Читать книгу The Mercenary's Bride - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 10

Gillian grabbed his tunic as he fell, making certain he landed inside the tent. Unable to believe her luck, she threw the heavy sword in its scabbard into the corner and looked for her cloak. She stepped over the unconscious knight and prepared to escape once more. Then she realised he’d not moved since landing face down on the ground there.

Had she killed him? That was never her intent, but she had swung the hilt of the sword as hard as she could at his head to stop him. Crouching down next to him, she lifted his shoulder up and slid her hand down near his mouth and nose. The heat of his breath touched her skin and she sighed in relief. Murder was never her intent.

She released his shoulder and let him lie as he fell, for there was not time and she had not the strength to move or secure him. Gillian did reach down and take the dagger from its sheath inside the cross-garters on his leg where she’d watched him place it. At least it would give her some protection as she made her escape. Peeking out of the tent, she saw that his men, as he’d said, stood some distance away.

Good. If the rest of his words about not paying attention to the goings-on in their leader’s tent were true, she could sneak away and get to the convent, less than a mile or so from here. Kneeling down, she crept on hands and knees away from the tent until she reached the edge of the forest, and then she ran. At the river she turned and ran along it, knowing that it flowed next to the convent’s walls.

Gillian never looked back, never paused, and never slowed as she followed the water to her goal. When she broke through the last copse of trees between her and safety, she skidded to a stop, unable to breathe and unable to believe her eyes. A line of knights, all of them mounted, sat between her and the convent walls.

Her eyes burned with tears of frustration as she realised that she would never outrun these men. Bending over, she drew in deep breaths, trying to calm her racing pulse and the fear that now filled her. If these men were here, their leader would have known where she would flee. He had known all along!

The men said nothing, only waiting as though it was their custom to chase down their lord’s wife in the middle of the night. When she could breathe evenly again, she stood and adjusted her cloak and veil and prepared to be dragged or escorted back to the camp … and to her husband. She shivered then, knowing that he would probably react as her brother had when she’d thwarted his plans—with anger and punishment. The Breton had new ways to punish her wilfulness and her assault on him, and she feared the coming night more now than she had before.

The sound of something breaking through the undergrowth behind and the way the men turned to look made her skin turn to gooseflesh. Gillian slid the dagger into her palm and pivoted towards the trees. It was not the size of the horse that terrified her, nor the length of the sword brandished in her direction. Nay, not those things, but the hardened expression of pure rage that filled the Breton warrior’s face as he beheld her standing there.

He’d not taken time to don his mail or even his helm, and indeed she could see blood streaming down the side of his face along the line of his hair and down his neck from the wound on his head. She swallowed deeply and offered up a quick plea for the forgiveness of her sins to the Almighty, for Gillian did not doubt that her death was imminent. It took every bit of courage and strength she had not to back away when he leapt down from the horse and approached her in slow, measured steps. She wiped her shaking, sweaty palms against her cloak and waited to meet her fate.

He stopped a few paces from her and seemed to realise then that he still threatened her with the sword in his hand. Without taking his eyes from hers, he slid the deadly steel blade back into its scabbard. She startled at his first step nearer.

‘Give me the dagger,’ he whispered harshly, holding his hand out to her.

She’d forgotten she held it, still frightened by the rage in his eyes, and, for a moment, she thought of the possibility of using it against him. But what would it gain her other than a swift death and the damnation of her eternal soul? Even now gazing into his angry face, Gillian knew that his death would help nothing … and it was not something she wished for even at her weakest moments.

Letting out the breath she’d held in for all those moments, Gillian turned the dagger and handed it, hilt first, to the Breton. So quickly that she nearly missed it, a flash of relief brightened the stark, masculine angles of his face, softening it for one fleeting moment. Then, the anger was back as he slipped the dagger back from where she’d stolen it.

Borrowed it.

One of the warriors called out something from behind her and she tried to translate his words, but he spoke too quickly. The Breton answered him in the same tongue, but whether he did it a-purpose or because of fear clouding her mind, she did not understand him, either. Finally, after an exchange of words that lasted several minutes, he looked back at her and shook his head.

Gillian searched her thoughts for something to say. Something that could explain or at least mitigate what she’d done to him. But, truly, how did one explain away knocking another person out? She knew what she’d done; he knew it, as well. All that was left was for him to apply whatever punishment he’d decided upon. Since she knew he wanted her alive, Gillian prepared herself. She’d already survived beatings and whippings by her half-brother, so she believed she could survive whatever this man would deal out to her.

So when, with a nod at his men behind her, he mounted his horse, ordered them to bring her with them and then rode off towards his camp, she could do nothing but stare. That was until a horse’s nose butted her on the shoulder from behind and she stumbled.

‘Go, lady,’ the knight on the horse ordered.

At first, she did not understand and she looked around to see the knights still on their horses, some closer to her, some still nearer to the convent walls.

