him from the next knave to wander down the road. Cursing the weather, the king and the Welsh with equal venom, he rolled to his knees and pushed himself to his feet.

He had a bad feeling about this situation. If Idris was here, Catrin had to be nearby. Nicholas lurched across the uneven ground toward the fighter he’d seen fall. His balance shifted and he pitched the last few feet, to land hard on his side next to the cloak-covered body sprawled near the underbrush.

He slipped the hood back to reveal a mass of dark, tousled hair. His touch gentle, he eased her face toward him.

Catrin.

Her pale, delicate features, devoid of her usual defiance, brought death to mind. Yet she still lived, her breath a faint mist against his fingers when he touched her lips.

So cold! Her lips had been hot—both to hear and to touch—when last they’d met. The memory of her mouth, so soft beneath his own, had come unbidden into his mind far too often these months past.

He pushed the image aside and smoothed her hair from her face, then turned his attention to the three feathered shafts jutting from her back. “Holy Mary save her,” he muttered. Crossbow bolts. Longbow arrows would have been bad enough, but these…

Too often he’d seen men suffer a lingering, painfilled death from such wounds. He rested his throbbing head on the ground beside her and scanned her face once more.

How could he tell Gillian of her dearest cousin’s death?

A moan, a mere wisp of sound, slipped from Catrin’s lips, and she opened her eyes. Gone were the flashing silver depths he remembered. In their stead shone painglazed pewter, dull and gray. Her gaze flitted about before settling upon his face, so near her own. A spark of recognition flickered to life.

“Nightmare,” she mumbled, her voice weak. Her mouth moved aimlessly before curling about the words. “Or death.” She swallowed, her tongue darting out to capture a bit of moisture from her lips, as her eyelids drifted closed.

Nicholas pushed himself upright. Shoving the wet hair off his face with a shaking hand, he dragged his attention from Catrin and surveyed the clearing. The fog lent an unnatural glow to the carnage. Nothing moved. All was silent save for the steady drip of water from the trees. Yet he still should examine the bodies, for despite the amount of blood spattered everywhere, someone else might have survived.

Catrin’s moan drew his attention once more. He dropped down beside her as she tried to roll to her side and, holding her steady, eased her onto her stomach. “Have a care, else you’ll harm yourself more.”

“This is real, isn’t it?” Even as he nodded, her eyes begged him to disagree. “Cursed knaves attacked us. Not enough guards.” She swallowed. “’Tis my fault—all my fault.” Moisture pooled in her eyes, but the tears did not fall. “They’ve gone for the horses—south, I think—but they’ll be back. I heard them say so.” Her fingers clenched into fists, she sought to push herself up off the ground.

Nicholas grasped her beneath the arms and held her still. “You’ve three arrows in your back—how do you expect to move?”

“We must go.” She sagged within his hold, hands clinging to him for a moment before she tried to shove free. “They’ll kill us when they return. Mayhap we can find a horse.”

“You’re in no condition to ride—”

She pushed against him with more strength. “Don’t you understand, you Norman coward? I’d rather die trying to escape than to chance certain death at their hands.”

His fingers tightened about her ribs. “No one calls me coward, milady. We’ll find a way to escape this place.”

Determination steadying him, he gathered Catrin into his arms and carried her to a nearby tree. Though she held her lower lip caught between her teeth until she drew blood, she didn’t make a sound.

“By Christ, I’ve never met a woman like you,” he muttered as he set her down. Whether he meant it as a compliment or a curse, even he did not know.

“’Tis your misfortune then, milord.” She wrapped her arms about the tree trunk and leaned against it.

Biting back a curse—did her baiting never cease?—he stepped back and eyed her pale face. She sounded more lively than she looked, but he doubted she’d fall into another swoon. “Will you be all right here? I want to see if anyone else survived. ’Twill take but a moment,” he added as she nodded.

He moved swiftly about the clearing despite the fact that his head felt no better. The pain did not matter. If he didn’t get them safely away soon, an aching head would be the least of his worries.

Only he, Catrin and Idris had survived the attack. Though it galled him to leave Catrin’s men where they lay, he could not spare the time—nor the strength—to bury them.

As for the dead outlaws, they deserved their fate.

Catrin’s packhorse must have bolted, for all he found were her guards’ few belongings scattered across the blood-spattered ground. His own possessions were gone with his stallion, lost to him now.

Feeling like a grave robber, Nicholas removed the threadbare cloaks from Catrin’s men. Further search yielded naught but their belts, a flint and a battered cup.

Something rustled in the bushes to his left. He reached for his dagger but came up empty. Before he had time to seek another weapon, a scrawny nag burst through the trees.

Ragged brown coat marred by narrow streaks of blood, nonetheless it appeared uninjured. A crude bridle drooped from its head, reins trailing, and a filthy sheepskin hung lopsided across its bony withers.

Nicholas made soothing noises and stretched his hand toward her. The mare halted before him, hooves shuffling upon the slick grass. After a moment the beast settled down, though her ears flicked back and forth as though she were uncertain whether to heed his entreaties.

Finally the mare heaved a ragged sigh and accepted his touch. Though naught but a rack of bones, she’d carry Catrin away from this abattoir.

“Come to me, my beauty,” he coaxed as he grasped the reins. “There, my fine lady.” Heaving his own sigh of relief, he laid his head against the mare’s neck and stroked her wet, quivering hide. After a brief hesitation she followed him across the clearing to Idris’s side.

At Nicholas’s touch the hound tried without success to stand. He should have known the dog would share his mistress’s stubborn nature. He could almost wish the dog had succumbed to his injuries, for Catrin would never agree to leave her companion behind. Cursing, Nicholas stilled Idris’s struggles and hefted him up and onto the mare’s back.

Blood trickled down his left arm as the barbed arrow shifted deeper into his flesh. Looping the reins through his belt, he pressed his fingers hard against the mail surrounding the shaft to stop the bleeding and led the mare across the clearing.

Still cursing, he dropped down beside Catrin. Jaw clenched, he gripped the arrow and tried to snap the wooden shaft. The arrowhead ground further into his arm.

Nicholas groaned, the sound piercing Catrin’s painfilled lethargy. She forced her eyes open. “Are you mad?” she shrieked when she saw what he was about. She reached out to stop him but could scarcely lift her arm. “You’ll make it worse! You cannot pull—”

“Do you think I know so little?” He let go of the arrow and rose to his knees, shoving his fingers through the sweat-darkened blond curls plastered to his head. “I can’t get hold of the damned thing to break it off.”

“Lift my hand so I might help you,” she said, struggling to shift to a better position.

He shook his head. “You haven’t the strength for it.”

“Stop wasting time, Talbot, and do it! I’ll hold your arm while you snap off the shaft.” He didn’t appear convinced. “Come—I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

“No doubt you’ve the might of a warrior,” he snarled. “There’s little enough that’s womanly about you.”

“Is that why you kissed me when last we met?” She curled her lips into a shaky smirk. “I’ve heard that some nobles of the Norman court prefer a manly bedmate.”

“Once we’re away from here I’ll show you what I prefer.” Face flushed, he swept his gaze boldly over her. “It appears you have the necessary equipment.”

His eyes had darkened to a deep violet, the pupils wide. They reflected more than temper; she’d seen that in his eyes often enough.

Was it pain that shadowed his gaze? Mayhap he’d taken a blow to the head. She doubted the injury to his arm would much affect so powerful a warrior as Nicholas Talbot.

The warmth of his fingers as they closed about her wrist made Catrin realize how chilled she felt. Though the cold had permeated her entire body, it did little to blunt her pain. When Nicholas lifted her hand, agony streaked across her back. She sank her teeth into her lower lip to stifle a groan and forced her fingers to close about his arm.

“If they’d left my knife I could have notched the shaft to weaken it. I need something to break off the arrows in your back, as well.”

Catrin dragged her attention from the sinewy strength of Nicholas’s arm beneath the cool, rough mail. “My eating knife is on my belt.”

He slid the blade from its sheath. “This bauble?” Expression mocking, he examined the dainty, bejeweled dagger.

“Lift my skirts,” she told him, her mouth dry.

“Under other circumstances, milady, I’d be pleased to oblige.” His smile taunted her. “But now’s not the time.”

“Arrogant dolt!” Given a choice, she’d not permit him to so much as touch her hand.

But these were not normal times. Raising her chin, she cleared her throat and met his eyes. “Go ahead. I’ve a blade strapped to my thigh you’ll not sneer at.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes burning with a strange light. “I doubt there’s anything beneath your skirts I’d sneer at,” he murmured, his hand already on the hem of her gown. “Which leg?”

“The right.” She focused on a dripping branch as he pushed the wet fabric high enough to reveal the scabbard—and most of her leg. An icy weight settled into her stomach, threatening to break free when his knuckles brushed against her skin.

Startled by the warmth of his touch, she shifted her gaze to him. All she could see was the top of his head as he bent over her. “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

He slipped the blade from its worn leather casing, then eased her skirts into place before he glanced up. “’Tis indeed a knife,” he said, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb. The corner of his mouth quirked into an uneven smile. “It should serve well.”

