‘Don’t move,’ he warned, as if he sensed the sag, the release of tension in her body. ‘I don’t have a safe hold of you yet.’
Tavia sighed. This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to work. She wondered if she could stall for longer, but she wanted, more than any thing, to escape from this stupid situation she had climbed into, even if it meant being rescued by the enemy.
‘You need to drop down, my lady, and I’ll catch you.’ Cool persuasion laced his voice.
‘Nay, I cannot,’ Tavia replied frantically. ‘I just can’t move.’ The wind whipped beneath the hem of her bliaut, blowing the wide hem outwards.
‘Then why did you climb so high, if you’re so frightened of heights?’ Benois rapped out, exasperated, trying to avert his eyes from the tantalising glimpses of her slim calves, her rounded thighs clad in the finest silk stockings, afforded by her billowing hemline. Why did women also have to make every situation so infernally complicated? No wonder he preferred a life in the field of battle to a life of castles and chivalry.
‘I didn’t know I was,’ she admitted ruefully.
‘I can’t climb any higher, my lady. The branches will not support my weight.’ Benois still held tightly on to the princess’s slender ankle. From where he had braced himself against the main trunk, the maid’s position appeared extremely precarious. Mud smeared over his hand from her slippers; the fine leather had been scratched and her stockings were torn over her slim calves, affording him delectable glimpses of the lady’s smooth white skin where the silk had ripped. The temptation to place his fingertip over the holes, to test the alluring softness of her flesh, took him by surprise. Benois couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted to do such a thing. Women meant nothing to him, other than for physical release; they represented a constant source of annoyance, of in convenience. Curling his scarred hand slowly, a vague sense of unease coiled stealthily in his mind.
Through the lacy fretwork of criss-crossing branches, the sun began to descend. Early sunsets still marked these first days of spring; the warmth leaching from the air as the skies darkened. Benois’s stomach growled with hunger. He and his men had forgone their mid-day meal in order to kidnap the princess and now he was starving.
Impatience made him tug irritably at the chit’s ankle; he had no intention of spending any longer in this tree! Langley’s advice on how to treat a royal princess was beginning to grate on his nerves; this current situation just proved that courtly manners simply did not work on some occasions!
Resisting the pull on her foot, Tavia wrapped both her arms even more firmly around the branch conveniently located near her chest. She had worked out that the longer she stayed up here, out of Benois’s reach, then the less chance he would have of recognising her, of leaving to kidnap the real princess. ‘If you go down,’ she suggested lightly, ‘then I’ll follow.’
‘I thought you said you couldn’t!’ His gaze swept over her fragile figure, clinging like a wisp of lace to the tree. Really, this royal maid seemed to contradict herself with every sentence! Did she not know her own mind?
‘I feel better now,’ she replied. ‘I think I’ll be able to come down on my own.’
‘No chance!’ he countered bluntly. ‘I, for one, have had enough of being stuck up a tree. I can’t wait all day, and all night for that matter, for you to make up your mind. You’re coming down now!’
Stretching his big body upwards, he thrust one hand over her calf, fastened his fingers around the crook of her knee, and pulled, hard. Her feet teetered precariously.
‘Nay! What are you doing?’ she pro tested, as he began to haul her body down wards. Her fingers scrabbled violently at the branch that had become her security, trying to cling on, but his grip was too powerful. Slithering down wards, she became acutely aware of the touch of his hands over her hips, her backside and, finally, the sensitive curve of her waist. He held her wrapped against him, her feet flailing uselessly in the air.
‘It’s almost as if you don’t want to come down.’ His warm breath skimmed her ear intimately. ‘Now, why would that be?’
‘Because I don’t want to go with you!’ she shouted into the soft wool of the tunic that covered his chain mail, furious at his rough man handling. Steel-clad arms braced her waist, making any escape at tempt impossible. ‘Let me go!’ she ordered, imperiously.
‘If I let you go, then you will fall straight out of the tree,’ he advised her quietly. ‘I am the only thing holding you at the moment.’ The mellow timbre of his words had a curious effect on her, generating a weird fluttering sensation in her belly.
