‘What did he do? Did he actually…?’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head hurriedly, not wanting to hear the awful words. ‘Nothing like that! I managed to stop him, before…before…’ Tears splashed down her cheeks and on to his sleeve, marking the blue material with dark, spreading droplets.
Thank God. Gilan sent up a silent prayer. ‘Where is he?’ A cold, sliding anger whipped through his veins.
‘In there.’ With a pale, quivering hand, Matilda indicated a door farther down the corridor.
‘Stay here, whilst I check,’ Gilan commanded. He released his hold so suddenly that she lurched backwards, staggering against the lumpy wall, knocking her shoulder. A debilitating feebleness tugged the strength from her knees; her legs took on the consistency of wet rope, useless. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
In an instant, Gilan was in front of her again, his face grim, set in harsh, unsmiling lines. She forced herself to raise her lolling head, pressing her hands against the wall for support.
‘Is he dead?’ Matilda jerked her chin up, trying to suppress the fresh rush of tears that threatened to spill over her bottom lashes. The buttons on Gilan’s blue tunic were undone at the high neck and the edges of his collar flapped outwards, revealing the tanned, corded column of his neck, the flash of white shirt beneath. He seemed so calm, so capable. The urge to sink into his arms, to let him take care of this whole miserable mess, threatened to overwhelm her.
‘No, unfortunately, he is still very much alive,’ Gilan ground out. He should have run the bastard through with his sword for what he had done. ‘But he’ll have a devil of a bruise on his forehead from where you whacked him with that candlestick.’ He smiled grimly. ‘You have a good aim.’
Her mind wavered, refusing to calm, to settle. Despite what John had attempted, she was relieved she hadn’t killed him. He was still married to her sister, after all. The man was soaked through with alcohol, that was the reason; when he sobered up, she was in no doubt that he would be mortified by what he had tried to do.
‘I think he’s really quite drunk,’ Matilda managed to stutter out. ‘I don’t think he really knew what he was doing.’
‘Are you actually defending him?’ growled Gilan. ‘God in Heaven. The man tried to rape you! He should be thrown in a dungeon for what he just tried to do.’
Matilda squirmed beneath his harsh words, her breath emerging in shallow, panicky gasps. Her head felt light, as if it were slowly detaching from her body, moving to a safer place, a place where she wouldn’t have to deal with the horrible reality of what had happened to her. She had fought for her life in that damp antechamber, fought for her innocence. She had succeeded. But now, as the surging adrenaline leaked from her body, so her strength drained, too. The desire to sit down, to rest, swept over her, swamped her body like a gigantic wave of fatigue. She wanted to slip down where she stood, knees buckling beneath her, skirts pooling across the flagstones. Her legs shook uncontrollably; her heart skipped and danced. The wall gave her some support—in fact, it was her only support. She wondered if she could actually walk.
Gilan watched the scant colour drain from her cheeks, saw her fists bunch, mouth twist in determination as she hung on to what little strength she had remaining.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. Without waiting for her reply, he scooped one arm around her back, easing her away from the wall, the other hand holding on to her forearm, supporting her wilting frame.
‘I…’ Her protest sounded pathetic, ineffectual.
‘You can thank me later,’ he said, wedging her tightly into his solid flank and marching her swiftly through the curtain and into the brightness of the great hall. Her slender frame crumpled against him gratefully, cleaving to his muscled strength, her mind unable to think straight, unable to grasp any viable argument as to why he shouldn’t be doing this. She hated herself for this frailty, but at this precise moment, she had not one ounce of energy left to fight him.
Half carrying her, her slippered feet barely skimming the ground, he paused only for a moment, in the entrance hall. ‘To your sister’s chambers?’ He quirked one dark eyebrow at her in question, his thick arm braced against her spine, a diagonal line of warmth burning through the stuff of her dress.
‘No!’ she blurted out in terror. She was not strong enough to face her sister yet, to tell Katherine what her husband had done, why her gown was in tatters. ‘No, I must go home. To Lilleshall.’