Covering her hand with his, he tightened his fingers. “Hold fast,” he told her. She saw a measure of trust in his eyes, and something more—something she’d never dare acknowledge.

She nodded and gripped his arm. His movements swift, he notched the wood and snapped the thick shaft, tossing it aside. Then, seemingly unaffected, he stood and turned to the horse.

Catrin’s heart leapt with joy when she noticed Idris strapped onto the mare’s back. Nicholas murmured to the animals as he adjusted the bridle and shifted Idris forward on the sheepskin, binding him in place with a sword belt.

Blood continued to drip from Nicholas’s arm. “Shouldn’t you bandage that?” she asked as he turned toward her.

“Nay, the bleeding has slowed.” He wadded up a cloak and slipped it between her cheek and the tree. “And we must go.” He reached behind her and grasped an arrow. “’Tis your turn now, milady. I dare not move you without first cutting back your plumage.”

She burrowed her face in the musty fabric and sought to focus her mind on something else.

“Try not to cry out,” he taunted. “Shall I gag you?”

Her attention captured—and her hackles raised—she drew a breath to speak, then gasped as molten fire shot through her back.

She clamped her teeth into the coarse material, fighting back a scream. How had he remained silent?

“Two more to go—” she heard before the darkness sucked her into its welcoming embrace once more.

“Thank God,” Nicholas sighed, snapping the shafts. ’Twas nothing short of a miracle the damned woman had given in.

He eased her away from the tree, shaking his head at the cloak gripped between her teeth. He tugged the material free, swung her into his arms and settled her behind Idris on the mare’s bony back.

After a moment’s reflection he tied her on, as well. No doubt she’d scream at him once she realized what he’d done, but he’d rather face her wrath than risk her safety further.

He murmured a swift prayer for the brave souls who had died to defend their mistress, then added one for the living for good measure. Scanning the copse once more, he got his bearings. Catrin said their attackers had gone south; he hoped to God she was right. Dagger in one hand, reins in the other, Nicholas headed north.




Chapter Three (#ulink_dd75f44d-6ece-59a6-86e1-d31223d48505)


Padrig raced through the forest, dodging trees and boulders, paying little heed to the wet branches whipping his head and torso. The cold, damp air tore through his aching throat before settling into his lungs like a cloying blanket, stifling his efforts to breathe.

If only he’d caught the horse Lady Catrin sent him after! But the pain-crazed beast bolted and knocked him to the ground when he grabbed for the reins. Bruised and smeared with blood from the wounded animal, he had no choice but to continue on foot. Though it seemed as if he’d been running forever, he didn’t dare stop, not when Lady Catrin and the others needed his help.

The invisible vise around his chest closed so tightly that he could ignore it no longer. Grabbing hold of a sturdy branch with both hands, he bent from the waist and sought to ease the spasms. His breath slipped through his lips in mewling squeaks, bringing tears of frustration to mingle with the rain and sweat streaming down his cheeks.

If he could have spoken he would have cursed. How would he ever become a knight? His body failed him at every turn.

His mind was little better. He should have known that Lady Catrin—clever as always—would find a way to turn his own words against him. And now his lady suffered grave peril and he could do naught to save her.

He should have stayed with her, he knew it. Lord Ian would have found a way around his sister’s dictates; Llywelyn’s Dragon was the mightiest warrior in the land. Nor would he have allowed the Norman concept of chivalry to stand in his way, Padrig realized. The Dragon always knew what needed to be done and did it.

Curse his honor—he should have stayed to help Lady Catrin. A wave of guilt swept over him. He could do nothing now except obey her orders, for in his headlong dash through the woods he’d become completely lost.

After the paroxysm eased he filled his lungs, savoring his returning strength. He scanned the mist-shrouded forest to no avail. He’d lost sight of the narrow road almost immediately, and the sky, a solid gray, offered up no clue to direction. For all he knew, he could be near where he started.

What would Lord Ian do?

He might as well go on the same way he’d been headed. And mayhap if he eased his pace he wouldn’t have such trouble breathing. Squaring his shoulders, Padrig wiped his face on the edge of his tunic and set off toward civilization.

He hoped.



Nicholas plodded along the faint trail through the underbrush, the mare following along with little guidance. Despite the chill air, sweat beaded upon his face as his head throbbed in a nauseating cadence.

His mail hauberk, usually no burden, seemed to have become heavier as the day wore on, adding to his discomfort. He should be thankful the bandits hadn’t taken the time to divest him of it, for if they had realized he still lived, his life would have been forfeit. Why they’d left Catrin alone, he did not know, but he thanked God for it.

Not only had they spared her life, but they’d unwittingly left him the means to protect her, as well. He touched the dagger strapped to his waist—a fine piece, not the usual bauble a lady might wear. ’Twas their good fortune that Catrin was not a typical lady. Though why she felt the need to arm herself thus…

It couldn’t replace his sword, or the other weapons his stallion carried, but mayhap it would suffice, should the thieving bastards catch up to them.

His gaze was drawn yet again to Catrin. She lay cradled against Idris’s massive body—Nicholas could almost believe the dog held her nestled there apurpose—and though she moaned every so often, she did not move. While the fact that she’d remained in a swoon for so long could not be a good sign, nevertheless it allowed them to continue on their way uninterrupted.

As the gray daylight began to fade, much of the thick underbrush gave way to rock covered by a thin layer of soil. Tall, slim trees grew from seams in the rocks, filling in the spaces between towering firs. The trail rose steeply, and he heard the sound of rushing water nearby.

Catrin’s moans grew louder, and he drew the mare to a halt, pulling the hood back from her face. “Damnation!” A rosy flush covered her cheeks and spread down to disappear into the neck of her bliaut. He yanked off his heavy leather gauntlet and laid his palm against her forehead.

Heat radiated from her skin. Though he knew next to nothing about sickness, he couldn’t mistake her condition. Catrin needed help.

Tucking the cloak about her, he cast a swift glance at their surroundings. He had to find shelter, food and water before it got dark. God help them if their attackers were on their trail, for he could ignore Catrin’s injuries no longer.

He led the mare toward the sound of running water. As soon as he found a defensible place to set up camp, he’d stop.

The mare’s ears twitched forward as they crested the hill and found the stream. She picked up her pace and nudged Nicholas in the shoulder as if urging him to greater speed, not stopping until she bent to drink.

Catrin slipped sideways, but Nicholas caught her before she fell. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked about in confusion before focusing upon Nicholas’s face. “Where are we?”

He slid his hand beneath her head to support it. “I wish I knew. I tried to head north, though there’s not much to go by for direction.”

“My back is afire.”

Her back was not the only thing afire. Her fever raged—the flesh beneath his palm felt hot, and her lips were dry and cracked. “I’ll get you some water,” he said, easing her head onto Idris’s back.

He knelt beside the stream to fill the cup, pausing to splash the icy water over his aching head. When he returned to Catrin, he found her scanning their surroundings with a surprising intensity, despite the pain that still clouded her eyes.

She gulped the water as soon as he raised her head to drink, then drained the cup twice more before indicating she’d had enough.

Idris lifted his massive head and whined, eliciting a faint smile from Catrin. “Don’t forget about him,” she whispered.

As if he could, Nicholas thought as he tended the dog. So long as he and Catrin were in the same place and Idris yet lived, the beast would protect his mistress.

Though the dog’s vigilance might stand them in good stead.

Nicholas cast another glance at the darkening sky. He could delay no longer. He drew Catrin’s hood about her face and bound her more tightly to the mare, then took up the reins and headed upstream.

If they couldn’t find shelter somewhere along the stream, he could build a lean-to. He began to gather branches and sticks from beneath the trees along the path—’twould do for a fire, at the least.

Awake now, and refreshed by the water Talbot had given her, Catrin peered out from beneath her hood, concentrating upon their surroundings. What she saw made her heart beat faster.

“Talbot,” she called. He didn’t answer—no surprise, since her voice had come out so weak she’d scarce heard it herself. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Damn you, Talbot We must stop.”

He dropped an armload of wood onto the ground and spun to face her. “Must we indeed, milady? There is much we must do, aye—find food and shelter, tend your wounds—but I doubt that stopping here will accomplish anything. Lest it escape your attention, ’tis nigh dark, and I’ve no place to—”

“I think I know where we are.”

Talbot stalked toward her, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. “You know where we are.” He slid his hands—so cool against her heated skin—over her cheeks and sank his fingers into her hair. “When did you intend to tell me?” Leaning close, he stared into her eyes. “Or do you enjoy wandering through the forest with arrows in your back?”

Catrin moistened her lips. His expression frightened her nearly as much as the feel of his flesh against hers. But she held his gaze. His violet eyes took their intensity from the lengthening shadows, she told herself. And ’twas the chill air that sent a shiver sweeping over her, nothing more.

She swallowed, her fear a choking lump slipping down her throat to weigh heavy in her stomach and gnaw at her mettle.

But she’d not permit Nicholas Talbot to see her fear.

Never would a man make her cringe and cower again.

