Her Battle-Scarred Knight

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Giseux,’ she said loudly. ‘Giseux, wake up!’

  In response, his fingers clawed into his upper thigh, the sinews in his hand rigid, straining. Snaring the muscular bulk of his shoulders between her hands, she tried to shake him, tried to lift his upper body from the ground, but to no avail: he was too heavy. In desperation, her eyes searched the cottage interior, the uneven walls, for something that might help, before a sudden, bizarre idea touched her.

  Blood hurtled through her veins, blossoming the skin of her face. Hands on his shoulders, she dipped her head. Kissed him.

  Her soft lips touched his firm mouth in a last attempt to hush the demons of the night that claimed him. A dangerous warmth stole over her, melting her limbs, turning the muscles in her knees to useless mush; she shuddered, striving to hold her body away from him. It was only a kiss, she told herself, a simple device to alleviate his distress. The rigid frame of his body beneath her stilled, quietened.

  His lips moved beneath hers; responded. She told herself to draw away, to sit back on her heels, but her heart told her otherwise. The touch of his mouth spiralled each nerve in her body to a singing desire, a yearning for more. The regular beat of her blood picked up speed, throbbing, driving logic from her brain, forcing her to feel, not think. His tongue played along the seam of her lip, teasing, testing, and she opened her lips above his like a flower unfurling in sun, wanting more. His mouth roamed, insistent, demanding, as his arms came around her, his hands moving along the graceful rope of her spine, pulling her into the broad expanse of his chest. Against the pliant curve of her breast, his heart thudded.

  Giseux groaned, one big hand smoothing over the tempting flare of her hip, the top of her thigh, hitching the fabric of her gown with questing fingers. Brianna’s eyes shot open at the intimacy of his touch. Lurching away from him, heart bumping erratically against her ribs, she knelt back into the pile of straw, cheeks flaming.

  ‘You were dreaming!’ Her voice was hard-edged, on the defensive. She tucked a wayward strand of hair carefully, behind one ear, smoothed shaking hands over the plush velvet skirts spread over her lap. Had she truly lost her wits? It would have been far safer to throw the contents of his water bottle over his head. Her mind crawled with embarrassment.

  Giseux’s eyes shone, pellucid, fathomless pools of grey flint as they roved over her kneeling figure, the taut curves packed temptingly into the lilac gown. ‘You were kissing me.’ Astonishment traced his voice. He sat up, the blanket falling in rough folds into his lap. The gauzy linen of his shirt stuck to his chest, the slash of the V-neck tugged to one side to reveal his strong, corded throat.

  ‘You were having some sort of nightmare, Giseux,’ she explained, trying to control the race of her breath. ‘I…You wouldn’t wake up. It was, well, the only thing I could think of doing.’ The blush on her face deepened, a scarlet hue, as she continued, limply, staring at her hands. ‘I could have thrown some water over you.’

  His hand stretched out towards her, fingers beneath her chin gently lifting her drooping head. His gaze burned into her, mouth curved into a half-smile. ‘I’m very glad you didn’t.’ His voice, wrenched from sleep, was husky.

  She frowned, ignoring his sensual reference. ‘You were shouting out. It must have been a bad nightmare.’

  ‘It was.’ Yet for some inexplicable reason, the details of this dream were hazy, subdued by the sweet taste of Brianna’s lips, the featherlight touch of her fingers searing his shoulders. Absentmindedly, he rubbed at his leg, using his knuckles to try to knead away the burning ache. ‘I’m sorry I woke you.’

  ‘What happened to your leg?’

  Seizing a couple of branches from a loose pile against the wall, Giseux threw them into the glowing embers, sending sparks shooting upwards. The sweet smell of burning apple wood filled the air. ‘That time I told you about…with Nadia.’ Brianna read the shadows in his eyes and tried to ignore the flip of regret in her heart as he spoke his lover’s name, clasping her hands sensibly in her lap. ‘An arrow went into my leg. It could have been worse.’

  ‘It obviously gives you pain,’ she chipped back, gently.

  The lilting tones of her voice swept over him, tender, caring. In the glowing embers of the fire, she appeared like an angel, her magnificent hair, uncovered, like a halo of flame. Not any more, he thought. Not with you. What had happened out there, in the hot and dusty desert land, the memories that covered his every waking moment with a black suffocating film, seem to recede in her presence, her lightness of heart, her sympathy. Or was it empathy, for she had surely suffered too?

