Her Battle-Scarred Knight

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘I’m not thinking of it now.’ His eyes prowled over her, irises flecked with savage desire.

  She took a step back, heels jagging against the door. Every blood vessel, every nerve ending in her body quivered, vibrated with his nearness, his big body looming over her. Her breath hitched, jittery. Intending to push him away, she placed two hands on his shoulders; her wrists buckled as he moved nearer, bracing her lissom frame up against the wood panelling with his substantial weight.

  Time caught, suspended in the thick air.

  ‘Nay,’ Brianna whispered huskily as his mouth descended, but her heart disagreed, pounding deceitfully. She had the briefest impression of silver eyes darkening before his leonine head dipped down. His mouth ground into hers, fierce, demanding; she whimpered beneath his onslaught.

  Arms swept around her neat waist as he slanted against her, melding the lean, long hardness of his bigger body against her own delicate curves. The ridges around each door panel pressed into her spine, but she didn’t notice. A rough craving flamed in her belly, a hunger, an aching…for what? As the firm curve of his mouth grazed hers, softer now, she yearned to yell, to scream with joy at the exquisite sensation. All she wanted was him, his mouth, and the sweet movement of his lips. She was incapable of resisting, flesh dissolving into a burning pool of liquid at his touch. The heady smell of him enveloped her, plucking at her senses, promising more, much more.

  She arched into him as he deepened the kiss, demanding, insisting. He moaned, a feral passionate sound, as she opened her lips to him, clawing at his shoulders. Yoked together in ravenous, desperate embrace, reality receded, to be replaced by a shining bubble of blistering, hot-blooded temptation. Her hands fluttered over his shoulders, crept up into the feathery strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, ever closer. His hands smoothed up her flanks, cupping the warm, heavy roundness of her breasts, his heart rapping strongly against her own. She had never known it could be like this, two people locked together with such passion, such feeling; her head swam with the implication. If Walter had never released her, then she would never, ever have known.

  He tore his mouth away, suddenly, leaving her bereft, lips burning in the aftermath of the kiss. Stunned at the abundance of passion in her small frame, aware that he had only flirted with the edges of her desire, his eyes flooded with a stormy, turbulent light, grey ringed with iridescent blue. He strode to the middle of the chamber, a safe distance away, yanking a long shirt down over his naked shoulders. Suddenly he didn’t trust himself around her any more.

  ‘Brianna, if you value your self-preservation, I suggest you leave, right now.’

  Strength sapped, she sagged, barely holding herself upright against the panelled door, wisps of copper locks curling around her forehead, across one cheek. Her breathing emerged erratically; she touched one finger to her bruised lips.

  He stared at her, hard, flint-edged, before whisking the damp towel away, powerful gaze openly challenging her, wanting to push her away, to leave. The shirt fell to mid-thigh, hem skimming the light brown hairs sprinkled over his thighs. She kept her eyes resolutely pinned to his face.

  ‘You should leave,’ he repeated, harshly. ‘There’s no telling what I might do next.’

  ‘I am not afraid.’

  Did she realise what she was saying? His head jerked up at her simple admission, his heart flowering, melting, beneath the import of her words. She wanted him, desired him; he saw it in her eyes, read it in every slender line of her body. The impulse to gather up her fragile beauty in his arms, to throw her on the bed and make sweet, passionate love to her, hazed across his vision.

  ‘You should be,’ he croaked. His whole body vibrated, hummed from the feel of her soft body folded into his, her lips moving across his own. He should never, ever have started, never touched his lips to hers, not now, not ever. She drew him, again and again, like a moth to a flame, bewitching, delightful, irresistible. He burned for her.

  Dove-grey fingers of light seeped through the thick, bubbled glass of the windows as Brianna’s eyes cracked open the next morning. For a moment, her befuddled mind scrambled to decipher her surroundings: the grubby velvet bed canopy above her head, the lumpy mattress prickly with old straw. A sense of relief flooded over her; it seemed she might avoid meeting Walter altogether, the meeting that she had dreaded throughout the journey. Matilda had asked her to stay the night, and she had fulfilled that promise, but today she had to return, travel back to Sambourne and break the news to Hugh.

