Innocent's Champion

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘I suppose it’s better you found out now,’ she managed to croak out, turning briskly away from him. She lifted the fallen blanket, shook out the creased folds with unnecessary violence.

  ‘Found out what?’ he asked, his gaze sliding across the shadowy curve of her hips beneath the flimsy chemise.

  She eyed him with a hostile glare, one shoulder raised towards him, a defensive gesture. One of her braids had come adrift, looping down over her shoulder and across her breast. His eye followed the burnished rope, stopping at the curling end on her waist, secured with a leather lace. Matilda cleared her throat. ‘Found out what a disappointment I would be, when it comes to…’ She hesitated, struggling to find the words.

  He frowned and sat forwards, resting his forearms lightly across his knees, mouth turned up in a half smile. ‘What are you trying to say, Matilda?’

  Her tongue felt like a clod of earth, stiff and awkward in her mouth. Why had she even started to embark on such an intimate subject with him?

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. A hectic flush lined the top of her cheeks, crawled down her slim neck. The fact that he had witnessed her shameless behaviour was mortifying, especially now that he had pushed her away. Her heart closed up with humiliation.

  ‘I think it does,’ he replied.

  An involuntary shudder tore at her chest; she bit down hard on her lip to stop the flood of tears from welling up. She jerked her chin up, faced him squarely. ‘You stopped because I am…because I would be a disappointment,’ she blurted out in a rush, clapping her hands over her face.

  Never.

  Astounded by her words, he sat dumbfounded for a moment. How could one woman be so completely mistaken? Surely she had been aware of his reaction to her? She made his body sing, pushed the grim threads of his nightmare back to the dim recesses of his mind; it had taken every ounce of his strength to break the kiss, to stop things going any further. And it was for her, all for her. By stopping, he was protecting her, protecting her from who he really was, a murderer, someone who had failed to protect his own brother, who had contributed to his death. This way he could safeguard her innocence for another man, a husband who would be worthy of her.

  Sparkling in the glow of the fire, a tear slipped out between her fingers, running over her knuckles, across the back of her hand to her fragile wrist. Guilt scythed through him. He should go over to her now, peel those fingers away from her face and comfort her, but how could he trust himself after what had happened only moments ago? Even in this dim light, the delectable curve of her breasts was visible beneath the single layer of fabric that covered her nakedness, the slim indent of her waist. Desire snared him anew and he tore his eyes away, focused on the fire, the pile of wood, even his sword lying beside him, anything but her. From now on, he would have to maintain a distance, for both their sakes.

  As she peeked through her fingers at him, Matilda’s heart compressed, squeezed—a pinched, frozen knot. Gilan’s expression was rigid, blank, his eyes averted, staring down at the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t even look at her! If she had wanted any confirmation of his rejection, then there it was, pinned to the carved features of his face. Turning away from him, she sank to the floor, a raft of misery engulfing her, and wrapped his blanket around her body, her movements stiff and angry. How dare he! How dare he make her feel like this, like a reckless whore!

  He gazed at the inflexible line of her back faced towards him like a barricade, her rounded hip jutting upwards as she balled her body up on the ground, and sighed. Why couldn’t he keep his hands away from her? Her beauty drew his touch, his kiss, time and time again, like a moth to a flame. It was better this way. Better for her to think he didn’t care. She might be hurting now, but in the long term, it would be easier if she hated him. He could not, would not touch her again. For that would give her hope and hope was something he could not give. Not now. Not ever.

  * * *

  It was early when she woke again, head groggy as she sat up and slowly stretched her aching limbs. The rocky ground had pressed sharply into her left hip overnight, making it sore. Gilan was not there. Grabbing her clothes, thankfully now dry, Matilda dressed quickly, her movements brisk, rapid. Her hair had come adrift in the night, pins dislodging with her fretful sleep. They now lay scattered around, bright silver sparkles across the floor of the cave. She scrambled to pick them up, anxious to sort her hair out before Gilan returned.