  ‘Most of my men were killed in the attack, Brianna,’ he said finally.

  She shook her head. ‘I am sorry.’ The crushed silk velvet of her gown shone, glimmering damson-coloured in the light of the flames. Instinctively, her fingers reached for his, a simple gesture of comfort. His strong, sinewy hand engulfed hers.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he murmured, pupils widening, black pools of desire.

  Without thinking, she tipped her upper body forwards, wrapping slim arms around his breadth, drawing him close. Beneath the pads of her fingers on his back, his muscles on his back were tense, inflexible, and, recklessly, she pulled him closer, touching her body to his.

  The yielding contours of her figure butted up against his chest, the swell of her bosom nudging the gauzy linen of his shirt. His innards liquefied, the flicker of desire that kindled steadily, constantly in his gut rupturing into a stark, uncontrollable craving. His arms came up, clasped her shoulders, squeezing her tight. His nostrils trapped the shifting perfume of her hair, loose strands floating silkily around her head, plucking at the light from the fire to turn each strand into a glowing, vibrant filament. Her eyes, large ovals of opulent blue, held empathy, not pity. And yet as Brianna held him, a small voice in his head jeered at him. He was using her, taking advantage of her kind nature to drive the demons from his head. He didn’t deserve her comfort, or her sympathy; she didn’t deserve to be dragged down by his dark soul. Breathing heavily, his body growing warm beneath her touch, he shoved her away, the movement so unexpected, so brusque that she blinked at him in surprise. ‘Go!’ he ordered her, his eyes bright with desire, burning into her startled face. ‘Go to bed, now, before I do something that we both regret.’

  Rolling herself back into the rough woollen blanket, the coarse weave grazing her cheek, Brianna told herself she should be grateful to Giseux, grateful that he had stopped, rejected her. She had made a mistake, for even in that simple act of comfort, those strange flames of excitement had leapt up again, stirring her belly. Her limbs tingled with the frustration of his rebuff, his abrupt rejection, every muscle quivering with the anticipation of what might have been, then shrivelling with the cold knowledge of desertion.

  Angrily, she twisted on to her side, tucking her cloak fastidiously around her. How could she want anything at all from a man after her time with Walter? Surely that experience had taught her all she needed to know about men? Enough to realise that she was content to live a life without one. She was treading on dangerous, unstable ground, breaking her own rules; it was imperative that she kept her distance from him. Her life, her own sanity, depended upon it. Whether her heart agreed or not, was an entirely different matter.

  Raising his arms to lever his hauberk over his head, the cold metallic scales sliding over his face before settling in their familiar positions over his shoulders, his chest and thighs, Giseux shouted up to Brianna. He had woken early, listening to her steady, even breathing above him, aware of a heady lightness, a weightlessness around his heart.

  ‘Brianna!’ he bellowed upwards once more. He had already saddled both horses in his shirt-sleeves, breath puffing out in the frosty morning air.

  ‘I’m coming.’

  He waited, impatiently, cocking his head to one side, expecting to see her appear at the top of the ladder. Nothing.

  ‘Brianna? What are you doing?’ He planted one foot at the bottom of the ladder,
then climbed quickly to the top. His tousled head appeared on a level with the platform, his chest leaning against the wooden edge for support. Brianna sat in the mound of straw, wisps of dry grass clinging to her skirts. Her knees were drawn up, her feet were bare, pink toes flashing daintily against the dull yellow of the straw. Her pale stockings lay in a wrinkled pile beside her.

  Giseux frowned. ‘You’re ready. Put your boots on.’

  Brianna fixed him with a sapphire stare. ‘I can’t.’ The skin on her face was taut, white, stretched across her fine, high cheekbones.

  ‘Why not?’ he barked.

  ‘Because I’ve done…Because I ran barefoot through the forest, after I lost my boot. It’s all swollen.’ She stuck out her foot to show him. Bloodied cuts and deep grazes in the underside of her foot marked the tender skin. Bruises bloomed in the puffy flesh, blue and purple, marred by black specks of grit and dirt.

  ‘You little fool.’ His gaze pounced on her, immediately condemning. ‘Why didn’t you say anything last night?’

  Because you were kissing me, she thought, erratically. I was kissing you. ‘It wasn’t hurting last night.’ Her shoulders sagged.

