Читать книгу Her Battle-Scarred Knight - Meriel Fuller - Страница 6

Giseux’s heart knocked against the wall of his chest. Sudden. Unexpected. Sounds diminished, fell away into the background: the incessant chirruping of a robin, diving under the blackthorn; his horse ripping up the frosted grass with massive teeth, chewing steadily. The maid’s eyes were wide, bright blue, ice blue, luminescent as the sky at dawn. They snared him, sucked him into their amazing depths, a whirlpool so fast and strong that he had no time to think. His mind reeled within their power as he leaned forwards, amazed.

As he dropped to his knees, Brianna cried out—a long wavering wail of panic, the bundled-up fear bursting from her chest, fear that she had fought to keep under control throughout Fulke’s mauling. And now he’d sent someone else to deal with her. Her vision hazed with fright as the huge soldier hulked over her, silver eyes sparkling with a predatory gleam; he would surely kill her! Broad shoulders blocked out the light, cast her in shadow, as her knuckles scraped desperately against the rough wooden trough, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of stability as she screamed and screamed. Would no one come for her, would no one help her? Her shrieking rent the still air, piercing, pitching up a notch as firm hands curled about her shoulders, steadied her.

‘Stop!’ a low voice ordered, a rippling burr of sound close to her ear. ‘Do you want to bring them back?’ The warmth of the man’s breath fanned her cheek, before he lowered his hands.

Her mouth shut abruptly. Pain in the left side of her jaw chewed into her, relentless, an ache beginning to spread up the side of her cheek. Blood tasted like rust against her tongue. Tears sprung from her eyes, her body trembling, as she hoisted herself up awkwardly, flinging her arms out to push the stranger away. Her fingers flailed outwards, skittering over the black wool across his immense chest; her pathetic attempts failed to shift him. Exhausted by unravelling fear, she let her arms fall limply to her sides.

‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Brianna stuttered out, her voice a weak thread; her lips were dry, bruised. Energy seeped from her body, her small frame slumping back against the trough, her breathing rapid, truncated, puffing clouds of white in the cold air. The leather lace securing her braid had loosened; now the curling end was beginning to unravel, the magnificent amber hair shining against the sagging weave of her brown bodice. ‘But I’d rather be locked up, or dead, than do what you want me to do.’ The man’s intimidating grey eyes glittered over her, incisive, piercing, as if they drilled down into her very soul. Another wave of panic lurched up, pushing out the sides of her chest, and she dug her heels into the mud, intending to scrabble backwards if he came for her.

Sitting back on his heels, Giseux watched the trails of sparkling liquid track down her puffy, mottled cheek, heard the great, gasping sobs seize at her chest. The girl obviously believed him to be in league with the thugs who had just roughed her up. A tiny pulse beat frantically at her neck, beneath the white, fragile skin in the hollow of her throat; her fear of him was palpable, radiating from her body in waves of tension. The sight of her tears bit into him, tugged cruelly at his memory, but he clamped down firmly on the encroaching vision. He had no wish to remember.

‘Easy, maid,’ he said in his deep, rumbling voice. The words of comfort felt untested, awkward, like dusty rocks in his mouth. The battle for Jerusalem had been long and relentless; there had been little opportunity or time to offer solace to others—had he forgotten how? Or had the ugliness, the cruelty of fighting driven it from his soul? The hard frozen earth jagged into his knees; as he shifted, trying to ease his cramped calf muscles, she reared backwards, abruptly, like a wild, cornered animal. A rueful smile twisted his mouth as he shook his head, shook out the gold-tipped fronds of his hair: a lion’s mane, the blunt ends like spun gold around the rugged angles of his face. ‘Nay, nay, I will not hurt you.’

Brianna eyed him blankly, disbelieving, driving the flats of her hands and feet into the hard mud to hitch away from him. Where was her knife? She had to protect herself! As she raised herself up from the ground, every muscle in her body aching, protesting, the voluminous gown that she wore pressed against her body, revealing her high, rounded bosom, the golden-red weave of her hair falling like spun net across her chest. She managed to make a small space between them, heart racing beneath his steely perusal before the heel of her boot snared in the trailing hem of her gown, preventing any further escape.

‘Let me help you up. Can you stand?’ Impatient not to prolong the episode, Giseux stretched out one hand, tanned and sinewy, to help her up.