His mouth was so close to hers, she felt every breath he took. Her own breath shuddered in her chest. She wet her lips once more. “I may know this place, but I cannot be sure. Pray lift me up so I might see.”

Talbot released her with an alacrity she might have found amusing if she hadn’t been so relieved. His movements jerky, he went to tie the reins to a tree, then returned to her side.

He pushed aside her enveloping cloak and slipped his hands about her waist. “I know how you hate to depend upon anyone,” he taunted as he lifted her. Thankfully his voice masked the whimper she couldn’t suppress. “But you’ll have to lean on me. It seems you have no choice.”

How she hurt! Catrin caught her breath as Talbot settled her against the rough mail covering his chest, one arm beneath her breasts holding her upright. “There’s always a choice,” she mumbled. “Unless you’re dead.”

Though his arm tightened about her, he made no reply.

The trees spun before her for a moment, then righted themselves as the dizziness passed. “Was there a cleft rock to the right of the stream, with a rowan tree growing out of the crack?”

“I saw such a stone. I don’t know what kind of tree grew from it,” he said, “but how many such could there be?”

“You don’t know the rowan?” she asked, unable to resist taunting him. “’Tis said to protect against demons—I’m surprised you’re not more familiar with it.”

“If you don’t cease your prattle, woman, you’ll soon wish you were in a tree. Mouthy wench!” He drew his hand through his hair, smoothing back the damp blond waves. “What would it take to quiet you?”

She smiled at the question she’d heard countless times before. “Short of death, nothing.”

“Your brother should take you into battle with him—he could use your tongue as a weapon. I’d wager ’twould serve as well as a sword.” Talbot shook his head. “You could cleave a man in two. ’Tis no wonder you’re not wed.”

Catrin seethed with frustration. “If I had my knife—”

“’Twould serve you naught. You cannot even hold a knife, let alone use it. Besides, you couldn’t harm me—” he cast a look of distrust at Idris “—even if you weren’t wounded.”

“I’ll show you what I can do once I’m well,” she growled. He’d be surprised if he knew just what she was capable of. A wave of cold passed through her, making her shudder. Not that she’d ever tell…

“That will give you reason to recover, I’ve no doubt.” His smile faded. “Enough of this. Do you recognize this place or not?”

She glanced around once more. The area looked familiar. It reminded her of a place where she and Ian had waited out a violent summer storm years before. “I believe there’s a rock cairn up ahead, at the top of this rise. The cave in the hillside should do for shelter. ’Twas a shrine long ago, a place sacred to the Old Ones. No harm will come to us there.”

She regretted her last comment when she caught Talbot’s piercing look, but he said nothing as he eased her back down onto the mare and took up the reins. After one last, lingering glance at the sky, he gathered up his meager pile of sticks and continued along the trail.

Once more Catrin cursed her impetuous tongue. Talbot had told her without words that they’d lingered to bicker too long. She still couldn’t be sure she knew where they were, but, please God, let her be right!

Now that she was no longer distracted by Talbot’s barbs, her injuries reclaimed her attention. Flames seemed to radiate from the arrowheads, sending waves of heat to flow over her entire body, leaving a pulsing pain in their wake.

She snuggled against Idris’s coarse coat and took comfort from the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. If they did not starve to death, at least her faithful companion might survive once Talbot saw to his injuries. Though she lacked the energy to lift her hand, she twined her fingers into the dog’s fur. Idris whined in response. He was more than a pet, he was companion, guardian, confidant—the loyal repository of all her hopes and fears.

There were some things Catrin could never share with anyone, not even Gillian or Ian. The shameful secrets from her past would distress them, and for naught. She could not change what she had done—would not, even if she could. But neither would she endanger those she loved by stirring up things better left alone.

Yet her actions today had endangered other innocent souls, caused the deaths of several people. Had her past taught her nothing? Uncharacteristic tears ran down her cheeks to soak into Idris’s curly hide. Her mere presence posed a threat to anyone near her.

Even Talbot, aggravating as he’d been in the past, didn’t deserve to be saddled with her now.

She could change—nay, would change—if she survived this latest coil. ’Twas more likely she’d die and burn in hell for her sins. At the very least, God in his vengeance would want her to suffer, a swift, clean death could not possibly be punishment enough.

It mattered naught.

’Twas no more than she deserved.




Chapter Four (#ulink_eb3c2863-e4ae-5b2b-86eb-5ece2341fbf2)


The bandits met on the trail in late afternoon. Their leader, Ralph, sat atop the knight’s stallion, a fine embroidered tunic pulled over his filthy, ragged shirt and leggings. The remaining garments in the knight’s pack tempted him mightily. Soft, bright-colored wools and silks, of a quality he’d never seen even in those far-off years when he’d been a tailor’s apprentice.

But the take belonged to them all, and though nominally the leader of this ever shrinking band of outlaws, Ralph knew he couldn’t bedeck himself in the finery unless he wanted a revolt on his hands. And he’d no intention of losing his neck over a shirt and a pair of hose.

“’Tis a fine day, lads, a fine day indeed,” he said, the three remaining fingers of his right hand caressing the jeweled sword laid across his lap. What a pity he couldn’t wield the weapon, but ’twas too big for his maimed grip. Ah, well, no use crying over what he couldn’t change. “We’ve ne’er taken such a prize as this.”

“Aye, ’tis fine for you, Ralph,” Ned piped up, shifting his gaunt frame atop an equally scrawny palfrey. “Look at all you’ve got.”

“What are you worried about?” Ralph asked. “Everyone’ll get his share, same as always. ’Tis good pickings, the best we’ve seen in a long time. And now there’s fewer of us, there’s more to go around. Once we collect the rest of it, we’ll go see his high-and-mighty lordship and get paid what’s owed us.” Tugging on the reins and kicking mightily at the stallion’s ribs with his soft-soled shoes, Ralph urged the horse into motion and led the way to the clearing.

Confusion reigned as they burst into the meadow. Not one of them had ever handled a mount with any spirit—indeed, some could scarce ride at all, a fact that had already cost the lives of two of their band. Fortunately the horses, foam-flecked and blown, had passed from rebellion to exhaustion. Even so, Ralph and his men had learned to be more cautious now.

“Quiet,” Ralph bellowed. “Come, let’s be about our business and be on our way. I’m frozen to the marrow.”

Ned hopped down from the saddle and ran across the clearing. “By Christ’s balls, they’re gone,” he cried as he darted from one spot to another. “Look, you, the knight and the wench both. The bastard took the hauberk, too.” He bent to examine two of their fallen comrades who lay in a pool of blood. “Even the damned dog is gone,” he said, his squeaky voice rising higher still.

He stopped beside the dead guards, nudging one body with his foot, then kicking it. “Nothin’. We already took what they had.” He turned to the others, standing silent now in the middle of the clearing. “Weren’t much, neither. But I wanted that hauberk.”

“Would’ve been too big fer ye anyway, Ned. Got no more meat on ye than a chicken,” Alf said. He staggered about as though carrying a great weight on his shoulders. “Can’t ye just see it, lads?” Everyone laughed but Ned. “You wouldn’t’ve been able to move.”

“Someone else took them while we were gone. Robbed us, they did,” Ned said. He turned to Ralph. “How’re we goin’ to get paid without the wench?”

Ralph ignored Ned’s whining and walked around the meadow, stooping every so often to examine the ground. “Someone rode out—one horse,” he told them. “’Twas that rack o’ bones you ’ad, Ned, what looked like you. I’d recognize that track anywhere. No one took ’em.” He shook his head, laughing at Ned’s ire. Likely no one but himself would see the humor in robbing a thief. “Mayhap that knight carted the woman and dog away to bury them. I hear tell the nobles are odd that way, always doin’ things the way the priests tell ’em.”

Ned looked up at the darkening sky. “Ye mean we have ta go after him? We can’t track him in the dark,” he added. “I don’t want ta tangle wi’ him again, not over a bloody corpse. Took all of us ta nab him before, and there ain’t so many of us now.”

The others greeted Ned’s words with a chorus of agreement. Ralph shook his head and grabbed Ned by the front of his tunic. “What are you, a mouse? He’s naught but a man, same as us.” He tossed Ned to the soggy turf and eyed the others. “If I say you go after him, you will. D’ye understand?” He gave the nearest man a shove. “But it so happens we won’t. We weren’t hired to kill him, so there’s no sense bothering with him. He can’t get far anyway—his head’s likely cracked like an egg.”

He pulled a fine dagger from his belt and began cleaning his nails with it. “Besides, the wench was dead. We all saw her.” The men nodded. “So we tell his lordship she’s dead. He couldn’t expect us to stroll into his keep with her body, now, could he?”

“What if he don’t believe us?”

Ralph shrugged. “We tell him to come see for hisself. Of course, it ain’t like to be a pretty sight once the wolves get to her, eh, lads?” He snorted. “He won’t bestir himself. Wants to keep his hands clean—’tis why he hired us. Can’t have it said he murdered his kin, after all.”

“But what if he wants proof, Ralph?”