  Head supported by a half-filled feather pillow, she touched a finger to her lips, relished the flick of sensation in her chest, the curious gathering, building in her loins. She ran one hand restlessly over the coverlet, the bumps and whorls of embroidery rustling against her palm. The top of the linen sheet was folded back, over the coverlet: a soft material, yet cloying against her skin, suggesting the sheets had lain on the bed in the damp, chill room for too long.

  What would Giseux do now? she wondered. Her heart tripped crazily at the thought of his name, stacking her mind with images of the tanned angles of his face, his demanding, savage kiss. He had been kind, escorting her this far, but now he had no reason to stay by her side. He had helped her so much, and what had she done for him? She had been foul and prickly on their first few encounters, so determined to be independent, self-contained. But now, now all she wanted to do was…aye, that was it, she wanted to love him. She loved him.

  She twisted restlessly across the mattress, frowning up at the drooping linen above her. A spider’s web, fragile grey netting, stretched over one corner. Her nightgown had bunched up around her waist as she wrenched it down beneath the covers. Love. Did she even know the meaning of the word? Her experiences with Walter had warped her mind; this unfamiliar, cleaving feeling—was it love that she felt for Giseux? Less that a week ago, her course had been set, determined to remain single, coupled to no man, in a world where marriage was the only option for the majority of women. Now, the faint hope of an alternative future stuttered to life in her heart. She quashed such a thought quickly, doubting he held the same sentiment. After every kiss, he pushed her away, visibly shutting down before her, face closed, sealed like an armour-plated door, immediately regretting his actions. She could only hold the sensation of his touch, the fiery savagery of his kiss, tucked close to her heart, to keep them for ever, after he was gone.

  But there was no denying that her body sang, even now, with the memory of his mouth moving over hers, tiny thrills of expectation, of excitement, dancing along her veins. Was this how it should be between a man and a woman? Something deep within her lurched, changed; she felt altered, newborn. His sparkling eyes had held raw passion as he tore away from her, breath tearing at his sinewy chest, a twist of vulnerability in the set of his mouth. Maybe this was how he was with every woman he kissed…and maybe not.

  ‘Brianna! Are you dressed? Come and have breakfast with me.’ Matilda’s lilting tones at the door hauled her from her thoughts—had she lain awake, thinking, for that long? She bounced out of bed, slipping out of her nightgown and stuffing it back into the saddlebag that lay slumped over the wooden floorboards. She had to start moving, have something to eat, then start the long journey south once more. Pulling on her chemise, followed by the velvet gown, she tightened up the crossing leather laces at the front of dress swiftly, securing them in a bow at the low, rounded neckline.

  ‘Matilda!’ she greeted the younger girl, stepping out from the chamber, touching her hair self-consciously; she had forgotten to comb it, to do anything with it! Even the plaits that she had gone to bed with seemed to have loosened during the night! The glorious bundle of amber locks tumbled down her back, sweeping the curve of her hips.

  Matilda giggled as she pressed her hand against her mouth. ‘Oh, Brianna, you don’t change. Let me do your hair for you. You’re not even wearing a veil!’

  Reluctantly, Brianna moved back into the room and sat down on a small stool, conscious that time, pre
cious time, was ticking away. She had no wish to stay in this place longer than was necessary.

  ‘I used to do your hair for you before, do you remember?’ Matilda commented as she pulled a small, ivory comb from the embroidered pouch hanging from her girdle. She began to pull the fine teeth through the shining length of Brianna’s hair, working her way through the occasional knot with her tongue caught between her teeth.

  ‘Aye, I remember.’ Walter had always insisted that her head was completely covered with a thick linen scarf, losing his temper if he spotted a hair shining through.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ the younger girl murmured. ‘Where is your veil?’

  ‘I lost it…on the journey here.’ She recalled burying the flimsy silk in the damp earth, hands trembling with fear that those soldiers would find her.

  ‘I’ll lend you one of mine and a circlet as well; I’ll fetch it after breakfast,’ Matilda promised, securing the end of each braid with a leather lace, before coiling each one around itself to form a tidy bun at the nape of Brianna’s neck.

