Читать книгу Her Battle-Scarred Knight - Meriel Fuller - Страница 7

‘Oh, my lady, what in Heaven’s name are we going to feed him?’ Alys knotted her fingers together endlessly, running helpless eyes along the wide empty shelves lining the kitchen.

‘Nothing, if I had my way.’ Brianna braced her hands flat against the well-scrubbed planks of the kitchen table, trying to assemble her angry, scattered thoughts. Her eyes snapped over to Alys, fiery blue. ‘The man’s a complete oaf! Did you hear what he said to me? Hugh’s alive and he refuses to take me to him! He wants to wait … wait until tomorrow morning. Can you believe it?’

Alys hurried over to her, plucked at Brianna’s sleeve. ‘Keep your voice down, he’ll hear you!’ The thin skin of her face stretched over high cheekbones, mottled pink. She darted a nervous glance towards the open kitchen door.

‘What do I care?’ Brianna pushed her body upright, whipping around to face the door, wanting Giseux to burst through, wanting to challenge him. ‘He knows what I think.’

‘My lady, calm down,’ Alys pleaded, patting feebly at Brianna’s arm. ‘Come, let’s fetch him some food—what about the stew?’

Alys’s question forced her mind to concentrate. She considered the stew that she and her maidservant had been eking out for the last week: tough chicken legs occasionally enlivened with a few chewy winter greens. ‘Nay, too good for him,’ she pronounced, instead extracting a dry heel of bread from an earthenware pot, plonking it on a pewter plate. ‘There, that should

do.’

‘He’s a lord, Brianna,’ Alys whispered, ‘a nobleman. We can’t feed him on stale bread.’

‘I suppose he could have some cheese,’ Brianna conceded, grudgingly. She unwrapped a long piece of damp muslin from a round of soft cheese, fresh and crumbly.

‘And some mead.’ Alys dipped a pewter tankard into an iron-girded cask of the amber liquid, setting it down on the tray next to the plate.

‘Shall I take it?’ the maidservant offered reluctantly.

Brianna smiled. ‘Nay, let me. And he’d better appreciate it.’

Alys raised her eyes to Heaven.

Shouldering her way awkwardly back through the door to the great hall, carrying the tray, Brianna decided her main aim was to encourage Giseux, after he had eaten, to retire for the night. Alys had already prepared the guest chamber, accessed by a spiral flight of stairs from the entrance hall. Once he was asleep, it would leave the way clear for her to saddle up her horse and ride to Winchester.

Giseux’s legs gleamed in their metallic skin, his bulging calf muscles clearly visible beneath the chainmail as Brianna advanced towards the chair. He’d removed his chainmail gloves and they lay on the floor. She crashed the tray down ungratefully on the rickety, three-legged table at his elbow. ‘Here you are, my lord.’ Her bravado quailed as his eyes, midnight-fringed, devoured her with a single sweep.

‘What did those men want with you this morning?’ he demanded, ignoring the pewter plate at his side.

‘I … er …’ She hesitated, sweeping over to the shutters, checking the latches were secure, away from his heated perusal.

‘What did they want with you?’ Her spine shivered beneath the low rumble of his voice.

The metal hasp of the shutters felt cool beneath her fingers; she yearned to press her flaming face against the solid wood, to regain some solidity, some stability in her current situation.

‘Count John’s men?’ Brianna tried to keep her voice light, even. She couldn’t allow this man to know how much their beating had affected her. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she moved back to the fireside, perched tentatively in the seat opposite Giseux.

He bit into a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, silent.

Brianna shifted uncomfortably, stared at the floor, knowing he was waiting for an answer. ‘Count John wants me to marry one of his noblemen, so that Sefanoc comes within his jurisdiction. He sent his soldiers to persuade me.’

‘Their methods of persuasion leave a lot to be desired,’ he murmured, taking a swig of mead, running the tip of his tongue along the generous curve of his bottom lip to catch a wayward drip.