“Christ, Ned, can’t you do anything but complain? Keep it up and we’ll be splitting your share, as well,” he warned. He turned to the overburdened packhorse hitched to the stallion’s saddle and began removing bundles. “Anyone find the lady’s baggage?”

“There’s some clothes in the big pack on the bottom, and that small wooden box is full of dry leaves and smelly potions.” Alf pulled the packs from the horse and opened them. “This be enough?”

Ralph pawed through the garments, frowning as his rough hands snagged the finely woven silks. “Aye, take out a couple gowns—not the best ones, mind you—they’ll fetch a good price in Chester. No sense wasting it all on his lordship. He’ll have to take our word for it the wench is dead, or come see for himself. And he won’t.” He stuffed the remaining clothes back into the pack and laced it tight against the damp, then hoisted it onto the horse.

He stretched, grimacing at the pain burning in his joints. “I’m getting too old for chasing through the wood in the cold and wet. Mayhap after today’s work we can retire. We could live like kings on the jewels from this sword alone.”

Spying the wooden box on the ground, he picked it up and opened it. “Pah—what a stench!” he gasped. Worse than a midden in the summer sun. Why a noble lady would cart such as this around, he didn’t know. He dug through the contents, then dumped everything out and examined the inlaid lid. “’Tis a pretty piece—it might fetch something if we can get rid of the smell.”

He tossed it to Ned. “Put it with the rest. Then you, John and Alf take the good horses and head for Chester. We don’t want his lordship to steal our hard-earned booty—and he would, the scum. ‘Sides, there’s no good way to explain how we come by it, short of the truth. I’d just as soon not hang. I’ve learned my lesson ’bout thieving,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don’t get caught at it.”

The others laughed, but he could sense their fear. “Have a care,” he warned. “Them horses’re more than you’re used to. We don’t want to lose them. The rest of us’ll go get our pay, then meet you in Chester.”

Ned snatched up the reins and stood scowling. “What’s to keep you from makin’ off with our money?”

Ralph shoved him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs. “Don’t be a fool.” He nudged him again. “What you’re taking with you is likely worth a hundred times more than what that little prick is payin’ us.”

Casting a last, longing look at the stallion, Ralph went instead to one of the poorer horses and mounted up. “We’ll see you in Chester,” he said, waiting until the three rode away before heading southeast for a confrontation with his bloody lordship.



The last rays of the setting sun broke through the clouds as Nicholas and the mare topped the hill. He hoped the sudden burst of light was a sign their luck was about to change. God knew they needed fortune to smile upon them; he had much to do, and next to nothing with which to do it.

A cairn stood before a stone-framed opening in the hill tall enough to admit a man. Moss-shrouded dirt, lightly studded with bushes, covered the crown of the hill, and a spring—the origin of the stream—spilled from the ground near the entrance. It looked like something from the land of fairy, the stone portal shimmering through the mist. Though not a fanciful man, Nicholas hoped they’d find some magic here, if such a thing existed.

He dropped the wood he’d gathered near the cave, then tied the mare to a sturdy bush before turning to Catrin. When he drew the hood away from her face he spied the tear tracks on her cheek. His fingers crept out of their own volition to smooth the marks away. She’d made no sound—even in her current state, she’d too much pride to let him hear her cry.

Pride he understood, being overburdened with it himself. How else had she found the strength to lash out at him? Any other woman would have remained in a swoon since the attack, or at the least complained of the pain. Though he wouldn’t have thought less of her had she reacted thus, he was grateful she had not

Lady Catrin might be the most aggravating woman he’d ever encountered, but he could not deny the exhilaration he felt whenever they clashed.

He refused to permit the bright glow of Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd to fade away.

Dirk in hand, he clambered over the rock-strewn mouth of the cave and stooped to pass through the doorway. In the faint light he discovered a stone-lined chamber tall enough for him to stand upright, the remnants of a fire pit in the middle. The dirt floor felt smooth and even, as though it bore the imprint of countless feet.

They’d be safe here while he fought the battle to save Lady Catrin’s life.

Reassured, Nicholas hurried to move her inside. Hands numb with cold, he fumbled with the wet leather until the knot gave way and she slid from the mare and slumped against him. Even her slight weight sent a jolt of pain through his upper arm, reminding him that his own wound would need tending eventually.

But he had more important work to do for the nonce.

She moaned as he shifted her in his arms. He could almost believe she’d reached the end of her mettle—almost, but for the fact that he’d never dare underestimate her strength of will. And though ’twould be easier to treat her injuries if she remained in a swoon, he doubted he’d be so fortunate. More likely she’d awaken in a moment, ready to flay him with her tongue.

She felt so small, so dainty as he carried her into the cave. He’d forgotten that she barely reached his shoulder, for the force of her personality made her appear taller, stronger than he knew her to be.

Nicholas wrestled her cloak around to place beneath her and eased her onto her stomach, bringing her arm up to cushion her face. Straightening, he wiped sweat from his brow and went outside for the dog.

Somehow Idris had managed to get off the horse. He leaned against the mare, legs aquiver, his massive head drooping almost to the ground. Nicholas rushed toward him in time to catch him as he fell.

Cursing his two stubborn charges, Nicholas hefted the dog into his arms and lugged him inside. When he laid Idris down on the far side of the fire pit, the dog stared at his mistress and whined. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” Nicholas said, ruffling the animal’s coarse fur.

He worked swiftly in the dying light to gather kindling and arrange it beneath the wood in the fire pit. Then, scarcely able to see, he tended the mare, murmuring praise all the while. She’d borne a heavy burden today—had likely saved their lives. He wished he could give her grain and a warm stable to reward her as she deserved. Instead he led her to the stream to drink, then rubbed her down with a handful of dry grass and left her to crop beneath the trees. They’d have need of her again, of that he had no doubt.

He only hoped ’twas a living woman she’d carry back to civilization.

Hands shaking with weariness, Nicholas paused just inside the cave and took a deep breath. In his present state, he feared he’d do naught but harm Catrin in his attempts to help her.

But without his help, she would surely die.

He groped his way to the fire pit and fumbled with the flint and steel until he managed to wheedle a spark from it. After several tries the tinder caught; he hovered over the tiny blaze, tending it carefully until the flames licked at the small mound of wood.

Catrin mumbled something, the words indistinct. The flickering light glinted upon her sweat-dampened brow and highlighted the pain etched upon her face. He could delay no longer.

Taking up a pitch-covered branch he’d found outside, he held it amidst the flames until the end glowed. Thrust into a crack in the stone wall, it cast a bright light throughout the entire cavern.

How should he proceed?

Calm spread through him as the fire began to warm the chamber. Hands steady, he gathered his meager supplies and sought to draw his wits together, as well. Two knives, flint and steel, cup, belt, a cracked wooden bowl he’d discovered in a corner…Were these enough to save Catrin’s life?

Even a simple barber had better tools than this.

Had Catrin worn a purse upon her belt? Though he had not noticed, what woman left her chamber without one, fairly bulging with God knew what?

She moaned as he eased her onto her side and moved her nearer to the fire. Just as he’d suspected, a soft leather pouch hung from her leather girdle by a silver chain. Afraid to let his hopes rise too high, he unhooked the chain and loosened the drawstrings.

He hesitated but a moment before he tipped the contents onto the floor. A surprising assortment of items spilled out. Most looked useless for his purposes, but a small wooden case, smoothly carved with fanciful designs, caught his attention. Lady Gillian carried her needles and pins in a similar box. A spindle of thread lay beside it.

He fumbled to loosen the lid and sent the contents showering onto Catrin’s cloak in a shimmering cascade.

She cursed, capturing his attention. He hadn’t realized she was awake. “Have a care,” she whispered. “Needles are costly, and easily lost.”

“Aye, milady.” Squinting as his vision blurred, he bent to pick them up. “At the moment they’re more valuable to me than all the king’s riches.” He dropped the last pin into the box and replaced the lid. “Now I can care for your wounds.”

Her eyes widened, a spark—of fear, perhaps—making them shine silver in the firelight. “You do know how to sew, don’t you?”

Nicholas’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “I’ve seen it done before.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s time I learned.”




Chapter Five (#ulink_f3bd0e20-aeb2-516a-a5eb-1585ecdc63ef)


“What do you intend to do?” Catrin asked. Panic lent her the strength to move so she could better see his face.

“I must remove the arrows from your back, and soon,” he said as he pawed through the contents of her purse. “You’ve a fever, if it’s escaped your notice. And I doubt you could remove them yourself, at any rate.”

A shudder racked her body, whether from fever or the thought of Nicholas Talbot wielding a knife upon her flesh, she could not say. She doubted he’d ever performed surgery on anything other than some hapless fowl at table.

And her back was no sampler for him to display his prowess with a needle!

But what choice did she have?

Impossible as she found it, she had to entrust herself to a man; a man, moreover, more confusing to her than anyone she’d ever met. This could only be reparation from a vengeful God for every sin she’d ever committed—and possibly some she’d only contemplated.

Sweat beaded upon her forehead, and a flood of heat poured through her veins. She could withstand this—she’d suffered worse before and survived.

