by Sandra Jones
Arrogant cur! She shouldn’t have risked coming so near him. And yet she must approach him again. His presence and cryptic words created too many questions.
Gathering her courage, Eleri left the fire, taking her bowl of herbs and an extra fur. Catching Sayer’s glower as he stomped back into the clearing with an armload of twigs, she patted the dagger strapped on her hip and arched an eyebrow, daring him to argue with her. He shook his head as he dropped the wood and trudged back out into the darkness. He wouldn’t be far away as she interrogated the Norman, probably listening for any hint of the prisoner’s disobedience.
Stealthily creeping up behind the man, she heard a soft recitation coming from beneath his hood. “Oh, to be a sparrow-hawk, a goshawk. I’d fly to my love.” An Occitan poem from his court, she realized, and her heart felt a tiny dart. She’d learned the foreign language of troubadours in her own father’s keep. So strange to think the dreaded enemy cared for such trivialities. But then, she knew nothing about him. He could’ve left a family behind, a wife and children. She focused on the foreign words, translating as she folded her legs to sit opposite him. “Touch her, embrace her, kiss her lips so soft, sweeten and soothe my pain. I like it near the fountain. I trained a falcon. Spread her wings so wide—”
The words took a naughty turn. Face heating, Eleri cleared her throat before she might endure worse.
His head slanted, but he gave no start. His voice lifted. “Do not fear you’ve lost your ability to take me by surprise, my lady. ’Tis strong medicine you have there, to penetrate this foul covering.”
Eleri hugged the bowl tighter. He’d sensed her coming and recited his bawdy love poem a’purpose!
She braced for a fight, preparing to cast aside her bowl if need be and draw her dagger. But to extract the information she wanted, she would have to wheedle it from him carefully. She forced friendliness into her voice. “If you behave yourself, I’ll let you have some relief.”
“Ah, I somehow knew ’twas Red, not Nest, come to visit.” His chest expanded on a sigh of satisfaction.
Another wave of heat fanned through her. Anger, she hoped.
“Aye, I’ll behave, as you say, my lady, but I doubt you’re here to offer the relief I’m thinking of.”
Blood boiling, she yanked off his hood, and his dark hair fell loose, framing his rugged face. He cringed against the firelight, meager though it was. Perhaps unjustly, they’d kept him under the hood for the entire day. Now Eleri could scrutinize his looks in the light for the first time since they’d taken him.
His face was built in ridges and angles, with a small bump in the bridge of his nose, and thick dark brows marred by a narrow scar through their luxuriousness. Yet the imperfections in no way detracted from his handsome appearance. When his eyes opened fully and fastened on her, she felt the air siphon from her lungs. Cool ocean blue, as she recalled, but now she noticed a trace of brown near the irises as if his maker hadn’t fully decided which color to paint them. It lent him an air of mystery and made him fascinating to stare at, if only he wasn’t such a brute.
She frowned, remembering why she was angry.
His perfectly bowed lips curved at her expression. “I meant the relief you might provide by finishing me…er, with that dagger of yours. But if you’ve a mind to do otherwise, my stamina isn’t fully returned. Still, I would like to get my hand in your hair again. Mayhap if you aided me—”
“Enough!” She glanced over her shoulder, burning with mortification. The others were nowhere in sight—a thought that both comforted and discomposed her. Then returning to him, she hissed, “See here, if you continue to speak to me so, I’ll have Sayer attend you, and I vow he’ll leave the hood on.”
His jaw tightened. “Well, then I shall hold my tongue, as you wish. I’ve had more than enough of your guard’s help for one day.” Some of the color leaked from his tawny face, and Eleri wondered if he was remembering the times Sayer had aided him when he’d had to urinate. Fearing the prisoner would try to escape, they’d kept his hands tied then, too.
“I’ve brought you some cover.” She lifted a corner of the soft fur blanket held in her lap. “The night will be colder than you are used to in Normandy, I warrant. And here’s a poultice for your wound.”
“I’m from Devon,” he corrected, then sniffed. “Mint?”
