The Hunted Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  A few hundred yards on, the trees thinned out. She shifted closer to the edge of the saddle, ready to slip off.

  “Listen. I hear water again. I still haven’t made my toilet.” She plucked at his sleeve.

  Geoffrey took the reins in one hand, freeing her legs, and lifted off his hood to listen. The moment was now or never.

  She jumped down onto soft ground, picked up the skirt of the long robe, and bolted into the undergrowth. The horse neighed. Geoffrey shouted, and as she expected, he followed her. At first, she thought she’d made a terrible mistake. Her robe snagged on the twigs and thorns, nearly dragging her down, and her slippers sank into the mud. However, the same obstacles hindered Geoffrey. While she had the advantage of small size and flexibility, Geoffrey on horseback had very few.

  She heard a stream of curses. Risking a glance back, she was surprised to find the gap between them had opened up. Her indigo robe merged with the gloom, and she drew up the hood, shrouding herself.

  “Dammit,” he yelled. “Come back. Come back. You can’t leave me.” There was a sob at the end of his wail.

  Should she turn back? She hid behind a tree trunk, panting. The darkness enveloped her, the cold morning too. She couldn’t see Geoffrey, only hear his frantic cries. It was then she realised she was hopelessly lost and had no idea where the path lay, or how to reach another. She crouched, hugged her knees, and prayed that Gervais had discovered her gone. But what if he was so busy tidying up his precious castle that he failed to notice her missing? Worst, he might believe she had left with any one of their guests, using their departure as a shield, for though she had declared her love for him, she had not given him all that he desired.

  She’d not submitted to his hunt; she wasn’t his prize yet.

  Emboldened by a bizarre notion, and drawing off the robe, she stood tall and naked. Her scent must fill the air and her pale flesh stand out brightly. Now the real game was afoot. For if Geoffrey was to win her back, he would have to find her, too, and she seriously hoped he wouldn’t and that Gervais did, and soon. The younger knight had a substantial head start.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Gervais sniffed and frowned. No trace of her as yet. He twitched the reins and rode on further into the forest. Beneath his horse’s hooves were the deep tracks of another’s. It was his only clue. The prints were fresh, perhaps only an hour or so. Though many of his guests had departed, not one of them was likely to choose this route when the road was easier to follow.

  He urged his horse forward, and focused on the darkest spots between the trees. His ears pricked up to the sounds of moving animals: the squirrels and rabbits, song thrushes and blackbirds. The odd coo of a dove. What he wanted to hear wasn’t there.

  It was time to abandon his ride, tie him to a fallen tree, and move on foot, where he could be nimble, and cut corners since the forest path followed the driest high ground, while he could dash down into the ravines and gorges that patterned the forest. The bubbling of a brook told him he was close to one such place. Free of his horse, Gervais trod his own path down the side of the hill and hoped that Geoffrey had allowed Matilda some respite by the water.

  The hairs on his neck stood on end, and his muscles thickened around his thighs. He drew breath into his lungs, and enriched it, giving it the power to extent him for longer. He started to run, weaving between stumps and trees, jumping over obstacles as nimbly as a prancing deer.

  He stilled, dropped down onto one knee and watched the dark shadow move. The outline of the creature took form, and he recognised it. Approaching, he took the reins of the horse, and patted his neck. He checked the side saddles and found a half-eaten loaf and the flask. There was a purse filled with coin, a hunting knife, and a rolled mat for sleeping upon. Stuck to the horse blanket under the saddle was a tuft of purple, a few threads of velvet brush, and he plucked it off and held it to his nose. The only evidence of Matilda—her scent.

  “There, there,” he said softly to the sweating horse. “So Geoffrey has given up on you, too. Well then, go find my horse, and you can wait together.” He struck the stallion’s rump, and the horse spirited itself away.

  Now he had her fresh in his nostrils, he had the means to find her. He shook off the limitations of human senses and allowed the Zalim to takeover fully. He armed himself with a bow, ready to fell Geoffrey. He trusted his aim, and knew if he had to, he could send an arrow straight past her, and into the flesh of her abductor. He felt no pity for the man, only vengeful anger.