She slapped at his fingers, catching the side of his palm. The sharp smack reverberated in the confined corner of the field, bouncing between the thorny hedgerows, studded with bright berries. ‘Get away from me! Go! Leave me alone!’ The shrillness of her voice screeched into his ear, scraping at the limits of his patience. ‘You need to go away!’

‘And you need to mind your manners!’ Deep within him, the short rope of his temper began to fray; the girl’s behaviour was ridiculous, unnecessary. It wasn’t the physical blow—that had been nothing, a mere moth’s touch from her slim fingers—but the girl’s complete failure to comprehend that he was not her enemy. His initial intention to offer her comfort, to help her in some way, as any passing stranger would do, had gone seriously awry. He didn’t have the time to squander on such foolish conduct, and at this rate, his act of mercy was threatening to take all day. It would be so much easier to walk away. But he couldn’t leave her here, hunched, pathetic, like a half-drowned kitten that spat and snarled at him whenever he approached. It went against every code he had been brought up to believe.

‘I am not going to leave you here, sitting on the frozen ground. I am not going to hurt you.’

‘How do I know?’ she threw back at him, her body rigid and hostile, cerulean eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘How do I know that this isn’t another trick? The words emerged in jerky fashion, her voice wobbling with the cold. She wrapped her arms firmly about her chest, trying to stop the violent shudders that racked her body.

He set his lips in a firm forbidding line, a ripple of irritation lacing his big frame. ‘I’m not one of them. You have to trust me.’

‘Trust?’ Laughter burst from her lips, a spray of jangled sound couched with a bubble of hysteria. ‘Surely you jest? It’s obvious you are one of Count John’s men, sent to pick up the pieces.’ Brianna wriggled her feet, attempting to move her frozen toes. She needed to find the strength, the determination, to stand up, to walk away. A cloying weakness dragged at her legs; this last attack had surely been the worst. And it appeared that it wasn’t over yet.

Gathering the last scraps of courage from her body, she tipped her head defiantly, meeting his pewter gaze. ‘I’ll not go back with you. I’ll not go back to Merleberge.’

‘I have no intention of making you go anywhere,’ he replied, his tone brimming with contempt. Sunburn dusted his high cheekbones, a reddish-brown colour that spoke of distant lands. His mouth was generous, top lip narrow, well defined, in stark, shocking comparison to the sensual fullness of his bottom lip. Brown hair, gilded, fell forwards in thick strands over his brow, ruffled by the breeze. ‘But it would help if I could take you somewhere, to a place of safety. Sooner, rather than

later.’

He propelled himself up in one sinuous, graceful movement; she instinctively raised her hands, as if to ward off further attack, but to her surprise he ignored her, heading towards his horse. Her heart eased as she watched him, noting that he limped—the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a pause, as his right foot moved forwards. His chainmail, glinting like fish scales, fitted his tall frame like a second skin, revealing the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the powerful strength of his long legs. The fine cloth of his surcoat held a dull sheen in the fragile sunshine, secured to his slim hips with a wide leather sword belt.

‘Here, have this, you’re freezing.’

She cast a cursory glance at the bundle of cloth between his hands: a cloak, of midnight blue, the collar edged in fur.

‘I’ve told you, leave me. I want nothing from you.’ She tried to inject some strength into her voice. Clutching valiantly at the trough with clenched, icy fingers, she pushed her body weight upwards. A raft of dizziness swept through her head as she stood up straight and she swayed, nausea boiling in her stomach. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘For the love of God, go away.’ Her lids, blue-veined and pale, fluttered down, spiky black lashes fanning her cheeks. She wanted to recover from her humiliating ordeal in her own time, at her own pace, without this man, this stranger, witnessing her every move.

He assessed her wilting figure critically, the hint of a mocking smile playing across his lips; a large bear-like hand curled around her shoulder. ‘Mayhap you should stay sitting for a while?’

Brianna wrested her shoulder furiously from his grasp, from the unwanted contact, eyes caged, fiery breath caught in the trap of her throat. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she lashed at him, ‘don’t you dare touch me!’ She turned, stumbling a little over the tussocky grass, spotting the gleam of her knife in the rough vegetation. Her head swam as she crouched to pick it up, to secure the blade once more in its scabbard at her waist. Then, without a backward glance, the blurry horizon line teetering before her, she took one step tentatively back towards the farm. Somehow, the thought of returning to her own cold, empty home failed to fill her with confidence.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ The stranger’s voice boomed out over her, a snare of exasperation.

Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away. Brianna focused on the gateway, forcing her wooden, unwilling legs to move forwards, aware that her gait was unbalanced, wobbling even. If she could just stretch her fingers out to reach the gatepost …

A hand grasped her upraised forearm, strong tapered fingers snaring the point where the wide cuff of her rough sleeve had fallen back, exposing the limpid marble of her skin. Beneath the loose hold of his fingers, her pulse scurried along, too fast. Legs buckling, Brianna staggered against the oak gatepost, the wood split and grey, speckled with a frothing mat of sage-green lichen.

He was at her back, the rounded bulk of his shoulder curving into hers, the heat from his body burning her spine. The silken strands of her hair stirred with his breath … no, too close! Vexed, she squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away the hot threat of tears at his continued, unwanted presence.

‘I swear you are the rudest, most ungrateful chit I have ever met.’ His voice curled into her, hardened by iron-clad threads of irritation. ‘Now, tell me where you live and I will take you there.’ From his lofty vantage point, he traced the elegant arch of her dark copper brow, the creamy curve of her cheek. Her skin was fine, polished: the rich, sleek lustre of a pearl. Up close, the purpling bruise on her jawline looked savage; it must hurt like hell, he thought, suddenly.

‘Nay,’ she responded quickly. Her frozen skin tingled beneath the pads of his fingers. She tried to jerk away, to take one more tottering step, but he held firm. ‘I don’t want your help.’

‘Oh, but I think you do,’ Giseux responded calmly. He hadn’t realised how small she was; if he leaned forward a notch, the top of her head would brush his chin. ‘You can scarce take a step without nearly falling down. However near your home might be, it would take you all day to reach it.’

‘But I would reach it … eventually,’ Brianna threw back, tilting her chin up with determination, ‘without your help.’ A rising anxiety fluttered in her chest at his proximity, clawing at her innards. He was like a solid, immovable wall, glittering, formidable. His hand fell from her arm and she clung to the post for support. She bit her lip, humiliated, furious at her own pathetic weakness, beset with a flooding sense of her own vulnerability.

Giseux sighed, folding his arms high across his chest. ‘I don’t understand you. For all you know, those men could be waiting for you in the next field over. Are you really that stupid?’

Lips set in a mutinous line, Brianna glared dully at the horizon, defeat clogging her heart. The man gave her no choice; she suspected he would dog her steps until he saw her to a place of safety. Then, and only then, would she be rid of him.

‘I live over there.’ She gestured vaguely towards the low roofs of the farm on the horizon, not trusting him with the truth. ‘It’s not far.’

‘Then let’s go.’ Giseux gathered up his shield from the spot where she had fallen, slinging the glossy black armour across his body, securing his helmet and cloak to the rump of his horse, before catching up the reins.

A shout from the field beyond forced Brianna to lift her head. Spotting the round, familiar figure of the farmer trotting alongside the hedge, hefting a heavy iron mace between his thick hands, she almost collapsed with relief. The sides of William’s leather jerkin flapped out from his hips as he jogged along, his normally jovial face red with exertion, his eyes wide with concern.

‘William!’ she called over to him. ‘Over here!’ Whirling around, she noted that the knight tracked the farmer’s advance with interest. ‘No need to escort me now.’ She expelled her pent-up breath in a long gasp, her relief evident in the sag of her body, the brightness of her features. ‘William can take me home.’

Granite eyes narrowed. ‘You know this man?’

She nodded. ‘He’s my father.’ The lie tripped easily from her tongue; she felt the need for some protection, however fictitious.

‘He needs to keep a closer eye on you.’ Swinging up into the saddle, a surprisingly lithe, efficient movement for such a big man, the stranger pulled up the reins, his stance relaxed, easy as the horse sidled beneath him.

‘Tell me, do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’

Breath punched from her lungs at the astonishing question, toes curling in her boots as she glared blankly at the broad expanse of blue sky, patched by fluffy white clouds coasting along in the breeze. She edged her gaze around, unsure whether she had heard him correctly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’ he repeated, slowly, witheringly, as if she were a halfwit.

Brianna’s mouth set in an open jeer. ‘You had better ask your friend, Count John. I’ve never heard of her.’ Moving towards William, she sucked in her breath at the painful stiffness developing in her body, keeping her frame rigid, stalking off in the opposite direction to Sefanoc, back to the farm. She didn’t look back.

