Nay, his destiny.
With their royal blood combined, he and Gillian would have been equal to—nay, superior to—anyone in Wales.
Even Prince Llywelyn himself.
Catrin had done him ill so often, she could never make it up to him. Could he but get her into his grasp, however, he’d derive some recompense.
And by Christ, he’d enjoy it!
Catrin still lived, he could feel it. He’d know, somehow, if she were gone.
And if those fools could not bring her to him, he’d go out and find her himself.
Ralph and his men pushed their scraggly mounts until Bryn Du was little more than a blur against the sky. He couldn’t help but yearn for the smooth-gaited steed he’d taken from the Norman knight. Every bone-jarring jolt of the mount beneath him served to remind him how unprofitable this venture had proven thus far. Lord Steffan wouldn’t pay them; he’d seen that clear as day in the arrogant bastard’s face. And since it wasn’t easy to dispose of stolen goods, they weren’t likely to get anywhere near the real value of the items.
They stopped alongside a rushing stream. Ralph dismounted and stood for a moment with head bent, pondering what to do. It wouldn’t do to show a mite of weakness, else he’d be dead in no time.
“What do we do now?” Will asked. He hopped down from the saddle with surprising vigor considering how hard Lord Steffan had hit him. “I say we go back and try for the money again,” he added, fingers caressing the knife at his waist. “I’d like to sink my blade into that strutting cock.”
“Get yourself killed, more like,” Ralph told him. He bent and scooped water over his head—all he could do to cool his anger for now. “Here, Will, come stick your head in the water—your nose is still dripping blood. Mayhap the cold’ll put some sense in your noggin.”
Diccon knelt beside them, pausing to drink before offering his opinion. “I’d like to make that weasel pay. All the work we did, and he won’t pay.” He shook his head. “Can’t trust no one.”
Ralph settled back against a tree and nibbled on a dry crust while Diccon and Will bandied plots back and forth. ’Twas best to let them go on until they ran out of ideas—it wouldn’t take long. It was comfortable here in the forest, and he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
A rustling in the bushes caught his attention. Will and Diccon bickered on, their voices masking his movements as he rose and slipped into the brush.
The spy never had a chance to cry out. Ralph wrapped his arm about the young man’s neck and stuffed a cloth into his mouth, then lashed his wrists together with a piece of rope.
Ralph dragged the youth by the tunic through the underbrush and shoved him to the ground at Will’s feet.
“Where did he come from?” Diccon asked as he whipped his dagger from his belt.
“Found him in the bushes there.” Ralph removed his prisoner’s knife from its scabbard and pointed the blade toward the path they’d made through the brush. “Spying on us. Will, go find his horse—and have a care, in case he brought company.”
Ralph nudged the youth onto his back and twitched out the gag. Eyes fixed upon Ralph’s misshapen hand, he gulped for breath. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, voice faint.
“Depends on why you were watching us. Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me?” Ralph grinned in a friendly manner, though he kept the dagger in plain sight.
“My—my name’s Prys. I’m nobody important,” he stammered. “A poor farmer—”
Ralph turned Prys’s hands palm up. No farmer had hands that pale and soft. “I doubt it.” At the sound of muffled hoofbeats he turned and watched Will lead a saddled horse into the clearing. “And no farmer would own so fine a beast.”
Now that he thought about it, Ralph could see that his captive’s clothing looked like livery. He pressed the knife against Prys’s throat. “Did you follow us from Bryn Du?” he growled.
Prys trembled, but made no reply.
Ralph shoved the blade harder, until blood seeped from the shallow cut. “Answer me.”
“Huw said to follow you,” Prys replied quickly. “See where you went. Lord Steff—” The word ended in a croak. Ralph eased up on the blade and Prys tried again. “Wants to know where the woman is.”
Ralph moved the knife and sat back on his heels, allowing Prys to wriggle away from him. “I know nothing else, I swear! I only came because Huw made me. Let me join you,” he pleaded. “I can’t go back now. They’ll kill me.”
