Marriage Deal With the Outlaw & the Warrior's Damsel in Distress & the Knight's Scarred Maiden : Harlequin Historical August 2017 (9781488021640)

by St. Harper George; Fuller, Meriel; Locke, Nicole

  ‘Afraid of me?’ he asked gently.

  ‘No,’ she replied quietly. ‘But afraid of…what would happen.’ A hectic colour flushed her cheeks. She jammed one fist against her mouth, aghast at the words emerging from her mouth, her thoughts spilling out before him like unwashed laundry. He didn’t want to know about her feelings, for God’s sake, he didn’t even care about her! She had never talked like this before, to anyone, let alone a man!

  ‘I wouldn’t have let it go that far,’ Bruin murmured. He hoped his words would reassure her; he wanted her to believe that she was safe with him, that she could trust him, but as he focused moodily on a crack in the stone work behind her head, he knew he was lying to himself. He had been moments away from carrying her on to the bed, moments away from bedding her.

  His words sloshed over her like ice-cold water. Eva stumbled back with a faltering step, shocked and embarrassed. Shame flooded over her, an ugly red tide of discomfort. So he had been playing with her all along, completely in control of the situation, whilst beneath his questing fingers, her own body had betrayed her! He had never intended to take things any further, whilst she had assumed… Oh, God! She pressed her fist to her mouth. She had assumed that he would lie with her. And here she was, trying to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault!

  Eva scrabbled for something to say. ‘I’m glad to hear it!’ Her voice dripped disapproval, the discordant tones cracking through the shimmering desire between them, trampling roughshod, a spooked horse running amok. Yanking the blanket firmly around her shoulders, she straightened her spine. ‘I must dress,’ she said coldly, her speech jerking out, high-pitched, unnatural sounding. Her pupils were tiny, pinpricks of black in huge irises of aquamarine. She had to be strong, resolute and fight to keep her distance from him. Head held high, she stalked over to the messy pile of her gowns on the floor. ‘Please leave.’

  His words, supposed to absolve them both, had angered her instead. Bruin wondered why. He knew he deserved her chill dismissal: he had taken advantage of her innocence and she was aggrieved. He had failed to keep his promise. But the way she had nestled back into him—his heart flared wildly at the memory—had been the behaviour of a woman who desired him. But he told himself it was better this way, better that she viewed him with disgust, for that disgust would protect her. His damaged soul would blight her brightness, drag her down. And yet, it was her very brightness that lifted him up from the depths of his despair.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  By the time they were nearing Deorham, solid white clouds had covered the sky in a thick ribbed mass, obliterating the sun; it was snowing heavily. Large feathery flakes cascaded down at an angle, driving relentlessly into Eva’s face; she huddled down further into her cloak, shivering. She had pulled up her hood, tightening the drawstrings, so that only her face and hands were exposed to the cold air. The tip of her nose burned in the freezing air. They had been riding for so long without a break that her feet were numb, blocks of ice dangling uselessly at the end of her legs. The scar on her shin ached slightly, the damaged skin puckering with the cold beneath her woollen stockings.

  Bruin never stopped. From the moment they had left Goodric Castle, he had ridden up front, tapping his heels into his horse’s flank to pick up speed, expecting her to follow without question. His pace was relentless. He hadn’t even attached the leading rein to her horse. The temptation to yank on her reins and kick her horse to freedom had occurred to her, but they both knew that such a foolhardy act was completely futile: he would catch her in a moment. In the few hours that they had been travelling, he had scarce said a dozen words to her and those words had consisted of barked orders, as if she were some common foot soldier.

  But she wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t expected anything else, after the humiliating episode in the bedchamber at Goodric Castle. ‘I wouldn’t have let it go that far.’ His words fixed in her mind as if burned in place by an iron brand, trampling her heart to a miserable pulp. He was experienced, no doubt having spent many nights in the company of women; she was not and had made the mistake of revealing her pathetic eagerness to lie with him. A wave of heat passed through her; she tightened her elbows into her sides, slumping down in the saddle. What a mess. No doubt he was desperate to be rid of her, anxious to complete this business with his brother before moving north to serve with the King once more. As soon as she had met with Lord Steffen, their time together would be over. Bruin would have done his duty, done what his brother had asked of him. A kernel of sadness fluttered deep within her gut, but she squashed it down violently, annoyed with herself. Self-pity would not help her now; she had to face reality: that Bruin would leave and she would be alone once more.