‘Go,’ he said, nodding at the forest, ‘follow the same path back to camp.’

It was not that she could not understand his words then, she just could not comprehend his orders. She was to walk back to the camp? Alone? Where had their leader gone?

‘Lord Brice said to walk back to the camp and think on your sins as you do so,’ the one named Stephen said. The other men laughed then, apparently knowing more about her sins than she’d have liked. ‘He awaits you there.’

Her stomach gripped then as she realised that this was not his punishment, this was but the prelude to whatever he planned. And she must walk back to face it. She shook her head until the knight called out to her once more.

‘Now, lady,’ he said. ‘Or he ordered me to tie you to my horse and drag you back.’ His voice lowered then and Gillian thought she recognised a touch of regret in his tone. ‘It is not that far and I am certain you would rather arrive there on your feet and not trussed up like some slave.’

He was offering her dignity. Outmanned and outmanoeuvred, certainly for the moment, Gillian decided to acquiesce. She nodded at him and began walking. It would give her time to think of another plan.

The cold air quickly seeped through her cloak as she traced her path back to the river’s edge and then along it. Four knights, two before and two behind, escorted her. Though their pace was slow for men on horseback, it was fast enough that she struggled after only a few minutes. Most likely, two days of walking and the events of the night so far were the cause of her growing exhaustion. And the recent run from the camp here added to the pain in her legs and the weariness that spread through her.

Tugging her cloak closer and pulling the hood of it forwards to cover her head, she focused her thoughts on placing one foot in front of the other. After some time, more than Gillian remembered it taking to cover the distance, they reached the turn in the path that took them towards the road, and a while later the camp. More than once, a horse nudged her along. More than once, she waved them off to stop and catch her breath. And more than once, she wished she could think of a way to evade them and their lord.

But all she could do was walk and think.

And worry.

Oh, not over any sins she might have committed as their lord had ordered, but about the rest of the coming night. And the coming day which would see his forces pitted against her half-brother and his allies. When the fires of the camp came into view, Gillian found that most everything disappeared from her list of things to worry over, except the one about the coming night. The knights led her back to his tent, which was now surrounded by guards, and called out to their lord. At his word, Stephen motioned her forwards.

After a deep breath, Gillian walked up to the tent and lifted the flap to enter.

Brice sat waiting for her arrival and pondered all the mistakes he’d made in dealing with Lady Gillian of Thaxted. Once his anger cooled, even he could see the resemblance to the wedding-night farce experienced by his friend Giles, now Lord of Taerford. And that did not please him at all, for it only served to remind him of his own boast that he would not have those kinds of problems when he claimed his bride.

Now, with his head still pounding from being hit with his own sword and with his runaway bride standing outside his tent, he hoped word of this debacle would not reach Giles or his lady Fayth for some time. And hopefully he could recover from the disastrous start and get his marriage, and the invasion of his keep, underway in a more successful manner. Taking a mouthful of the ale from his cup, he touched the egg-sized lump on his head to see if it had stopped bleeding yet. Bringing away nothing on his fingers, he drank again, hoping the ale would ease the anger and the pain.

He heard Stephen’s call from outside and waited for her to enter. Brice had chosen to get away from her when his fury about her attack and her disobedience nearly overwhelmed his better judgement, for he was not a man to take his anger out on others and he did not wish to do so now. Well, he might wish to do it, but he would not.

Gillian stepped into the tent, and it suddenly felt much smaller than it had. He watched as she moved a few paces in and let the flap drop back into place. From the corner where he sat on a stool he waited for her to see him. Her reaction, when she did, was not a good one, for she gasped and backed up towards the entrance. He looked in the direction of her gaze and realised that the bloodied rags he’d used in cleaning the gash on his head lay on the ground at his feet.

‘I … I …’ she began to stutter.

‘Do not make some false claim of regret, lady,’ he warned, kicking the rags out of his way and standing before her. ‘You wanted to escape, I was in your way, and you removed me.’ He crossed his arms over his chest and allowed himself a moment of enjoyment at her discomfort. He knew, though, that the way she reacted to his accusation was important in coming to know her better.

Gillian let out a loud sigh and pushed her loosened hair back out of her face. Her bedraggled appearance in no way marred her beauty; instead, it made him want to wrap her in his arms and kiss away the worries that caused the crease to deepen between her brows.

‘You are correct, my lord,’ she said softly. ‘My only intention was to escape. You were in my way.’

‘Why?’ he asked. The word surprised him until he realised that he did want to know her reasons for running from him. ‘Did you run from me in particular? From this marriage?’ She looked as though she sought a way out of answering, so he asked again. ‘You spoke the vows in front of the priest and witnesses. You pledged yourself to me. So, lady, why did you run?’

‘I ran from you. I ran from this marriage. I just ran,’ she said in a voice so low he nearly missed it. She looked away from him, too, not meeting his gaze, but staring down at her hands while she spoke. Hands that twisted the cloth of her cloak in a tight spiral.