Will stepped closer. “’Tis a good idea, Ralph. We need more men.”
“Aye, Ralph,” Diccon piped up. “Lord Steffan’d never know. ‘Sides, he owes us—since he won’t give us our money, we’ll take his servant.”
Hope brightened Prys’s wan face, but Ralph refused to be swayed. Leaning forward, he grasped the youth by the shoulder. “Sorry, lad,” he said as he plunged the dagger to the hilt
“Ralph,” Will gasped, mouth flapping. “What did you do that for?”
“Are you mad?” Ralph asked. He wiped the blade against Prys’s tunic, then stood and dragged the body into the bushes. “What if he went back to Bryn Du once he knew what really happened to the woman? Could be that Lord Steffan ordered him to find a way to join our band. ’Tisn’t a risk I wanted to take.”
He’d had enough of this, and these fools. “Come on—time to go. We’ve lingered here too long.” His movements jerky, he untied his horse and swung into the saddle, then snatched the reins of Prys’s mount from Will’s grasp. “This has been nothin’ but trouble from the start,” he said with disgust. “Least we’ve got the loot from the ambush. Should be worth somethin’.”
Not bothering to wait until Diccon and Will mounted up, Ralph urged the horses along. “On to Chester. I never want to see this benighted place again.”
Chapter Seven
Saint Winifred save her—vermin had nested in her mouth. Catrin tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat felt dry as dust, and it seemed her tongue had swollen to at least twice its usual size.
Fiery heat scorched her side and imps stabbed at her with tiny pitchforks.
Had she passed on to hell?
Her wrists were bound. When had that happened? The last she recalled she’d been draped over a bony nag, arguing with someone. Stormy violet eyes, smooth, deep voice with a sardonic edge…’Twas Nicholas Talbot.
Why did it have to be him?
And how did he dare tie her up?
She needed water so badly she’d beg if she had to, though it galled her to ask Talbot for anything. Mentally elbowing her pride out of her way, she forced out the words.
“Talbot.” Her voice sounded little more than a hiss. “Talbot,” she repeated. Why didn’t he answer?
Her back screaming agony, she turned her face toward the fire. All she could see of him was a boot-clad foot protruding from a filthy cloak. “Damn you, Talbot. Wake up.”
She shifted her legs until she connected with something soft, eliciting a moan. Must have been his head. Despite her pain, she smiled.
“Wake up, you Norman idiot.” Her voice grew stronger with every word. She nudged him again. “Lazy fool.” A bead of sweat ran down her nose and plopped onto her sleeve. Though she tried, she couldn’t raise her bound hands enough to wipe her face.
“Talbot!”
A stream of curses, interspersed with moans and grunts, told of her success.
“Unless you’d like me to stuff that glove down your throat again, be silent.” Talbot sat up and faced her. Pale and whisker-stubbled, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, he still looked far better to her than any man had a right to.
Obviously her brain had been affected, too.
He squatted beside the fire pit and stirred up the coals. “Are you mad?” she asked as he piled on more wood. “It’s hotter than hell itself in here.”
“It only seems that way to you—you have a fever.” He held his hands out to the growing flames. “I’m so cold I doubt I’ll ever feel warm again.” His gaze rested upon her
face. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Not since we stopped by the stream.” His earlier words came back to her. “What did you mean, stuff a glove in my mouth again?”
“You screeched something fierce last night. Yon beast—” he pointed to Idris “—didn’t care for it. Nor did I.” He held up his glove, teeth marks still visible in the battered leather. His smile, so fleeting she almost missed it, sent a strange feeling to lodge in the pit of her stomach. “’Twas the only way to quiet you—other than kissing you. But it wasn’t the right time for that, alas,” he added, amusement lighting his eyes in contrast to his solemn tone.
“Norman swine!” Her blood nigh boiled. “How I wish I could give you what you deserve.” She held up her wrists. “And what is your reason for this?”
“’Twas necessary.” He busied himself with something beside the fire. “You moved so much when I cut the arrows from your back, I feared you’d do yourself further harm.”