At least Talbot meant her no harm.

“There’s a small pouch—the green one—it holds a mixture of herbs. ’Tis good for pain or fever.” She nodded when he picked it out of the pile on the cloak. “You must steep it in hot water.”

He wavered as he rose to his feet, and his eyes closed for a moment as though his head pained him. “You should take some, as well,” she added.

Talbot set both knives to heat in the fire, then took up the cup and a bowl and left the cave. Catrin stared at the flames leaping merrily before her and tried not to worry as she considered what Talbot must do. She had removed arrows from hardened warriors, some of whom had screamed worse than a woman in childbirth. And though she prided herself upon her control, her strength of will, she had no idea whether she could withstand Talbot’s surgery without shaming herself before him.

She feared such weakness more than the pain.

Talbot knelt beside her, startling her. “What should I do?” he asked.

“Add three pinches to the water, then stir it with the knife.”

The water hissed as he plunged the blade into the cup, and a bitter scent filled the air. Talbot wrinkled his nose, but wrapped his fingers about the mug for a moment. Still grimacing, he held up her head and brought the draft to her lips.

She swallowed the potion swiftly, grateful for even so foul a drink as this. ’Twould not take long before she began to feel the effects…

She wrapped her fingers about his brawny wrist when he lowered her to the floor. “Best if you wait to take some,” she cautioned. “It might make you sleep.”

“Will it make you sleep?” He set the cup aside and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. His fingers felt blessedly cool, hard yet gentle against her heated flesh, and his eyes glowed pale lavender against his tanned skin.

Never had he turned so tender—so pitying—a look her way. She wasn’t sure she cared for the way it made her feel.

“Perhaps,” she whispered. His pulse beat strong and sure beneath her fingertips, making her more aware of his nearness, his size. She opened her hand and released him. “It matters naught—just do what you must.”

The light went out of his eyes at her tone and he turned away, leaving her bereft. She rested her head on her arm and watched Talbot’s preparations. Mayhap the potion had affected her after all, for a strange, calm sensation seemed to flow through her body.

The firelight shimmered upon Talbot’s golden hair and threw the angles of his face into sharp relief. When had he become so appealing? She’d always known he was handsome—she wasn’t blind—but something about him had changed.

Or perhaps she had changed. The potion blurred her mind, ’twas all. Never had she taken it when fevered… Mayhap it had addled her brain.

“The needle will do no good if I cannot thread it,” he muttered in Welsh. “Finally,” he cried, his voice rich with satisfaction.

“What did you say?” She frowned. Had he spoken to her in Welsh before?

“I said…”

“Nay.” Her lips curled carefully about the word, slow to respond. “Have you been speaking Welsh?”

“I have.” He knelt beside her. “Does it matter?”

“Didn’t know you could.” When he reached out to push her hair away from her face she leaned into his stroking hand like a cat.

His gaze met hers. Amusement lit the depths of his eyes, their color darkened to indigo. “There’s much you don’t know about me.” He eased her over onto her stomach and helped her rest her face on her folded arms.

Catrin fought the shadows taking hold of her mind, but the battle was nearly lost. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted. “Can’t think. This never happened to me…” Warm and relaxed, she sank further into the comforting darkness and thought no more.

Nicholas sent up a prayer of thanks as he watched her slide into sleep. He’d feared she might lay there, awake and watchful, while he sliced away at her flesh—finding fault with everything he did, no doubt. As it was, he felt a fool. A knight—a former mercenary, by God—who had done his best to skewer the enemy at every turn, hesitant to use a knife to save another’s life.

He had to work swiftly, for he’d no notion how long she might sleep. His fingers felt clumsy as he struggled to knot the thread. Vision gone blurry once more, he closed his eyes and willed himself to stillness. If his hands didn’t stop shaking, he’d do her more harm than good.

Feeling somewhat better, he took up the cup and returned to the stream. It was full dark now. A crescent moon hovered over the horizon, playing amongst the clouds scudding across the sky. Somewhere in the forest an owl hooted, perfect accompaniment to the howl of the rising wind.

’Twas a night made for magic; he hoped ’twould help him in his labors. He knelt beside the spring and slaked his thirst, then scooped water over his aching head. The shocking cold helped clear his senses. Casting a last look around, he went back to the cave.

Catrin slept on undisturbed while he built up the fire and prepared his meager supplies. Idris remained against the far wall where Nicholas had placed him, his gaze fixed with steadfast devotion upon his mistress. Nicholas shifted the torch to a better spot, then settled down at Catrin’s side.

He could delay no longer.

He eased off her cloak, slipping the fabric over the broken-off arrows before turning his attention to the laces on each side of her bliaut. Even after he loosened them, he couldn’t remove her gown, so he cut a neat slit down the back. ’Twas ruined anyway, but he tried to preserve it enough for decency’s sake. Her undertunic laced up the back, simple enough to roll down over her arms to her waist.

When he loosened her chemise and pushed it aside, still another layer of fabric covered her from armpit to waist. Now he understood why her wounds had not bled freely; this garment—whatever it was—was wrapped so tight, it acted as a bandage.

“Thank God you’re not awake,” he murmured as he reached beneath her in search of the fastenings. “Please stay that way.” A twist of his hand and he found the knot and loosened it

Soft, yielding flesh sprang free as he tugged the stiff material apart.

If she woke now, he was a dead man.

His fingers brushed against an ample pair of breasts. He grinned. Never would he have imagined that such bounty lay beneath her modest gown.

Enough! he censured his unruly mind. He was no green boy, to be set off by a bosom, no matter how impressive. Frowning, he turned his attention to working the binding over the arrow shafts.

The garment had likely saved Catrin’s life, for the stiff fabric had kept the arrows from sinking too deep. And despite the rusty streaks of blood that marred the smooth ivory skin of her back, the wounds had bled little.

One arrow tip lay half-buried in her flesh, its barbs still exposed—a simple matter to remove. The other two, unfortunately, were embedded to the shaft. He’d have to cut them free.

Red streaks ran from the crusted wounds, and the flesh around the crudely molded arrowheads felt hot and swollen. Nicholas drew the cloak up over her and sat back upon his heels, cudgeling his scrambled brain for any knowledge he could use.

There had been an incident in the Holy Land. Though he’d been little more than a lad, he had never forgotten it. A Saracen healer of great renown had traveled with them for a time, bartering his medical skills in return for their protection. Nicholas had watched, fascinated, as he removed a deeply embedded crossbow quarrel from a soldier’s back, a man who survived to die in an angry whore’s bed not six months later, he recalled wryly.

What had the healer done?

The Saracen had washed his hands, the knife and the injury, then passed the knife and needle through a flame before he used them. Nicholas had never seen any barber or chirurgeon do that before or since. The bandages had been clean, as well, he recalled, the white fabric a startling contrast to the victim’s sun-browned skin. And after cutting the arrow loose, the healer allowed the wound to bleed freely before he sewed it closed, applied an unguent and bandaged it.

Though Nicholas had no salve to soothe Catrin’s wounds, the rest he could manage. His spirits lighter, he hacked a wide strip from the hem of Catrin’s chemise and tore it into strips. He set the bowl of water beside the fire to warm, then took the knives outside and scrubbed them—and his hands—as best he could in the icy stream.

When he returned to the cave he plunged both knives blade-deep into the glowing coals, pausing a moment with hands outstretched to the fire’s warmth while he reviewed his memories yet again. But he remembered nothing more.

A sheen of sweat dampened Catrin’s brow, and the flush upon her face owed little to the fire’s heat. She hadn’t moved since he’d loosened her clothing. He’d get no better chance than this.

But she stirred when he folded back the cloak and began to wash the area around the arrows, her low-voiced moan sending a chill up his spine. What if she struggled once he cut her? He had worries enough without having to wrestle a pain-maddened woman into submission. Hesitating but a moment, he bound her wrists together with a lace from her gown.

If that didn’t work, he could always kneel on her.

Nicholas drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, readying himself in the same way he would prepare for battle. Eyes closed, he concentrated until a sense of calm flowed through him. Breathing deeply again, he snatched Catrin’s eating knife from the fire and set to work.

The shallowly embedded arrow popped free with but a nudge of the blade, leaving a faint trail of blood in its wake. Should he make the wound bleed more? Could he halt the flow once it began?

If only he knew what in God’s name he was doing!

If cleanliness had been the key to the Saracen’s success, he’d follow its dictates completely. Muttering a plea to the Virgin, he pressed on the cut until a bright trickle oozed forth to wash out the wound.

Lower lip gripped tight between his teeth, Nicholas bent closer to Catrin’s back and slipped the slim blade into her flesh next to the shaft. “Don’t move,” he muttered, pushing the knife deeper despite the way her back tensed.

Blood spurted free and ran in a rivulet over her ribs. When he pressed a wad of fabric against her to stanch the flow, she arched her back and screamed.

“Stop, Catrin,” he said. “You must not move.” She continued to squirm, so he pinned her down and swiftly extended the cut. He tried to work the arrow loose, but ’twas difficult to grasp the short, slick shaft—he’d cut off too much, leaving scarcely enough to grab hold of.