  They followed the path south along the river now, the track passing beneath bare-leafed ash, oak; snow mixing with mud to form a treacherous slush which forced the horses to slow their pace. Up ahead, a heavy iron chain was strung taut across a narrow part of the river, black links bobbing against the grey colour of the rushing water. A wooden raft bumped gently in the shallows on their side of the river: a flat-bottomed vessel that would carry them across to Deorham. Through the whirling snowflakes, Eva tipped her gaze up to the castle on the other side, balanced on a promontory of land, turrets peeking above the bare-boned trees. Fear, a freshly sharpened scythe, flipped through her. Nausea roiled in her belly. Up there, in one of those chambers, Lord Steffen awaited her. Even now, he might be peering down at them, watching their arrival. She shuddered.

  The ferryman sat on a rock beside the raft, partially obscured by a thick, felted cloak, hood pulled low over coarse grimy features. Snowflakes settled across his shoulders. As they picked their way along the path towards him, he stood slowly, as if all his joints were aching. Bruin dismounted, murmuring a few words to him, placing gold coins in the man’s hand. A stiff breeze rippled the surface of the river, sending a rush of frothy wavelets to the gravelly shore.

  ‘He will take us across.’ Bruin turned and grabbed Eva’s reins. As a concession to the freezing weather, he had dragged his cloak out from his saddlebags at the beginning of the journey: a calf-length blue garment, sadly creased from being packed away for so long. The tip of his sword angled out from beneath the hemline. ‘Almost there,’ he said, leading her horse and his own on to the raft, tying both sets of reins to the low rail that encircled the vessel. The animals’ hooves made a hollow clopping sound on the single wooden planks. ‘Do you want to dismount?’

  The stitching on one of his gloves was coming apart; his tanned flesh, the sinewy curve of his thumb, were visible beneath. She twitched her gaze away. Muscles sluggish with cold, she jerked her head in assent, allowing him to grab her by the waist and set her on her feet. There was no point in attempting any maidenly resistance with him, of insisting that she dismount without his help: he was immune to her. He had made that point perfectly clear. She stamped her feet, trying to warm them, and twisted her icy fingers together. Already they were in motion, the ferryman gripping the thick chain, hand over hand, hauling the vessel through the churning current. Perspiration glistened across his florid cheeks.

  ‘I should be doing that,’ Eva said. ‘It would help to warm me up.’

  Bruin smiled down at her, her bright cheeks patched with red, wide eyes reflecting the pale grey of the water. Her earlier aloofness seemed to have dissipated with the journey, and for that, he was glad. Snow festooned the top of her hood; he resisted the urge to brush it away. ‘We’ll soon be in the warm.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’ Eva tilted her head up to him, worry tracing her features. ‘Lord Steffen will probably throw me in the deepest dungeon the moment he sets eyes upon me.’

  His eyes glittered, silver discs of light. ‘No, I told you, he’s bedbound, incapacitated. He would not be able to do such a thing.’

  ‘He can speak, can’t he?’ she replied grumpily as the raft bumped the muddy bank on the other side of the
river. ‘He can still give orders.’

  ‘I won’t let it happen.’ Bruin’s mouth settled into a firm line. And yet a small trickle of doubt niggled at the back of his brain. Everything Eva had told him tallied with the brother he had known back in Flanders. The sick fear he had experienced when he first brought Sophie to meet his parents, Steffen’s avid gaze upon his fiancée’s fair beauty. The sense that his brother always wanted to ruin, to destroy things.

  ‘I wish I had your confidence,’ Eva replied grimly.

  The ferryman secured the raft with a fraying rope around a post, indicating with a deliberate nod of his head that they could disembark. Bruin bent down, cupped his hands. Bracing herself on his shoulders, Eva placed her foot in the makeshift cradle of his fingers and he boosted her slight weight up into the saddle. She settled herself gracefully, every inch the noble woman, adjusting the back of her cloak around so that it lay in neat folds across the horse’s rump.

  ‘Is that giving you any trouble?’ Bruin asked, nodded towards the leg that she had injured in the trap. ‘Is it healing all right?’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you.’ Gathering the reins, she patted the side of the horse’s neck.

  ‘No swelling around the wound?’ Bruin stuck his booted foot into the shining stirrup, swinging easily into the saddle. The large horse sidled in irritation beneath his weight, scraping one hoof across the wooden planks of the raft in mild protest.

