His Captive Princess

by Sandra Jones

“It no longer matters why I came to your country. You’ve killed all five of my men. Stephen of Blois…er, the king will retaliate.”

  “Five men?” she chirped, then covered her mouth in surprise. The wind rustled through the trees around them, carrying the sounds of their words away. In a lower voice, she continued, “You said this before, but there were four men. And you, of course.”

  Warren’s stomach lurched. One of the soldiers was alive?

  “What did you do with the bodies?” he demanded.

  She winced, then regarded him gravely. “As was his duty, Lew ordered for them to be burned. We could hardly leave their corpses to be discovered by more invaders. Even though we are enemies, I am sorry we could not give them a Christian burial.”

  Her sympathy mattered not. They were six men against a Deheubarth army. “I wish you had not done so. Our conroi dispersed when you ambushed us. I cannot tell their families how or where—”

  “Shhh…” One of the men below held up a hand, hushing the others. “Did you hear that?”

  Eleri eased her bow off her shoulder and took an arrow from her quiver. Her arm formed a perfect line of sleek, appealing muscle as she aimed her barb at the lordling’s back. Her eyes narrowed as she held her breath. Silent and unseen, she was as lethal as any knight Warren had ever seen in combat.

  Nay, he’d been wrong before. He would wager on Eleri against these fools.

  But if one of his men had lived and escaped, that changed everything.

  He leaned forward, then pressed his lips against her ear. She trembled, causing him another dark thrill. “You may as well point that at me,” he murmured. Her aim slipped minutely from her target while her muscles shook as she fought for control. “Tell me why you’d risk your neck to keep me from falling into this man’s grasp or I’ll cry out. Why should I care who rules your camp? Your Prince Lew slaughtered my men unfoundedly.”

  “’Twasn’t Lew’s fault,” she hissed, “but I cannot explain. Not now!”

  Taunting her, Warren hung over the side as if to yell, trying not to think of the height while keeping his gaze fixed on Eleri. Her eyes were no longer on her quarry but on him, reflecting venom and fear.

  “Stop!” she whispered, relaxing her bow as she placed a soft hand over his mouth. Her eyes pleaded.

  He peeled her fingers away and gripped her hand. Anger filled his chest. “Stop? For what price? You hope to beg a hefty bargain for my head? Or…mayhap trade me for support against this Lord Vaughn? Aye! That’s it, isn’t it?” He smiled coldly when her cheeks went whiter still.

  “Stop! I order you to stop!” she rasped.

  “Order?” he scoffed. “You’re in no position to order me. What have you to trade for my silence?”

  She frowned, her forehead glistening with light moisture in the moonlight. Seemingly vexed, she watched his lips—probably waiting for the first sign of his disobedience.

  But if one of his men lived, he needed to return and find him, and if the princess would not help, he must escape immediately. He might be able to bargain with the rebels below. Surely they would be more sensible than this stubborn woman.

  He opened his mouth to beckon the men, but Eleri moved like lightning. With her right arm restrained, she couldn’t cut him. However, her weapon of choice caught him completely off-guard.

  Her lips sealed to his, cutting off his voice in a hard kiss.

  The astonishing action nearly toppled him from their roost, bold as it was, but he still held her hand. Bracing his back against the gnarled tree branches, he relaxed for more, but the kiss ended as briskly as it had begun.

  The princess cupped her mouth with a trembling hand.

  Beneath their tree, horse hooves churned through the dry leaves as Lord Vaughn and his men followed Nest’s trail away from the camp, but Warren and Eleri remained frozen, their gazes locked.

  Blood surging through his body, Warren grinned and lowered his face over hers. “Not the price I had in mind, but…um, shall we see what else you have to offer?”

  Chapter Four

  Sitting back on her heels, Eleri inhaled deeply from the breeze, letting the crisp, calming air soothe her warm skin. She pressed the back of her hand to her damp forehead, where the flush of mortification was still stamped on her flesh.

  Oh Goddess! If only she could be as one with the tree around her, blending into the cold gray bark, melding into the forest, as camouflaged from the eyes of other men as she had been from her former husband.

