She smiled at him. “I will think of you while I am in Wessex. Not a day will go by that I will not wish I was with you.” Her voice broke as if she might cry.
He inhaled. “Somehow, someday, we will be together forever more. I promise.”
Blaise’s horse snorted and he patted its sweat-laden neck. He removed the saddle and his bedding from his steed. She leaned forward and brushed her lips across his in a kiss of faith and hope as he clutched the saddle and bed roll.
God’s teeth, I cannot let her down. I need time to myself to figure this out. “I have duties to attend to.” His voice was edged with tension. It took all his strength to leave her at that moment.
“Yes.” She stared at him with a penetrating gaze and softly yet firmly said, “Tarry not.”
He swallowed. “No, I shall not.” Fighting the tension in his body at having to turn away from her, he left his horse to crop on the long grass and walked toward his men.
“We will bed down here.” He set the saddle and bedroll on the ground. “Build the fire there.”
Two of the men gathered wood and kindling and soon had a roaring blaze going. The sun had sunk to the horizon and everyone except Blaise and Branda sat around the crackling fire, sharing a skin of mead. Blaise pitched his tent, picked up the roll of bear and wolf furs he’d been carrying and spread them down inside. He gazed out over the campgrounds but couldn’t find Branda. She’d wandered off, but where?
He ran to the pond, and there she stood underneath the canopy of an ancient gnarled oak, staring at the still, dark water.
“Branda?” he called.
She didn’t move.
He shut his eyes for one moment. “Will you not speak to me?” As he opened his eyes she slowly turned toward him.
Her pale-blue eyes were rimmed with tears. “Blaise, kiss me.”
He gazed at her lips, lush and close, and walked up to her. She reached up to his shoulders and rolled her smooth arms against his neck, enveloping him in a scorching embrace. He gasped as he peered into the smoldering blue fire of her eyes and crushed his lips against hers. Her mouth was so soft. His lips burned as he sipped from her honey warmth. A heated shiver shot through him. Blaise’s heart beat hard and fast against his chest, like the hooves of a galloping horse pounding the ground.
He encircled her with his arms, pressing his palm against the small of her back. All her muscles thrust forward, pushing against him—closer, tighter. The puffing rhythm of her breath, the soft vibrations of her purring heart, aroused his senses. A sigh escaped her parted lips.
“Branda,” he rasped in a guttural groan.
She replied by pressing her open lips to his.
His pulse raced as he caressed her lips, twisting, suckling, exploring her mouth fully. She moaned. His shallow, fast panting ran together with hers as one roaring breath. Every pore of his body was immersed in fiery flames of amber and scarlet.
As he swept his hands down the smooth plane of her back, she quivered in his arms. A blaze roared from deep within and rose to the sultry surface of his flesh. Every muscle in his body leapt like a flickering flame. The crickets’ tune vibrated in the night air. He could not think about the morrow. Blaise never wanted this moment to end. He was nothing without her. He pressed his lips harder against hers, claiming her, putting his mark upon her. On the morrow, somehow, someway, he would make sure Cuthred would never even kiss her.
Chapter Thirteen
“Princess, wake up. We need to ride,”Blaise grumbled.
She lazily raised her head off the fur pallet and propped her head on her elbows. She smiled at his boyish pout. “It’s your fault you kept me up all night talking.” His scent, clean yet musky, filled her nostrils. Ripples of fire broke across her body, recalling the long kiss last night.
He drew his brows together in a serious expression. “I meant what I said. So, stay close to me, at all times. It will be dangerous.”
As if in deep thought, still trying to figure out how he would find a way to keep Branda from Cuthred, he dressed hastily, unknowingly ignoring her.
She couldn’t help but smile as she gazed at his oval face and that mass of deep-red hair and soft-blue eyes. Looking at him filed her with sunshine, lifted her from the ground, and raised her to a state of rapt bliss. In the night, as they talked, he’d sworn to her he’d rather die than hand her over to Cuthred. He’d told her, “You are mine; stay with me.”
