Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “Lads, it seems as if you’ve misplaced something,” Eric said, his tone one of dry mockery.

  Something.

  Infuriated, tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and in sudden sheer frustration, clenched her muscles to deliver a damaging kick.

  But she found herself twisted around, her back to his chest, her wrist now in the vise of his grip, her arm twisted so that she couldn’t possibly fight.

  “You were right!” Geoffrey said defensively. “She is dangerous, that one.”

  “Aye, she tried to elude us!” Angus said.

  “She’d not have gotten far,” Geoffrey said calmly.

  “No. She won’t get far,” Eric said with a deadly calm. “I will see to the lady myself.” Her arm was suddenly free. But as she started to step away, she found herself caught up again as his hand landed on her shoulder. “Come, madam. It’s time we had a talk.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve nothing to say.”

  “That’s amazing, but no matter. I shall do the talking.”

  And she found herself propelled forward.

  Deeper into the trees.

  And away from all others.

  CHAPTER 7

  Each time she attempted to halt and turn around, she found herself prodded forward.

  “Wait, damnit!” she insisted trying to turn.

  “Move!”

  “No! You don’t understand. I wasn’t trying to run—”

  “Trying? Madam, you were running.”

  “I wasn’t going anywhere, I can’t stand your men with me every minute of every day! I woke and needed privacy—”

  His hands clamped on her shoulders. She managed not to scream as he twisted her around and pushed her through the forest path. She shook off his touch, walking on her own.

  “What? Are you going to drown me now?” she demanded.

  “The thought is tempting.”

  She came to the embankment and halted again, spinning around. They were far downstream, far from the others. If he intended murder, this could certainly be the place for the crime.

  She squared her shoulders and stared at him furiously.

  “You!” she said heatedly. “You listen to me. I—”

  She was unable to go further because he suddenly seemed to explode with searing aggravation.

  “No. You listen to me and heed me well. You are the greatest annoyance I’ve known in years! You don’t like being among my men? I didn’t like chasing over the country after you, but I have done so, and here we are. So let me explain the situation to you once again. You are in our custody. A prisoner, a hostage, a pawn. What you like and what you don’t like doesn’t apply.”

  After all the events that had occurred, it didn’t seem to matter terribly what happened anymore. The dream of escape had died as quickly as it had risen. Standing there, before him, when he had obviously enjoyed the stream and fresh clothing himself, suddenly made her feel all the more horrible. And as she stared at him, the driving passion in her life was simply to remove the blood and mud that seemed to cake her body. “I am a prisoner, not your subject, not someone who owes you anything at all, not loyalty, not courtesy, and by God, what is it that you don’t understand? What on earth can you expect? A prisoner certainly isn’t going to offer blind obedience! And you have not . . . you have not provided me with the least required for any hostage. Even Edward gave his caged prisoners a privy! I cannot, will not, abide like this, I will not accept your ridiculous dictates willingly, I will not remain willingly; I will not do anything asked of me. I am an annoyance? I shall be more so! If that’s so disturbing, then let me go, and I will darken your life no further! Or simply be done with it and take off my head, or put your sword through my heart, but I will not go on like this! I—”

  Her stream of words came to a halt as she suddenly saw the ice in his eyes.

  “My apologies, I cannot end your life for you,” he informed her coldly. “You are worth more alive than dead, my lady.”

  “Then I will be as annoying as possible and you will not have a minute’s peace from me until you begin to extend not kindness or compassion but some simple necessities—such as privacy and the opportunity for cleanliness!”

  “The stream has been here all along.”

  “And so have your men!”

  “There is no way that you will ever be left entirely alone.”

  “I cannot bathe in front of your men.”

  “Cannot?”

  She should have been forewarned by the slow arch of his brow and the set of his jaw.

  “Cannot—will not!” she spat out.

  He moved with such lightning speed that she was taken entirely unaware. His hands were on her shoulders; she thought he meant to shake her, to offer some violence. She realized before a scream could tear from her throat that he was finding the clasp to her cloak. The garment dropped to her feet while she stood in stunned silence.

  “What—”

  He was going for the filthy, muddied hem of her gown. She tried to move back. “Stop it, what in God’s name are you doing—”

  “You want the mud off; so be it!” he told her, tugging at fabric.

  “Wait, stop, no—”

  She tried fleeing again, a situation that merely made her trip over her own feet, and caused her to fall flat on her rump. The air rushed from her. He caught her by the arm, his hands filled with linen as well. It began coming over her head. The ties caught around her breasts, the garment was over her face. She couldn’t see, could barely breathe and she could feel his hands everywhere, trying to loosen the ties.

  “You wretched creature!” she swore, yet she was certain he had no idea of what she was saying, her words were so muffled by the fabric. “Vermin, scum, despicable . . . vile. . . loathsome . . . hideous pretense of a human being!” She struggled as she swore, trying to strike out, to fight, certain that she was in for terrible violence from him, the horror of rape, of a vicious subjugation, no matter his abhorrence for her. Yet no matter how she tried to strike, no matter her words, she could accomplish nothing, she was fighting with the tangle of her own clothing.