  As she crawled around on her hands and knees, picking up the hairpins, the stony ground grinding into her shins, a huge sense of doubt flooded over her. How could she continue this journey with Gilan after what had happened last night? Even now, the memory of his hands running confidently across her spine and down over her hips brought a flush to her cheeks, a heady rush to her heart. What a fool she was for begging him to take her along with him; how utterly pathetic and desperate she must have looked in his eyes. But what other option did she have? To go back to Lilleshall would be to accept whatever fate John had lined up for her, so continuing on this journey, however uncomfortable the relationship between her and Gilan, was her only option.

  Sitting back on her heels, she plaited her hair roughly, dredging deep for any ounce of determination, of courage. It was as if he had grasped every last piece of her self-confidence and wrung it out of her like a wet cloth. She sighed, the influx of breath shuddering her chest. How had it come to this? That she, level-headed, practical Matilda, could feel such overwhelming desire? She had truly believed she could go through life without the need for a man’s touch, yet the slightest brush of Gilan’s fingers twisted her belly to such a frenzied knot of excitement that she wanted to yell out with delight. Her emotions teetered between wanting to cry and wanting to laugh—for the very man who drove her flesh to such delicious heights was the same man who cast her aside, leaving her wanting more. Much more. Her heart closed up with sadness.

  She secured the end of her plaits with leather laces. A shadow fell across the mouth of the cave, blocking the meagre sunlight. Gilan.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing a bread roll across to Matilda. ‘You’d better eat something before we start riding again. I suspect Henry has lodged in the next town, so we’ll start soon and catch him up.’ Between them, the fire smoked fitfully, ashy embers piled around the one branch that still burned.

  My God, he acted as if nothing had happened between them! Matilda stared at the bread roll, not trusting the steadiness of her hand if she reached out to take it. ‘I’m fine…thank you,’ she croaked, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. She had no wish to see the pity within his gaze as he looked down at her. Instead she fiddled with the braids pooling in her lap.

  Gilan eyed her bowed head, her studied avoidance. ‘Look,’ he said eventually, withdrawing the bread. ‘Last night was a mistake. My mistake. I behaved like a lout and took advantage of you. But please don’t let your opinion of me cloud your good judgement. You need to eat if you’re going to keep up with me all day.’

  ‘I’ll keep up with you anyway!’ she flashed back at him, folding her arms huffily. Why did he have to refer to last night? Embarrassment rafted through her; she wanted to crawl beneath the nearest stone, to hide. But the emptiness in her stomach began to nibble away at her spine; her mouth watered at the smell of the bread.

  ‘This isn’t a game, Matilda.’ Gilan hunkered down beside the fire, opposite her. ‘Henry and I are going up north to challenge the king. It will not be pretty.’ He placed the bread back down on an open cloth beside him. Matilda could see a lump of cheese, a couple of apples. The cheese looked fresh, crumbly.

  ‘I do know that,’ she replied, her eyes fixed on the tempting pile of food beside him. ‘Maybe I will have something, after all.’ She dropped the hairpins into a spiky pile beside her and held out her hand.

  ‘And try to be a little more grateful.’ His sudden grin startled her as he handed her a bread roll
and a slice of cheese. ‘Don’t forget that I’m doing you a massive favour by taking you with me. I will leave you in the next town if you don’t behave.’

  She shrugged her shoulders, the lace of her chemise scratching the delicate skin of her throat. ‘I’ll do what you tell me. Within reason.’ Eyes of periwinkle-blue flicked over him, defiant.

  He stood up, raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. ‘That remains to be seen, Matilda.’ Shifting his saddlebags across his shoulders, he stamped the fire out with one large booted foot. Sparks flew out from the base of his leather sole. ‘I’ll meet you outside.’