She’d said, “Yes.” So began the happiest moment of her life, but now she steeled her buoyant joy, for dawn had broken, and Cuthred waited for her nearby. “Blaise, how will we rid ourselves of that Wessex cur?”
“I know not, but it will come to me as we ride to rendezvous with the demon. I will find a way. I know it.”
She put her faith in him. She believed in their love. Her breath caught in her throat as he belted the sheath holding Nuada’s sword at his side.
“Yes, you will find a way. It’s true.” She sighed with anticipation of her future as Blaise’s wife.
He is so moody this morn, she thought as he gently yet silently led her out of the tent. She nibbled her bottom lip. They walked to the horse, and Blaise spread a small tartan over the steed, and then hefted the saddle on its back. He straddled the mare and pulled her up in front. With his arm wrapped around her waist, he leaned his firm body into the smooth contours of her back.
“Branda, Cuthred will not give you up. He’s a man who does not let anyone take what is his. I will have to battle him. Of this I am sure.”
“He will have an entire army and you but a few men.”
“I will find a way, but you must do what I say so you can stay safe at all times.” “Stay with me.”
His breath was hot against the whorls of her ear as she pressed her back against the warmth of his muscular body. Their time together at Dinas Bran had meant as much to him as to her. Heat rose to her chest, her throat, and flushed her cheeks. He cared. He would risk his life to keep her. He loved her.
“Do you think your sire will be angry when he finds you battled Cuthred alone and did not give me to him?”
“Yes, he will rage and roar for half a day, but I care not. As long as I can keep you safe from Cuthred I will be pleased. I will deal with my father when we are safely back in Dinas Bran.”
“We could ride away now, head back to the hill fort.”
“No, I must take care of this. Branda, I know not how but I mean to slay Cuthred.”
He clicked his heels against the horse’s flank, nudging it into a lope. His men followed. Blaise locked his arm around her waist as the horse bounced into a light gallop.
* * * *
Branda’s stomach turned as she spotted the grove of trees in the distance. She could only see a cluster of green treetops, but as far away as it lay, it still felt too close. She wished Blaise would turn back, but then Powys and Wessex would battle and the blood of those who died would be on her hands. She couldn’t have that.
Blaise pulled the horse to a quick stop. The mare jerked its head and snorted as it turned around. He addressed his men. “Ride off; then in small numbers come back and filter unseen into the woods aside this road. Post lookouts in the treetops. Wait for my signal, then charge.”
As the warriors, clad in oiled, black leather and Celtic plaid rode off an icy chill swept through Branda. She clinched her teeth, fighting the sheer fear rising in her. “What are we going to do?”
“Trick Cuthred. He expects me to ride in and hand you over to him. Instead, I will attack.”
“No, he will kill you.” She clenched her fist as panic rioted in her.
“I can best Cuthred.” He tilted his firm chin in the air softened his gaze. “Branda, it’s the only way.”
She grabbed hold of his arm and looked into his eyes. “He has his war band with him.”
“Princess, you found the treasure.” He grinned. “With Nuada’s sword I am invincible.”
She sighed with exasperation. “Neilyn told me about Celtic mythology and Nuada was killed.”
“You are ready for a good fight, aren’t you?” He winked at her.
“Yes, but don’t you dare die on me.” Every muscle in her body tensed and she bit her lip.
She felt Blaise tighten his hold on her waist as he stared at the grove, a hawk eyeing its prey. In a reverberating tone he yelled out the battle cry of Powys, “Truth Against the World!”
With a jab of his knee to the horse’s flanks, he drove his mount in a dirt-kicking gallop. Before entering the copse, he yanked sharply on the reins and pulled the neighing horse to a halt. Blaise set his face in a fierce battle scowl.
Upon spotting Cuthred, he drew the long blade from its sheath and brandished the magic sword above his head. “Bring the ransom,” Blaise ordered in a menacing tone through gritted teeth.
The tall, balding man sauntered forward with a smirk on his face. “I will pay you when I have the Princess.” Cuthred stared at Branda, his eyes ablaze with both lust and rage.
Blaise whispered in Branda’s ear. “Dismount but no matter what happens, stay here.”