Catrin continued to writhe beneath him, mumbling and moaning as he fought to remove the arrow. Her struggles he could deal with, but to hear her distress…He snatched up one of his leather gauntlets and stuffed it between her teeth.

The arrowhead ground against bone, feeling much the same as ramming a blade into someone’s gullet. Cursing, Nicholas took up the knife once more and, still tugging at the shaft, widened the cut until the arrowhead broke free.

He blotted away the worst of the blood and pressed on the cut as he heated the needle in the flames, nearly scorching his fingers in the process. When he turned back to Catrin he found her staring at him, her eyes awash with tears. But he saw no recognition there, only anger and pain.

’Twas just as well she didn’t recognize him—her opinion of him had been low enough before the day’s events. Christ only knew what she’d think of him after this.

It mattered not, so long as she survived.

Squinting, he focused his still-blurry gaze upon the oozing wound. “Pretend ’tis a shirt,” he ordered himself as he stabbed the needle into Catrin’s flesh. She gave a muffled shriek. “Not bloody likely.”

He set the stitches with mechanical precision, doing his best to ignore the way she flinched with each jab of the needle. By the time he finished he was nearly sitting on her legs to hold her down, and still she squirmed beneath him.

She must have the strength of a warrior to put up such a struggle. And he could well imagine the litany of abuse she called down upon him. At least he couldn’t understand any of it.

Still sprawled over her, he made short work of removing the third arrow. Hands shaking, he wet a rag in the bowl of water and swabbed away the last of the blood. The warm cloth seemed to soothe her, and she ceased her struggles.

He ventured a glance at her face; eyes closed, mouth silent, she seemed to have finally reached the end of her endurance. He made swift work of bandaging the cuts, then tugged her shift and tunic up over her back with a sigh of relief.

Legs shaking, Nicholas went to check on Idris. The dog slept, apparently resting comfortably despite his injuries. He decided to leave him thus till morning.

His own wound could be left till then, as well, but he had to get out of his hauberk. Having slept in it before, he knew he’d regret doing so again. He bent at the waist and tugged the neckline over his head to allow the weight of the mail to pull it off.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. Arm aflame, head reeling, Nicholas pitched forward onto his hauberk and knew no more.




Chapter Six (#ulink_64b79b50-5d42-5c1a-b551-796d584160b2)


Bryn Du, Northern Wales

Lord Steffan ap Rhys jerked the bedcovers up over his shoulders and burrowed his head beneath the pile of bolsters, but the pounding at his door did not cease. He poked at the woman sprawled beside him. “Answer that, you lazy bitch.”

The slut moaned, rolled over and slid her leg over his hips as she edged closer to him. “Get up,” he snarled, grabbing her by the leg and thrusting her aside. Lips curled in a frown, he shoved the blankets away and climbed from the bed.

A slap on her fleshy buttocks worked well enough to move her off the mattress. “Why are you still here?” He snatched up her gown and threw it at her. Judging from the leisurely way she dressed, his displeasure didn’t disturb her one whit. He’d teach her better next time, he vowed, blood heating at the thought. “Answer the door on your way out.”

She tossed her tangled hair over her shoulder and sent him a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, milord.” Hips swaying, she ambled across the room, then spun about to face him. Her avid gaze caressed his body, lingering on his engorged manhood. “Certain ye want me to leave just yet?”

Did she count herself responsible for this, his usual morning state? Witless bitch! He stepped into his chausses and pulled them up. “Do as I said and go about your duties,” he snarled.

Jerking the door open, she flounced past Huw, the captain of the guard.

“There’s a fine piece,” Huw said as he entered the chamber and shut the door behind him.

“You’re welcome to her.” Steffan slipped into his shirt. “She hasn’t a brain in her head, but she’s skilled enough between the sheets.”

Huw smirked. “She don’t need a brain for what I have in mind. So long’s she’s got the right parts, she’ll suit me fine.”

“I assume you’ve a reason for dragging me from my bed. And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself, you fool—I’ll not tolerate your arrogance for long.” Despite his displeasure, Steffan kept his tone bland, but something in his voice must have alerted the other man. Huw’s expression grew serious and he straightened, assuming the mien of subservience.

Steffan permitted himself a faint smile.

“That fellow Ralph is here, milord, with two of his men.” Huw spoke in a flat tone quite unlike his previous jocularity. “Says he’s got something for you.”

“Indeed.” Being forced from his bed at dawn just might have merit after all. “Bring them to me.” He paused, waiting until Huw was ready to go out the door. “Bring me bread and wine, as well.”

That order did not sit well upon him, Steffan noted as Huw fled the room.

’Twas clearly time to show him who was master here.

Steffan scratched at his chest and savored the successful completion of his latest strategy. He’d tried three times to bring Catrin within his grasp, and three times he’d failed.

This time he would succeed.

Since subtlety hadn’t worked in the past, brute force might—nay, would—grant him a full measure of success. Rumor had it that the scum he’d hired were the best.

Catrin would be within his grasp soon.

He did hope they hadn’t killed her. There were so many experiences he wished to share with his dear cousin before she died.

The mere thought cheered him immensely.

He’d had little time to put his plan into motion, but the idea had been stewing in his mind for months—ever since his faithless cousin Gillian had escaped him. He rubbed the back of his head. It had taken nearly that long for the lump Gillian had dealt him to disappear. But time had not eased his anger at her perfidy, nor Catrin’s part in it.

Gillian stood beyond his reach for the moment.

But Catrin…

He settled into the commodious seat of a thronelike chair, fingers gripping the carved armrests. By Christ’s bones, he could scarcely wait to get his hands upon the traitorous bitch.

A racket at the door brought his pleasant dreams to a halt. Huw shouldered his way into the chamber, tray in hand, clearly unhappy with the menial chore. Three men followed him into the room.

“Leave that here and get out,” Steffan told him.

Once Huw left, Steffan lounged back into the cushions and gazed at the men. They appeared nervous—not a good sign. However, Ralph stepped forward easily enough at Steffan’s signal.

“You’ve something for me, Ralph?” He could scarcely contain his anticipation.

Ralph took a rough cloth bag from one of the men, opened it and pulled out a woman’s bliaut.

“What is this?”

“’Tis one of your lady’s gowns, milord.” Ralph removed another from the sack and held it out. “There’s two of them.”

“And what does this mean?” Despite his mounting frustration, Steffan ignored Ralph’s offering and sipped at his wine as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “I told you to bring me the woman, not her clothes.”

Ralph flung the gowns to the floor. “Would you rather we’d carried her lifeless body through your bailey for all to see?”

Outraged by the man’s gall, Steffan leapt to his feet. “I wanted her alive, you fool!” He snatched a bliaut off the floor and tore it in two. Perhaps there was still a chance…He thrust the garment toward Ralph. “This proves nothing. It could belong to anyone.” Flinging the fabric aside, he snarled, “Bring Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd to me.”

Though Ralph stood his ground, it appeared his courage had fled, for he wouldn’t meet Steffan’s eyes. “It couldn’t be helped, milord. In the thick of battle she took an arrow—a couple of arrows—in the back.” The others nodded agreement. “It’d be more’n our lives’re worth to carry her in here like that.” His face grew pale. “What if that hell-spawned brother of hers found out? All the gold in the world couldn’t save us from the Dragon!”

Ready to howl his frustration, Steffan dragged his hands through his hair. “What must I do to get anything done properly? I’d wager you never even saw the bitch.” He swept his arm across the table, sending food and wine flying against the wall with a satisfying crash. “I didn’t pay you to spend the night in some tavern—warm and lazy in your doxy’s arms.”

Ralph’s cohorts sidled toward the door. “Get back here,” Steffan demanded. “I didn’t tell you you could leave.” They stopped in their tracks, legs aquiver. “Sniveling cowards,” he muttered, turning to Ralph. “Well?”

“Truth to tell, milord, you haven’t paid us yet.” Ralph smiled—smirked, more like. Steffan’s hands itched at the provocation, but he restrained himself. He wasn’t done with the man quite yet. “But you should,” Ralph continued. “Indeed, milord, though we couldn’t capture the lady like you wanted, we got the job done. She’ll ne’er cause you trouble again.”

One of the others stepped forward, much to Steffan’s surprise. “Aye, milord. Deader than a haddock, she is. Seen it wi’ me own eyes. Weren’t no help fer it, sir—she attacked us.” He hitched up his breeches and nodded. “Right fearsome bitch, weren’t she, Ralph?”

Blood afire, Steffan lunged forward and struck him across the face, knocking him to the floor. “How dare you speak so of a noble lady?” ’Twas his right to speak of her however he wished—she was his kin and his equal. But these scum…

“See here, milord—” Ralph said.

“Get out, all of you!”

Ralph drew himself up and stood his ground. “You owe us, milord. ’Tain’t our fault things didn’t go the way you planned. Lady Catrin is dead—go see for yourself if you don’t believe us. ‘Course, by now the wolves’ve likely been at her, but what can ye do? ’Tis too risky for us to be trottin’ through the woods wi’ a dead noble-woman. By the rood, we’d be dead men ourselves fer that.”