  “Stop!” she cried, and the word was clear, because she was suddenly sitting in the mud alone, bereft of all the clothing that had been cutting off her words.

  She curled her arms around her chest, staring at him in desperation and fury, and humiliatingly close to tears. “You will pay for this. I should have let you die, you ungrateful monster! I will kill you for this one day. Perhaps it’s good that I didn’t let you die because you should really meet your maker in the most gruesome fashion. And when my brother and the king find out how you have treated me, what you–-what you have done to me, you will die the death of a traitor, they will cut you up slowly, rip out your organs . . . castrate you—”

  She broke off with a scream because he was reaching for her again. The shock of the powerful feel of his calloused hands against her bare flesh was staggering. His face, so close to her own as he lifted her, was set and grim. She was suddenly afraid that he meant to drag her back to the center of the camp, and see that each and every one of his men violated and humiliated her.

  “You will die for this!” she promised, and then, the fury that had so assailed her turned to fear. His hold upon her was like a death grip. He was built like the wall of the castle, with a sudden anger in him that seemed as hot as molten steel. He wasn’t a man to be begged or with whom one could barter, but she was suddenly so afraid of what could be done to her that she almost rued her words of fury. “Wait!” she breathed, ready to swear that she’d behave decently if he’d just let her go. “Don’t do this! Listen. Let me go, you must let me go. Don’t take me back to the encampment. Listen to me! Wait—”

  He didn’t wait.

  He simply released her.

  She hadn’t realized where he had walked, hadn’t heard the sound of the stream around his feet as he moved.

  But that’s where they were.

&nb
sp; In the stream.

  And as she fell crashing into the water, it wrapped around her like a blanket of shocking cold ice.

  She screamed as she hit the surface, then choked as she slipped beneath it, sinking into three or four feet of briskly chill water. The sting against her flesh was breathtaking, then numbing, stunning her completely. The words she might have spoken as a humble plea were choked against the rush of water that filled her mouth. For seconds, she couldn’t move, just feel the rush of the frigid stream sweep around her.

  Then she found the sense and instinct to surface, her head only, her torso and limbs kept beneath the surface. Water streamed down her face and sluiced through her hair. Her heart beat in a frantic pulse of fear as she braced for what might be coming next.

  She had to be wary, on guard, ready to fight his next onslaught.

  But even as her head emerged from the water, he stepped back, a good foot away from her. He towered there, his blond hair shining in the sun, looking down at her. She hated the way he looked down.

  She wasn’t about to rise. She was still afraid. Of physical violence. Of his anger.

  But only his eyes touched her. They seemed a strange blade of heat against the cold engulfing her, a heat that touched her with an uncanny sensation that raced along her spine, and into the center of her being.

  She kept crouched down, shivering, teeth chattering, so stunned and shattered that she forgot how much she hated him, and for a moment, no words came to her lips, and it was even difficult to assemble a coherent thought.

  He, however, had no difficulty talking.

  “I wouldn’t dream of denying you a bath, madam. But you’ll not be left alone, and so, there you are. Dear God, can it be true? Is she suddenly silent? Amazing, but good, because you need to listen. Your privacy is nonexistent, and your freedom only goes so far. If you decide to take a swim to the other side and streak naked through the forest, I warn you now, I will send every man I have after you, and I will not bother myself with concern regarding what befalls you.”

  What would befall her . . .

  Fear snaked into her again, pushing aside knowledge and leaving only wariness, her own vulnerability, the ease in which he could manipulate her, move her, do whatever he chose to do. Words suddenly spilled from her lips before she could stop then, words that betrayed every sense of her own weakness, and handed him the knowledge that she was indeed a captive of his slightest whim.

  “You . . . you . . . you wouldn’t . . . you’re not . . . you didn’t intend . . . you’re not . . . you weren’t . . .”

  “You thought, Igrainia, that I intended to rape you?” There was an incredible disdain in his tone. “Oh, madam, that is far too intimate a violence, and nothing but violence, and one that holds no appeal for me. Bathe to your heart’s content. Rid yourself of the dirt and the blood—if you can. I assure you, blood is hard to wash away. I’ll be on the bank. Again, understand this. You are a prisoner, and one I intend to keep. But nothing more than that. Your ultimate fate lies in the hands of Robert Bruce, not in mine. This is the most privacy that you will get. You will never be left alone, and since you seem able to escape my men, then you are a task I will have to take on myself. You wanted the stream; you have it. Enjoy it.”

  He turned then, leaving her in the icy water, and walking to the embankment.

  Igrainia remained where she was, watching him, afraid to move. He stood on the embankment for a moment, water pouring from his boots, breeches and tunic. His back was to her. Her heart began to thud. Now would be the time to swim away . . .

  Except that there was nowhere to go.

  He turned again, facing her, then sliding against the trunk of an old oak and sitting at its foot.

  “You’ll congeal to ice if you don’t move,” he warned her.

  That much was true, she realized. Her teeth were chattering. Her limbs had no feeling.

  “It’s ridiculous for you to sit there,” she told him.

  “Ah, but here I am.”