  With the wind blowing into his face, he halted. The sound was weak and carried on the breeze—sobbing. Hunched, Gervais crept forward, using the tree trunks for coverage. He came to a grassy opening, and in the middle, on his knees, was the pathetic young knight, lost and cursing among his tears.

  “Tilda,” he called. “Come back. I mean you no harm.”

  “What have you done with her?” Gervais barked.

  The boy leapt to his feet and drew his sword. There was a wildness in his eyes that Gervais recognised, having seen it in other volatile young men. A different wildness to that of a beast. While a beast had black hungry pits for its eyes, Geoffrey’s were pained and hollow. However, the knight was still a threat and not to be taken lightly. Gervais drew his blade, too.

  Face to face, they circled each other, keeping track of the glints of metal that moved around with them.

  “She’s out there.” Geoffrey pointed with his sword. “Because of you. She’s scared of you, and ran off.”

  Gervais glared at the red-faced youth. “You lie. She ran away from you. You took her, not I.”

  “She’ll learn I am worthy of her.” Geoffrey straightened his back.

  “Prove it.” Gervais slid forward on one foot, his sword arm raised and threatening.

  Geoffrey quickly parried the thrust and hopped back on his heel. Back and forth, they thrust and parried, and Gervais tried out several well-known moves, deducing how much the knight knew. Apparently sufficient to impress his father, but not a war-weary soldier like Gervais. There were plenty of weaknesses to exploit.

  Although the bigger, older man, Gervais was a dancer compared to the crippled Geoffrey, and that was where he struck. With the flat of his blade, he whacked the lame leg right where the bone had snapped. Geoffrey screamed and fell backwards, clutching his leg.

  “Get up,” Gervais said harshly. “You’re no longer a boy.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes blackened with shame and hate. He staggered back on his feet and took the weight on his good leg. His bravery impressed Gervais; there was hope for the lad yet.

  “Kill me then, if that is what you want. Take her from a dead man, and she’ll love you forever, won’t she,” Geoffrey mocked, waving his sword.

  “I’m not here to kill you. I came to take my bride home, where she belongs. It’s time to be a man, Geoffrey. You’ve lost her; there are others who will serve you better.” He held his ground but didn’t parry the wavering blade.

  Geoffrey’s face paled. “She said the same thing. She thinks she’s not worthy of me. She calls herself devilish.”

  Gervais laughed. “She is. She is,” he sighed. “Oh, Geoffrey, this isn’t what you were destined for, is it? Fighting me in the thick of a forest on a broken leg for a woman who gives her heart only once, and never again. She has all but married me, and I can’t give her up.”

  Geoffrey’s lips trembled. “I thought I couldn’t either.” He lowered his sword.

  “And now? How can she possibly be the right woman for you when she came away with me without protest?” Gervais maintained his guard. Geoffrey was a dangerous fuse waiting for either a match to ignite his passions or a pail of water to dampen his desires.

  “She wrote to me, said she wasn’t giving up on me, then this one letter arrived, and I thought she’d been coerced into writing it. But she has really changed her mind. Why?” Geoffrey released a quiet sob.

  “Because she knows what she needs, and while it hurts you, it liberated her. She is a fr
ee woman, Geoffrey, free to choose, and without a care for dowries or reputation. She’s chosen me, I’m sorry. I never intended for you to be sorely injured by my pursuit of her.” He lowered his sword and approached the hunched knight. Geoffrey offered no resistance and relinquished his sword to his better opponent.

  “My father told me to find her, that if I didn’t, then he would throw me out. He wants her dowry.” Geoffrey wiped his nose on his sleeve. Sweat trickled down his brow and mingled with his tears.

  For a moment, he seemed young enough to be Gervais’s son, and woefully immature. Gervais wasn’t sure whether to clout him around the head, or give him a paternal hug of sympathy. While Geoffrey never stood a chance at catching Matilda, he might have a better opportunity with another young woman who was equally lively, slightly more obedient, and rich.

  “You know, my cousin, Marcia, is visiting. She’s due to leave later today, and she requires a valiant escort. She arrived without one, which was not appropriate, and I would have her taken home by somebody I trust.”