  ‘It needs to be cleaned.’ The svelte contours of his face loomed closer. ‘Come over here, let me help you.’

  She stared at his outstretched fingers, heart bumping treacherously as she remembered his hand clamped fiercely to her hip, his heated breath at her throat. ‘I can probably make it down…alone.’ She chewed at her lip doubtfully.

  ‘If you’re sure…?’

  Brianna nodded vigorously, mouth set firm against his incisive perusal, before he disappeared, thankfully, down the ladder.

  Giseux watched as first one boot, then the other, were thrown down from the platform to the ground below, one narrowly missing his head. One boot ended up with its toe stuck into the cold fire pit, releasing a puff of grey ash into the air. Brianna crawled forwards, eyes rooted with determination on the top rung of the rickety ladder. Turning around, she reached down as far as she could with her good foot, toes skimming the rung. Gritting her teeth, she swung her other leg down. Pain chewed through her, burning, lacerating, as she forced her left foot down on to the next rung, sweat slicking her palms as she gripped the sides of the ladder. Her gown was riding up, catching against the rough wooden rungs, revealing her legs.

  ‘Stop watching me, will you? Wait outside, or something!’ she hissed, tipped her head down to him. Her face was flushed, a light sheen of sweat covering her skin. He folded his arms across his big chest, the black wool of his surcoat rumpling with the movement.

  ‘I’ll stay,’ he replied, infuriatingly. He eyed the shapely indent of her knees, the elusive gleam of her lower thighs before they disappeared into her rucked-up, bunching skirts.

  Catching the flash of interest in his eyes, Brianna jumped backwards, a rash decision. Her feet hit the ground, hard, both feet taking the full impact of her body weight. Throbbing pain shot through her damaged foot, sending raw fingers of agony clutching through her heel and her calf; she yelped, staggering backwards, falling, landing in a heap of skirts.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ she cursed, banging the flats of her hands against the hard-packed ground. ‘You put me off, unnerved me. I could have done it!’ Tears of frustration stung her lashes; they shone like tiny black feathers beneath the fine arch of her brows.

  He ignored her, crouching down to glance at the bottom of her foot. ‘Stay there while I fetch some water.’

  He returned, moments later, carrying a shallow, earthenware bowl slopping with freezing liquid, leaving the door ajar. A rush of fresh morning air stirred the dead ashes in the stone-circled fire pit. He flicked her hem up swiftly; the lilac material riffled across her pale calves as he surveyed her injured foot with a critical eye.

  ‘I like to do things for myself.’ Breath bundled in her chest as she tried to explain her stubbornness, to try to lighten the blossoming tension. The tendons strained as his fingers supported her heel, lashes fanning down over his gimlet eyes as he proceeded to clean the wounds, dark spots speckling the dry earth from the wet, sopping cloth.

  ‘You don’t need to remind me,’ he replied drily. Cupped in his big hands, her foot was small, the bones delicate, pink skin contrasting sharply with his tanned fingers. The translucent colour of her nails reminded him of the pearly insides of seashells.

  ‘In the last few years, while Hugh has been away…’ she paused, searching for the right words ‘…I have felt free.’

  He laughed. ‘What, with Count John’s men on your back?’

  She frowned. ‘Nay, you don’t understand. Nobody was telling me what to do. I could run the manor, run the farm exactly how I liked. I loved it, making my own decisions every day. Especially after…‘ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘After…?’ he nudged. His heart contracted as the high arch of her instep tensed against his grip.

  ‘After my marriage,’ she whispered. ‘Walter, my…my husband, made every decision for me, what I wore, what I ate, what I would do. And if I failed to carry out his orders…’

  Giseux’s hands stilled, droplets of water raining down from the cloth back into the bowl.

  ‘…then he would beat me.’

  Rage sliced through him, sharp, piercing, tapered fingers twisting savagely into the cloth. It was not unusual for a husband to treat his wife in such a manner, but for it to have happened to her, this beautiful, delicate maid, with her indomitable spirit, her feisty ways, made his heart split with anger, with disgust.

  ‘No man should treat a woman thus.’ One big thumb smoothed against her satiny cheek, trying to erase the frozen hurt from her expression.

  Brianna shrugged her shoulders, resisting the urge to turn her face into the warm cup of his palm. ‘It was over in six months. Some women have to endure such marriages for a lifetime. I was fortunate.’