He suspected that she knew he would intercept any of her attempts to get to the convent, but why had she not run back to her brother’s protection?

‘Why the convent?’ He took a step towards her, but paused when she backed away. Likely she feared his anger even now.

‘I would be welcome there. The reverend mother said I would be welcomed into their community.’

‘And your brother would not welcome your return to him?’ he asked.

The stricken expression at his words told him more than he ever expected to learn, for her face paled and her eyes filled with pain and fear. Brice reached out for her, but she moved farther away from him. Filled with uncertainty about how to proceed with her, he could tell by watching the lady that exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her even now.

It had been his plan—having her walk back to the camp would tire her out and make another attempt to escape this night nearly impossible. Now, as he watched her struggle to remain standing even while trying to appear strong, he understood the strength of her pride and her determination.

She was a worthy opponent, but would be a better lady to their people and a wife to him—if he could gain her trust and co-operation. Swiving her in this tent now would not accomplish that. Not consummating the marriage was not a choice, for if she did reach the convent it would cause a complicated mess that would take months or years to sort through. And he knew to the marrow of his bones that she would try again. Still, he shook his head and surrendered to the inevitable.

‘Seek your rest, lady,’ he said, pointing to the pallet.

She started and glanced between him and the pile of blankets they’d occupied not long ago. ‘I do not understand.’

‘It is nearly the middle of the night,’ he began. ‘Many new challenges face us in the morn, so seek your rest.’

Brice turned away and began to pick up the rags from the ground. She remained still where she stood, not yet moving to the pallet. So, he went over, lifted up several of the blankets and motioned for her to lie down. As though prepared for him to attack her at any moment, Lady Gillian crept to the pallet and sat down without ever taking her gaze from him. She started to untie her cloak, but then wrapped its length around her and lay down.

Brice layered several blankets over her and tried not to think about her presence in his tent. He tried not to think about the lovely, feminine body under those blankets. He especially tried not to remember the way she sounded, the way she gasped so softly as he slid his hand nearer to her womanly flesh. But when she loosened her veil and her hair spread around her head, he hardened in immediate response to her innocent actions and he nearly lost that battle.

Realising that his body had readied for taking her and distraction was necessary, he walked over to finish his tasks. He should call Ernaut to see to cleaning and arranging things, but that could wait until morning. After securing his sword where she could not reach it easily, he gathered the soiled rags and tossed them out of the tent flap. He busied himself with other menial tasks, all to keep himself from tearing off the blankets, freeing her from her cloak and garments and ploughing her as deeply and fervently as he wanted to do.

A short while later, the sound of clattering teeth filled the small space. Brice turned and walked closer to her. Now he could see that her whole body shivered beneath her cloak and the blankets. His own breath floated in front of him in the cold night’s air, making him realise that she must be chilled to the bone from both her run to escape, her walk back to the camp and the absence of any fire or hearth to warm her in the tent.

It was exactly the discomfort he’d wanted her to feel when he gave the orders, but now, watching it, he found he did not like the results. He secured the flap of the tent and after removing his dagger and slipping it under the edge of the pallet, he lifted the blankets and slid in behind the lady.

Since she lay on her side facing away from him, he shifted closer until her back touched his chest and wrapped his arms around her to hold her close. She reacted immediately, her body rigid as she ceased all movements. So still did she lie that he could not even feel her taking breath into her lungs.

‘Be at ease, lady,’ he whispered to her. ‘I seek but to warm you so that your teeth stop making those infernal noises when they clatter from the cold and I can get some rest.’

Gathering the folds of her cloak in his hand, he tucked them tightly around her and moved one leg against hers to give her some warmth. Brice waited on her protests, but none came. After a few minutes, her teeth did indeed stop their clattering. It was another little while before her shivering stopped.

‘Though I meant for you to suffer after what you did, I did not intend for the punishment to be so severe,’ he whispered as he felt her body relax against his.

He expected no reply, for his words were as close to an explanation as he would go, as close to an apology as he would permit himself to offer. But, as she had in most things since he’d first heard of Lady Gillian of Thaxted, she surprised him once more.

‘And though I meant to knock you out of your senses, I did not mean to wound you so deeply,’ she whispered back.

Brice could not stop his laughter then, releasing her for a moment and falling on to his back as he did. Then, he rolled against her once more, gathering her into his arms and settling back into their comfortable position.

‘Just so, lady. I suspect we may be well suited for each other after all.’

He listened for another reply, but none came, and soon he was met only by the deep, even breaths that spoke of sleep. Now that her shivering had ceased and the warmth of their bodies together increased, Brice could feel the pull of sleep lulling him to it. He might as well get a few hours of rest, before taking the next step with his new wife.

Oh, he knew she thought herself safe from his attentions, but his delay would only last until morning. Though she might have fallen asleep a virgin this night, he planned that she would not be one by the next. Or by the time they rose to face the challenges on the morrow.