  * * *

  Matilda wound her plaits into a tight little knot at the back of her head, securing the hair with as many hairpins as she could find. The cool metal tips slid against her scalp as she drove them in. With each hairpin fixed into place, her mind began to settle, to shift down from the emotional turmoil of the previous night, to be replaced by a renewed sense of confidence, of fortitude. The worst was over. They had spoken. Once her hair was finished to her satisfaction, she pulled the voluminous hood over her head, adjusting the scalloped hem so that it lay flat on her shoulders. There, that should do.

  Gilan was lifting a leather saddle onto his horse, shoulder muscles bunching tightly with the movement. Her own horse was nearer the cave, plucking at the wispy grass. Spying her saddle propped up against the rock face, Matilda strode over and picked it up, manhandling the heavy leather up against her chest to balance herself. She turned, intending to hoist it on to the mare’s back.

  Adjusting the leather straps beneath his destrier’s belly, Gilan straightened up and glanced back to the cave mouth to see if Matilda had emerged. His mouth almost dropped open. There she was, dressed in her rough boy’s garments, carrying the weighty saddle between her slim arms. The breadth of the saddle, glossy chestnut leather, all but obscured her upper body, the stirrups dangling down and knocking heavily against her knees.

  ‘Here, let me.’ He marched over, his hands already outstretched to take the saddle from her.

  She frowned at him, the curving arch of her brows drawing together. ‘I’m almost there, Gilan. Don’t worry.’

  He stopped short, watching her puff slightly with the effort of carrying the unwieldy load. ‘That saddle is far too heavy for you.’

  She eyed him squarely, eyes blazing blue fire, her mouth set in a terse, faintly amused line. ‘I can do it, Gilan. I’m used to doing it, anyhow. And besides, how would it look in front of Henry, if the young squire you’ve found to guide you all can’t even saddle his own horse?’

  His hands fell to his sides. She had a point. But he hated to see her struggling under such a cumbersome weight; his fingers itched to help, to move in and relieve her of the load. He watched her shove the saddle up onto the back of the mare and flip the stirrups down, expertly fixing the straps beneath the horse’s stomach.

  ‘See? I told you I could do it.’ Pivoting on her heels when she had finished, hands on her hips, she faced him triumphantly. ‘Not bad for a girl.’

  ‘Not bad at all,’ he agreed grudgingly, amazed at her skill. ‘You’re stronger than you look.’

  She flushed under his close perusal. But the chill breeze rising from the plateau below brushed her skin, quickly cooling the flags of colour in her cheeks. ‘I’ve had to learn to fend for myself,’ she said, annoyed by the waver of hesitation in her voice. ‘Since my father died, and my brother left to fight with the King, everyone on the estate had to do their bit. Including me.’

  ‘Surely you could have kept a stable lad on?’ Gilan asked.

  ‘What, have a lad kicking around all day on the off chance that I might need someone to saddle my horse, when he could have been putting a full day’s work in on the fields?’ She frowned at him, openly mocking. ‘Where have you been, Gilan? I couldn’t afford such luxury.’ Sticking her toe into the stirrup, she swung herself up into the saddle, her movements precise, elegant, leaning down to pat the mare’s neck.

  Where had he been? Away, away from this land on Henry’s endless, futile crusades. He had spent hardly any time at his estates in Cormeilles in the past year. But he had another home, too, where his parents lived. A home to which, at the moment, he was reluctant to go back. For to go back meant he would have to tell his parents everything, to his parents and Pierre’s wife, Isabelle. He would have to relive the details of that horrible day.

  Caught up in his own personal nightmare with no thought to how others lived their lives, Matilda made him feel cloth-headed, doltish, too self-interested to care for others. How difficult it must have been for her to pick up the reins of the estate and make the land return an income. With no male guidance, she had acknowledged the difficult situation and battled through, aided only by her own wit and intelligence. The amount of strength and courage bundled up in that svelte lean body was worth ten thousand of him, with his superior physical strength. No wonder she was so stubborn, so headstrong.

  She’d had to be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For most of that bright morning, Gilan and Matilda made steady progress north, galloping fast over the flat plain of land. A grid of straight ditches drained the earth, shining ribbons beneath the blaze of sun; the generous drove ways that bordered these channels made for easy riding. Soon the church spire and towering walls of a small town came into view on the horizon, shimmering in the noon heat like a mirage, floating on air.