“Aye. Also honey, oak, verbena and juniper berries.”
“Are you trying to make me tasty for the birds?” His voice was dry, though not entirely bitter.
She bit the inside of her lip. He would not make her smile! She smoothed back a lock of hair from her brow that had escaped her plaits. Then she averted her gaze to the pungent green glob in the bowl. “Actually, it’s more to cover your smell.”
“Your healer bathed me only yestereve. I trow I smell better than the three of you.” He arched an eyebrow, clearly affronted, and again Eleri was struck by his highborn mannerism.
She gave the goo a stir with the wooden spoon. “I do not doubt your cleanliness, but we will soon be passing through other cantrefs that do not belong to the Deheubarth. Would you have them recognizing a Norman?” His eyes narrowed, thinking, and she hastened to add, “Aye, perhaps you would. But we would rather not lose you to them. And you must remember, we’ve not mistreated you, but other Cymreig would. Your time with them would not end quickly enough. Torture, maiming, your eyes, tongue—”
“Oui. Oui. I take your meaning. But where you’re taking me, is it any better? How do I know you’re not bringing me to someone who’ll take pleasure in my pain?”
She couldn’t stop her smile. “You don’t know. Consider this your penance for being a Gorthwr fud and for all the crimes your kind has visited upon Cymru.”
“Wales,” he translated aloud. “And I didn’t come to Wales to do you or the Deheubarth any wrong.”
“Why did you come here then?” Her heart started as excitement ran through her. Perhaps she’d have her answers simply for the asking.
“Untie me and I’ll tell you.”
Or not.
Eleri rested the spoon in the bowl and dipped her middle finger into the slime. “And have you attack me again? I think not.” His gaze followed her movement as she lifted the poultice to her nose, sniffed, then touched it to the tip of her tongue. “You’re right. ’Tis almost tasty.”
He sighed. “You know, I am hungry. Mayhap I would answer your questions for food.”
Eleri snorted. He would rather die by blade than from starvation? The healer had told her he’d eaten enough for three men after he’d recovered his strength. “I’ll bring you something to eat once you’ve answered my questions. What were you doing here?”
“How about a trade? An answer for an answer.”
“A princess does not bargain with a slave.”
His expression darkened. A tiny line formed between his serious eyes. He wanted to tell her who he was. She could sense the tension of his powerful body, the indignity he suffered for his present situation and…his hate for her.
“Fine. I will die of hunger if you do not answer my questions. They say the end from starvation comes in pleasant slumber.” He lifted his good shoulder. “If you wish to keep me alive, my first question is your name, my princess.”
“All right, Norman. You’ve made your point. I’ll answer your questions because I have naught to hide from the likes of you.” She tossed the fur across his lap and put the bowl down as he raised his head, confidence glowing in his damnable, imperfectly handsome face. Putting her hands on him again both repelled and intrigued her, a mistake she didn’t want to repeat. She pushed the bowl beside him and freed her dagger from her belt. “I’ll cut you loose so you can apply your poultice, but one sign of your trickery and I’ll make you a gelding.”
He nodded. “You have my word. Another question, where are we now? ’Tis cooler, though we’re still in a valley.”
; Perceptive. She cut the first loop of his ropes, hoping to have enough left to bind him later. “We’re on the northern border of Cantref Mawr, about to cross into Buellt, the Norman stronghold, but we’re still several days from where you’re headed.”
Flexing his big hands in front of him, he scowled. Half to himself, he murmured, “William de Braose, the Marcher Lord. Loyal to Stephen. He has holdings in Devon too.”
“Aye, but do not get any grand ideas about escape. I’ll put an arrow in your back to match the wound in the front. Besides, we’re in the woods of the Britons. The true people of Buellt bow to no ruler, least of all a Norman.” She gave him her nastiest grin to dash any hopes he had of running. “Now my turn. Who are you?”
He favored his shoulder as he stretched his sinewy arms. “Warren de Tracy. And you are?”
She shook her head. “I care not for your name. Who are you?”