* * *
Despite the growing heat of the day, an icy numbness seemed to take over her body as Gilan lifted her up onto her grey mare, hastily saddled by one of the stable lads. Her movements felt awkward, juddery, her muscles unresponsive. All she wanted to do was vanish into a dark corner somewhere and cry. She clutched helplessly at her ruined dress, her stomach churning with fear and loathing, flicking constant anxious glances back at the main door to the castle.
‘He’ll be out for a long while yet,’ said Gilan, noting the direction of her gaze. How different the maid was from the night before; all her bright confidence, her bossiness, knocked out of her, like the stuffing knocked out of a child’s toy. She was so quiet, the softness of her cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes the colour of a winter sea, sad and worried.
‘I can’t seem to stop shaking,’ Matilda whispered, taking a deep, rickety breath. She covered her eyes with one hand, smearing at her tears. ‘I wouldn’t have got out of there on my own. Thank God you were there. Thank you.’
He reached up and pulled her hand away, wrapping her icy fingers into the warm fold of his palm. ‘It’s over now,’ he said. Something shifted, lurched deep within him, and he frowned at the unusual sensation, dragging his eyes away from her forlorn figure. He felt sorry for her, that was all, sorry for the maid’s predicament. He didn’t deserve her gratitude; he would have done the same for anybody, any woman. He marched across to his horse. Rooting around in his saddlebag, he drew out a length of scarlet cloth—a short cloak that he wore occasionally.
‘Here,’ he said, wrapping the fine wool around her shoulders, fastening the cloak with a sturdy silver brooch on her left shoulder. She jumped as his roughened knuckles grazed the bare flesh at her collarbone, a startled flush seeping across her cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured, dropping his hands immediately.
Ducking her head, she studied the wispy fall of her horse’s mane with studied attention. ‘I could have done that.’ The colour swept across her face, deepened.
‘I doubt it.’ His tone was sharp, practical.
The faintest pink stained her lips, the colour of a fading rose, understated, fleeting. They were slightly parted and he could see the tip of her tongue, set between neat white teeth. Unexpected desire, a heady jolt, knifed through him and he clutched at her bridle, willing his heart to stop racing.
‘Are you ready?’ he muttered between gritted teeth.
Slowly, very slowly, beneath the cover of his cloak, she unpeeled her hand from the ruined fabric and looped the reins around her fingers. ‘Only if you promise to stop manhandling me! I’ve had enough of that for one day. I am perfectly capable of dressing myself. I don’t need you to do it for me!’ Her eyes bore down on him fiercely, a vivid blue. Pulling herself upright in the saddle, she adjusted his cloak with a brisk, irritated tug. It was as if his touch on her skin had knocked her awake, plucked her from the strange exhaustion into which she had fallen.
Relief flooded through him and he smiled, one edge of his finely etched mouth quirking upwards. Tamping down on the unwanted desire churning in his belly, he swung into the saddle, leather creaking with the movement. His gaze travelled over her flushed face, the challenge of her violet eyes. ‘Thank God! I wondered when the waspish tone would return. I thought it had deserted you for ever.’ Turning away, he yanked on his reins, and kicked his horse in the direction of the bailey gatehouse.
* * *
They followed the stony track that straggled up the limestone escarpment, out of the valley where Neen Castle was situated, the constant chirruping of crickets in the coarse grass beside the path filling the balmy air with sound. Matilda led the way, her knees digging into the soft flanks of the grey mare, urging the animal up, up to the open plateau, to the place where the lilac-blue bowl of the sky met the pale bleached grass of the land. Her horse’s hooves clicked and slid on the difficult combination of loose gravel and polished rock and she leaned forwards in the saddle, balancing the upward trajectory of the horse with her own weight.
With every step she made away from Neen, away from John, the fear and panic that crushed her chest began to recede, to ease. She was glad the path was single track and that Gilan was behind her; it gave her a time to think, a breathing space in which to gather her shocked and scattered wits. But, reluctant as she was to admit it, she was glad Gilan was there. John’s behaviour had frightened her, really frightened her; for although she had never particularly liked her sister’s husband, she had always believed herself to be safe around him. Katherine’s home had always been like another home to her, a place of comfort and security. But now, all that had changed.