‘Oh, mother of God, child, what in Heaven’s name happened to you?’ Alys emerged from the kitchen area that led off the entrance hall, wiping her hands on a linen cloth, as Brianna burst through the main door, shutting it firmly behind her, leaning her back against the solid oak panels, as if in confirmation of her actions.

‘They were waiting for me, Alys, Count John’s men! On the way back from the farm.’ The explanation emerged in a rush; reaching up, rising on the balls of her feet, she shot the top bolt into its hasp, then repeated the action with the middle and bottom bolts.

‘There.’ She turned triumphantly to Alys. ‘That should keep them out.’ And him, if he ever found her, she added silently. Loosening the leather laces that closed the slash neck of her cape, she pulled it off, over her head. Her shimmering plaits, half-unravelled, swung down to her waist, the top of her head still damp from her dunking.

The linen towel dropped to the stone floor, drifting noiselessly to the flagstones. ‘Your face, Brianna.’ Alys raised her palms to her own cheeks. ‘Your face.’ She moved forwards in the gloom of the entrance hall, backlit by the torchlight flaming from the kitchen, her arms outstretched in horror.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’ Her jaw throbbed persistently with a bruised heat as Brianna hung her cape on a wooden peg near the door. A slick of fear coated her veins. What would have happened today, if that man, that stranger in black and silver, hadn’t come along? Did those men have orders from Count John to finish her off, to remove her, believing Hugh would never return? With no other living relative, with no one to ask questions as to her whereabouts, Count John would be able to grab the rich pastures of Sefanoc for his own.

‘Sit down, let me put something on it. Come, I’ve lit the fire in the hall.’ Alys pushed aside the small door set in the wooden panelling that screened the great hall from the front entrance.

‘Nay, there’s no time. I must fetch my bow and check the windows are secure in the solar.’

‘Are they coming after you?’ Alys questioned, a note of rising panic in her voice.

‘They might …’ Brianna paused, as a pair of silver eyes shone in her memory ‘… and possibly with reinforcements.’ Had she misjudged the man who had tried to help her? With her mind befuddled from the attack, she had been so convinced he was an ally of Count John, sent to try a different tack to convince her to marry. And yet … he had asked for her by name. Her face warmed at the memory of his protective bulk at her side; she placed flat palms to her cheeks, seeking to cool the twin flags of heat.

‘Oh, God save us.’ Alys clutched at her chest. ‘I wish the Lord Hugh had returned, or … or that we had a man about the house to defend us.’

‘We can defend ourselves, Alys!’ Brianna’s eyes flashed determination. ‘I will not let these men bully us … bully me.’ She yanked open the door into the great hall, heading for the solar at the opposite end of the house, and her bedchamber. She sighed; how tempting it would be to curl up beneath the bed furs at this very moment and sleep, sleep a deep dreamless sleep. But she strode on, her lips set in a tight line; she had to make certain the manor house was secure.

Alys touched her arm, halting her stride. ‘Brianna … my lady … you can’t keep going on like this … It’s too hard for you to do alone.’

‘I prefer to be alone, Alys, you know that.’

Brianna dropped her eyes, a silky curl of burnished hair looping over her cheek. Why did Alys constantly allude to her solitary life, her single status? Surely she, of all people, knew that Brianna could never be with a man, never trust a man, ever again? She drew in a deep breath, willing the faint tightness of panic in her chest to leave, to dissolve. This attack had frightened her, reminding her of that past she craved to forget. Clasping her hands together, she turned around, pulling her features into an expression, she hoped, of supreme confidence. ‘Alys, if there’s one good thing that came out of that ill-fated marriage, it was the ability to defend myself!’ She picked her skirts up to continue striding in the direction of the solar.

Alys nodded dubiously, her face stricken. Brianna never talked about her short marriage to Walter of Brinslow; all she knew was that the kind, happy girl who had left Sefanoc to wed had returned just six months later as a broken woman. Five winters on and Brianna had sprung back to her old self, although the scars of whatever that man had done to her still lingered, in the shadows behind her eyes, in certain mannerisms. It was why she had insisted that Hugh, before he left on the crusade, had taught her how to defend herself. Her gaze touched on Brianna, now hefting her unwieldy crossbow from the solar, her brows drawn together in concentration, trying to remember how to use the weapon. Both women deluded themselves, both knew that Hugh’s tuition was not enough. It could never be enough against Count John’s men.

