The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  She twisted her head to the right, heart leaping with delicious shock. Somehow she had known he had been there all along. His long, lean body stretched out beside her, his broad chest rising and falling steadily with the deep, even breathing of a satisfying sleep. A coarse linen tunic covered his upper body, the fabric creased and worn; he must have borrowed it. His face was in profile, the sculptured indent of his cheek turned towards her. Her fingers itched to trail across those fine hewn contours, to smooth over the broad chest and hug him close. She heard the balanced sigh of his breath as he turned his head.

  Dark lashes spiked open; his eyes twinkled at her, immediately focusing. ‘Awake?’ he murmured, his hand extending around her shoulder. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I feel sad,’ she whispered across the darkness. ‘Sad about what has happened.’ Head pillowed in the straw, she licked her lips, craving liquid.

  ‘Here.’ Lussac lifted his leather water bottle. Reaching an arm beneath her narrow back, he helped her to sit up. She felt too weak to argue, to resist, bracing her body against the solid comfort of his chest. He pulled out the cork stopper from the bottle, handed the vessel to her.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry about your father, Katerina.’

  She took a long cool drink, licking the stray drops from her lips, replaced the stopper and shook her head. ‘I hadn’t seen him for so long—and now this.’ The bronze-coloured sift of her hair rested against the curve of his neck. On the other side of the platform, two small bodies slept soundly, alongside Margrete. ‘I had a chance, a small chance to make things right again. What do you think happened?’

  ‘I think there was a fight,’ Lussac said gently. ‘Two men at their wits’ end with each other.’

  Tears gathered in her eyes, spilled over, tracking a silvery gleam across her cheeks. ‘What a waste, Lussac. Such a stupid, pointless waste of both their lives.’

  He shifted around, bringing both hands up to clasp the sides of her face as she sobbed. Tears splashed on to her hands. His breath was warm across her skin, the generous curve of his mouth inches from her own. ‘Shh,’ he hushed her, low voice vibrating silkily across the darkness. ‘Don’t wake the children.’

  She traced the fine contour of his upper lip, the quirk of muscle in his cheek. His hands moved upwards, pushing through her hair, the pads of his fingers cool against her scalp. Desire rushed through her, unbidden, relentless. She swayed towards him, her lips grazing the corner of his mouth. A butterfly touch. Her heartbeat tripped, then gathered speed, galloping haphazardly. Warnings flashed in her brain; she ignored them, stamped down viciously on them, unwilling to listen to the anxious chatterings of censure. Right now, she craved his touch, his kiss. She needed him.

  He groaned, every nerve-ending in his body arcing with delight, clamouring for more, for her sweet touch. His hands looped behind her head, winching her closer, slewing his mouth more firmly across her lips. Passion sliced through his gut, hard, visceral; blood pumping furiously through his veins, hurtling, unstoppable. His hand swept down, across her shoulder, holding her tight beneath her arm. She shuddered as his thumb moved in a wide sweep across her breast, sending a fresh volley of desire rushing through her body, before recoiling suddenly at the jab of agony in her side. His hand had inadvertently strayed across the tight wrap of bandages.

  ‘Christ, I forgot.’ Breath punched from Lussac’s lungs in short sharp bursts. He ran a distracted hand through his hair.

  Her cheeks were bright, flame-red, irises huge, dilated with desire. The unexpected slice of pain jolted her senses, thumped her down into cold, clear reality once more. Shame washed over her at her wanton behaviour—what must he think of her? Her relatives lay dead in the castle, yet all she could do was think of the two of them together, their bodies linked, coupled for ever. Why did she persist in wanting him, in lusting after him? Surely she realised it would make it harder in the end?

  ‘I started it.’ Her half-smile was wan, apologetic.

  ‘Yes, you did.’ He smiled, relishing the race of blood through his heart. ‘But I didn’t mind.’