Brianna touched one finger to her throbbing jaw. ‘That’s why bringing Hugh home to Sefanoc is so important,’ she offered, tentatively. ‘When Count John sees he’s alive, well, then they’ll stop tormenting me.’

‘Then it’s fortunate he is home.’ Giseux steepled his fingers in front of his chest. ‘Otherwise you might have ended up in a marriage against your will.’

Her expression was bleak. ‘It would never happen; I told you before, I would rather die than have that happen again.’

His eyes flicked up at her final word; she clapped her hands to her mouth, startled, dismayed at her stupid mistake. Again. The word that gave away her past.

‘Again?’ Giseux queried, adjusting his position to lean forwards, elbows resting on his knees.

She sprang from her seat, mouth trembling, flustered, sweat clagging her palms. ‘You need to finish your meal,’ she announced briskly, ‘and I must change out of these clothes. Please excuse me.’

So that was it, Giseux mused idly, as he watched the flick of her skirt, the shining coin of her hair disappear through a door at the end of the great hall. She had been married before, and not happily, judging from her reaction to his question. Where was her husband now? Had she finished him off with her crossbow, with a swipe from the knife at her belt? His lips twitched at the thought—she was perfectly capable. In fact, he doubted he had met another woman who fought with such drive, such ferocity, to hold on to the things she held most dear. It appeared she was paying a high price.

Seizing the mud-encrusted hem of her loose peasant gown, Brianna struggled with the coarse material to pull it over her head. Why, why on earth had she said such a stupid thing? And to him, of all people: a complete stranger! Blood bolted through her veins, rattling her; she forced herself to breathe more slowly, to calm down. The sooner she was away from him, the better. Leaving her chemise and woollen stockings on, and still wearing her stout leather boots, Brianna moved to the oak coffer at the foot of the bed. The carved lid opened with a protesting creak as she riffled inside. She only had two suitable gowns and one, she knew, had a long rip along a seam that she had been meaning to repair. The green wool gown was presentable, if a little threadbare. She settled the material over her head, smelling the dried lavender that Alys placed in the oak coffers every year to keep the clothes sweet. As the folds fell down about her shoulders, the wool prickled a little against her linen chemise, damp from her earlier dunking.

Pushing her head through the round slash neck, her fingers brushed against the silver embroidery that decorated the collar, the design raised, intricate. Her mother had done this, her beautiful mother who had spent many hours working her fine needlework on all the family’s clothes. Brianna could see her now, sitting by the south window in the solar, the bright sunlight picking up the shining thread on her lap, the gold filaments in her burnished hair. Her breath emerged in a long, stuttering sigh. How she wished her parents could be here now, instead of succumbing to that horrendous, debilitating illness. They would be proud of her, she hoped, proud of the way she had kept the estate going in Hugh’s absence, proud of the way she had scrimped and saved, so that there was something of worth, something of value for him to come home to. How could that man be so insensitive as to keep her from her brother, when she had waited for so long for him to return?

She smoothed the skirts of the gown down over her thighs, shaking out the creases and bringing in the waist with a woven girdle that settled over her slim hips. The woodenness of her fingers vexed her as she fumbled with the intricate ties of the belt. She placed her knife-belt and cloak across the bed, not wanting to alert Giseux’s suspicions if she carried them out to the great hall now. Soon enough she and Alys would have him settled in the guest chamber and she would be able to slip away. Knotting her long braids together to form a loose bun, she jabbed the vibrant mass with several long hairpins in an effort to secure it, before covering her head with a gauzy veil. This she jammed into place with a golden circlet, the only one she hadn’t sold, the metal cold and tight against her forehead.

She padded on silent feet towards the door, the hem of her gown a muffled whisper against the wide elm floorboards. Clicking the latch open, Brianna drew her spine up, preparing to face her rescuer once more.