Matilda’s stomach looped with worry; she had rushed away from Neen without any thought or consideration for her sister and her new baby. Katherine’s wan, exhausted face swam before her eyes and she prayed that John would be kind to her. Would she ever tell her sister what he had done? How he had almost betrayed his own wife with her sister? She doubted it.
Her horse gained the top of the escarpment, above the bushes of yellow gorse, above the sweeping slopes of lilac flowers alive with blue butterflies. Here, the landscape changed to one of spare, raw beauty: open grassland, studded with a few craggy hawthorns, bent over with the almost permanent onslaught of the wind. The gusting breeze caught at Gilan’s cloak that she wore and she grabbed at the flying hem, wedging it firmly beneath her hips. Beneath the scarlet material, the cool air teased the ripped lace of her chemise and her cheeks flamed anew. She glanced down quickly, but, no, there was nothing: all she could see was the wonderful expanse of scarlet cloth, completely covering her naked flesh.
‘Is it much farther?’ Gilan’s horse had gained the level, and he drew alongside her mare.
‘No.’ She shook her head hastily, conscious that the wind had begun to pick at the loose strands of her hair, blowing it across her face. ‘We need to go along the top here and then drop down into the woodland. Lilleshall is in the next valley.’ Annoyingly, she was unable to tuck the wayward strands behind her ear, for if she lifted her hands above her waist then the cloak would open and reveal her nakedness. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed beneath his intimidating gaze. She cleared her throat. ‘Gilan, look, I’m grateful for you coming with me, but I’ll be fine from now on.’ Matilda fixed him with what she hoped was a breezy, confident smile. ‘I’m sure you have better things to be getting on with.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Really?’ She sounded so crestfallen, he almost laughed aloud. Why, he had never met another woman like her: this continual rejection of any help, or support; her stupid, stubborn bravado.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Henry and his soldiers are still snoring the day away. They had quite a celebration last night, as you know.’ A trailing strand of glossy hair wrapped around her cheek, stuck across her mouth. His fingers itched to touch, to pull it away. Her hair would feel like silken thread against his skin.
‘There’s no need for you to stay on my account,’ she responded, frowning steadfastly at the copse of small oaks on the horizon, marking the place where the pathway left the plateau and began to descend into the valley. She tilted her head, allowing the wind to catch at her wayward hair, to tug it from her lips.
‘Is it just me, or do you behave like this towards most men?’
‘What do you mean?’ She whipped her head around, eyes the colour of a stormy sea.
‘I mean,’ he replied mildly, ‘that you seem so determined to do everything on your own the whole time. Determined to prove that you can do anything a man can do. You never seem to want to accept any help, even when you’re in trouble.’ His voice was calm, threaded with steel.
She squirmed uncomfortably under his softening gaze, focused sternly on the silver discs that decorated his leather reins, sparkling in the sunshine. The childish temptation to kick her horse on faster, to gallop away from his questions, surged through her. She resisted the urge, allowing her horse to match the slighter faster walking pace of his destrier, conscious of his booted foot a few inches away from her own. ‘I don’t,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t want any help from men. It’s hardly surprising, is it, after what has just happened.’
He inclined his head, the sun glinting on his blond hair, touched with gilt in the strong light. ‘You were like it before then,’ he continued. ‘The night you went to fetch your mother…you were about to ride out on your own.’
Above them, a buzzard soared, higher and higher on the rising warm air, great feathered wings outstretched as it wheeled and circled, ringed yellow eye trained on the ground, searching for prey.
Matilda sighed, hunkered down in the saddle. ‘I don’t expect any help from anyone.’ Gilan could not, must not, know that she lived alone. If the news reached John, then he would stop at nothing to try and take over Lilleshall…and, after this morning’s performance, possibly her, as well. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to scrub away the itchy exhaustion
‘So you’ve never married?’
