The man crouched and tried to touch her forehead, withdrawing his hand when Cristen flinched.
Don’t touch me.
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s over.”
Was it? She continued to stare at the man, unable to move. My legs are cold. Her teeth chattered. Why are my legs so cold? The man, still crouched at her side, leaned over and reached toward the juncture of her thighs.
“Oh, nay,” she whispered on a sob. “Please don’t.”
The man frowned, but said nothing. A moment later, the chill on her legs eased and the man moved back, his dark eyes locking with hers. Cristen realized he had rearranged her skirts, sparing her modesty. The thought of her exposed limbs sent a flush of humiliation to her face.
“You needn’t be afraid,” he said. “I swear I’m not going to hurt you.”
Something in his voice dulled the sharp edge of Cristen’s fear. She was, she realized, laying half atop her captor’s body. Her eyes widened.
“Is…” Her throat felt raw. “Is he dead?”
“Aye.” The man reached for her. “Can you stand?”
“I… I think so.”
With some trepidation, Cristen allowed the man to lift her, trying not to panic as his arms slid beneath hers. Dizzy, she swayed and stumbled against him, cringing at the smell of wine on his breath. A moment later, the man gasped and his body tensed beneath her touch. Unnerved by his strange response, Cristen stepped back in haste, out of his reach.
“Thank you,” she said, and smoothed her skirts to hide her nervousness, somewhat reassured that he’d released her without pause. Despite the murk, she noticed the fading expression of shock on the man’s face and wondered at it. He regarded her with a measure of what looked like bewilderment, as if trying to recall or comprehend something. A fresh flutter of anxiety arose in her stomach.
Oh, dear God. Does he recognize me? Nay, Cristen, of course he doesn’t. Calm yourself.
But why did he look at her that way? Who was he? Could she trust him? As he stood in silence, staring at her through dark eyes, Cristen felt another flutter in her belly. Not fear, precisely. Wariness, perhaps?
The man towered over her and seemed older, somehow, than his appearance implied. He was well armed, too. Apart from his bow, he carried a sword and the hilt of a dagger protruded from his belt. A warrior, obviously, but other than the sword, he wore no obvious trappings of knighthood. Yet his clothes were not those of a poor man. His cloak was a superior weave. His belted tabard of brown leather fell to mid-thigh and blended with his snug, woolen breeches. On his feet, a pair of tanned, leather boots. A stubbled jaw, dark hair, and a mild slant to his dark eyes hinted at foreign blood. The inflection in his voice, however, sounded Irish. Or Welsh, perhaps.
Still shaken by her terrifying encounter, Cristen fumbled with the rise and fall of uncertain fears. Had he simply come to her rescue or was she facing another assailant? She thought the latter unlikely. If he’d meant her harm, he’d surely have demonstrated it by now.
He appeared to collect himself and spoke at last. “Did the man injure you in any way?”
“N-nay.” Aware of the deeper meaning behind his words, Cristen blushed with fresh humiliation. “Your arrival was timely. I owe you much, sir, including my life.”
His gaze shifted, focusing on her neck, and Cristen recoiled again as he reached out.
“You’re bleeding,” he said. “’Tis but a small cut, though.”
“His dagger.” Still trembling, she brushed her fingers over the wound and dared to glance down at the corpse. She recognized him as the man at the bar and gasped at the sight of an arrow protruding from the side of his chest, beneath his left arm. It must, she realized, have pierced his heart, and with her own heart not even a hand span away. She regarded her rescuer in genuine amazement. “How did you manage to aim so precisely in this fog?”
The man gave a slight shrug and tilted his head. “What is your name?”
She raised her hood and uttered the false title she had decided upon. “My name is Anna de Valois.”
“Anna de Valois,” he repeated, his eyes narrowing. “And might I know why Anna de Valois is wandering around unescorted, and especially on a night such as this?”
Had the man not just saved her life, she might have dared to defy his curiosity.
“I’m on my way to Abbotsbury.”