Giseux’s substantial frame spread out from the chair, his whole body polished in the light of the feeble fire. One arm hung out over the armrest, strong, tapered fingers suspended in mid-air.

He was asleep.

A curious flickering curled around her stomach, subtle, delicious, as she studied the man. For the first time she noticed the grey shadows beneath his eyes, hollows of smudged ash, crinkled lines fanning out from the corners. A hot, heavy sensation speared her feet to the floor; it was as if she were mesmerised. He looked uncomfortable, his big frame wedged into the narrow corner of the chair, and, with a rush of realisation, Brianna knew she should have offered him some of her brother’s clothes. Hugh could never wait to dispense with his armour once he arrived home, always complaining how intolerable it was.

His chest rose and fell steadily, slowly, evidence of a deep sleep, the wool of his surcoat flattening taut over his chest and stomach, revealing the solid indentations of his muscles. He had loosened the leather laces that held together the slash neck of his hauberk; as the chainmail edges gaped, they revealed the strong, corded muscles of his neck, the tanned hollow of his throat. Brianna bit her lip; the temptation to touch, to test the honed perfection of his skin, was overwhelming. Her fingers burned with awareness.

She twisted her hands together, agitated, trying to dispel the tantalising craving, annoyed by her strange reaction to him. Was she in her right mind? Had the attack today left her so befuddled that she had forgotten her lonely path in life? Remember Walter, she told herself sternly, remember Walter controlling her to the point where she had wanted to scream in frustration, trapped in that bitter, loveless marriage. It had become his main amusement, deciding what she ate, what she wore, what she did all day, so that at some point in that hideous time, she truly believed she was losing the ability to think for herself. And she was not about to let that happen again.

Whisking back to her chamber, Brianna snatched up her cloak and knife-belt from the bed. Her mind rattled with details; she had to seize her chance to travel to Winchester now, whilst Giseux slept. As she tiptoed past him, a sudden nausea roiled in her belly at her daring and she trembled with the horrible notion of him leaping up suddenly, catching her red-handed. He could not, must not, catch her. She kept her gaze pinned to the door at the far end of the great hall, taking deliberate, considered steps, picking up her hem so she didn’t trip. Every muscle in her body strained, held taut in the moment, alert to the slightest movement, the slightest sound from the chair. After what seemed like an eternity, her hand lifted the latch and she slipped into the entrance hall like a ghost, closing the door behind her. Her suppressed breath released; she sagged against the wall in relief.

Alys emerged from the stair that led to the guest chamber above the kitchens, eyes wide in her pale, wizened face. ‘My lady? What’s happening?’ she whispered, frowning at Brianna’s change of clothes, her cloak.

‘Shh.’ Brianna put a finger to her lips, seizing the maidservant by the hand and pulling her through the main entrance door, out, out into the frosty air, down the steps, down to the vaulted stables below the first floor. The smell of crushed straw, of faint, stale horse filled the air.

‘Oh, mistress, nay, you cannot!’ In the white slant of moonlight that poured through the archway into the stables, Alys brought her gnarled, arthritic hands to sunken cheeks when Brianna told her of her plans.

‘It’s the only way,’ Brianna announced briskly, heart knocking against her chest, the image of the big man sprawled upstairs, asleep, tripping dangerously around the edges of her consciousness.

‘At least let me come with you, mistress.’

In the startling brightness of the moon, Alys suddenly looked old, her gaunt frame bent over with exhaustion. Guilt surged through Brianna and she placed two hands on Alys’s shoulders. ‘Nay, Alys, I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve put up with so much from me, you need to rest now. Go to bed, sleep. Lord Giseux can take care of himself.’

‘But …?’

‘Winchester is not above twenty miles from here … I know the way.’ Well, most of it, Brianna added silently.

‘But how will you travel?’ Alys’s gaze swept the empty stable. ‘We have no horses left to ride.’