  His laughter was abrasive, ragged. ‘Only you, Brianna, only you could look back on such a situation and say that you were lucky.’

  ‘I have to think about it like that, otherwise…’ Otherwise the memories came crowding in, black and fast, overwhelming.

  His storm-cloud eyes skewered her, sensing her hesitation in telling him the full truth of her marriage.

  ‘Why did you marry him?’

  ‘I think my parents had given up hope of my ever finding a husband. Walter was their last chance to see me settled, happy.’ Her voice trembled. ‘And then they died, within weeks of each other, so I could never tell them how…’ Her eyes rounded in the dim interior of the cottage, pools of cerulean light. ‘They thought he would be good for me.’

  Giseux’s eyes blackened. So that was it. Her parents had arranged the marriage to Walter in order to beat the spirit from her, to fall into line, to conform to the expected standards in society. He was glad they hadn’t succeeded.

  ‘I’m surprised you agreed to the marriage,’ he muttered. Glossy, hazelnut-brown locks fell over his tanned forehead as he smeared her skin with a thick, pungent salve, wrapping the whole foot in a linen bandage, tying the ends tightly over the top of her foot with practised efficiency.

  She drew in a sharp breath, forlorn. ‘Daughters of noblemen have little choice in these matters, Giseux. Surely you know that? We do what our parents tell us to do. I had resisted marriage for so long, I think they were beginning to despair of me. I had to marry…for their sake.’

  His nod was curt, brisk, fingers curling at his sides as he stood. Why hadn’t she held out for longer, resisted further? At least then she would have been spared such a harrowing experience. In a rush of realisation he wished he could have been there, could have done something to prevent it from happening. But what? He had been a knight since the age of twelve, committed to fighting for his country, embroiled in battle after battle, in a place where women held little significance other than for fleshly gratification. He would have looked on and done nothing. So what had changed?

  ‘You can’t go back there, Brianna. You can’t
go back to Walter.’

  She looked up, stunned, hitching herself on to her knees so she could clamber to her feet. The bandage felt hot, bulky around her foot. ‘But I must go, I promised Hugh.’

  ‘Break the promise.’ He caught her elbow, helped her to her feet as she staggered slightly. ‘I can fetch Matilda and the boy.’ His brilliant eyes spiked her with steely precision.

  ‘You’d do that?’ Her heart trembled at his unexpected kindness.

  ‘I’ve told you, Walter wants you back. You are the trade-off.’

  ‘Nay! Not this again!’ She staggered away from him. ‘Why will you not believe that Hugh doesn’t hold my best interests at heart?’

  ‘Because he told me, Brianna. He told me what he planned to do. You’re riding straight into a trap.’

  She clutched her arms about her chest, moving back slowly towards the door, limping slightly. ‘It doesn’t make sense, Giseux. You don’t make sense.’

  ‘And you’re a fool if you persist in this stubbornness. Why would I make something like this up?’

  ‘I’m going, Giseux, whether you like it or not. I can stand up to Walter.’ Blood boiling in her ears, she pulled at the simple wooden lever, wrenching open the door. The cool air smacked into her flushed face; she sagged a little, a tiny voice in her brain telling her she had been stupid, so stupid. With every word, she pushed Giseux away, yet every fibre of her being wanted him to stay, to come with her.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Her voice was small, muted, her fingers playing furtively with a rough snag of wood on the latch. A little knot of sorrow hardened around her heart. Why must she be so outspoken?

  ‘After the way you talk to me?’ He caught the flash of vulnerability in her eyes, swiftly suppressed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, a huge sense of loss beginning to coagulate around her heart, ‘it’s just that…’

  He waved her apology away, packing up the spare bandages into his leather saddlebags, pushing the cork stopper back into the jar of salve. ‘Forget it…I’ve told you, I will go with you.’ He drank in the beauty of her cerulean eyes, the coiled amber strands of her hair, the seductive tilt of her curves in the clinging velvet gown. If he were a wise man, he would leave now, before he became too embroiled, too snarled up in the whole domestic tragedy of Brianna’s life. But something about this woman entranced him, lured him, made his heart sing when he was at her side; there was no way he could leave her now, especially with Hugh’s words of betrayal ringing constantly in his ears. He would make sure she was safe, safe and protected, and then he would go, leave to carry on with his own life, whatever that was.