  The tantalising warmth of his speech, his devastating smile, twisted at the strings of her heart. It would be their last kiss, a keepsake with which to remember him. Now she had to work at building her resistance, armouring herself against his deadly enchantment, the magic that he wove around her, for if she didn’t, then her heart would surely break. She dropped her gaze to her hands, lying quietly in her lap, palms turned upright. The gold ring winked up at her in the half-light. His ring. His compassion, his sense of duty, of obligation, had offered her a way out when she had no place left to turn. But now the bars of her cage had been lifted. She had to let him go. To keep him at her side under false pretences, and watch him endure a life of misery with a woman for whom he held no love—that, she could not do.

  ‘You do realise you are free now, Lussac,’ she said, her heart folding in on itself, quietly, sadly. ‘With both my father and my uncle dead, I have no need of your protection, your name.’ She slipped the gold band from her finger, placed the shining metal into his palm. ‘This belongs to you.’

  So cold, so polite, after the heated intensity of their kiss. Hope flared, then spluttered, a feeble flame about to be snuffed out. The words tumbled from her mouth like shards of ice, each one driving deep into his heart. The heart that she had healed, had knitted back together with her soft, lucid ways, her limpid smile. She had mended him and put his damaged body back together, piece by piece. And now, it was about to be shredded apart, torn, all over again. He wanted to throw the ring back at her, stuff the warm metal back on her finger, force her to wear it. He wanted to shake her, to yell at her—I want you to keep this, I want you to be with me!

  But she had to come to him willingly. He would not, could not force her. If he did that, he was no better than her uncle.

  Katerina took a deep, shuddery breath. It was over. Hitching the torn sides of her gown together, she curled her body away from him, away from temptation, knowing that she was about to face an even greater loss than her father’s death. Her head lolled against the mound of hay and she dragged the coarse woollen blanket across her back and shoulders, cocooning herself, closing her eyes. She couldn’t bear to watch him walk away.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Katerina woke again, brilliant sunshine streaming through the crooked window set low into the attic eaves, the space beside her was empty. A numbness stole through her limbs, a creeping, debilitating despair, as she blinked at the dip in the straw where his body had lain. Birds twittered and chirruped outside, muffled by the thick cob wall: the indignant single note of a blackbird; the harsh guttural croaking of a raven. Lying prone, she angled her head; the sleeping spaces on the other side were also empty. Margrete and the children were obviously up and out. The temptation to lie there and succumb to the sweet oblivion of sleep once more, to forget, was so powerful that it threatened to overwhelm her. She had given Lussac his freedom and he had taken it, willingly. Had she made a dreadful mistake, by not telling him how she felt about him? She bit at her lip, choking back a welling sob, heart seizing with grief. She had lost him.

  Planting her hands firmly in the drift of scented straw, she raised herself on to all fours, head reeling slightly. Her wound felt stiff and sore, but the tight bandaging made it feel more comfortable. Bleary-eyed from sleep, she crawled over to the open edge of the platform, peering down into the ground floor of the cottage.

  Sunlight flooded in through the open doorway, illuminating the space; a pulse of fresh air breezed in, touching Katerina’s face. Below, Margrete was stirring something in a round black pot, suspended on an iron chain over the fire. Steam billowed upwards; Margrete put a hand to her forehead, smoothing hair away from her hot, flushed face. Her raven hair was smooth, sleek, fashioned into two braided knots over each ear, a central parting revealing her scalp’s white fles
h. The wide curving neckline of her simply cut gown hugged her ample bosom, the russet-coloured fabric gathered in at the waist with a plaited girdle.

  ‘Margrete,’ Katerina called down.

  ‘Oh, my Lord, Katerina, you’re awake!’ Margrete jumped, pressing one hand to her mouth. ‘You gave me a start, you really did!’ She placed the long-handled wooden spoon on a trestle behind her, her plump frame bustling to the foot of the ladder. ‘Do you think you can climb down? Lussac told me what happened yesterday.’

  Katerina’s throat closed up with sadness at the mention of his name, nails digging into the soft skin of her palms. Was this how it was going to be? Was this how she would react any time anyone spoke his name? Surely it would become easier, with time. If it were to be like this, every single day for the rest of her life, then how would she ever endure it?