The fine silver arc of a new moon hung low in the sky as Giseux approached Sefanoc. At least he hoped it was Sefanoc. The directions from the local people in the nearby town of Merleberge had been hazy, reluctant to divulge too much information to a stranger. It was only when he told them the purpose of his visit that they opened up, nodding and smiling at Lady Brianna’s name. It seemed that Hugh of Sefanoc’s sister was something of a heroine in these parts.

Over to his right, amidst the rustlings and twitterings of a forest, a vixen shrieked. Trees threw jerky angles up against the reddish streaks of the western sky, daylight fading rapidly. Under the trees, the light grew so dim that he dismounted, leading his horse along the barely visible track. As the cold mud seeped through the chainmail covering his feet, he regretted the haste with which he’d travelled to Merleberge. He hadn’t given himself time to change into civilian clothes; his full armour was designed for riding, not for walking any great distance. The smell of smoke mingled with the chill evening air, the fresh scent of burning apple wood wafting over him; he could see lights in the windows up ahead, an encouraging sign, flooding down to reveal the stone steps leading up to the wide front door on the first floor.

Something whistled past his ear, barely an inch away from the steel helmet protecting his head. In an instant he had drawn his sword and ducked behind a tree, all his instincts poised, alert. Near to the spot where he had been walking, a crossbow bolt, quiver still vibrating with the force of the shot, stuck into the mud where his feet had been.

A woman’s voice shouted down from the manor, across the darkness, ‘Go away!’ The clear, bell-like voice was delivered in an imperious high-handed tone.

Grimacing, he rested his back against the tree, stretching out the muscles in his long legs, easing out the tight spot on his upper thigh. He hadn’t anticipated any antagonism and, after the shenanigans with that peasant woman today, this hostile behaviour was unexpected and annoying. Pulling up the visor of his helmet, he inched his head round the ridged trunk to project his response towards the house. ‘My name is Giseux de St-Loup. I was told that Lady Brianna lives here. I need to see her, about her brother, Hugh.’ His powerful voice reverberated around the stillness of the forest, echoed up into the trees. Through the branches above his head, against the velvet nap of the sky, the evening star glowed, a diamond pinprick.

Silence.

Irritation rose in his gullet—what in the devil’s name was happening now? Sneaking another look round, he could see the silhouette of a woman at the upper window; to his surprise, he realised it was she that held the crossbow. He smiled to himself. She wouldn’t be so lucky with her shot the next time; ladies were not known for their prowess with weapons. Leaving his horse by the tree, he moved out into the open ground, covering the space between the manor and the forest with long-legged strides.

Another bolt flew through the air, thudded next to him, surprisingly close.

‘I told you to go away.’ The modulated tones assailed him from the window, cutting briskly through the night air.

Caught halfway in the open grassy area between the edge of the trees and the house, Giseux tilted his head towards the window. All he could see was the woman’s dark outline and the glint of metal from the crossbow cradled in her arms. ‘And I told you,’ he delivered the words slowly, patiently, ‘that I have come about Hugh of Sefanoc. He is very ill and needs to see his sister. So I suggest you stop playing games and let me in. You’re wasting precious time with this nonsense.’

At his back, an owl hooted, eerie, piercing.

‘I don’t believe you. It’s another trick.’

‘I have no idea to what you are referring.’ Giseux narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the lady’s face. ‘Hugh said you’d be like this; he said you’d ask for proof.’

‘Do you have any?’

Gisuex cleared his throat. ‘He said, “Remember Big Belly Oak”.’

He heard a gasp and what sounded like a rising sob. The figure retreated from the window, crying out an urgent command, before the iron bolts on the main door were drawn back. By the time the last one grated from its metal hasp, Giseux had sprinted to the top of the steps, was waiting when the door nudged slowly inwards.

‘Take me to Lady Brianna,’ he rapped out at the maidservant behind the door, giving her no more than a cursory glance. Yanking off his helmet, he pushed back his chainmail hood and shoved the unwieldy metal headgear into the servant’s hands. His shield slid to the floor in the process. ‘Here, take this.’

His gaze snagged.

He looked again, closer, scrutinising the pale oval face in the dimness of the entrance hall. Bright hair in plaits, translucent blue eyes, shoddy woollen dress. ‘You! It’s you!’ Big hands reached out, tapered fingers snaring her shoulders. ‘You little wretch! Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Lady Brianna? You’ve done her no favours by protecting her!’ In the corner of the entrance hall, another, older servant trembled, twisting her hands nervously, ineffectually, lined face taut with fright.