  Gilan pulled on the reins, gradually slowing, flexing his thigh muscles against the animal’s flanks to turn the destrier round into a loose circle in front of Matilda, a healthy glow reddening the tops of his high cheekbones. Golden strands of hair feathered down over his tanned forehead.

  ‘What is that place?’ he called out to Matilda as she galloped up to him, her lungs bursting with exertion. She believed herself to be a competent, quick horsewoman, but Gilan was far superior and much, much faster. He scarcely looked around to see if she was with him, making it clear that if she failed to keep up, she would be left behind.

  Hauling on the reins, she scrunched up her eyes. ‘I think…yes, it’s Brinsea,’ she said.

  ‘Been there before?’ he asked mildly. He bunched his hands on the horse’s neck, leaning forwards in the saddle to ease his muscles, awaiting her answer.

  Her heart fluttered; she forced herself to concentrate on his tunic lacings rather than the handsome lines of his face. Remember, remember, the words chanted through her head, he doesn’t want you here, all you are is an encumbrance to him. She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, a few times. It’s a good-sized town, with a couple of inns. It’s on the main route north,’ she added.

  ‘Then that’s where Henry will be,’ he said, his eyes on the road in front. ‘Let’s keep going so we can catch him before he leaves the town.’

  A wave of fatigue shuddered through her. Suddenly the short distance between her and the town, not above a mile, seemed interminable. Exhaustion sapped the energy from her arms and legs.

  ‘You go,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll catch you up. It’s not a big town. I’ll find you.’

  Gilan threw her a teasing smile. ‘What’s the matter? Can’t you keep up with me?’

  ‘No, I can’t!’ She jerked her chin up, eyes flashing sapphire. ‘I thought I was quite good at riding…’ She trailed off.

  He assessed her wryly. He had ridden too fast, too hard for her, treating her like one of his soldiers, when she most obviously was not. ‘I’m sorry, Matilda, you should have called out to me, called out for me to slow down…’ he watched as she drew her spine up straight, saw the shine of determination in her eyes ‘…so why didn’t you?’

  Matilda shook her head. The movement dislodged the voluminous brim of her hood, causing it to slip back. ‘If I slowed up, you would have left me behind.’

  ‘No, I said I would help you,’ he replied firmly. ‘I’m not
about to abandon you in the middle of nowhere. You need to learn to accept help, to rely on others.’

  ‘Why?’ she questioned. ‘When everyone I ask will only help if there is something to be gained for themselves, except—’ She stopped suddenly, her words vanishing into the balmy air.

  Except you. Gilan had asked for nothing in return for his aid.

  ‘Except?’ he prompted.

  ‘Except nothing,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘Not everyone in this world is as bad as you make out, Matilda. You have to learn to trust people.’

  ‘I’m trusting you, aren’t I?’ She pushed the words back at him. ‘You might have arranged for my brother-in-law, John, to meet us in Brinsea, to haul me back home. I’m trusting you not to do that. Isn’t that enough?’

  Gilan’s heart knocked against his chest at her quiet response. Yes, he thought. It’s enough that you trust me, even though I am not worthy of such trust. Without thinking, he lifted his hand and pulled her hood forwards so the cloth shadowed her fine features. Her hair, the colour of rain-soaked bark, was silk against his fingers. ‘You need to keep your face covered, Matilda, otherwise the game will be up.’ His eyes flared over her, metallic silver.

  Beneath his wrinkled tunic sleeve, she could see the corded muscles in his wrist as he drew his hand away, the riffle of short blond hairs along his forearm. Wrenching her gaze away, she moved her horse alongside his, falling into a slow pace along the drove way.

  ‘Your voice, too.’

  ‘My voice?’

  He grinned down at her. ‘It’s far too shrill at the moment. You’ll have to lower it.’