‘You push the boundaries of common decency,’ she threw back waspishly. ‘This is no way to treat a princess! Even captured knights are treated better than this. Just wait until I tell King Malcolm about you!’
Laughter rumbled deep in his chest; the vibrations pushing the muscled breadth of his torso against her own softer curves. Holding her with one arm, he yanked the curling end of her braid sharply, bringing tears to her eyes as he forced her to lift her chin, to look at him.
‘You’re no more a princess than I am,’ he announced, the smoke-grey of his eyes grimly assessing.
Tavia licked her lips nervously, a dryness scouring her throat. Her heart hammered in her chest. Was he going to kill her?
‘Are you?’ he said again, jerking the end of her braid once more.
‘Of course I am,’ she replied. Her voice echoed lamely.
The breeze ruffled through the sable smooth ness of his hair, hair that gleamed like the polished skin of a hazelnut. A few strands fell across his forehead, softening the raw-boned angularity of his features.
‘So I’ve never met you before.’
‘Correct.’
‘Liar.’
He would know the maid anywhere: the proud, defiant tilt of her chin, the huge eyes of cobalt blue and that hair, her beautiful wine-dark hair that pro claimed her identity like a flag.
‘How did you ever think you would pass as a princess?’ His tone mocked her.
To admit her true identity would be to fail. And she was not about to do that! This man had to believe her! For the sake of her mother, for this whole plan to work, she had to convince him! Sticking her chin imperiously in the air, Tavia addressed him in prim tones, trying to ignore the proximity of his big body pressed up against her own soft curves.
‘Because I am a princess, you fool!’
His eyes narrowed, spark ling chips of granite. ‘Oh, so it’s usual practice for a princess to run around her own city dressed in peasant clothes; it’s usual practice for a princess to shoot a crossbow with unerring accuracy?’ He lifted one dark eyebrow. ‘Credit me with some intelligence, my lady!’
One finger picked nervously at the nail on her thumb squashed into her side by his big arm. This wasn’t going to be easy. ‘I admit that my behaviour is unusual for a lady of rank,’ she ventured, refusing to let his mocking stare intimidate her, ‘but Malcolm taught me to shoot from an early age, and sitting in the woman’s solar all day is boring! It’s fun going around the town dressed in peasant clothes.’
‘Not so fun when you’re nearly raped by English soldiers, I suspect.’ A stinging wryness entered his tone.
She shuddered slightly at the memory, heart thrilling at the note of doubt creeping into his voice. Benois sighed, momentarily allowing himself to enjoy the maid’s soft curves against his own hard frame. He stared at her intently, drinking in the lush, perfect oval of her face, trying to read her mind. What if the maid spoke the truth?
Tavia schooled her features into an expression of stern chastisement. ‘Mayhap we could discuss this further on the ground?’ She tilted her head in question. ‘I don’t feel entirely safe up here.’ Without thinking, she flicked her blue, long-lashed eyes up to his, trying to impress on him the need to descend, willing herself to ignore the strange, flickering excitement that jolted upwards through her belly and chest at the alluring proximity of his body.
Benois’s arms tigh
tened imperceptibly around her; it was a long time since he had held a woman thus. With lurching aware ness, he realised his own body’s physical response to the maid’s nearness: fierce, hungry, demanding. The peach-like lustre of her flushed skin drew him, the pretty curve of her mouth drew him in…she lured him, like a siren singing far out to sea. A predatory glow moderated his flinty gaze; Tavia saw it, and knew at once his intention. ‘Stop! I command you to stop!’ she cried, pushing futilely at the punishing lock of his arms. ‘You mustn’t do this! I am the princess!’
‘I don’t care!’ he growled, his voice husky with desire.
As his lips descended, he told himself he had earned this kiss. The maid had teased and taunted him, caused him to miss his lunch and no doubt his supper as well. There was nothing in the least that attracted him to her; the maid was slender and short, her arms thin and wiry, completely opposite to the type of women he sought for physical solace. Henry’s camp women, who accompanied the royal court and its en tour age of soldiers in the hope of making ready coin, were normally tall and buxom, their beauty often spoiled by the tawdry nature of their business.