‘I don’t work for Lady Brianna …’ the girl replied softly. Her small hands clutched around his helmet, as if in support. The bruise at her jaw seemed to have spread, darkening to a frightening array of reddish-purple blotches.

‘You could have saved me a whole day of pointless riding about!’ he blazed at her. ‘Do you realise how much time I’ve wasted? Hugh, your lord, could be dead by now.’ The harsh words felt good on his tongue; he said them deliberately to frighten her, to make her pay for his whole tiresome, wasted day.

A deathly white washed her face. He wondered whether she might faint, the hold he maintained on her shoulders changing to one of support. ‘Tell me where he is,’ she whispered, raising her beautiful blue eyes to his. ‘I am Hugh’s sister. I am Brianna of Sefanoc.’

His wolfish look plundered her, dark brows drawing into a frown, eyes hardening to chips of granite. ‘You … are … Brianna?’ he pronounced slowly, incredulous, drawing his gaze at a leisurely pace from the top of her flame-coloured hair, over the tented and patched sack of her gown, to the tips of her toes. Her face grew hot beneath the deliberateness of his examination; she twisted away, all but throwing his helmet on to an oak bench in the entrance hall.

‘I realise I’m not quite as you would expect,’ Brianna explained briskly. In the confined space of the entrance hall, a restless energy rolled from him in waves, vital, pulsating, resonating through her body, making her shiver. The diamond chips of his eyes glittered in the sepulchral gloom.

‘You can say that again,’ he murmured. The luminous quality of her skin gleamed from the shadows. His fingers tingled, itched to touch, to test the alluring softness, and he frowned.

‘I had to help out with the milking this morning, hence the clothes.’

‘Help with the milking? Surely you have servants to do such work?’ Giseux threw a penetrating glance over at Alys, who quailed visibly into the corner.

Brianna shook her head faintly, dismissing the subject; she had no wish to discuss her domestic arrangements with a complete stranger. She reached out her hand to touch Giseux’s arm, then obviously thought better of it, withdrawing her hand quickly. ‘Tell me about Hugh, please. I have spent so many days waiting, wondering. I can’t believe he’s still alive.’

Giseux sincerely hoped that he was. The loose sleeve of her gown had slipped back when she reached up as if to touch him; the skin of her wrist was limpid, fragile as parchment, covered with a network of blue veins; her fingernails were pale pink, delicate shells, against the raw skin of her work-roughened fingers. He swallowed, a sudden dryness catching his throat.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ He glanced archly at the sheathed knife in her belt. ‘Or am I still considered a danger?’

He saw her take a deep, shuddering breath, saw the sheer exhaustion in her eyes. The tip of her tongue licked nervously at the rose-bud fullness of her bottom

lip.

‘Am I a danger?’ he repeated. The low, husky tones enveloped her. An odd, teetering sensation spiralled in her belly, coiling slowly, blossoming.

‘No,’ she croaked. Indecision swamped her. She knew he had been sent by Hugh; how else would he have known of the ‘Big Belly Oak’ of their childhood, their secret hiding place? She looped her arms defensively across her stomach. There was something else about this man that caused every last nerve ending in her body to dance with … Was it fear? She couldn’t be certain, at a loss to identify the feeling.

‘Follow me.’ Her lips compressed as she grasped the spitting torch proffered by Alys, holding the guttering flame aloft, showing the way.

He followed the rigid line of Brianna’s back into the great hall, enjoying the tempting sway of her hips as they brushed against the inside of her gown. Who would have thought that she could be Hugh’s sister, dressed in those torn, work-stained garments, her rippling coppery hair, like beech leaves in autumn, falling down past her waist in simple braids? Hugh of Sefanoc never wasted the slightest opportunity to boast about the substantial income he gained from his estates, from the farming as well as the forest. So why was his sister dressed in rags, working her fingers to the bone, courting the violent attentions of Count John’s men?

Slinging the torch into an iron ring alongside the imposing stone fireplace, Brianna gestured abruptly to a high-backed armchair. Giseux folded his large frame gratefully into the hard wooden seat; after a day in the saddle it felt good, despite the inflexibility of his armour. He glanced at the fire, a pathetic business made up of a few damp sticks, spitting and smouldering in the enormous grate. The tiny heat thrown out by the feeble flames made little impact on the cavernous space; against the skin of his face, Giseux could feel the penetrating cold radiating out from the grey-stone walls. Up above him, the high ceiling was constructed of thick oak trusses, huge arches that spanned the length of the hall. The high windows had been shuttered against the winter weather, although he doubted it made much difference to the inside temperature.