She thought of her sister and how her ways had been curbed by her husband, how her whole life was spent in the chase to provide a male heir for John, how he made her completely miserable. ‘No, and I’ve no intention of marrying, either,’ she pronounced firmly, the stiff breeze on the top of the plateau chasing crimson into her cheeks.
‘Not all men are like John,’ Gilan replied, as if reading her thoughts. ‘What he did to you was unforgivable.’ The loose glossy strands of her hair wove around her head, lifting and dancing in the balmy air.
‘He was upset, annoyed that Katherine had given him a daughter and not a son,’ she said forlornly, staring down at her fingers curled around the worn leather bridle, remembering the sweet, squalling bundle she had delivered. ‘Nobody seemed happy with the birth, not Katherine, nor John.’
Gilan’s horse stumbled on a clod of tussocky grass, causing his knee to bump into the curve of Matilda’s hip. She frowned up at him, a warning glance as if to ward him away, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘You’re making excuses for him, again,’ he said, a muscle quirking in the shadow beneath his high cheekbone. ‘Don’t fool yourself that he wouldn’t try something like that again even if he were sober. If he wants a male heir, Matilda, then surely he will do anything in his power to get one, even if that means ruining his own—’
‘Stop!’ she cried out at him, lifting her hand from the reins to push at the air between them, to halt his words. Fear etched at her chest, clutching at her ribs, her stomach, a rigid grip. ‘Stop talking like this! I don’t want to hear it. He was drunk. He was not himself. Once he sobers up he will love the baby and so will Katherine!’
Gilan shook his head at her unwillingness to hear the truth, to acknowledge it, his horse slowing to a stop as his hands slackened on the reins. He leaned forwards in the saddle, adjusting his position, shifting his long legs against the horse’s flanks. ‘It will happen again if you go back there, Matilda. And next time he might succeed.’
Although his words were low, measured, they slammed into her with a force that left her shocked, bringing back the full, nightmarish reality of John’s attack—the foul breath smothering her, the stubby hands grasping lecherously at her bodice. How she had struggled, pleading, fighting to escape, to save her innocence. And now this man, this horrible man, was telling her it might happen again?
‘How dare you talk to me like this? Surely, I know my own brother-in-law better than you do.’ Her voice rose, a shrill note. Without thinking, she lunged across the narrow space between them, between the two horses, her hands flying out to his face to hit out at him and stop his loathsome speech. Tears sprung from her eyes, falling haphazardly across her cheeks. With the violent movement, the scarlet cloak blew out and back from her body, revealing the bare skin of her chest, the rounded top curve of her breast peeking through the tattered shreds of her gown.
Immediately aware of the expanse of bare, creamy flesh below the leaping pulse in her throat, Gilan forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. He seized her fluttering hands, cool fingers snaring her wrists. ‘Matilda, stop! I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.’
‘Well, you have!’ she screeched at him between sobs, her arms held upright in his firm grip. ‘Don’t talk about things you have no idea about! John never pays me the least bit of attention normally—I’m telling you, he was drunk and annoyed and that’s all there is to this!’
Her face was so close, he could smell the perfume lifting from her skin, her peerless skin that glowed like the inside of a shell. Confused and angry, her forget-me-not eyes shimmered up at him, tilting up at the corners like those of a cat, he thought. Tears clung to her dark eyelashes, diamond drops. His blood thickened, gathering. His heart thudded treacherously in his chest, matching the quickening race of his pulse. He should push her away now, back away. His mind loosened, conscious thought deserting him. Logic fled.
He tipped his head down, his mouth touching hers.
He told himself it would be the briefest kiss, a kiss of comfort, of reassurance, a kiss to stop her agitated sobbing, her fear. But the moment his mouth met hers, he knew it was not to be. Her lips were silky soft, like delicate feathers, and he groaned, a precarious heat rising in his body. Desire, an intolerable yearning, scorched through him, a blazing trail of fire, pushing him, urging him on. His hands fell from her wrists and lifted to cup the sides of her face, big thumbs buried in the slipping velvet of her hair.
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