  “Where could I possibly go?”

  “Nowhere. But it doesn’t seem that you accept that fact.”

  “I didn’t mean to run anywhere this morning.”

  “You didn’t mean to, but you did.”

  “I haven’t any clothing.”

  “You might not consider that a problem.”

  “You are obnoxious.”

  “You are a pain in the ass.”

  “How crude, ill-mannered and rude. But to be expected.”

  “Aye, of course, there is little we learn of chivalry and manners in the barbaric north.”

  “I can’t stand this!” she erupted, then breathed deeply, thinking to change her tactic. “Please . . . can’t you just go away—just a little away, for just a few minutes?”

  “Unfortunately, my lady, you seem to be an idiot, and therefore, I cannot.”

  “Sir, there is no insult that you can inflict upon me that means a thing, but, if you don’t mind, explain your words. I’m actually extremely well educated,” she informed him pleasantly, trying very hard to hold on to her temper.

  “You fled the castle, thinking that you could make it to England alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone.”

  “Aye, then, you had a pair of gentle, naïve rabbits at your side.”

  “Many pilgrims travel in the countryside.”

  “And many of them do not make their destinations. Your ‘friends’ upon the road have most probably been practicing their trade of murder in the woods for some time. It’s a nice, fairly easy way to make a living—for those who are not squeamish about shedding blood. Kill a man or woman, steal everything he or she carries, dump the body, and make off with the goods. Do it along one of our poor, rutted roads to the south, surrounded by forest, and the crime might go undetected for decades.”

  “Had I been killed, I’d not have been a problem for you.”

  “Ah, but I’ve told you, you are worth much more alive than dead.” He leaned forward suddenly, his features set in a scowl. “And I don’t imagine that man meant to kill you, not right away at least. Most likely, you would have suffered repeated assault, until he tired of you, and then he would have killed you—unless he could have been convinced that you’d still be worth something—though tarnished and abused—to your brother, a very wealthy man.”

  She stared at him, wanting to dispute him, and feeling colder than ever. She remembered Thayer’s comments before the attack, when he told her that Gannet had watched her all the way.

  “They were the least likely group to suspect of such evil,” she defended herself.

  “You may be educated beyond all reason, my lady,” he told her. “But you haven’t the common sense of a horse. Evil comes in far more ways than the visible encroachment of an enemy army—or a man who openly wears a pair of devil horns.”

  “I haven’t the common sense of a horse—”

  He waved a hand impatiently in the air. “You’re young, madam, and I assume, palatable enough to some men, especially a filthy outlaw riding in the company of his family, fellow murderers and thieves. Such a man would be desperate.”

  Such a man would be desperate?

  She might be palatable?

  She was outraged. So much so that she started to emerge from the water, itching to slap him. She remembered where she was, who he was, and her own bare situation, and sank back down, wondering how it was possible to feel such absolute hatred for someone without simply exploding.

  “There is nothing,” she managed to say smoothly, “that could befall me that could be worse than being your prisoner.”

  He let out a disdainful grunt. “Let’s hope you are never put to the test on those words, my lady.”

  “If you don’t leave, this will be worthless.”

  “That’s your choice.”

  “I can stay here a very long time.”

  “The bank is more comfortable.”

  He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, appearing more bored than
tired.

  He was far more stubborn than a mule, Igrainia decided. But she could be equally determined.

  She remained still in the water. He didn’t move. She wondered even, after a time, if he had fallen asleep.

  The whole of her body seemed to be locking and freezing. As time passed slowly, she began to realize that he might be stubborn, but she was stupid.

  She moved at last, at first doing her best to swim through the shallow water just to make sure that she could still move all her extremities. Then, down the way, she saw an outcrop of rock in the water and moved to it, and was pleased to find a fine sand surrounding the rocks that she could scoop up and rub against her flesh, cleansing it. The sand was rough but invigorating and made her feel fresh, and as if she had really washed away the blood and the muck she had worn so long. She almost forgot her silent watcher in the woods, then remembered he was there, looked back, and saw him still against the tree, his eyes closed.

  She moved through the water again, thoroughly rinsing her hair. It was better, much better, when she was moving. But after a while, and despite the rays of sun that slipped through the break in the trees that hovered over the water, she was freezing again.

  Which led to another difficulty.

  How to get out.

  She rose slightly, shaking back her hair, trying to smooth it so that she wouldn’t emerge to a head full of mats and tangles. She glanced to the bank again, and was startled to see that he had gone.

  She went dead still, carefully looking through the trees, but he seemed to be nowhere about. Anxiously, she looked to the pile where her clothing had been flung. If she hurried. . .

  She made haste, thrashing through the water, then flying once her bare feet touched the solid ground. She reached the pile of her discarded belongings and quickly dug for her under gown, only to discover it was entangled in the tunic and inside out. She began to struggle with the entwined linen, fumbling in her haste. She swore as she dropped the garments, both slipping from her numbed fingers. Then she froze, a chill arising from her spine, a sixth sense warning her of danger. She looked slowly in the direction of the encampment. He had returned, carrying a pile of her clothing.