His eyes widened, and then one eyebrow arched with appreciation. “You wish to beg a ransom for my life?”
“No more questions from you. ’Tis my turn.”
“I am of no consequence…to anyone now. Go ahead, ask for a ransom. The king will laugh.” His teeth, perfect and white, gleamed in a grin, yet concern riddled his brow. His healthy smile said more for his birthright than words ever could.
He hooked his thumbs in the hem of his long tunic and drew it up revealing a bronze, muscle-clad torso. Then he slowly pulled one arm free and the next.
This handsome soldier with his insolence and cryptic answers was treading on her patience—which she did not possess. She shouldn’t be sitting with her enemy, shouldn’t be admiring his sculpted chest, his fine smile, his poetry, or his intriguing blue-brown eyes.
Pulse ticking in her throat, she snatched the bowl and backed away. “Never mind. Don’t answer. I’ll bind your hands again and you can die from your wound. Of that you will suffer in painful misery, for certes.”
He casually rolled onto a knee and sighed. “Very well. My family had connections to the late king, Henry Beauclerc, who as you know died just last month. Stephen of Blois, his…successor…sent me here in the hopes of claiming Castle Dinefwr.”
“And we were to simply give it to your men for asking?”
He chewed on his lip, his speculative gaze traipsing down her length.
Her heart skittered nervously.
“I never said he was a wise king.” His mouth quirked. “Now answer my first question.” He took the bowl and, holding it one hand, peered at the wound beneath his bandages. He scowled at what he saw, then took a scoop of the aromatic herbs and rubbed it under his bandage. “Votre nom, Princess of Deheubarth. Your name?” He watched her beneath his lashes as his hand made slow, wide circles on his smooth skin.
Don’t tell him. He doesn’t need to know. Don’t—
“Eleri!” Nest hissed from the woods, emerging on the back of one of Lew’s coursers at a brisk pace. Her eyes grew round when she noted the unbound prisoner. Reining her mount before them, she corrected herself, “Princess, ’tis Vaughn and his men!”
Nest circled Warren on her courser—his horse, Bane, taken alive in the skirmish, thank God—which was snuffling and tossing its black mane in its excitement to be near him.
“What is he doing untied?” She drew her blade on him. “He’ll slow us down and alert Lord Vaughn.”
Ah! Warren observed the princess’s reaction and found her alabaster skin becoming even whiter. He should’ve asked the most important question plaguing him that day: why were they leaving the castell in the middle of the night in such haste? But he’d let his lust take the lead, first inquiring after her name—as if such mattered anymore.
Yet now he had the answer to both.
Eleri.
“Who is Lord Vaughn and why should I wish to alert him?” He bent to retrieve his tunic.
“Shut up!” Nest halted his progress, keeping her mount between him and the princess. “We ought to let him have you.”
“What is happening here?” Burly Sayer jogged into the firelight.
“They’ve caught up with us,” Nest growled.
“I knew we made too many stops!” Sayer spat at Warren’s feet, and the white spittle trickled off the toe of his boot. “I should’ve draped the Norman’s worthless hide over my horse’s saddle and let him piss on himself—”
“Sayer! This isn’t helping.” The princess gazed up at Nest, seizing her reins. “Take all four horses, lead Vaughn’s men toward the Valley of Flowers. They’ll think we’re headed for the safety of the monastery. Then leave the road when you can and circle back.”
The dark maid drew her black cloak around her shoulders, fixing Warren with a wary look, then made a short bow as if she’d argued with the princess before and thought better of making the same mistake. “Aye, Dywysoges,” she grumbled.
While Nest thundered away with the horses, Eleri and Sayer kicked dirt into the fire until the flames went out.
Warren pulled his tunic on and retrieved the fur, as well as the rope and hood, which he tucked in the waist of his breeches while his captors had their backs to him.
“That’s all we can do.” The princess put a staying hand on Sayer’s arm, then slung her bow and quiver over her shoulder. “The bowl.”