‘Tell me! Tell me how Hugh is, please!’ Brianna rested one hand on the stone mantel to steady herself. She wanted to lay her head against the carved stone and weep tears of sheer gratitude, but she would be damned if she showed any further weakness before this dark stranger. Why, oh, why did it have to be him to bring the news? The man who had witnessed her humiliation by Count John’s men, who had moved too close in his efforts to help her; even now, she could feel the burning imprint of his fingers from this morning. Her heart skittered.

Giseux sprawled back in the chair, stretching out his legs, his toes almost touching Brianna’s hem. The dancing flames from the torchlight turned the brilliant colour of her hair to burnished gold. A wry smile crooked his lips as she twitched her skirts away from his encroaching feet, her nose crinkling a little in distaste at his nearness.

‘Hugh is at my parents’ castle, near Winchester,’ Giseux explained. ‘His sickness began as we waited for the ships to bring us back to England. He is very ill, sometimes delirious with fever, but always, always, asking for you.’

Brianna placed her palms flat over her face, physically trying to stop the tears from running down, emotion clawing in her belly. If only she’d known this morning, she would be with Hugh by now. ‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’ she blurted out, her voice holding the sting of accusation, ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were this morning, why you were here?’ She flung herself into the chair opposite him, perching on the edge, scuffed leather boots poking out from beneath her sagging hemline.

‘If I remember rightly, it was you who denied all knowledge of Brianna of Sefanoc,’ he replied scornfully. ‘If you hadn’t, we would be with him now.’

‘Then let’s go!’ She sprang out of the seat, headed towards the solar. ‘All I need is my cloak.’

Giseux’s deep voice halted her nimble stride. ‘Lady, if you think I’m travelling anywhere tonight, then think again. I need food and I need some sleep before I climb into that saddle once more.’

‘But Hugh …?’

‘… is in safe hands,’ he finished the sentence for her. He was reluctant to point out that if Hugh were dead now, then one night would make no difference. ‘We’ll ride on the morrow, in daylight. It’ll be safer and we’ll be able to see our way, which will make the journey quicker.’

Brianna frowned, spinning back on the ball of one foot to face him, bridling beneath his authoritative manner, his swift decision-making. ‘That may be so, my lord, but I wish to see my brother now.’ Who did he think he was, to give her orders so? She was used to making up her own mind, forging her own decisions; after her marriage to Walter, she had promised herself that, at least. ‘I thank you, my lord, for bringing the message about my brother; you are welcome to some food and to spend the night here.’ Her tone was formal, dismissive. ‘I will fetch you something to eat right now.’

‘Hold.’ As she passed his chair, he snagged her hand in one large chainmail glove. The creased leather on the underside pressed into her palm.

‘Let me go.’ Brianna made an effort to deliver the words calmly, waiting for the familiar crawl of fear in her chest, bracing her body against the inevitable sickening panic she experienced when any man came too close. Her pulse skipped, her heart rate accelerating, but not in any way she remembered. She frowned; something was not right.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. His voice had a lilting, liquid quality.

‘I told you, to fetch some food.’ She tugged at her hand; his strong fingers tightened. Annoyed, she pressed her lips together, staring steadfastly away from his penetrating gaze.

‘You feed me lies, my lady, I can see it in your face,’ his silky tones accused her. ‘You’re planning to go to him, aren’t you? Whether I agree to accompany you or

not.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘It is my business to deliver you safely. Do you think Hugh would ever forgive me if some harm came to you on the journey? He asked me to escort you and escort you I will.’ He dropped her hand.

‘Then go with me now.’ She cradled her released fingers, missing the warmth of his touch. What was the matter with her?

‘It’s not possible,’ Giseux replied firmly, steel threading his voice. Since when had women become so outspoken? He could travel if he wanted to; he could ride for days on an empty stomach with little sleep, but something in her manner made him want to resist, to squash her a little.

‘All right, we’ll leave tomorrow,’ she replied huffily, flouncing off to the kitchen. Leaning back in the chair, Giseux smiled. He suspected that he would have a battle on his hands, a battle that he would inevitably win. Oddly, he relished the thought.