Now she knew why she hurt so much! But other than sore muscles from journeying slung over a horse like a sack of meal, only her back pained her. She’d suffered worse in the past—and survived.
However, that knowledge did nothing to ease her pain. Fire raged through her blood, radiating out from the wounds.
She hoped Talbot didn’t intend to go on today.
But the least he could do was free her. “You do intend to untie me, I trust.” A strange hissing distracted her from haranguing him further. She looked up and bit back a cry.
Stripped to the waist, Talbot tended to his own injury. His upper arm looked swollen, and blood seeped from around the hacked-off arrow.
“Why didn’t you care for your own wound?” She focused her curious gaze upon his broad shoulders and wellmuscled chest. Clearly Nicholas Talbot was no stranger to pain. Several scars marred the smooth, tanned flesh of his torso. The two on his left shoulder looked to have been severe.
Mayhap he considered his present injury a mere trifle.
He watched her while he prodded at his arm. “After I finished wrestling with you, I wanted nothing more than to rest. It feels no worse now than it did then,” he added with a shrug. “Compared to your back, ’tis naught.”
Unwilling to bear the weight of his scrutiny, Catrin glanced away. She did not believe him, for she’d seen how his lips tightened when he poked at the shaft protruding from his arm.
Her heart sank further within her chest. How much suffering had she caused through yesterday’s foolhardiness?
He shouldn’t have ignored his own needs to tend to hers.
She rested her cheek on her folded arms and settled her gaze on his face once more. “What are you going to do?”
Talbot wasted no time with words; breathing deep, he pushed the shaft through his arm.
Now she understood why she’d left teeth marks in the glove—and why her throat felt so raw. Sweat beaded on the taut planes of his face, but he made no sound. She bit at her lip to stifle her own cry when the arrowhead broke through his flesh in a gush of blood.
He flung the arrow aside and mopped at the blood dripping from his arm. His lips twisted into a rueful grin. “That’s a relief,” he said, wiping his brow against his good arm.
The urge to smile in return died a swift death as she considered her own lack of control. “You didn’t even need a glove,” she muttered. Though he could not know it, the loathing in her voice was directed at herself, not him.
He tied a scrap of cloth about his arm, then slid closer. “This is but a trifle compared to your wound.” He reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm.
“Don’t patronize me.” She jerked away from the comforting warmth of his hand, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in her back. “Just untie me, if you please.”
That he dared to touch her should anger her. But ’twas her own reaction to him that fired her temper.
She liked the way it felt—and she should not.
Her gaze lowered, Catrin held out her wrists. The cool steel slipped between them, the well-honed blade slicing through the bonds in an instant. As soon as she was free she curled her hands close to her body to hide how they trembled.
Talbot touched her face again. “Be still. You’ve blood on your cheek.” His fingertips stroked along her cheekbone, then lingered there to hold her captive. With a sigh he bent so near that his breath feathered across her lips. “You believe I mock you?” He sat back and released her, then raised her hand to a large, puckered scar to the left of his collarbone and pressed her palm to the mark. “You’d have enjoyed how I screeched when I got this.”
Did he think her so heartless?
Was she?
’Twas possible, but…“Nay, milord. I take no pleasure from another’s pain.”
“Not even mine?” Amusement lit his eyes, and she felt laughter rumble beneath her hand. “You cannot deny your delight when that beast—” he nodded toward Idris “—pinned me to the muddy ground of l’Eau Clair bailey, his teeth at my throat.”
“’Twas your pride he hurt, nothing more. God knows you’ve an abundance of it”
As did she.
And she could not deny that a blow to her pride stung at least as much as a wound to her body.
The strong beat of his heart beneath her fingers jolted her. His warm skin felt far too good against her own. Closing her eyes to shut out his face, she tried to slip her hand free, but Talbot held it fast.
Did he seek to torment her?
Or did he enjoy her touch, as well?