She swung her leg over and leapt down from the horse, then stepped back and waited for Blaise to charge the Wessex King. Her heart hammered. It felt like her breath turned solid in her throat. She gasped for air.
Cuthred stepped forward as did his men behind him. “Princess, you are saved. I have freed you from the Welsh. You must be overcome with joy. Come to your betrothed.”
He knew she’d betrayed him. His tone revealed it. Every movement of his body marked her for a traitor he needed to punish.
She fought for control over her quivering body, trying to steel her composure. “I am the daughter of Ethelbald, the King of all Mercia—a woman of honor. I will come to you after you turn over the ransom.” She froze, knowing the attack would come at any moment.
The roan horse reared on its powerful hind legs and let out a great neigh. Blaise’s limestone washed hair stood on end and he bared his teeth in a fierce look. He brandished the silver blade and yelled once more, “Truth Against the World!”
Cuthred’s men surrounded him but they were on foot. Saxons didn’t fight mounted and that was the advantage Blaise looked for. He was outnumbered, one to fifty, but he knew the war cry had been carried on the wind to his men hidden in the nearby forest.
He charged and swung his sword, slicing off a Saxon’s arm. Another rammed a long spear into the roan’s chest. As the steed went down, five Saxons grabbed Blaise and yanked him off the dying horse. They threw him to the ground and kicked him.
“Leave him for me!” Cuthred bellowed.
Panic like she’d never known rioted in Branda as the mob cleared away and Cuthred swaggered forward to stand over the prone body of Blaise. He pulled his sword from his Saxon hilt to slaughter the Powys Prince.
Panting in terror, she rushed forward. Her heart pounded! She threw herself down on Blaise’s body, slamming into him the moment Cuthred swung his sword downward. The blade sliced into her shoulder instead of Blaise’s neck, and she screamed as a sharp pain tore through her. A puddle of her crimson blood spilled on Blaise.
While Cuthred stood frozen, Blaise rose and pushed Branda aside as gently as he could. He picked up Nuada’s sword, which had fallen nearby, and lunged at Cuthred. The Saxon parried then thrust forward. Blaise sidestepped. The blades clashed. Swords sparked as steel struck steel.
As Branda shook uncontrollably, she managed to tear off a scrap of her dress and bound her wounded shoulder. In pain and weakness, she fought her body’s instinct to lie there and rest. Mustering all her strength, she stood and clutched the bandaged wound, swaggering toward Cuthred’s men. The Saxons stood in a mob, gawking at the fight as if they didn’t know what they should do.
She took a deep breath and recalled watching Blaise when he was held captive at Mercia. Like him, she would show no pain, no fear.
She clenched both her fists, lifted her head and raised her voice to Cuthred’s war band. “While the great King of Wessex is detained in battle with a Welshman, I, Branda, Princess of Mercia, daughter of Ethelbald, soon to be Queen of Wessex, command you to stay your arms until the fight has ended.” With a tilt of her chin, she flashed them a look of regal supremacy she mastered at age four.
The mob of tall, thick-muscled men stared at her, obviously puzzled by her command and shocked she meant to take charge of them.
She maintained a hard stare upon the war band and gritted her teeth to fight the sharp pain in her arm. She only had to hold their attention until Blaise’s men arrived.
“You there, I saw you move.” Branda pointed out a tall man with a bulging belly. “Did you hear me not? Still your weapon until the fight has ended.” She liked giving orders. It was what she did best. “Your King wants the pleasure of killing the Welsh Prince. The Powys Prince is Cuthred’s. I will not have a one of you going against your King’s command nor mine.”
The men gathered around her like a mob as the ground shook with the thundering hooves of Blaise’s mounted troops charging. Cuthred’s men turned toward the sound. Branda ducked down and stealthily crawled clear of the mob as she fought to ignore the acute, throbbing pain in her shoulder. Gasping from the stabbing sensation of her injury, she moved as swiftly as she could toward Blaise and Cuthred, still locked in a battle to the death.