Brianna grinned, the metal bosses on her cloak glinting in the dim light. ‘Aye, we don’t,’ she pointed out towards to fringes of the forest, where Giseux’s large destrier was patiently cropping the grass, the reins conveniently looped around a low branch, ‘but he does.’

It was the cold that finally woke him, digging into his bones like icy fingers, relentlessly, endlessly, so at last after a great deal of tossing and turning and trying to will his exhausted body back to sleep, Giseux reluctantly opened his eyes. The barest trickle of moonlight squeezed through the gaps in the long wooden shutters, enough to see by. The fire had burnt out, but not long ago, ashes smouldering dismally in the grate.

The chair cradled his body at a stiff, unyielding angle, compressing his bones. His right hand had gone numb; he gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers as the blood returned with a painful prickling. Shaking off the shrouds of sleep, his mind jumped into action, remembering, remembering the task that Hugh had set him. He recalled the spark of determination in Lady Brianna’s eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth when he had informed her that they would not leave until morning.

Propelling himself from the chair, he strode over to the door of the solar, wrenching the door open. In normal circumstances, he probably would have knocked, but up to this point everything about Lady Brianna had been anything but normal. He knew, he just knew, before he’d even looked at the bed and saw that the furs lay flat, unused, that she had gone. Little witch! He had offered to come to Sefanoc as a favour to Hugh; in reality it was turning out to be an ordeal.

Stepping over to the bed, he hauled the covers back; the spotless, empty white sheet shone back at him, the slight indentation in the mattress where she would have slept mocking him. The scent of crushed lavender rose from the bedlinens, delicious, seductive, reminding him of those long, hot summers in Poitiers, and his heart jerked in memory. That all seemed so long ago now.

A small sound on the other side of the bed caught his attention.

‘She’s not here, my lord.’ Alys sat up on low pallet bed, clutching the covers to her bony chest. Her frizzled hair stuck out from her head like grey lace. Her veins traced blue ridges on the backs of her hands.

‘I can see that,’ Giseux replied bluntly, his cheeks sculptured hollows in the sepulchral light. ‘And against my better judgement I’m about to go after her.’

Big fat tears welled up in the maidservant’s eyes. ‘Oh, my lord, don’t be too harsh on her.’

‘Why on earth not?’ he growled back. ‘The woman’s a prize fool, putting herself at risk.’

‘She hasn’t seen Hugh for such a long time. Once she has a plan in her head …’ Alys trailed off miserably, her voice rising on a half-sob.

‘She’s difficult to rein in, I can see that,’ Giseux replied, grimacing. ‘When did she leave?’

‘Not long after you fell asleep, my lord.’

‘She hasn’t had much of a head start.’ He thought of the dying embers in the fireplace, calculating rapidly. ‘What does she ride … a palfrey? She wouldn’t go above a trot on one of those. I’ll easily catch her up.’

The maidservant was silent, staring at him like a ghost, her knotted fingers still clutching the coverlet against her. ‘She … she took your horse, my lord.’

Through the dark tracery of bare branches, the moon appeared sporadically, shifting behind veils of cloud, dribbling a faint light down to the forest floor. A rising breeze sifted through the trees, a sibilant sound that spoke of the old stories surrounding the forest of Sefanoc, the drifting ghosts. The woods held little mystery for Brianna; she had grown up in this place, had laughed and played through the woodland with Hugh. She felt no fear as the giant skeletal shapes of the trees rose up before her, no fear as she glimpsed the deep pools silvered by the light of the moon and heard the twitterings and rustlings of the animals in the undergrowth. Nay, the forest did not scare her. But being caught by Lord Giseux de St-Loup did.

In despair, she kicked the rounded flanks of the horse beneath her once more. In her haste to leave for Winchester, she had failed to adjust the stirrups to the length of her leg and now they bumped uselessly against the horse’s sides, polished metal hoops shining in the darkness. Even without the use of the stirrups, she considered herself to be an excellent horsewoman, but this animal simply refused to move at anything greater than a sporadic, half-hearted trot! Really, it was as if his master was controlling him from afar!

