Читать книгу Innocent's Champion - Meriel Fuller - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Bracing her body against the thick stone, Matilda reached up to extract another arrow from the narrow bag on her back. Adrenaline rattled through her veins; her hands shook so much she was finding it difficult to shoot straight. Her trembling limbs skewed her aim. But every time she peered around the wall, there seemed to be more men down there! The gang’s reinforcements had obviously arrived, armed with swords and short daggers, big and fearsome looking, some even wearing armour that they no doubt had filched from somewhere. For one tiny moment, she considered the possibility of running, of running and hiding with her sister. But the thought of cowering behind a tree trunk, waiting for the thugs to finally catch up with them, seemed a far worse situation than the one she was in right now, tackling the problem head-on. Fine, she might lose, but at least she had tried.

She had missed that last shot, but he wouldn’t be so lucky next time, that huge ruffian who’d appeared from nowhere, with his wild thatch of blond hair. Drawing air deep into her lungs, Matilda fought to control her breathing, the reckless thump in her chest. How many times had she practised, how many times had she drawn back the gut string and sighted an arrow on the target since her brother, Thomas, had given her this bow? But her days and days of endless practising had not prepared her for the real thing. How could she have known that her heart would beat in panic; that her knees would weaken and quiver with nerves at the sight of their household knights falling to the ground; that her fingers would shake uncontrollably as she fitted the arrow up to the bowstring? Her own cowardice conspired against her. Gritting her teeth, she prayed that Katherine had found a good hiding place.

Lifting the bow, she set the arrow in a horizontal line from the edge of her ear, training the point down into the chaotic scene of fighting below, moving her shoulder fractionally to pinpoint an enemy target. The arrow shaft was warm against her cheek.

‘You there! Stop!’ The harsh command hit her like a blow, a deep guttural voice slicing through the air.

In shock, she jolted forwards, the loosened arrow dropping, bouncing down across the tumble of stones to the deep water below. She whirled around, aghast, horrified. A man was running towards her, advancing swiftly. She staggered back in fright, her feet snagging in the bunched train of her gown, heels clipping the low edge of stone. Her bow clattered down on the rickety steps. In a vain attempt to balance herself, her slim arms flew out, like the wings of an angel, scrabbling futilely at the sides of the window to prevent herself falling.

‘No!’ Matilda wailed, a terrified, drawn-out howl, as her body tipped backwards, toes losing contact with the rubble-strewn step. She had the briefest impression of sunlit hair, diamond eyes, of a cloak billowing out from broad shoulders as the man sped up towards her.

She fell.

Gathered skirts rippled around her slender form as she flew gracefully through the air, her cloak spreading like a vast wing behind her, before she smacked the cold water below with a sharp, outraged cry. The bag of arrows loosened from her shoulder, drifted off in the current of water, downstream.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Gilan cursed, turning and running back out of the tower. Momentarily blinded by the sun, all he had seen was the blurry outline of a figure poised to shoot, and the shining glint of the arrow. Shouting up, he had assumed the archer to be a man. But when the figure turned and screamed with high-pitched girlishness, he had realised his mistake. The archer was a woman.

Guilt flooded through him; he squashed it down as he vaulted the collapsed boundary wall. Man or woman, it didn’t change the fact that the archer had been determined to stick an arrow between his shoulder blades. Determined to kill him. He charged through the swaying grass at the edge of the river and waded in, eyes focused on the concentric circles of water where the maid had disappeared. Water soaked his boots, the dun-coloured wool of his chausses. Luckily, he chose not to wear plate armour on his legs, which would have weighed him down. Beneath the surface he could see blue cloth shimmering, swirling in the current, and the pale gleam of skin rising up. A neat head bobbed up in the warm, summer air, coughing and gasping, water sluicing across a sweet, heart-shaped face that shone like alabaster. Small hands flayed out, trying to float, to swim, before she sank again beneath the glittering water.

He propelled himself forwards, digging his arms down into the crystal-clear liquid, scooping his hands beneath the girl’s armpits and hauling up the spitting, screeching mass of femininity. The sound clashed in his ears, an ear-splitting caterwauling that made his brain ache. He winced as her screams crested over him, holding the maid’s lissom weight at arm’s length, wondering if she was ever going to stop. Coils of sable hair looped crazily on each side of her head, several silver pins threatening to dislodge; her dress and cloak clung to her like a second skin, emphasising the firm, delectable curve of her bosom, the narrow curve of her waist.