  Comfort stole through her at his concern. She shifted awkwardly in the saddle. He was making it difficult for her to keep her distance when he asked such personal questions. It would be better if he ignored her completely. ‘Bruin, it’s fine, I promise you.’ The wound had healed well, the torn edges of flesh knitting back together with no problems.

  He ignored her terseness. ‘I’m just making sure that you’re taking care of yourself.’

  Her heart twisted stupidly at the mild possessiveness in his tone; she told herself to ignore it. ‘Why?’ she replied acerbically. ‘Are you worried I’m going to drop dead before I meet your precious brother?’

  ‘I do hope not,’ he replied, his voice laced with amusement. A wave of protectiveness rattled through him, but he was not surprised. Eva had no idea how he had, over these past few days, come to care for her, wanting to keep her safe. Now, he felt as if he were about to betray her, leading her into the lion’s den.

  ‘And are we still supposed to be married?’ Eva asked, leaning forward to adjust the bridle around her horse’s ear. ‘It would be helpful to know before we arrive.’ Her tone was faintly mocking.

  What would it be like, he thought, to spend the rest of his life with her? In the past, any reference to marriage had conjured up images of Sophie, of what had happened to her: his culpability. But being with Eva was different. She was a good companion: feisty, intelligent—aye, she was his equal. But she was more than that: beautiful and entrancing, with a body like silk. After what had happened with Sophie, he had ruled out the chance of ever spending the rest of his life with someone. But now?

  ‘It would keep you safe,’ he murmured. He chucked the image away: two people hand in hand, tied by the Church. It was a stupid hopeless dream, and one he would do well to forget. His black-hearted soul would devour her goodness and he had no wish to do such a thing to her. She could do far better than marry the likes of him.

  ‘Would it?’ She flicked her gaze up to him, openly challenging. ‘I doubt anything could keep me safe up there,’ she pronounced with a deadly finality. ‘Not even you.’

  * * *

  ‘Who does this castle belong to?’ Eva’s voice echoed around the gloomy shadows of the gatehouse as they clattered through, their horses’ hooves sliding and scraping across the cobbles. The guard at the drawbridge had waved them on, recognising Bruin immediately. They emerged into a deserted inner bailey, surrounded by high curtain walls. Clumps of snow, inches thick in places, lined the tops of the battlements, settled in the deep creases between the cobbles.

  ‘Lord Hugh Fitzosbern,’ Bruin replied, jumping down from the saddle, passing his reins over the horse’s head so that they hung down below the animal’s neck. A stable lad darted out from a dark archway, his expression serious, eager, as he snatched up Bruin’s reins. ‘But he’s not here, he’s fighting further north with the King.’

  ‘Another of Edward’s favourites,’ Eva replied bitterly, handing her own reins to the stable lad. ‘This castle used to belong to Gilbert de Clare, did it not?’

  Bruin came over to her, his cloak swirling out in the breeze. ‘I have no idea,’ he replied, reaching up for her. His chainmail sleeves glinted dully, the links flexing, creasing at the elbows, as he lifted Eva down in one swift movement. ‘I haven’t been in the country long enough to know everything that has been going on. But Fitzosbern has given my brother sanctuary in his last days, and for that I am grateful.’

  She flicked her eyes up at him, scowling. ‘The King takes the land and castles of anyone who opposes his rule. And yet the opposition is justified; the King is behaving like a tyrant, allowing his barons to do as they please, to take what they want—’

  ‘Eva, hush, you cannot speak like this, not here.’ Bruin cupped her elbow, leading her towards a flight of steps. At the top was the entrance to the castle: a huge door, vertical wooden planks made stronger with diagonal wooden cross-pieces, riveted into place with great iron bolts. ‘We can argue about the state of England later, but right now, we need to see Steffen.’

  He led her through a quilted curtain into an empty great hall, then through an archway that opened on to a spiral staircase. Eva’s terror grew as she and Bruin climbed the stairs to the upper floors, a fear that filled her lungs with a sense of utter desperation, of entrapment. She wanted to close her eyes, to sag against the damp gritty wall and refuse to move. But Bruin held her hand firmly, tugging her along. He wouldn’t let her drag behind, or stop.