All of a sudden, the animal stopped, pointed ears moving round as if to locate a sound. And then she heard it—a shout on the wind. She failed to decipher the words, but she knew, knew it was him. Knuckles rounding tautly on the reins, her heart lodged in her throat—how had he managed to catch up with her so quickly? The horse begun to turn in response to his master’s voice, Brianna yanking desperately on the reins to point his head back in the right direction, but to no avail. The horse turned abruptly in the narrow, muddy track, almost throwing her off in its excitement. In the last moment before the horse took off, Brianna managed to throw her leg over the horse’s neck and slip in a flurry of skirts to the ground.

Head held high, she stalked forwards, marching purposefully, swiftly, along the lane towards Winchester, wrapping her woollen cloak firmly around her. She could have run to hide in the darkness of the forest, but what would that achieve? He would surely find her—his face held a lean, hunting expression, that of a predator. Moments later, the sound of galloping hooves thumped up behind her. Her heart plummeted, trickles of fear stinging her blood.

‘Lady Brianna!’ Giseux bellowed. The words rained down on her back as if they were physical blows and she hunched over, chest thudding painfully. Don’t cower like a guilty thief, she told herself. Face him! Dragging herself up to her full height, spine straight and rigid, she spun around, the toe of her sturdy leather boot sinking into soft rotting leaves beneath her foot.

Giseux wore no helmet; his hair stuck up in rough spikes. His eyes, sparking anger, glimmered down over her. Despite her determined demeanour, she hoped that a great crevasse would open up beneath him and swallow him up.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ The roughness of his tone cut into her. His face glimmered with a sheen of sweat: he must have run to catch up with her before his horse turned back.

‘You know what I am doing.’ Not wanting to meet his eyes, to admit that she had defied his orders, Brianna stared mutinously at his mail-covered foot, stuck in the stirrup on a level with her chest, the gleaming armour dulled with spots of mud.

‘I told you to wait until morning, then I would have escorted you.’ His voice was low, level, but she detected a steely thread of exasperation winding through. The strengthening breeze stirred the wayward strands of his hair, making him appear more tousled … more devastating, she thought suddenly, a lump in her throat.

‘I know the way,’ she replied, truculently. Tilting her head to one side, she crossed her arms across her chest, a defiant gesture. In the shifting moonlight, her copper-coloured hair faded to a pale silk, loose strands drifting treacherously down from beneath her veil.

‘It’s not a question of whether you know the way or not,’ he replied tersely, ‘but the fact that you’re a woman. No noblewoman goes out unescorted—it’s utter madness.’

Brianna pushed the white froth of her veil back over her shoulder. ‘Since Hugh went away, I have had little choice in the matter,’ she replied practically, bending her gaze to his horse’s flank. Beneath the animal’s shining coat, a pulse throbbed near the surface, the beat regular and strong.

‘Up to now, maybe not,’ he agreed, ‘but you knew I would escort you to Winchester and you deliberately defied me.’

She jerked her chin up, eyes flashing fire at his chastisement. ‘I wanted to get to Hugh—I haven’t seen him for three years! Surely you can understand that?’

Aye, he could. He understood her need, her desire to be with her brother, especially after her harassment from Count John’s men. He suspected the beating he had witnessed today was one of many.

‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘who are you to order me about? You are not my lord, or my master. I can do what I want, go where I want. It’s my choice.’

In the shadows of the forest, the silver embroidery along the hem of his tunic twinkled like starlight. ‘So you do exactly as you please, without any consideration for others.’

Why, he made her sound like a spoiled brat! ‘It’s not

like that!’

‘How do you think Hugh would feel if something had happened to you?’

‘I can take care of myself!’