  ‘There!’ Matilda said proudly, pushing the last gold hairpin in against Brianna’s scalp, standing back to survey her handiwork. ‘You look perfect.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Brianna rose from the stool, surveying the younger girl. Her skin looked white, pasty, lines of exhaustion etching her face. Blueish shadows smudged beneath her eyes. ‘Did you sleep at all last night?’

  Matilda chewed at her lips, tears welling, threatening to spill. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Hugh, about what I’m doing to him.’ She hung her head.

  ‘I’m sure he will understand,’ Brianna replied faintly, wondering whether he would. His insistence that Brianna was to fetch Matilda had almost bordered on desperation.

  ‘Maybe he will…but I’m sure my father will not. He wants me to marry Hugh now…curious, as he was so against it in the past. I’m so frightened he will force me into something I don’t want to do.’ A pleading look moved into her pale eyes. ‘Take me with you, Brianna. I must leave, go away from here, before my father returns. Once I’ve married Thurstan, my father can do nothing.’

  ‘Are you certain about that?’ Brianna had no intention of worrying Matilda, but she was sure that a father had to agree to his daughter’s marriage. If there was no agreement, then he was perfectly within his rights to drag her back home again and suffer the consequences.

  Matilda hunched her shoulders, turning her comb, again and again, between her fingers. The ivory tines gleamed like milk. ‘If he cannot find me, then he will not be able to being me back.’ She opened the gathered neck of the silk pouch, pushed the comb back inside, decisively. ‘I have to try, Brianna, I have to have a go at living a normal, married life. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days here, rotting under the unpredictable will of my father. I want to have a husband, to kiss him in the morning, to lie with him at night, to care for him and any children that we might have. Is it so wrong to want that?’

  ‘Nay,’ breathed Brianna. ‘You’re right, so right.’ As Matilda spoke, Brianna’s heart had filled with a sensation of such longing that she realised that she wanted the same things as Matilda. A husband to care for, to have and to hold. Even if she never saw Giseux again, at least he had given her back one important thing: hope.

  Brianna followed Matilda down the curving, spiral staircase, lit by the thin light streaming through the narrow arrow slits. Giseux’s door had stood open as they had passed, the bed empty, the covers in disarray. Had he left already? Her heart plummeted, sadness pooling across her chest. Once downstairs, Matilda drew aside the heavy curtain that separated the great hall from the stairwell, preceding Brianna into the high-ceilinged chamber, hung with a veil of smoke from the newly lit fire. A solitary figure sat in the middle of the top table. It was Walter.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brianna’s innards quailed. Her step faltered on the threshold, legs rickety. The compulsion to howl, to place her hands childishly across her eyes and bawl out at the unfairness of life swept over her, a violent, formidable wave. But instead, nails digging into her palms, she clamped her hands to her sides and stuck her chin in the air, willing herself to move forwards, to confront this man. Her fingers touched the hilt of her knife, relieved that she had armed herself on leaving the bedchamber.

  ‘He wasn’t due back until this evening!’ wailed Matilda, casting a horrified look back to Brianna. Her nut-brown eyes filled with utter desperation, as her hand clutched frantically at the curtain edge for support.

  ‘Ladies! An unexpected pleasure. Do come and join me!’ Across the bluish haze of smoke, Walter raised his pewter goblet and drank deep, smacking his loose, flabby lips.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Matilda hesitated, balancing on her toes, a startled deer about to bolt.

  Brianna glanced at the two soldiers, clad from top to toe in chainmail, flanking the door behind them. Although they stared straight ahead, faces impassive in their hoods of silver links, she suspected that the slightest sign from Walter would result in their lances being crossed before the door, preventing herself and Matilda from leaving the hall.

  ‘We will stay and talk to him,’ announced Brianna decisively. There was nothing this man could do to her now; their marriage had been annulled, he had no claim on her. She had the protection of her brother…and possibly, from Giseux? She began to walk towards the high dais, catching Matilda’s hand and pulling her along, past the handful of servants quietly setting out the lines of pewter plates along the trestle tables for the rest of the household to break their fast. It was still early. A thick fog outside the high windows filled the cavernous hall with a leaden, grey light as Walter’s tiny, deep-set eyes, black dots in the florid expanse of his face, marked their progress.