He raised a brow. “I did not ask where you were going.”
God’s teeth! Cristen fidgeted and knotted her fingers together. “My… my escort became ill so I decided to continue on alone.”
His gaze flicked to the dead man. “An unwise decision.”
A pertinent reply failed her. By Christ and all His saints, she didn’t need the man’s censure and feared his questions. He knew nothing of what she had endured thus far, nor was she willing to explain her circumstances. He had saved her and, for that, she would be forever grateful. But her plans had merely been delayed, not altered. She followed his glance and endeavored to shift his attention away from her. “What will you do with him?”
“What will I do with him?” He seemed taken aback. “You do not intend to report his assault?”
It was the last thing she intended to do. Would he insist on it? A fresh chill of fear snaked down her spine. “Oh, nay, I’d rather not. I…I couldn’t bear the shame of it.”
“The shame is not yours to bear, my lady.”
“There are those who would disagree. Please, I’d prefer not to speak of this to anyone. Besides, justice has already been served.”
His frown returned for a moment.
“As you wish,” he said at last. Then he crouched and pulled a purse from the corpse’s belt. “In that case, I shall leave him where he is. A fatal wound beneath his arm, no coin, and his cock hanging out. A fine riddle for someone to ponder.”
Cristen shuddered at the description. Her rescuer had a certain eloquence, she thought, albeit candid. He was obviously not a stupid man, which gave her more cause to worry. Afraid of being obliged to answer more questions, she sought to make her escape. “If I might know your name, sir, I can thank you properly and be on my way.”
He parted with a stilted laugh. “If that is your intent, lady, your gratitude would be insulting. An apology will serve me better.”
“An apology?” Cristen blinked and shook her head. “For what?”
“Perhaps the shock has addled your brain.” He stepped closer, dark eyes glinting. “Look again and tell me what lies at your feet.”
“I-I don’t need to look.” Cristen struggled to hold her ground. “’Tis the body of a man who tried to kill me.”
“Nay. ’Tis the body of a man who tried to rape you. He might have spared your life, although you’d likely have prayed for death before he’d concluded his perversity.” He leaned in and breathed stale wine across her face, making her flinch. “I killed a man this eve, Anna de Valois. I put an arrow in his heart to stop him from hurting you. Yet it seems you have learned naught from your experience and still intend to wander off alone into the night. Begone, then, foolish girl. And may your God protect you.”
The reproach stung, mostly because it had merit. Still, Cristen felt compelled to defend herself and tugged her cloak around her. “I am no fool, sir. You know nothing of it.”
He glanced at the body. “I know I have killed a man. Tell me I did not act in vain.”
“Of course you didn’t. How can you even think that?” Cristen’s stomach growled and she placed a hand upon it. “If I could have killed him in your stead, I would have.” Fighting a fresh threat of tears, she bit her lip. “I did not mean to offend you or diminish what you have done for me. I am truly thankful. It’s just that I… I was hoping to get to Abbotsbury before dark.”
“It is nigh on dark already,” the man replied. “I would be willing to escort you if you will at least tell me your name.”
Escort me? “I told you my name.”
“Your real name.”
> Cristen’s stomach growled again. “My name is Anna de Valois.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, stuck a booted foot on the dead man’s chest, and tugged the arrow free. Then he bent and picked up something from the ground nearby.
“Here,” he said, handing her the man’s dagger and purse, his fingers lingering on the underside of her wrist for a moment. “Enjoy the spoils of your foolishness, my lady. May I suggest you keep the dagger to hand? ’Twill be a long, dark walk to Abbotsbury. I bid you farewell.”
With a curt nod, he turned and vanished into the fog. Cristen looked at the dagger and then stared at the spot where her rescuer had stood moments before. As silence wrapped around her, so did an overwhelming sense of regret. She felt desolate, as if she’d just lost something vital. Maybe she should have trusted her savior. Told him the truth about who she was and what she had done, although the mere thought made her shiver again. It had been a long time since she’d dared to trust anyone.