  Geoffrey’s face transformed, casting off the melancholy frown with a swiftness that surprised Gervais. “Was she the pretty girl who sat by Matilda’s elbow last night?”

  “Indeed. She’s of the same age, a little more worldly as she has travelled much with her father, who’s a burgher. A rich one, too. He made his money buying nutmeg, or some such spice.”

  “Spices?” Geoffrey’s eyes widened. The spice trade was guaranteed to bring wealth to any who ventured into it.

  “But, of course, you’re a knight, the son of another knight, and you’ll be seeking a more suitable bride.” He patted Geoffrey’s arm. “I should not interfere a second time with your affairs.”

  “But she needs an escort, yes?”

  Gervais nodded. “I would appreciate the offer, if you’re making it.”

  A new passionate fire had been lit, and thankfully for Gervais, it was seeking fuel in a different direction. The wick burning brightly, he allowed it to take flame by retreating from the fight. The grinning Geoffrey took back his sword and sheathed it.

  “You must think me fickle, my lord. But you’re right. I cannot pursue Tilda, not if she is set on you. She would hate me. Marriage must be built on love, yes?”

  “On that we are agreed. If you can walk a little further, then follow my tracks that way,” he pointed to where he’d come from. “Your horse has taken refuge with mine. Ride back up to the castle and introduce yourself to Marcia.”

  “What of your squire, your people. Won’t they attack me in retaliation?”

  The boy had sense, something that he’d almost lost with his foolish endeavour. Gervais slipped off his signet ring.

  “Give this to Jacob and tell him you have my permission to meet Marcia and take her home. They will not believe you took it off me without my cooperation. You well know that would be impossible.” His lips twitched with amusement, but Geoffrey didn’t argue the point. Geoffrey understood that he never had a chance at beating Gervais in a sword fight, or in any fight. Or hunt.

  Geoffrey took the heavy gold ring on the palm of his hand. “You trust me with her?”

  “I do.”

  The young man’s hand trembled, and not with fear, but excitement. Red-faced, Geoffrey clutched the ring to his chest and bowed deeply. “What about Matilda? She’s lost hereabouts, I’m sure.” Geoffrey was genuine troubled. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Yes, it is. But she’ll not be lost for long, have no fear. I’ll find her. It’s probably best that you leave, or she might run farther away.”

  Gervais watched the knight hobble off, his back proudly borne, his chin lifted up. The solution proved easier than Gervais had anticipated. A match for Marcia, one that would please her father and mother, Gervais’s aunt, since it involved an old noble family. Marcia would be delighted to be raised up to a titled lady.

  As for Geoffrey, he had committed an offence worthy of severe punishment, but Gervais believed he’d acted without malice, only driven by passion, something that Gervais understood. Walking on, he caught a hint of Matilda again. She was close, and likely to be cautious, perhaps afraid. Brushing against the twigs of a shrub, he spied a shred of velvet snagged on a thorn, then another thread further along. He plucked each one, and collected sufficient to make a nest for a small bird. She’d run this way and in haste.

  By an oak, he discovered the robe, torn in places and littered with twigs and small leaves. She’d discarded it, but why, or it had been dragged off her by another? He tensed, wondering if what he feared was possible—surely no other Zalim hid in his forest?

  He gathered the plush velvet to his face and inhaled. He tasted her on his tongue, and the aroma wasn’t one of terror. What he smelt was a woman’s musk, the very thing that drove a Zalim to hunt her down, and it could only be released by a willing prey without duress, and living in the hope of capture. It gave him heart to know she was baiting herself for him, and not Geoffrey. Gervais felt the warmth of the robe in his palms. It hadn’t been discarded for too long.

  He had a strange sensation that he was being watched and that she desperately wanted him to find the robe, and her.

  The sun was gaining height, sending beams between the leaves and branches. One such illumination struck something pale with an alabaster quality. He sharpened his focus on a gap between two trees. Sure enough, he spotted bare flesh.