She clung tightly to her wounded shoulder as the piercing agony grew almost unbearable. Her make-shift bandage was scarlet and blood seeped through. The world spun around her. Everything looked blurry. Fighting her weakened state with all her might, she focused her eyes and her mind on Blaise as he slashed the legendary sword into Cuthred’s neck. The Saxon let out a deep gurgling sound, a death rasp. His eyes set into a strange, fixed glare, Cuthred fell hard to the dirt. Blaise dropped his sword arm to his side and leaned against the hilt as he caught his breath. He’d won. A rapt warmth filled Branda before she crumpled to the dirt. As she opened her mouth to scream, everything went black.
* * * *
The hilt of Nuada’s sword slipped from Blaise’s shaking fingers and hit the ground hard as Branda fell. Every muscle of his body quivered, and a hard knot in the base of his throat cut off his breath. Everything he’d seen a moment ago—his men, the copse, the horses—blurred into one as the only thing he focused on was Branda, lying motionless in the dirt. He rushed forward, the ground seeming to carry his body to Branda, and fell to his knees. His hand trembled as he reached for her pale face, his palm flat and molded to the contours of her cheek and chin. He couldn’t let go. Not now. A lifetime of happiness was ahead of them. She could not leave him. Gods, no.
He leaned the right side of his face down to her lips but a breath span away. The lightest tingle of air would mean she still lived. Her faint breath, the difference between life and death, hit his cheek. His skin prickled.
Still cupping the left side of her face with his hand he leaned his head back and shouted to the sky above, “She lives. Branda yet lives.” In that instant he remembered he was not alone. “Bring a plaid to wrap the Princess in,” he shouted to his men. “Hasten!”
One of his warriors Kip handed him a red, black and white plaid cloak. Carefully, he lifted Branda and wrapped the warm wool cloth around her. Cradling her in his arms, he moved with leaden steps toward the horses. He came to a standstill before his mount and peered at Branda. Her eyes were shut. Her long gold lashes and the pallor of her face made her seem so ethereal and fragile. The world around him ceased. He could think of nothing, do nothing, but gaze at her.
“My Prince! Prince Blaise, do you hear me?” Kip called to him.
Engulfed in the sensation of drowning in a muddy bog, encased in a thick darkness, the concerned tone of Kip’s
voice finally reached him. “What say you?” Blaise tried to focus on the warrior’s words.
“My Prince, we must ride out. If we don’t get out of Wessex now, we will all be killed. The Princess’s only chance is for you to ride now. Tend her wounds once we reach Wales.”
Kip was right, Blaise had to rouse from his fear for Branda and put all his energy into saving her. Her life depended on his actions. “Here, hold her while I mount.” His throat was tight. It was hard to talk. His heart raced. His breath was shallow, almost to the point of panting.
He placed her in Kip’s arms as he swung upon his horse. Kip lifted the Princess so she sat upon the saddle with her legs flung over the side and her body tightly cradled in Blaise’s arms.
“It’s over, men. Move out.” As a final command before riding to Powys, Blaise yelled, “Get the ransom.”
He nudged the horse in a slow trot and then picked up the pace. His men followed.
He held Branda’s still body against his chest. “Do not die on me, cariad. Sweetheart.” He pressed his lips on top of her golden head and clutched her body tightly as he cut through the Saxon land and into Wales, where they finally made camp.
Branda came to and mumbled, “Where am I? Who am I?”
“You are safe. All is well. I will care for you. Stay with me, love.” He drew in a deep breath. “I cannot let the wound fever set in.”
He swabbed her head with a rag dampened with cool water from the nearby spring and dribbled drops of water into her mouth. She let out a little moan of comfort.
For the first time in his life, he had to grit his teeth as he looked at the wound, for it tore Branda’s bloody flesh. After unwrapping the makeshift bandage, he cleaned the wound gently as if she were made of glass. He recalled the way she had tended him when he was captured in Mercia. She defied her father so she could stitch the arrow hole in his chest. He’d do the same for her, but he wasn’t a slender maiden, who might not be strong enough to overcome a battle wound. With that thought an icy chill swept through him, and he froze with the fear, the reality that he could lose her.
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