Steffan stared at Ralph’s misshapen hands. “Been caught at mischief before, I see.”

Ralph held up his hand and wiggled his three remaining fingers. “I have. And that’s why I don’t plan on getting caught again. Be my neck, the next time.” He motioned his man up off the floor. “We killed her, ’tis true, but we lost eight men ourselves. You can’t expect us to take a loss like that for nothin’. We came for our money, and we aim to get it.”

He’d had enough of these fools. “You’ll get nothing from me until you can prove to me that she’s dead—or bring her to me alive. I’ll not accept that she’s gone until I see her corpse for myself. I’ll pay you then, and not a moment sooner.”

Cursing, Ralph snatched the gowns off the floor and stuffed them in the sack. “Come along, lads. ’Tis plain his lordship’s in a right foul mood. Be wasting our time trying to make him see sense.” He slung the sack over his shoulder. “You know how to find me, milord, should you change your mind.” Turning on his heel, he led his men out the door.

Steffan stomped out after them and paused on the landing. “Huw,” he yelled once they’d started down the steps. The soldier crossed the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Get up here.”

Looking much put-upon, Huw climbed up to join him at a leisurely pace. “Now what, milord?”

Though tempted to knock Huw back down the stairs for his insolence, instead Steffan motioned him closer. “Find a man you can trust and send him to follow those jackals,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know where they go and who they speak to—as soon as possible.”

“Aye, milord.” Huw sent him a mocking salute as he left.

Steffan lingered at the railing and watched his impertinent servant’s slow descent, vowing to light a fire under him at the next opportunity. For the moment he needed Huw, but another chance would present itself soon, no doubt, since Huw irritated him with annoying regularity. “Escort those vermin from the keep,” he called after him. “Don’t let them in again until they bring me what I need.”

Waving his acknowledgment, Huw fell into step behind the three men as they left the hall.

More inept bandits he’d never seen! Steffan stormed into his chamber and slammed the door.

It seemed that no one he hired ever did an adequate job. Something was always lacking, some vital spark necessary to ensure the success of his ventures.

Perhaps he should take care of his concerns himself. He couldn’t depend upon anyone—his schemes always ended up in ruins.

Look at this situation! He snatched the wineskin off the floor and drank deeply as he considered how it had gone wrong. Such a simple plan, to abduct Catrin from her meager guard.

He’d nearly shouted with joy when his spy at Gwal Draig sent word that Catrin had set out for l’Eau Clair with so little protection. No one there knew she was coming, and Ian wasn’t expected home for another week, at least. Plenty of time to make her pay for the loss of Gillian and l’Eau Clair.

If only Catrin had minded her own business he would be lord and master of l’Eau Clair now, a powerful Marcher lord. His noble cousin Llywelyn—even King John of England himself—would have danced to his tune. The beautiful Lady Gillian would be his bride, although that didn’t seem such a prize now that he’d come to know her better.

Still, to hold l’Eau Clair within his grasp would be more than sufficient to compensate for her willfulness.

And he’d have shown her who was master soon enough.

Catrin had ruined it all with her concern for Gillian. “I’ve heard that my dear cousin has come to stay with you,” she’d said after Huw had stolen Gillian from her own keep and brought her to Bryn Du. “You must let me visit her.”

He’d had no choice but to allow Catrin to see Gillian, not without rousing her suspicions. He’d known Catrin was a bold, daring wench, but he’d never have suspected her to be in league with Rannulf FitzClifford. She hated Normans!

“She is ill, Steffan—let me bring a physician to examine her,” she’d offered.

Ill! The perfidious bitch wasn’t ill.

She was pregnant with another man’s child.

He’d have taken Gillian to wife as soon as she’d been rid of her bastard.

Indeed, he’d planned to free her of the Norman whelp sullying her womb as soon as possible.

But Catrin’s “physician” had been Gillian’s lover, FitzClifford. They’d wrested her from him and spirited her away from Bryn Du. His dear kinswoman Catrin, allied with the Normans to spoil his plans.

Nay, his destiny.

With their royal blood combined, he and Gillian would have been equal to—nay, superior to—anyone in Wales.

Even Prince Llywelyn himself.

Catrin had done him ill so often, she could never make it up to him. Could he but get her into his grasp, however, he’d derive some recompense.

And by Christ, he’d enjoy it!

Catrin still lived, he could feel it. He’d know, somehow, if she were gone.

And if those fools could not bring her to him, he’d go out and find her himself.



Ralph and his men pushed their scraggly mounts until Bryn Du was little more than a blur against the sky. He couldn’t help but yearn for the smooth-gaited steed he’d taken from the Norman knight. Every bone-jarring jolt of the mount beneath him served to remind him how unprofitable this venture had proven thus far. Lord Steffan wouldn’t pay them; he’d seen that clear as day in the arrogant bastard’s face. And since it wasn’t easy to dispose of stolen goods, they weren’t likely to get anywhere near the real value of the items.

They stopped alongside a rushing stream. Ralph dismounted and stood for a moment with head bent, pondering what to do. It wouldn’t do to show a mite of weakness, else he’d be dead in no time.

“What do we do now?” Will asked. He hopped down from the saddle with surprising vigor considering how hard Lord Steffan had hit him. “I say we go back and try for the money again,” he added, fingers caressing the knife at his waist. “I’d like to sink my blade into that strutting cock.”

“Get yourself killed, more like,” Ralph told him. He bent and scooped water over his head—all he could do to cool his anger for now. “Here, Will, come stick your head in the water—your nose is still dripping blood. Mayhap the cold’ll put some sense in your noggin.”

Diccon knelt beside them, pausing to drink before offering his opinion. “I’d like to make that weasel pay. All the work we did, and he won’t pay.” He shook his head. “Can’t trust no one.”

Ralph settled back against a tree and nibbled on a dry crust while Diccon and Will bandied plots back and forth. ’Twas best to let them go on until they ran out of ideas—it wouldn’t take long. It was comfortable here in the forest, and he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

A rustling in the bushes caught his attention. Will and Diccon bickered on, their voices masking his movements as he rose and slipped into the brush.

The spy never had a chance to cry out. Ralph wrapped his arm about the young man’s neck and stuffed a cloth into his mouth, then lashed his wrists together with a piece of rope.

Ralph dragged the youth by the tunic through the underbrush and shoved him to the ground at Will’s feet.

“Where did he come from?” Diccon asked as he whipped his dagger from his belt.

“Found him in the bushes there.” Ralph removed his prisoner’s knife from its scabbard and pointed the blade toward the path they’d made through the brush. “Spying on us. Will, go find his horse—and have a care, in case he brought company.”

Ralph nudged the youth onto his back and twitched out the gag. Eyes fixed upon Ralph’s misshapen hand, he gulped for breath. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, voice faint.

“Depends on why you were watching us. Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me?” Ralph grinned in a friendly manner, though he kept the dagger in plain sight.

“My—my name’s Prys. I’m nobody important,” he stammered. “A poor farmer—”

Ralph turned Prys’s hands palm up. No farmer had hands that pale and soft. “I doubt it.” At the sound of muffled hoofbeats he turned and watched Will lead a saddled horse into the clearing. “And no farmer would own so fine a beast.”

Now that he thought about it, Ralph could see that his captive’s clothing looked like livery. He pressed the knife against Prys’s throat. “Did you follow us from Bryn Du?” he growled.

Prys trembled, but made no reply.

Ralph shoved the blade harder, until blood seeped from the shallow cut. “Answer me.”

“Huw said to follow you,” Prys replied quickly. “See where you went. Lord Steff—” The word ended in a croak. Ralph eased up on the blade and Prys tried again. “Wants to know where the woman is.”

Ralph moved the knife and sat back on his heels, allowing Prys to wriggle away from him. “I know nothing else, I swear! I only came because Huw made me. Let me join you,” he pleaded. “I can’t go back now. They’ll kill me.”

Will stepped closer. “’Tis a good idea, Ralph. We need more men.”

“Aye, Ralph,” Diccon piped up. “Lord Steffan’d never know. ‘Sides, he owes us—since he won’t give us our money, we’ll take his servant.”

Hope brightened Prys’s wan face, but Ralph refused to be swayed. Leaning forward, he grasped the youth by the shoulder. “Sorry, lad,” he said as he plunged the dagger to the hilt

“Ralph,” Will gasped, mouth flapping. “What did you do that for?”

“Are you mad?” Ralph asked. He wiped the blade against Prys’s tunic, then stood and dragged the body into the bushes. “What if he went back to Bryn Du once he knew what really happened to the woman? Could be that Lord Steffan ordered him to find a way to join our band. ’Tisn’t a risk I wanted to take.”

He’d had enough of this, and these fools. “Come on—time to go. We’ve lingered here too long.” His movements jerky, he untied his horse and swung into the saddle, then snatched the reins of Prys’s mount from Will’s grasp. “This has been nothin’ but trouble from the start,” he said with disgust. “Least we’ve got the loot from the ambush. Should be worth somethin’.”