‘Let...go...of me!’ she spluttered, huge blue eyes scorched with fury. ‘You barbarian!’ She swung one bunched fist in his direction, her arm swinging woefully short of its intended destination. The gleam of his breastplate mocked her.

‘Stop this!’ he bellowed at her. The taut lines of his face were rigid, hard.

Hampered by great swathes of wet, sticky material, her arms flailed towards him, struck out at the tanned, handsome features, the grey-coloured eyes, as she wriggled violently, arching back against his hold.

‘Stop right now!’ he warned again, eyes darkening to smouldering pewter. ‘Otherwise I will drop you.’

Blood roared in her ears, blotting out his words. Oh, Lord, he’s going to kill me, Matilda thought, panic flooding her solar plexus. She had to get away from him! Thrashing about in his arms, churning her legs through the water as if she were running, she fought against the brute’s imprisoning grip. Who knew what this strong-armed bully had in store for her? Rape, or a knife in her side? She had no intention of finding out.

She lunged forwards, fear giving her strength. Her sharp fingernails made contact with one hard cheekbone, slicing across his skin. A single line of blood appeared, oozing down the shadowed cleft of his cheek.

‘Why, you little...’ Stunned by the maid’s temerity, unprepared for her attack, Gilan loosened his grip on the floundering, squirming woman.

He let her drop.

Watched as she sank below the surface once more, her screeching outrage silenced. So be it. Let the little spitfire learn her lesson the difficult way, he thought, arms crossed smugly across his breastplate. He would wait here until she ran out of breath, until she was forced to take in air. And he would be ready for her.

As the cool, limpid water closed over her head, Matilda held her breath, moving her arms in a wide arc in an attempt to swim away from him, underwater. But her extravagant gown, her cloak, with their yards and yards of fabric, dragged her down, the sodden material acting like lead weights on her legs, pulling at her feet, her hips, making any forward movement impossible. Her own clothes hobbled her. She wanted to weep at the sheer futility of her efforts.

Defeated, she drifted down, knees resting on the river’s stony bottom, the tiny, brilliant pebbles poking sharply into her shins. How long would he wait? A peculiar heat burned the lining of her lungs, eroding her capacity to breathe; through the clear water she could see the man’s legs encased in well-fitting chausses, brawny muscle roping his thighs, boots planted sturdily astride. He would grow bored soon, surely, and go away. The water flowed across her face and neck, soothing her skin, and her mind began to dance, strange flickering lights pulsing across the darkness of her inner mind.

‘God’s teeth!’ Gilan cursed, swiftly realising that the maid had no intention of surfacing again. He reached for her, big thumbs gouging into the soft flesh of her armpits as he hauled her up from the depths. ‘Do you truly want to drown?’ he shouted at her, his strong fingers gripping beneath her shoulders. What was the maid playing at?

Her body was limp, head hanging forwards so that it drooped towards his chest, her soaking hair dripping water across his breastplate. Her silver circlet tilted crazily, the net that secured the coils of her hair hanging down like limp lace, stuck to her ashen cheeks. ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake!’ he exclaimed, sweeping one hand beneath her knees so the length of her body was shoved up high against his chest. The faintest smell of lavender rose to his nostrils, the delicate scent of her wet skin. Her head lolled back crazily against his shoulder, loosened hair straggling down across the pleated fall of his cloak.

Sloshing towards the bank, the generous arc of her hem sweeping through the shallows, he carried the maid easily. Despite the amount of water absorbed by her clothes, she weighed nothing, fragile in his arms. Kneeling down carefully, he tipped her onto the bank, where the grass grew long and lush. He bent his head to her mouth, catching the flimsy shift of air against his cheek. So the chit was alive, in spite of her best efforts to drown herself.

Black lashes fanned down over pale cheeks, thick lashes spiked with delicate drops of water, diamonds clinging to velvet feathers. Her face was a delicate oval, devoid of any colour. A small sigh escaped her lips; she moved her head restlessly against the hot grass. Beside them, crickets clicked and whirred.

‘Come on,’ he ordered briskly, cupping his hand around one narrow shoulder, shaking her gently. Faced with the barely conscious maid, he felt awkward, at a loss as to how to treat her. He spent most of his time in the company of other soldiers, pitting his wits against the elements and the enemy. It was a harsh life, unforgiving, but infinitely preferable to lounging around at the royal courts, flirting with the ladies and eating sweetmeats.