  Every element of the Zalim burst into being. He tore off his weapons, the knife and bow, the things that weren’t needed, and strode toward the glimmer, knowing that he would soon be one with her again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  She plucked the dense fronds of the bracken growing here and there, fanned them out into a skirt, and hid amongst the gnarled tree trunks, carefully avoiding bramble thorns and stinging nettles. It was only a matter of time before he found her. Geoffrey never stood a chance, not against an accomplished hunter.

  Running was futile. Gervais wouldn’t have to chase her down and she hadn’t the wherewithal to escape him anyway, quite the contrary, she waited with high hopes of discovery. But he would want the thrill of finding her meekly cowering, uncertain and daunted by his demeanour. She stayed in the shadows, still as a church statue, and breathing as quietly as possible. The cold night had lifted, taking with it the early morning dew and mist, leaving behind an echo of warmth from the previous hot summer’s day. To her surprise, there was no need for clothing. If she shivered, it wasn’t from fear.

  Gervais emerged, wild-eyed, ears cocked, hair spiky, and unnaturally huge in stature, or so it seemed. He had her in his sights; he moved forward with purpose, striding over the litter of the forest floor. He was without weapons or armour, and carrying her ragged cloak under one arm. As for his disposition, he showed neither delight nor ire in his shady face. There was a notable bulge in his riding hose.

  She stepped out from behind the tree, dropped the useless camouflage, and showed him every part of her, from toe to her loose hair, which cascaded over her breasts and arms. He halted a few feet from her. Should she run? Was that how the hunt ended? The damsel scrambling in all directions, then pounced upon and pinned down for his pleasure. She swallowed hard, wondering how prepared she was for such a climax.

  Quite prepared, she concluded, for the tell-tale trickle skimmed down her inner thigh, and her pert nipples rose to attention, poking through the locks of her hair.

  Gervais, and his Zalim combined, inhaled sharply together as one. Seeing him so, in his natural place, the two parts of him were obvious. She recognised the man with his gold top hair glistening in the stripes of sunlight, the silken clothes of a wealthy lord, the dusty skin of an accomplished soldier, the strong hands that held a bow or dagger. There was something else too. A ragged edge to his handsome features and it wasn’t due to his lack of noble birth or finesse. The stealth of his movements wasn’t granted to him because of grace or innate noblesse but came from the Zalim harnessing his natural skills. The beast, the half of him that hungered
constantly for her, was ruling his body and bursting forth. His shirt had split across his shoulders and along the seams of the arms, and the girth of his thighs stretched the fabric of his hose, filling out every crease until smooth.

  She snatched short breaths, and realised she was incapable of movement. Her body refused to obey her commands; it was under his spell, and unlikely to resist him whether she wanted to or not. She had no intention of showing him resistance. This was the full extent of his power over her, and he knew it. A smile spread across his face, one of acknowledgement, of confidence. She offered him a trembling lip and lowered her eyes meekly to his boot laces. Her idle arms were limp by her sides, and would not push him away.

  She had to ask, for old time’s sake. “Geoffrey?” she whispered.

  “Whole,” he said pleasantly, at odds with his animal expressiveness. “He’s changed his mind.”

  “Because you forced him?”

  “Because he saw sense, and Marcia.”

  She laughed, tossing her head back and meeting his gaze. “Oh, how quickly a young heart switches allegiance.”

  “And yours?” His two densely knotted eyebrows rose as one.

  “Is bound and unbreakable,” she said solemnly.

  Words were done. He reached her with two long strides and crushed her into an embrace. She tilted her chin up and received his lips, the pressure of the kiss sent ripples of shivering along her spine. One firm hand of his was all that was needed to cup her arse and lift a leg upward, so that she brushed against his cock, teasing it with her hips. She hooked a foot around his back and held on tightly to his shoulders and neck with her arms. The kiss was unceasing, and breathless, she had to gasp for air when he finally released her mouth.

  He shifted his attention to her delicate neck, then below to each pebbled nipple, while throughout, he probed with his hand, seeking her wetness and testing her readiness. She expected roughness, to be flung on the ground and taken from behind with neither care for her knees or bare skin. It wasn’t for her to decide, she accepted he could take her how he liked, and she would bear what he desired. She loved him, after all.