Warren moved aside as Sayer barreled by and buried the remaining evidence of their camp beneath dead leaves.
“Can you climb?” Eleri asked.
Warren glanced down at the woman, who’d appeared at his side as if by more of her elf-like magic. “Climb?” He surveyed his surroundings, his first real chance to do so since she’d removed his hood. Without the fire, he could barely make out the yew trees around them and their ancient, winding limbs reaching to the inky sky.
“Sayer.” She spun away with a deep sigh, taking his silence for an answer. “We’ll take this one. ’Tis easier. Give the prisoner a boost.”
She took two steps, hopped up and caught a low-hanging bough. Then swinging her lithe legs in an arc, she swiveled over and around the branch to alight on the next limb. Her red braids dangled down at Warren like tempting tails of ivy. “Come on. There’s plenty of footing.”
Warren swallowed. Heights were never kind to him. Whether he’d visited the watch of a lord’s fortress, scaled a mountain, or navigated the parapets of his father’s castle, he’d usually found some way to circumvent the loftier heights that vexed him. His training included riding, fighting and archery, not this. But damn if he would let the wily redhead best him yet again.
Using his good arm, he grasped hold of the lowest bough and allowed the rough guard to give him a stirrup boost. Bracing his abdomen on the limb, he pulled his legs up and over. Now one more to go…
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Now, again.” When he looked up, she was already on the next limb, her small body disappearing in the tangle of thick branches.
“Bon sang!” His shoulder ached deep inside where the climb had pulled his muscle. Holding the useless arm against his body, he glanced down. Sayer had already left to find his own hiding place.
He could not go any further. The sounds of horses crashing through the scrub made his pulse quicken.
The woman reached down for him. “This way. There are footholds, see? Even one of your kind can do it. You only need one good arm to hold on.”
Devil wench! He would climb. He would do so to reach her and share his vexation!
He took hold of the branch she indicated and planted his boot on first one wobbling limb and then another two feet higher up, scaling the knotted tree branches until he came face to face with the princess. She clasped his arm and guided him into her hiding place, where he squatted down next to her to wait.
Four horsemen entered the clearing, their winded coursers scratched, bloody and angry.
To harm good horses for him? ’Twas abominable. He made a fist, barely controlling hi
s anger. “Why are we hiding if you know him?”
“Shhh!” Her eyes widened in alarm.
Warren wasn’t cruel to women and had never cared for those who were, but the way the fiery beauty’s emotions transformed her intrigued him. He’d witnessed her fury (at him, mostly), as well as her curiosity (again, directed at him), and even a hint of her well-banked humor, but fear was new.
The riders made a slow circle of the clearing. One dismounted, and the finest dressed in the group pointed at the road.
Lord Vaughn. Keeping his voice at a whisper, he said, “If you won’t answer my questions, methinks I’ll address them to him.”
Eleri’s hand clutched his arm and squeezed. “You can’t join them. They want nothing more than to watch you die.” Her face was a hand’s breadth away from his, her golden eyes luminous and her lips drawn with concern.
“To die now would be a mercy. Living as a slave…”
He made to stand, but she pulled him back.
“They would see you suffer!” Her fingers gripped him with all their might.
He covered her hand with his and enjoyed the reaction on her expression—a shifting blend of horror and a glimmer in her eyes from something altogether different. A chord of excitement ran through him.
“An answer for an answer, Princess. Who is he?”
“Your timing is poor. They’ll hear!” she rasped.
Warren unfolded, but the woman tugged furiously at his arm as the men below continued to talk amongst themselves. He eased down again, closer than before so he could feel the warmth of her body. He inhaled the now-familiar scent of wildflowers in her hair.
She frowned. “All right! Lord Vaughn is…was my husband’s cousin. He would also like to claim Dinefwr from Prince Lew, my brother-in-law. Now you.” Her gaze flicked worriedly between the men below and him. “Why did you come here?”
Warren peered down. Armed and strong, these rebels would be difficult to overpower. The princess and her two attendants might be good with bows, but on foot or horse, he would wager on the newcomers.