But now, one of those ladies lay prone at his feet, her small-boned frame pillowed in the lush, verdant grass. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with her. She was of noble stock; her hair was elaborately styled and her clothes were of silk, intricately embroidered; expensive gemstones studded her jewelled belt. A couple of pearl buttons at her neck had come adrift; the gaping fabric exposed a frantic pulse beating against her throat: white skin, translucent, fragile. His eyes tracked down to her mouth, the beautiful full curve of her bottom lip, stained with a delicate rose colour. His senses jolted, a warm feeling curling across his midriff. He frowned.

‘Wake up!’ he said, louder this time. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ How had he even managed to become caught up in this mess? He should have ignored the shouts, turned his back on the situation. Henry would be along in a moment to see what was keeping him. He swallowed the thought that the maid was fortunate not to have been killed; if she hadn’t fallen, he would have run her through with his sword, thinking her to be a man. She was lucky to be alive.

Her eyelids fluttered open; she observed him hazily for a moment. Her eyes were blue, enormous in her oval face, the lilac-blue of forget-me-nots. Limpid eyes, stunning.

Desire surged through him. Shocked, he sat back abruptly on his heels, tamping down the lurch of pleasure, annoyed with himself, annoyed at his body’s response. With her hair dishevelled and her gown askew, the maid was a mess, with a shrewish tongue as well, if her reaction to him in the river was anything to go by. And yet his body had responded to her like a callow youth in the first flush of romance. He was at a loss to explain it.

Her gaze sharpened, turning to an expression of sheer terror, her pupils dilating in fright as she remembered where she was, who he was. She opened her mouth.

‘No!’ He held up his hands, palms flat. ‘No, please don’t scream. Not again. I told you I’m not going to hurt you!

Spine pressed back into lumpy ground, Matilda focused on the stern lines of the man’s face, the forbidding slash of his mouth, his tousled hair. He looked like a Viking of old, a barbarian who had waded in from the longships, raiding and ransacking everything in their path. An expanse of grey metal plate covered his huge chest; his arms were covered in flexible chain mail. Impenetrable eyes, the colour of rain-washed granite, bore into her.

Breath punched from her lungs in fear; she shook her head from side to side. ‘No, I...don’t...believe...you,’ she managed to stutter out. The cold stickiness of her clothes seeped into her bones. ‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’ Her voice rose, wobbling, on a wave of shrill hysteria.

To her surprise, the man lifted his chin and laughed. The sun caught the rich wheat colour of his hair, augmenting the vigorous strands to shining gold. ‘Believe me, if I was going to kill you, I would have done it by now.’

Well, that was reassuring. Lying prone and limp beneath his intimidating perusal, Matilda glared at him, chewing at her bottom lip, unsure. She needed to sit up, stand up and face him, eye to eye, but right at this moment, a debilitating weakness sapped her strength, made her muscles floppy. What was the matter with her?

‘What were you playing at, shooting at us like that?’ Kneeling at her side, the man spoke with the cool, modulated tones of the nobility, and his clothes, despite being travel-worn, were of good quality.

‘You attacked us!’ she hissed, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. Pressing her hands back into the grass, she struggled into a seated position. It was a mistake. With this hulk of a man right next to her, his rough-hewn features and exquisitely carved mouth were on a level with her own, too close! She shifted her hips, straining her body backwards to create a bigger space between them. His nearness unsettled her. ‘You attacked defenceless women, attacked our knights, our servants!’

‘Not me, not us.’ He shook his head, blond hair falling across his temple. The hood of his hauberk, which he wore beneath his breastplate, gathered in glittering metallic folds behind his head, emphasising the corded strength of his neck. ‘We heard the screams and came running. You’re fortunate that we did, otherwise something worse than falling in the river might have happened to you.’ His piercing grey eyes swept the length of her shuddering body, from her glossy silken hair, past her neat waist, to her diminutive feet in soft leather slippers peeking out from beneath her gown.

Matilda flushed, heated colour flooding her cheeks beneath his diamond stare. His eyes were like silver coins. She tilted her chin downwards, setting her mouth in a fixed stubborn line. The insinuation was unmistakable and she hated him for it. ‘It would never have come to that,’ she stated, trying to inject some confidence into her voice, drawing her spine up straight. ‘Someone would have stopped them, either our knights...or me.’

‘You?’ He tilted his head to one side, a small smile playing across his generous mouth. His tanned skin was flushed from the sun, emphasising the taut hollows beneath his high cheekbones. ‘But you were floundering in the river.’