Not bothering to wait until Diccon and Will mounted up, Ralph urged the horses along. “On to Chester. I never want to see this benighted place again.”




Chapter Seven (#ulink_24c8adee-bd16-531f-809b-31c166bd0b71)


Saint Winifred save her—vermin had nested in her mouth. Catrin tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat felt dry as dust, and it seemed her tongue had swollen to at least twice its usual size.

Fiery heat scorched her side and imps stabbed at her with tiny pitchforks.

Had she passed on to hell?

Her wrists were bound. When had that happened? The last she recalled she’d been draped over a bony nag, arguing with someone. Stormy violet eyes, smooth, deep voice with a sardonic edge…’Twas Nicholas Talbot.

Why did it have to be him?

And how did he dare tie her up?

She needed water so badly she’d beg if she had to, though it galled her to ask Talbot for anything. Mentally elbowing her pride out of her way, she forced out the words.

“Talbot.” Her voice sounded little more than a hiss. “Talbot,” she repeated. Why didn’t he answer?

Her back screaming agony, she turned her face toward the fire. All she could see of him was a boot-clad foot protruding from a filthy cloak. “Damn you, Talbot. Wake up.”

She shifted her legs until she connected with something soft, eliciting a moan. Must have been his head. Despite her pain, she smiled.

“Wake up, you Norman idiot.” Her voice grew stronger with every word. She nudged him again. “Lazy fool.” A bead of sweat ran down her nose and plopped onto her sleeve. Though she tried, she couldn’t raise her bound hands enough to wipe her face.

“Talbot!”

A stream of curses, interspersed with moans and grunts, told of her success.

“Unless you’d like me to stuff that glove down your throat again, be silent.” Talbot sat up and faced her. Pale and whisker-stubbled, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, he still looked far better to her than any man had a right to.

Obviously her brain had been affected, too.

He squatted beside the fire pit and stirred up the coals. “Are you mad?” she asked as he piled on more wood. “It’s hotter than hell itself in here.”

“It only seems that way to you—you have a fever.” He held his hands out to the growing flames. “I’m so cold I doubt I’ll ever feel warm again.” His gaze rested upon her face. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Not since we stopped by the stream.” His earlier words came back to her. “What did you mean, stuff a glove in my mouth again?”

“You screeched something fierce last night. Yon beast—” he pointed to Idris “—didn’t care for it. Nor did I.” He held up his glove, teeth marks still visible in the battered leather. His smile, so fleeting she almost missed it, sent a strange feeling to lodge in the pit of her stomach. “’Twas the only way to quiet you—other than kissing you. But it wasn’t the right time for that, alas,” he added, amusement lighting his eyes in contrast to his solemn tone.

“Norman swine!” Her blood nigh boiled. “How I wish I could give you what you deserve.” She held up her wrists. “And what is your reason for this?”

“’Twas necessary.” He busied himself with something beside the fire. “You moved so much when I cut the arrows from your back, I feared you’d do yourself further harm.”

Now she knew why she hurt so much! But other than sore muscles from journeying slung over a horse like a sack of meal, only her back pained her. She’d suffered worse in the past—and survived.

However, that knowledge did nothing to ease her pain. Fire raged through her blood, radiating out from the wounds.

She hoped Talbot didn’t intend to go on today.

But the least he could do was free her. “You do intend to untie me, I trust.” A strange hissing distracted her from haranguing him further. She looked up and bit back a cry.

Stripped to the waist, Talbot tended to his own injury. His upper arm looked swollen, and blood seeped from around the hacked-off arrow.

“Why didn’t you care for your own wound?” She focused her curious gaze upon his broad shoulders and wellmuscled chest. Clearly Nicholas Talbot was no stranger to pain. Several scars marred the smooth, tanned flesh of his torso. The two on his left shoulder looked to have been severe.

Mayhap he considered his present injury a mere trifle.

He watched her while he prodded at his arm. “After I finished wrestling with you, I wanted nothing more than to rest. It feels no worse now than it did then,” he added with a shrug. “Compared to your back, ’tis naught.”

Unwilling to bear the weight of his scrutiny, Catrin glanced away. She did not believe him, for she’d seen how his lips tightened when he poked at the shaft protruding from his arm.

Her heart sank further within her chest. How much suffering had she caused through yesterday’s foolhardiness?

He shouldn’t have ignored his own needs to tend to hers.

She rested her cheek on her folded arms and settled her gaze on his face once more. “What are you going to do?”

Talbot wasted no time with words; breathing deep, he pushed the shaft through his arm.

Now she understood why she’d left teeth marks in the glove—and why her throat felt so raw. Sweat beaded on the taut planes of his face, but he made no sound. She bit at her lip to stifle her own cry when the arrowhead broke through his flesh in a gush of blood.

He flung the arrow aside and mopped at the blood dripping from his arm. His lips twisted into a rueful grin. “That’s a relief,” he said, wiping his brow against his good arm.

The urge to smile in return died a swift death as she considered her own lack of control. “You didn’t even need a glove,” she muttered. Though he could not know it, the loathing in her voice was directed at herself, not him.

He tied a scrap of cloth about his arm, then slid closer. “This is but a trifle compared to your wound.” He reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm.

“Don’t patronize me.” She jerked away from the comforting warmth of his hand, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in her back. “Just untie me, if you please.”

That he dared to touch her should anger her. But ’twas her own reaction to him that fired her temper.

She liked the way it felt—and she should not.

Her gaze lowered, Catrin held out her wrists. The cool steel slipped between them, the well-honed blade slicing through the bonds in an instant. As soon as she was free she curled her hands close to her body to hide how they trembled.

Talbot touched her face again. “Be still. You’ve blood on your cheek.” His fingertips stroked along her cheekbone, then lingered there to hold her captive. With a sigh he bent so near that his breath feathered across her lips. “You believe I mock you?” He sat back and released her, then raised her hand to a large, puckered scar to the left of his collarbone and pressed her palm to the mark. “You’d have enjoyed how I screeched when I got this.”

Did he think her so heartless?

Was she?

’Twas possible, but…“Nay, milord. I take no pleasure from another’s pain.”

“Not even mine?” Amusement lit his eyes, and she felt laughter rumble beneath her hand. “You cannot deny your delight when that beast—” he nodded toward Idris “—pinned me to the muddy ground of l’Eau Clair bailey, his teeth at my throat.”

“’Twas your pride he hurt, nothing more. God knows you’ve an abundance of it”

As did she.

And she could not deny that a blow to her pride stung at least as much as a wound to her body.

The strong beat of his heart beneath her fingers jolted her. His warm skin felt far too good against her own. Closing her eyes to shut out his face, she tried to slip her hand free, but Talbot held it fast.

Did he seek to torment her?

Or did he enjoy her touch, as well?

“Aye, ’twas my pride he hurt, nothing more,” he said, his voice soft, beguiling her to watch him yet again. “Even as he held me pinned to the ground, I could appreciate your control over him. In that moment, you might have held my life in your hands.” His eyes darkened. “Is it a game you play, to show your disdain for men?” His fingers pressed hers tight against his heart and his gaze held hers captive. “Or is that honor mine alone?”

She wished she could look away, but she refused to permit herself that act of cowardice.

Yet she could not still her tongue. “You flatter yourself.” She felt his pulse quicken.

“Do I? Since we first met you’ve drawn my attention, Catrin. Whether you meant to or not—for good or ill.”

“I don’t even like you,” she whispered. Her own heart thrummed faster—in fear?

“Nor I you.” Talbot bent close, until his lips brushed her cheek.

His touch caused a strange pang in her stomach. Her mouth dry, she forced her eyes closed to free herself from his gaze.

It made no difference.

If she never saw him again, his face would remain etched upon her mind.

Nicholas eased her hand from his chest and rested it beside her flushed cheek. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself forcing his attentions upon her, her injuries be damned. With a curse, he wrenched his gaze from Catrin’s delicate features and sought to slow his racing heart.

He rose to his feet and turned away from her, lest his body betray him. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “After I take care of the dog, I’ll go out and find food.”

“I’m thirsty,” she replied, looking as if food mattered not a whit

Nicholas all but gnashed his teeth as a familiar tide of frustration swept over him.

The woman had pride enough for God Himself!

’Twas a stupid question he’d asked, at any rate. Since asking her anything had never earned him an answer, he’d do better to simply care for her as he would any stranger, and save himself the aggravation of treating her as though there had ever been—or ever could be—anything more between them.

He tightened the bandage about his arm, the twinge of pain a welcome distraction from the fire raging through his blood, and hastened from the cave.

For once he savored the chill bite of the air against his sweaty chest. He filled the dishes at the stream, then immersed his head in the icy water. His skull felt as if it had been clubbed with a battering ram, although his vision remained clear this morning.

When he returned to the cave, he mixed more of Catrin’s medicinal powder with the water in the cup. She lay sprawled on her stomach as he’d left her, her head resting upon her folded arms, her eyes closed. He placed his hand on her shoulder lest he startle her, waiting until she opened her eyes before raising her from the pallet and bringing the cup to her lips.





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