But she’d felt no fear in his presence. Indeed, the man seemed to possess a strength that was more than physical. She’d felt it. Seen it in his eyes. And despite the bluntness of his rebuke, he’d been gentle, his concern obviously genuine. Nor was he easily fooled. He knew she’d lied. And with that thought came a startling realization.
“Wait, please!” she called, squinting into the gloom. “You never told me your name.”
There was no reply. He’d gone and instinct told her she’d made a terrible misjudgment. “Please come back.” Her voice cracked as a sob escaped her throat. “Please.”
Her foot brushed against the corpse and her breath caught as she glanced down. The dead man leered at her, eyes fixed and staring, genitalia on full and vulgar display. It was a nightmarish image, made worse by his foul odor that lingered in the damp air.
Cristen shuddered and stumbled away, intent on seeking shelter in the barn she’d seen earlier. She prayed it wasn’t far. Every part of her ached and she couldn’t stop shaking. The man was right. She was a fool. A fool to think she could ever do this by herself.
“Please come back,” she said, as if muttering a prayer. “You never told me your name.”
“My name is Turi,” said a familiar voice from the fog. “What is yours?”
She parted with a sob of relief. “Cristen,” she said.” My name is Cristen St. Clair.”
Chapter Three
Turi never had any intention of abandoning the girl to the night. His feigned departure had been a manipulative gamble. A lure to capture her trust. To make her understand she needed him. And it had worked exactly as he’d hoped. He wanted her to trust him, to need him. The mystery surrounding her had aroused his curiosity, of course, but it was more than that.
Much more.
“Cristen St. Clair,” he said, repeating the name she had volunteered. Her real name this time.
“Yes.” She tugged her cloak around her. “And I willingly admit, sir, to being in need of your protection. For tonight, at least. Will you help me?”
Turi emerged from the fog and moved to within reach, wanting to touch her again.
Needing to touch her again.
“I am guessing there never was an escort, sick or otherwise,” he said.
She shook her head. “Nay. I… I am traveling alone.”
“Then yes,” he said, “I’ll help you.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a weary smile. “I’m beholden to you.”
The top of the girl’s head barely came level with his chin. She stared up at him, face pale in the gloom, some undefined sadness evident in her wide, blue eyes. Tears smudged her grubby cheeks and her belly growled like an angry bear. A short distance away, barely visible, lay the body of the bastard who had tried to rape her. His stench hung in the air and Turi’s nostrils flared.
Above the foul odor, though, lingered the suggestion of a sweeter perfume. A familiar scent that stirred ancient memories in Turi’s mind. He recognized it as thyme, such as he had smelled on that final night when Pendaran had passed sentence on him. Not an uncommon scent, in truth.
Except now it came from the girl.
A girl blessed with a remarkable gift. A gift she apparently didn’t know she possessed. What did it mean? Why had such a being arrived this late in his immortal life? Turi had little doubt he’d been fated to meet her. An offering from the gods, perhaps. A reward sent to appease him in the final months before his mortality returned.
He knew the lass was on the run and he had yet to find out why. Though, at that moment, he cared little about the reason. For now, at least, he had to remain at her side, protect her from any and all harm. She didn’t know it, but he’d already avowed to be her savior, her guardian.
Her sentinel.
All she had to do in return was let him touch her.
It had nothing to do with carnal desire. Cristen St. Clair did not meet Turi’s ideal of seductive. Under different circumstances, he’d barely have given her a second glance. She was small of stature, with slender, white limbs, hair the color of autumn leaves, and pale blue eyes. Some men, no doubt, found such features desirable in a woman.
Turi favored sultry females. Dark hair and equally dark eyes. Flesh that reflected the sun. Generous curves that begged exploration and strong, supple limbs that wrapped around him as he took his pleasure. He had bedded hundreds of such women over the centuries. A few might even have stolen his heart had things been different. But his enduring guilt and remorse affected his ability to sustain the purity of a love affair over time. And time was another hindrance. Turi’s perpetual youth always steered him away from long-term commitments to his lovers.