“Aye, ’twas my pride he hurt, nothing more,” he said, his voice soft, beguiling her to watch him yet again. “Even as he held me pinned to the ground, I could appreciate your control over him. In that moment, you might have held my life in your hands.” His eyes darkened. “Is it a game you play, to show your disdain for men?” His fingers pressed hers tight against his heart and his gaze held hers captive. “Or is that honor mine alone?”
She wished she could look away, but she refused to permit herself that act of cowardice.
Yet she could not still her tongue. “You flatter yourself.” She felt his pulse quicken.
“Do I? Since we first met you’ve drawn my attention, Catrin. Whether you meant to or not—for good or ill.”
“I don’t even like you,” she whispered. Her own heart thrummed faster—in fear?
“Nor I you.” Talbot bent close, until his lips brushed her cheek.
His touch caused a strange pang in her stomach. Her mouth dry, she forced her eyes closed to free herself from his gaze.
It made no difference.
If she never saw him again, his face would remain etched upon her mind.
Nicholas eased her hand from his chest and rested it beside her flushed cheek. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself forcing his attentions upon her, her injuries be damned. With a curse, he wrenched his gaze from Catrin’s delicate features and sought to slow his racing heart.
He rose to his feet and turned away from her, lest his body betray him. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “After I take care of the dog, I’ll go out and find food.”
“I’m thirsty,” she replied, looking as if food mattered not a whit
Nicholas all but gnashed his teeth as a familiar tide of frustration swept over him.
The woman had pride enough for God Himself!
’Twas a stupid question he’d asked, at any rate. Since asking her anything had never earned him an answer, he’d do better to simply care for her as he would any stranger, and save himself the aggravation of treating her as though there had ever been—or ever could be—anything more between them.
He tightened the bandage about his arm, the twinge of pain a welcome distraction from the fire raging through his blood, and hastened from the cave.
For once he savored the chill bite of the air against his sweaty chest. He filled the dishes at the stream, then immersed his head in the icy water. His skull felt as if it had been clubbed with a battering ram, although his vision r
emained clear this morning.
When he returned to the cave, he mixed more of Catrin’s medicinal powder with the water in the cup. She lay sprawled on her stomach as he’d left her, her head resting upon her folded arms, her eyes closed. He placed his hand on her shoulder lest he startle her, waiting until she opened her eyes before raising her from the pallet and bringing the cup to her lips.
Though she grimaced, she drank the foul potion without protest. Heat fairly radiated from her skin. She groaned as he eased her onto the cloak, then pillowed her head on her arms without a word and closed her eyes.
Catrin with the fight drained from her was a sight he’d never thought to see—nor did he wish to.
He wiped her face with a damp cloth. He never should have sparred with her, not in her present condition. Had he no honor?
And his response to her…his response shamed him. Had he become an animal, that the mere sight of her could heat his blood?
He didn’t even have to look at her! The merest hint of challenge in her voice made his body spring to attention. Never had he reacted thus to so little provocation.
He’d always prided himself upon his control with women, but with Catrin, it appeared he had none.
Injured, ablaze with fever—she couldn’t even sit up!
It mattered naught. He wanted her anyway.
Nicholas rubbed absently at his bristly face. Such arrogance, he thought with a grimace. Covered in gore, battered and bruised—and in all likelihood he smelled worse than a rutting goat. Even if she were well, she’d find him no prize.
At any rate, so far as he knew, she cursed the very ground he trod upon. Doubtless the fact that he’d saved her life, should they survive, would weigh little with her.
Besides, Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd wasn’t like the sluts at court, jumping from bed to bed for sport.
His willful body was doomed to disappointment He had no place in his life for a lady.
Idris yelped, startling Nicholas from his fruitless musings. Yet another sin to lay at his feet; the poor creature still suffered, while he sat there lecturing himself.
He gathered together his meager supplies and approached the dog. Though he could no longer put off treating the beast, he didn’t look forward to it. Injured animals could be unpredictable, and Idris had never liked him to begin with.
Sharon Schulze Page 6