  ‘I must say, I’m extremely surprised to see you,’ he remarked, peering at Brianna as they each took a seat to one side of him, Matilda deliberately leaving the space of two chairs between herself and her father. A greasiness slicked his grizzled locks, grey tendrils of hair straggling out from a balding pate and, as he reached up a hand to push his hair from his eyes, Brianna noticed that his hand, ridged with pronounced veins, trembled.

  ‘Aye, well, it seems my journey was unnecessary after all,’ Brianna explained brightly. Matilda kicked her under the table—was that to stop her telling Walter that Hugh had returned home, alive?

  Walter hunched forwards, brown eyes opaque, flat. His gnarled face studied her closely. ‘And I am most surprised that you agreed to your brother’s proposition.’ He cackled out loud, the wheezing laughter finished by a fit of prolonged coughing. ‘But, knowing Hugh, I suppose he didn’t leave you with any chance to protest.’

  Brianna’s heart lurched. Her brother’s proposition? What was he talking about? Giseux’s calm, reasoning voice echoed in her brain, telling her, warning her. Beneath the table, her hands crept to her knife, resting quietly in its sheath on her lap.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ she pronounced carefully.

  Walter used one dirty fingernail to try to dislodge a piece of meat stuck between two greyish teeth. ‘Then let me explain,’ he replied, his tone smug, placid. ‘Hugh has agreed to give you in marriage, again, to me, in exchange for the hand of my lovely daughter here.’ He swept one hand theatrically towards Matilda, who shrank in her seat. The gathered fold of Walter’s sleeve caught the lip of the pewter goblet, full of mead, tipping the contents out. The amber liquid spread, soaking into the grubby, stained tablecloth.

  ‘Hugh would never do such a thing,’ Brianna replied, slowly, carefully. Doubt chewed at her innards. ‘He knows how much I hated my marriage to you in the first place.’

  Walter slowly folded a slice of ham between his spindly fingers, before wedging it into his mouth. ‘Then you obviously have no idea of how much he wants to marry my daughter.’

  ‘Nay, you’re lying!’ Her voice wavered with uncertainty; she shook her head, not wanting to believe. Giseux had warned her, told her exactly the same thin
g.

  ‘Face it, Brianna. Your brother made this decision for you and you’ll abide by it. You will never leave this castle again. You have no choice.’

  ‘I think she does.’

  Three heads turned in surprise as Giseux bounded up on to the high dais. Through the haze of smoke billowing fitfully from the fireplace, he appeared like a Greek god, bronze and vital, his muscular physique a complete contrast to the hunched, dried-up form of Walter.

  Walter staggered to his feet, wiping his fat-slicked mouth with a used napkin. ‘And who might you be?’ he demanded, pointing a querulous finger at Giseux.

  ‘I came with Brianna.’ His metallic gaze poured down over her, his arm nudging into her side. ‘Are you all right?’ Lit against the gloom, the tallow candles, suspended above the high table in the heavy circle of an iron chandelier, cast shadows down on the taut angles of his face.

  She nodded shakily. ‘I…’ The need to explain, to clarify her reasons for not believing him, for not trusting his word, bubbled near the surface of her consciousness. Her fingers crept over to his sleeve, rubbed at the fine wool of his tunic. His hand covered hers.

  ‘Answer my question, sir!’ Walter ground out, irritably, thumping the tablecloth. Matilda jumped like a startled deer, clutched at her throat.

  ‘I am Giseux de St-Loup, son of Lord Jocelin of Sambourne, and I am here to take Brianna home.’ His eyes fixed on Matilda, gleaming strands of hair falling across his forehead. ‘And anyone else who wishes to leave this place,’ he added meaningfully.

  Walter slumped back in his chair; the name of Giseux de St-Loup was well known—as a nephew of Queen Eleanor and trained alongside King Richard, he was a powerful man in his own right. Walter would have to be careful.

  ‘You said…’ Brianna stuttered out, touching one hand to her forehead. ‘You told me…and I refused to listen.’ The sapphire of her eyes radiated despair.