Yet none of them had done what this foolish girl could do.
He’d felt it when he lifted her from the ground. Touching her had been akin to an imprisoned man being set free. Unshackled from his torture, the exquisite sense of peace had lasted mere moments. But it had been profound. Sublime. The girl had apparently felt his reaction and recoiled from him. As soon as she freed herself from his touch, the sensation had ceased. Only a faint odor of thyme remained.
Had he imagined it? Nay. For when he’d given her the dagger and purse, he’d allowed his fingers to rest a moment on the soft flesh of her wrist. The sweetness of mental freedom had returned in a rush. Turi had almost wept with relief.
“When did you last eat?” he asked, responding to the sounds of her hunger.
“Um, I had some bread this morning,” she replied, dropping her gaze.
Turi dug into the pouch at his belt, pulled out a folded cloth, and opened it.
“It’s not much,” he said, offering her the strip of dried meat within. “But it’ll serve for the time being.”
With only a brief hesitation, she took the offering. “My thanks.”
Turi grunted and glanced again at the prone shape of her assailant. “Come. We’ll find shelter further along.”
He held out his hand.
Take it.
The girl regarded it as she might a serpent. “Forgive me,” she said, “but I-I do not like to be touched.”
Curse their balls, but the gods had an evil sense of humor. Turi barely managed to smile at their mockery.
“You asked for my protection.” He edged closer. “And you have it, but on my terms. Other dangers may be lurking in this fog and I need to keep you close to me. Give me your hand.”
She acquiesced with obvious reluctance. Turi hid his relief as his fingers closed around hers. He felt her tension rise even as his own dissipated. He wondered who, or what, had made the girl shy away from human contact. A man, most likely. One with heavy hands. The thought disturbed his newfound peace.
“I must thank you again,” she said, chewing on the piece of dried meat as they set out. “If you hadn’t happened by, I’m sure I’d be dead by now.”
“’Twas no coincidence, my lady.” Turi filled his lungs. “I saw you at the inn.”
“You followed me?”
“Nay, I followed him. I g
uessed what he was about.”
“You’re very perceptive,” she said. “How did you know I lied about my name?”
He shrugged. “I know that and more about you, Cristen St. Clair.”
The wrong thing to say. The girl choked on her morsel of meat, tugged her hand free from his, and pulled the dagger from somewhere beneath her cloak.
“Did he send you?” she demanded, eyes wide with fear as she waved the weapon at him. “You’ll not take me back alive, Turi, if that is indeed your real name. I swear I’ll slit my own throat first.”
Turi regarded the blade dancing beneath his chin and fought an uncommon urge to laugh. The girl did not lack courage, but her threatening display was of no worth. A mere gust of wind would likely be enough to knock the little lass on her back. “No one sent me, aderyn bach. Anyone with a working brain can surmise what you are about.”
The blade slowed its dance. “What do you mean?”
“You’re obviously of gentle birth and traveling alone. ’Tis likely, then, you are fleeing from someone or something you fear. However, I do not know who or what has caused your flight.” Not yet, at least. “By your own admission, I know you’re fleeing to Abbotsbury. Since it’s a monastery and not a convent, I must surmise you have a male friend or family member there. I imagine you believe he will be of help. Given your chaotic travel arrangements, I doubt very much that he’s expecting you. My name is Turi and I will not force you to go anywhere you do not wish to go.” In one swift move, he grabbed Cristen’s wrist, ignored her yelp, and snatched the blade from her hand. “So, you don’t need to slit your own throat.” He handed the dagger, hilt first, back to her. “But you do need to learn how to use this with a little more effect.”
This time, Turi walked on without offering his hand. The lass was like a stray dog, both eager and terrified to trust someone. She was starving, exhausted, and had suffered a violation at the hands of a demon that night. Turi needed her to understand that he meant her no harm. That she could trust him implicitly.
She would follow him. Of that, he had no doubt.
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 4