The sweet ness of her lips stunned him; in that first, fleeting touch, all conscious thought, all logic, fled, to be replaced by a raging thirst to discover more, to plunder further, deeper. The brace of his arms shifted slightly, hauling her closer to him, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. At the intimate contact, she gasped against his mouth. He groaned, bringing one hand up to cup the back of her head, to tangle his fingers in the silk of her hair, to bring her lips closer to him.
Tavia began to struggle against him, ramming her toes into his shins, pushing her small hands against his chest.
‘Nay…’ He lifted his head, his grey irises lit with silvered threads, passion un balancing him. ‘My lady…for God’s sake…don’t struggle!’ The innate strength in that waif-like body caught him unawares, and, with horrible realisation, he felt her sliding towards the ground. In a moment he had reached down to grab a fistful of cloth at her waist, catching her, but the fierce movement threw him off balance, and they crashed down through the branches together to land in a tangle of limbs below.
The fall winded him slightly, but luckily the branches had broken much of the impact. Although he had managed to twist slightly as he landed, he feared the maid had caught at least half his weight on impact. He lifted himself up on his arms, assessing her, searching her pale face for some sign of life.
Langley burst into the clearing, closely followed by his own soldiers. ‘Good God, man, what have you done to her?’
Chapter Five
Pushing himself off the maid, and on to his knees beside her, Benois sat back on his heels, baffled by her unconsciousness. From their position on the tree, the drop had not been above the height of two men, and the dense carpet of rotting woodland vegetation had softened their landing. But, touching a finger to his throbbing temple, Benois realised that their heads had knocked together on impact. A huge purplish bruise had begun to develop above the maid’s left eye, marring the polished marble of her skin.
Lying there, sprawled beside him, the girl appeared as a fallen angel, so ethereal, so fragile that Benois could scarce believe she was the same chit who had antagonised him just moments before. The silken folds of her bliaut spread around her, revealing the slender curve of her tiny waist; the tear-shaped sleeves had fallen back, revealing the delicate bones of her wrists, deathly white against the earthy leaves. He frowned. Angel, indeed! What in Heaven’s name had given him such a fanciful idea? At best, this girl, this Tavia of Mowerby, was an unwelcome nuisance, one he intended to be rid of, as quickly as possible.
‘Have you killed her?’ Langley wrung his hands together. ‘Have you killed the Princess?’ He lurked at the edge of the clearing, as if unwilling to come forward to witness the dreadful sight. Above them, leaves rustled, the breeze through the trees began to strengthen with the onset of evening. Benois con tem plated the barely perceptible rise and fall of Tavia’s chest, then reached his fingers to the side of her neck; a strong, steady pulse con firmed what he already knew. On instinct, his thumb moved fractionally to trace the corner of her mouth, a mouth that still bore the blush of his kiss. He snatched his fingers away, springing to his feet. Was he completely mad? How had this fey creature managed to slip beneath his guard? His self-control had been the one thing he could rely on since…since that time.
‘Nay, the girl’s not dead,’ Benois bit back, his slate eyes tracing Langley’s lumpy profile in the twilight. ‘And, if you look a little closer, Langley, you will see that we have been well and truly duped. This maid is not the Princess Ada.’
‘Don’t be a fool, of course it’s the Princess!’ Langley came forward, stumbling over an unseen tree root. ‘God in Heaven, there will be hell to pay if Henry finds out how we’ve treated her!’
‘The girl has brought it all upon herself,’ Benois returned curtly. ‘When was the last time you witnessed a princess sprinting off like a hare, and climbing a tree with the grace and agility of a cat?’
Langley shrugged. ‘I admit, it is unusual.’ He moved to crouch down next to Tavia’s prone figure. ‘She certainly has the Princess’s hair.’ He touched his fingers lightly to Tavia’s head. ‘As far as I know, only members of Scottish royalty possess such an amazing colour. Malcolm and his dead father, Earl Henry, and, of course, King David.’ Langley frowned, his eyes sweeping the length of Tavia’s figure. ‘But you are right, Benois, this maid is not tall enough to be Ada. How high does she stand?’