  ‘Shouldn’t we find a servant?’ Eva asked breathlessly as his long legs spanned two steps at a time. Her hood slipped back over her silken veil as she tipped her head up to him, pulling on his hand to halt their fierce progress. ‘We can’t just barge into a bedchamber, unannounced. No one knows we are here.’

  ‘There’s nobody here to know,’ Bruin replied. ‘Only my brother is here with a few servants attending on him. Everyone else is with the King.’

  ‘Even the ladies?’

  Bruin paused in the stairwell. An arrow slit spilled a pallid light down across his scuffed boots. ‘Hugh Fitzosbern never married. There are no ladies at Deorham.’ His gloved fingers squeezed her hand, coarse leather ridging against her palm. ‘Look, I know how you feel about this, but the sooner we visit my brother, the sooner you are free.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And free of me. Surely that is something to look forward to?’

  Sadness shifted through her; a dark coating of loss. Lifting her skirts, she allowed him to pull her up the stairs once more and on to the long corridor where the bedchambers were situated. Bruin rapped sharply on the first door—no answer. Eva’s heartbeat filled her throat, bumping erratically; there was a roaring in her ears and she wondered if she were about to faint.

  ‘Maybe—’ she said tentatively.

  ‘This is Steffen’s chamber.’ Bruin cut off her speech abruptly. He thumped again, louder this time. The door swung loosely inwards on oiled hinges, creaking slightly.

  Inside, a small room. The bed made up neatly, sheets tucked beneath the single mattress; the pillow smooth: no creases, no dent made by a sleeping head. A window stood ajar, stray snowflakes settling on the sill, allowing fresh air to sift through the room. The coals in the charcoal burner were cold, white-grey ashes. An elm coffer, decorated with intricate carvings, stood against one wall, an earthenware jug and bowl placed on top. The chamber was empty.

  ‘We’re too late.’ Bruin stuck one hand through his hair, sending the bright strands
wayward. Releasing Eva’s fingers, he strode into the room, then stopped, as if at a loss. ‘He’s gone,’ he bit out, tight-lipped. Eva sagged against the door frame, her slight frame wilting beneath the impact of Bruin’s words. A sense of relief. Steffen was dead. She was silent; there was no point in telling Bruin how sorry she was, for she would be lying and he would know it.

  A movement at her back; she turned. A manservant hovered in the shadows, bowing deferentially to her, hopping from one foot to another. His skin was shiny and very white with florid pink cheeks; his bald pate gleamed like an eggshell. ‘My l-lady—?’ he stuttered out in question. ‘Can I help you in any way?’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, startled, bracing her feet either side of the threshold. She hadn’t heard him approach. ‘I came with Lord Bruin—’ She gestured into the chamber with an outstretched hand. ‘His brother—’ she whispered.

  ‘When did it happen?’ Bruin demanded, recognising the man as Steffen’s servant. His chest bumped against Eva’s shoulder, the heft of him filling the doorway, hulking over her. She was trapped, caught between him and the servant. She resisted the urge to lean back into the solid muscle of Bruin’s body, a delicious lightness stealing across her body, a sense of renewal, of moving forward. Steffen was dead. The shackles of her past unleashed, tight knots unravelling, falling away.

  The servant bowed to Bruin, a look of consternation crossing his face. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord?’

  ‘When did it happen? When did Steffen die?’ Bruin’s voice was calm; a muscle flexed beneath the rigid line of his cheekbone.

  ‘Goodness, Lord Steffen isn’t dead, my lord. He’s very much alive and down in the archery field, firing off arrows in the snow.’

  The words drove into Eva, stabbed into her like knives. Her mind scrabbled for logic, for anything that would make sense of this awful situation. Alive? Steffen was alive? A red mist rolled before her eyes, her knees buckled and she swayed, her head knocking back against the door frame. ‘No, it can’t be—’ she muttered. Bruin slid an arm around her waist, steadying her. ‘I thought you said he was dying,’ she whispered. His chin was inches from her forehead; the stubble across his jaw glinted, gold hairs mixed with bronze. Doubt, a huge wave steadily gaining strength, engulfed her. ‘How could you do this to me? How could you?’ Wrenching violently from Bruin’s hold, Eva staggered back into the corridor. ‘How can you stand there and pretend?’ she bit out. ‘All this time, I believed you about your brother! “Trust me, Eva”, you said. “I will look after you.” What a fool I’ve been!’