  ‘Katerina? Shall I help you?’ Margrete’s strident voice budged through her thoughts.

  ‘What? No, I can manage, thank you.’ Turning around, she made her way down, feet sure and nimble in her stockings.

  ‘I am so sorry about your father,’ Margrete said, when Katerina reached the bottom of the ladder. Her lips pressed together, mouth turning down in a gesture of sympathy. ‘I know you were hoping to sort things out with him.’

  Katerina shook her head, tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. Margrete patted her hand. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Right now you look like you need something to eat.’ She headed over to a collection of covered earthenware pots in the corner of the room and began rattling through them, lifting various lids and banging them down ahead.

  Katerina licked her lips; her mouth was dry, her stomach roiling. The faintest suggestion of a headache tightened her brow, threatening. Sidling over to the open doorway, she inhaled the fresh, invigorating air. Her ripped gown gaped open, revealing the white bandages; she clutched at the ruined material in irritation, holding the edges together. ‘Were you here when Lussac and Philippe returned last night, Margrete?’

  Busy loading a wooden platter with an assortment of food, Margrete paused, a sprinkle of freckles standing out in her tanned skin. ‘I certainly was. There was a tremendous knocking on the door, like the devil himself had arrived. Edith and Hugo, they were terrified, poor little things, huddled together up there on the sleeping platform. And then that man of yours strode in, with you half-dead, bundled in his arms, closely followed by the other one.’

  That man of yours. Margrete obviously had no idea. Katerina tipped her chin in the air, fighting the desolation that knifed through her. ‘The other one,’ she repeated. ‘Philippe, you mean.’

  ‘Aye, that’s his name. He slept down here last night, by the fire. But Lussac, he insisted on carrying you up the ladder, sleeping next to you.’

  Katerina’s head swam and she clutched at the split oak door frame for support, wriggling her toes against the packed earth floor to keep her balance.

  ‘He wouldn’t let me touch you. He carried you all the way from Longthorpe,’ Margrete continued, her voice brimming with admiration. Glancing at Katerina’s pale, stricken face, she hurried to push a three-legged stool nearer to the fire. ‘Here...’ she handed Katerina a plate brimming with bread, cheese and cold meats ‘...come and eat now. You’re looking a bit peaky.’

  Stumbling towards the stool, Katerina sat down abruptly, accepting the food from Margrete. Two bread rolls, a hunk of crumbling cheese and a couple of thick slabs of meat, edged in white, viscous fat, wobbled precariously on the plate in her lap.

  Picking up her spoon again, Margrete resumed her stirring. The pot bubbled and boiled frantically, great globs of liquid rising and falling on the greasy surface. ‘He’s handsome too, Katerina. Tall and strong, like my Peter used to be, God rest his soul.’ She crossed herself. ‘You’re lucky to have found someone like—’

  ‘He’s not “my man”, Margrete,’ Katerina interrupted sadly. The smell of the cheese rose to her nostrils, acrid and pungent. ‘He was only being kind, bringing me back here.’

  ‘Kind? Are you mad, Katerina? Of course, I agree, he’s kind, but that man adores you! It’s written all over him, the way he acts around you, the way he looks at you...’

  ‘Nay, Margrete, you have it wrong.’ Katerina licked her lips, trying to rid her mouth of its sour taste. She stared bleakly down at the food on the plate, her throat closing up, knowing she was unable to eat it. ‘He’s gone, Margrete. He’s gone and he’s never coming back!’ Her voice rose, pitching forwards into a shuddering sob. She stuffed her fist in her mouth, hating herself for this outpouring of emotion, trying to stop the rapid onslaught of misery, of grief.

  Margrete’s spoon stilled. She frowned. ‘Why, no, Katerina, he’s... Katerina, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?’