‘Up to here.’ Benois indicated the place below the curve of his shoulder.
Langley nodded. ‘And there’s less of her, too. Just see how this dress hangs about her. She wears the clothes of the Princess…’
‘But she is not the Princess,’ Benois concluded.
‘The question is…’ Langley surveyed his friend ‘…what do we do with her now?’
Through the flimsy layers separating consciousness, the deep timbre of male voices penetrated Tavia’s brain. Where was she? Cold seeped disagreeably through the material of her clothes…her back felt wet as she lay on the damp ground. Pieces of memory came floating back, at first slowly, and then in a rush, fitting together neatly to form coherent pictures in her brain. The chase through the forest. Climbing the tree. The kiss. Reality smashed into her as she suddenly remembered. Forcing herself to keep her breathing low and steady, she kept her eyes firmly shut. She could hear Benois’s voice, and another man also talking. Why were they still here?
She shivered, the cold beginning to freeze her bones.
‘She’s awake,’ a voice announced.
Pressing her hands flat against the soggy leaves, Tavia pushed herself up, raising one hand to smooth her hair from her eyes. Benois towered above her, scowling, a dark and brooding presence that made her want to scramble to her feet and run once more. He radiated a dynamic energy, an energy that made every inch of his body spark with vitality. He made her feel vulnerable, weak, so she dragged her gaze to the man beside him, a smaller man, also in English colours, who smiled at her courteously. She fixed on his ruffled blond hair and genial features with relief.
‘Are you well, my lady?’ the blond man asked.
‘Aye, no thanks to him!’ Tavia grumbled, jabbing a finger in Benois’s direction. ‘Why did you have to land on top of me, you big oaf!’ Why did you have to kiss me? The words were left unsaid.
His mouth curled. ‘Ah, Langley, I don’t believe you have met the charming Tavia of Mowerby?’ Derision laced his tone, as he viewed her bedraggled figure.
‘Delighted.’ Langley stepped forward. ‘Allow me, my lady.’ He stuck out his gloved hand, and, taking hers, pulled her up easily from the ground. She swayed a little, her head aching, unwilling to allow any weakness to show before these two men.
‘I must go,’ she announced. She had per formed her task for Ferchar; now all she needed to do was to ride back to Dunswick, claim her reward and find a physician for her mother.
Benois folded his arms across his chest, the metal scales of his chain mail sleeves glinting in the last rays of sunlight that filtered through the trees.
‘Go where, exactly?’ She flinched at the hollowness of his tone.
‘Why, go back to Dunswick!’
‘You, mistress, are going nowhere.’
‘You can’t keep me here!’ she remonstrated, brushing impatiently at a twig clinging to the fabric of her dress.
‘I’ve no intention of keeping you here,’ Benois replied patiently. ‘God forbid that I should have to put up with any more of your infernal prattle…’
‘Go easy, Benois.’ Langley frowned. ‘You’re frightening the maid.’
‘Hah!’ Benois scoffed. ‘I doubt it very much.’ His eyes glittered silver, precious metal sewn through granite.
‘It’s for your own good,’ Langley explained, his modulated tones calm and composed in comparison to Benois’s husky cadence. ‘It has grown too dark for us to travel safely. We must make camp tonight and travel on the morrow.’
A hollowness churned in her stomach. Tavia stared in dismay at the two men, half-shaking her head. ‘But I must return,’ she whispered, the memory of her mother lying ill and de fence less on her pallet bed clawing at her brain. ‘I must.’
‘You should have thought of that before you under took this deception,’ Benois rounded on her callously. ‘I suppose it was Ferchar’s little scheme. He must have thought it was his lucky day when you walked into Dunswick Castle with your crossbow, and the double of Princess Ada.’
‘But you don’t need me any more,’ Tavia pro tested, ‘I’m not worth anything to you, now that you know who I am. Why not let me go? Just give me a horse and you’ll never see me again.’
‘If we let you go now, mistress, then no one will ever see you again,’ Benois commented starkly. ‘You really think you would arrive back in Dunswick in one piece?’
The Warrior’s Princess Bride Page 6