‘Only because you made me fall!’ Her voice rang out with accusation. ‘You’re on my gown,’ she croaked out irritably, tugging at her skirts. ‘Can you move, please?’

Gilan looked down at his knees planted firmly in the expanse of blue, very wet, velvet silk. He didn’t move. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself? Most people would be thanking me, and my men, for what we did back there.’

‘You nearly drowned me, or have you forgotten?’ She folded her arms high across her chest, trying to keep her shivers hidden from his predatory gaze.

He quirked one eyebrow at her. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but from the way you lurched back from my hold, I think you were trying to drown yourself.’

‘I thought you were one of them,’ she mumbled, plucking at a loose silver thread that had come adrift from the belt around her ribcage. Her fingernails were pale pink, like the polished interior of a shell.

‘What were you thinking of, shooting like that? You had a perfect hiding place, why did you not keep quiet? Wait until those men had gone?’

Her blue eyes flashed up at him. ‘Because I wanted to help. I could help. I can shoot as well as any man.’ Hands pooled in her lap, Matilda laced her fingers together, trying to stop them trembling.

Gilan raised his eyebrows at her bold words, surprised. Why, he had never heard a woman speak thus, with such a sense of pride in her own ability. She was a good shot, too, he thought grudgingly, remembering the hiss of the arrow past his head. He narrowed his eyes suddenly, noting the telltale shake of her shoulders beneath the countless pleats of her bodice, the blueness around her lips.

‘You’re freezing,’ he announced bluntly. ‘Do you live hereabouts?’ Rising swiftly to his feet, he stepped off her gown. Matilda pulled at it hurriedly, gathering the voluminous folds around her slim legs. Why did he not just go away? He made her feel vulnerable, exposed, as if her own efforts had all been in vain. He towered over her, big shoulders blocking out the sun, dark blue cloak swinging down to his knees, emblazoned with small golden fleur-de-lis.

Golden fleur-de-lis? Her heart flipped dangerously, warning her, a small pucker of skin pleating between her dark eyebrows. ‘Do you ride with the king?’

He grinned down at her pale, worried face. ‘No, the complete opposite. I ride with the man who intends to push him from the throne.’

‘Henry of Lancaster,’ she whispered.

‘Correct.’ Gilan nodded. Insects buzzed and whirred in the tall grass, the sound soporific in the pressing heat of the afternoon.

Matilda’s heart lurched, fear scything through her. She would have to be careful. They would all have to be careful. Katherine and her husband were staunch supporters of King Richard, and by association with them, so was she. She was certain Henry of Lancaster would not take kindly to such a kinship, so the sooner she was away from this man, this formidable stranger, the better. She lifted one hand to her forehead and pushed distractedly at the silver net which seemed to drag lopsidedly over one ear.

‘I said, do you live hereabouts?’

Really, he talked to her as if she were a dim-witted peasant! But with her flesh prickling uncomfortably with river water, and her mind fuddled by his overbearing presence, she was finding it difficult to concentrate. She breathed in deeply, trying to gain some control over her tattered senses. ‘Yes, yes, we do. We were on our way home when we were attacked.’

‘We?’ He raised one dark blond eyebrow.

‘My sister and I.’ She clapped her fingers over her horrified mouth. ‘Oh, Lord... Katherine!’

Gilan arched one thick blond eyebrow, the tanned skin around his eyes crinkling. ‘There’s another one of you?’

‘I have to fetch her!’ Bending her knees, Matilda struck both feet firmly against the ground, struggling against the wet, sticky material in an attempt to rise.

‘Allow me.’ His voice curled over her, a low, seductive rumble. Leaning down, he seized her icy fingers in his bearlike grip, catapulting her upwards in one swift movement. There was nothing gentle about his offer of help: one moment she was sitting on the ground, legs outstretched before her, the next she was on her feet, teetering dangerously at his side. His fingers remained around her hand, steadying her.

‘You can let go now,’ she said, her voice prim. Anything to remove his compelling touch from her body. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine.’ He studied the shadowed patches beneath her eyes, noted the rapid pulse beneath the skin of her neck. ‘You look like you’re about to collapse in a heap.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ she snapped, wrestling her hand away from his hold. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’ She caught the supercilious raise of his eyebrows; he didn’t believe her! ‘I need to find my sister, that’s all. I told her to hide when those men came and not to come out until I called her.’

‘Call her, then.’ His silver eyes scanned the tumbled-down tower, the lumps of stone covered with moss and lichen, the dense forest of trees behind, and he sighed. How long was this going to take?