‘Hah! Like you took care of yourself this morning?’ he growled down derisively. The moonlight turned the ruffled strands of his hair to gold. ‘If I hadn’t come along when I did …’

She shrugged her shoulders, trying to suppress the doubt that mired her chest. ‘Those men are cowards … Lord Fulke is a coward! They would have left me alone soon enough. You, coming along like that, would have made no difference.’

‘Fighting words, my lady! Yet I suspect even you know that you lie to yourself. A woman alone is vulnerable, especially one who is stupid enough to believe she can best a man!’ She reminded him of a wild animal, cornered and vulnerable, the display of viciousness masking its puny strength.

‘I can—Hugh taught me how to use the crossbow … and the knife!’ The pitch of her words notched upwards, emerging in a spiral of rising anger and, yes, fear as well. How dare he challenge her methods of self-preservation, her hard-won skill? Instinctively her fingers moved to the jewelled knife hilt on her belt.

Giseux’s sparkling grey eyes honed in on her movement, his mouth twisting to a derogatory sneer. ‘That knife is more a hindrance than a help; it can so easily be wrested from your hands and turned against you. You would be better off not having it at all.’ The horse sidled beneath him; his big thigh muscles tensed as he maintained his upright position on the animal.

Hugh had given her the knife, before he went away. It was he who had taught her to use it properly, even though her brother could only guess at what she had experienced at the hands of her husband. She had told Hugh the barest details of her ordeal, not wanting to give voice to her time with Walter, not even with her brother. This knife, its heavy weight bumping against her hip, made her feel safe; now this man, this stranger, had the temerity to undermine its power!

‘You have no idea of what you are talking about!’ she flared up at him, long eyelashes fanning out around her blue eyes. ‘You scarce know me, yet you criticise and condemn me! How dare you?’

In a single, graceful movement he slid down from the horse, from that treacherous animal that had refused to move faster than a snail for her, and stood before her, his angled face leaning down into hers. ‘You’re living in a dream world, thinking you can protect yourself with that blade.’ He was so close that he stood within the folds of her skirts.

Instinctively, she backed away, throwing back the sides of her cloak as her fingers tightened around the hilt, sliding the knife from the leather scabbard. His arm flashed out, a lightning speed honed from years of fighting, muscular fingers upon hers, crushing, squeezing. An intense pain shot through her wrist, the knife slipping from her weakened grip. ‘You’re not being fair …’ she gasped as it fell. Giseux’s quicksilver reflex snared the blade as it flew downwards; in a trice, he turned the gleaming point, the blade a hairbreadth away from her frantically beating heart. For an endless moment they stood there, tense, taut, breathing rapidly, the moon highlighting the stillness of their bodies.

‘See how easy it was?’ His voice looped over her, dry, taunting. His hulking frame loomed so close that she caught the scent of him, a tantalising mix of spice and woodsmoke. A surge of adrenalin pulsed through her, exciting, wicked. She stepped backwards, appalled at the speed of the manoeuvre, appalled by his glittering proximity, then realised she could go no further, her heel kicking uncomfortably against the nubbled back of a trunk. Above them, an owl hooted, its call eerie within the confines of the trees.

‘Give me my knife back!’ Her voice, brittle, trembled with confusion. Palms pressed against the immovable oak, her slender body felt exposed to him, vulnerable. ‘I should have shot you when I had the chance!’

He laughed, a short bark of sound, teeth white in the shadowed tan of his face, flipping the knife back so that she could take the jewelled hilt. ‘Death by crossbow might have been preferable to escorting you.’

Brianna glared at him, hostile, stabbing the blade back in its sheath. ‘I’m not going back to Sefanoc with you,’ she announced firmly. ‘I’m carrying on to Winchester, whether you like it or not. You can’t make me go back with you.’

Giseux’s knee brushed against her leg; she flinched at the contact. His voice, when it came, was low, slipping velvet. ‘I can make you do anything I want.’ His eyes bored into hers, darkening gimlets of granite. ‘Don’t kid yourself that I, or any other man for that matter, could not … it’s dangerous to think like that.’