  The plate sprung from Katerina’s lap, the contents scattering across the floor as she staggered upwards, bolting for the open door. Outside, the sun beat down on the top of her head, lurid, glaring. The air hummed, colours intense, vivid. She ran for the orchards at the rear of the village, gasping, oblivious to the interested stares from the few villagers going about their daily chores. Brambles, thick, over-arching branches set with vicious thorns, tore at her skirts as she stumbled onwards, panting, half-collapsing against the stunted trunk of an apple tree. Dew soaked her stockinged feet. One hand braced against the tree, she pulled the balmy autumn air deep into her lungs, the scent of fermenting fruit. Disturbed by her sudden arrival, a raft of bright butterflies, feasting on the fallen apples, rose as a fluttering group, wings red, white and black. Raising her head, she stared at them listlessly, seeing only the wavering greyness of a bleak future ahead. A future without him.

  Margrete puffed up, bosom heaving with the exertion of running. ‘Katerina, are you all right? Did I say something to offend you?’

  Katerina threw her a wobbly smile. ‘No, of course you didn’t. I needed to get out for a moment...all that talk of...’ Her voice trailed off, unable to form his name. ‘Of what has happened,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘Grief can show itself in many ways, Katerina.’ Margrete looped her am through Katerina’s and the two women began to walk back to the cottage, skirts swishing through the long grass. ‘It’s only right that you should feel sad.’ The rounded flank of Margrete’s hip bumped companionably against hers. ‘But at least now you have someone to take care of you, someone to love you through all of this.’

  Katerina turned furious eyes on her friend. ‘Will you stop talking about him like this! Like I mean something to him! He’s gone, and there’s an end to it.’

  Margrete placed one hand on her arm. ‘But he’s not gone, Katerina. You ran out before I had a chance to explain. He and Philippe have gone to Longthorpe to...to bury your father.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’s still here,’ Katerina whispered, eyes widening with astonishment. ‘Are you telling me the truth?’

  ‘It’s the truth, Katerina. That man is not going anywhere.’

  * * *

  Katerina fidgeted restlessly on the low stool, Margrete standing behind, clucking fretfully over the tangled hair. With an ivory comb, she pulled the tines slowly through the washed tresses, deep creases appearing on her brow whenever she encountered a particularly difficult knot. Water dripped from the curling ends, scattering dark spots on the floor.

  ‘Bundle it up, Margrete, please.’ Katerina twisted around, pleading with her. ‘I need to find him, speak with him.’ Her heart skipped, dancing with a thrilling beat. Fate had dealt her a second chance, a chance to tell him how she truly felt. If he pushed her words back in her face, rejected her, then so be it. She had to talk to him, tell him the truth. If she didn’t, she would regret it for ever.

  ‘There!’ Margrete pronounced proudly, casting a triumphant eye over her friend’s finished hair, the two thick plaits wound and pinned neatly at the nape of her neck.

  Kateri
na rose from the stool, facing her friend. ‘I’ll go to the end of the village, wait for him there.’

  ‘I’m not sure...’Margrete replied doubtfully, suddenly reaching behind her to release her apron strings. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, please, let me go alone. It’s hardly strenuous. I’ll wait at the edge of the marshes, I won’t go any further, I promise.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Please, Margrete.’ A sense of desperation rose in her chest. She picked fractiously at the frayed cuff of the gown Margrete had loaned to her: pale lilac linen, with an underdress of a darker violet colour. Her own ripped gown lay in the corner, a jumble of bloodstained rags, discarded remnants of a harrowing night.

  Her friend nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said, ‘but, please, please take care. If anything should happen to you...’ Her oval eyes, liquid brown, widened dramatically in her sunburned face at the thought of encountering Lussac’s wrath.

  ‘Thank you,’ Katerina said. She stepped out into the strong light, sun bathing her face, breathing a sigh of relief. Sometimes, Margrete’s constant ministrations could be a little overbearing. Her body lightened, released, and she stretched out her arms wide, feeling the corresponding pull in her muscles.

  Outside, Margrete’s two children played around the cottage with another child who she didn’t recognise, their screams of joy thrilling the balmy air. Seeing her appear, they stopped their game and scampered over, bare feet skipping across the stony ground. ‘Where are you going, Katerina? Can we come too?’