‘I’ve managed up to now,’ she spat back weakly. ‘And I’m still not going back with you.’

Giseux sighed. The woman was a complete fool. Of course he could make her return to Sefanoc—he could simply grab her spindly frame and dump her on his horse, kicking and screaming. Surely she realised that? He was twice the size of her, with muscle power to match. But he was awake now, and in no mood to wrangle any longer. Turning away, he walked over to his destrier, tightening the girth, before throwing himself up into the saddle. ‘Mount up,’ he ordered, kicking the shining stirrup free from his booted foot.

‘Wh-what?’ She stared up at him aghast. Vivid images piled chaotically into her brain, images of herself tucked up comfortably in the arms of Giseux, her back against his chest, her arms cradled within his. No! She couldn’t do it! ‘I can’t!’

‘You seem to manage perfectly well when you stole my horse.’ He stared down haughtily at her. Beneath him, his horse pawed the ground, dry leaves rustling against its hoof.

‘I borrowed your horse,’ she corrected him. ‘Not that it helped much; he refused to move faster than an ambling walk.’

‘He’s trained only to respond to me,’ he replied, disparagingly, holding out his hand towards her. ‘Now, come on, mount up.’

This is wrong, she thought, as she grasped his hand and stuck her slender foot in the stirrup. A quivering coil of excitement licked along her veins as he hoisted her in front of him; she bounced up as if she weighed nothing. Her hips bumped back uncomfortably into the edge of the leather saddle; she scissored one leg over the horse’s neck to ride astride. Leaning forwards, she grabbed a bunch of mane between her fists to maintain her balance.

‘Lean back.’ It was a command, not a request. His warm breath puffed over her veil; the material wafted against the nape of her neck making her shiver at the close contact. ‘At the speed we’ll be going, you’ll fall off. Lean back.’ His repeated order was terse, clipped.

I’m doing this for Hugh, she reminded herself over and over again as she moved gingerly against the solid wall of chest. Every nerve ending in her body sprang alive at the contact; beneath her layers of clothing, beneath the thick wool cloak, the gown of linen, she could feel his chest muscles ripple against her shoulder blades. The bunched muscle of his thighs pillowed her hips, rocking her intimately from side to side as the horse picked up speed. One arm snaked around her middle, the iron band yanking her more securely inwards as the horse kicked up clods of earth in its wake. She had never been this close to a man, this intimate, nay, not even with Walter; what she did now went against every promise she had made herself when she had left that horrible man. Against all inclination, she was thrown back into him, again and again. Brianna pressed her eyes together in shame, cheeks lit with flags of red.

The maid felt so fragile within his arms, her slim frame light against his chest, thought Giseux. Her appearance belied her inner strength, the innate courage that flowed within her. Like a delicate flower stem rocked by a fierce breeze, it would take a great deal to break her. He sensed she had come close that morning, that he had witnessed her teetering on the edge of total fear, of utter desolation. When those men had laid into her she had fought back like one possessed. Above the silken brush of her hair, his mouth tightened—no woman deserved such harsh treatment, whatever they had done, however they had behaved. Imperceptibly, his arms strengthened around her. Her shoulders rocked back into his chest; he grimaced as his body responded to the delicate press, the drifting lavender scent of her hair. He knew better than to become involved. Since that unspeakable time with Nadia, women, for him, had been reduced to a means of physical solace. He never asked their names in the darkness, never engaged in conversation. It suited him that way and, after what had happened, he preferred it. Without thinking, he rubbed at the aching muscle in his thigh, the single physical reminder of the woman he had loved in the East, the woman who had died trying to help him and his men. She had been on their side and had paid with her life for that loyalty. His wound was a small price in comparison, a continual ache eating into him, reminding him of his guilt, his culpability day after day. That, and the cavernous black void that was his heart.