  More importantly, she wished to be hidden from the man looming inches above her with laughter in his gaze and a strong hand around hers.

  She had no one to blame but herself. Trusting he would behave, she’d led him up the tree to hide. Then to cease his mutterings, she’d meant to distract him with a false offer. A kiss for his silence. What was she thinking?

  Mayhap she’d thought that he would find a princess’s boon—along with saving his life—reward enough. But like Vaughn, the Norman wanted more than what she was willing to pay.

  Or…mayhap she’d thought she was strong enough to kiss him and retreat unscathed, but now her heart hammered against her ribs. His suggestive words and steamy gaze were no jests. This man was the enemy—not someone to play games with. Her lips still tingled from the scruff of his beard and the warmth of his mouth. A fool was what she was!

  That mouth—De Tracy’s mouth—softened as his mischievous smile melted and his gaze grew more determined. She felt his grip on her adjusting. He seemed to have forgotten his fear of the height. Not relinquishing his hold, his fingers curled around hers and his thumb swept the back of her hand, rough as a millstone yet light as a feather. “Your offer was not freely given, Princess?”

  “’Twas no offer,” she lied, lifting her chin. “Only a means to silence your tongue.”

  His eyes sparked with heat. “Only that and naught else? I think we should try and see what other sounds my tongue can produce. We’ll both find pleasure in less talking.”

  His head lowered, shrouding her in shadow, and a sense of panic mixed with excitement took over her body. She flattened her hand against his chest and felt the steady beat of his heart beneath his tunic and the healer’s bandaging.

  Eleri took in another deep breath but instead of air this time all she found was the scent of the forest she’d created in his poultice, mint and all male. Her ears filled with buzzing, and her instincts urged her to draw closer to him, as well as to retreat. She turned her face away, and her blood hummed louder, working its warmth through her veins.

  De Tracy’s head brushed against her cheek in a caress of his soft unruly hair, and his breath touched her ear again the same as it had when she’d been armed, unable to move. Then, she’d been a frozen rabbit beneath the eye of the hawk, unable to defend herself. Now she could ward him off yet somehow chose not to.

  His lips touched the soft place beside her earlobe in a slow gentle kiss. He murmured, “I would not take what you do not freely offer.”

  A shudder ran through her. She angled her head, hoping to catch his expression, but he blocked the moonlight. Steady as the hunting bird of his poem, he watched her, verily with more success than she, as the moonbeams at his back poked through the arms of the yew to illuminate every guilty thought on her face.

  To her shame, she did wish for more, and disappointment in herself stoked her hot temper. “Good. Sayer would kill you if you tried.”

  The corner of his mouth curved. “Truly?” His bemused tone suggested he hadn’t thought of that idea before. He caught one of her small braids between his thumb and forefinger and glided down its length before dropping the plait between her breasts.

  “Aye,” she said with a slight waver in her voice betraying her fear. Oh, she shouldn’t have put another idea into his crafty head! Quickly, she added, “But you would suffer my blade first.”

  He chuckled. “W
orry not. My death no longer appeals to me. You’ve given me something to live for.”

  His voice was somber, but his words gladdened her. She could not fathom why it pleased her so much knowing he no longer sought to die. He was her enemy. She’d done nothing to encourage him, nothing to assuage his guilt or suffering from the humiliation of his conroi’s defeat.

  Ah, but the fifth man…

  “The one who lived, was he the one who put the arrow in you?” Intrigued by his mysterious injury, she traced the path of bandaging beneath his garment with unsteady fingers, stopping above the point of his wound. A few inches lower and to the left and the barb would’ve pierced bone, his lung or even his breastplate. He’d not worn the protective Norman mail. That fact had escaped her until now. Defenseless that day, he’d made an easy target.

  Her question seemed to douse the mood that had held them in its spell. He released her and ran his hand down his face. “Of course not. One of your kind did this.”

  Eleri felt a squeeze of empathy in her middle, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly sad, she shook her head. “You are mistaken. I was with our archers—all of them except poor Iolo—in the treetops to the east. We did not shoot you, nor did we have any Norman barbs, which is what we dug out of you. Our arrows wouldn’t have missed their target.”

  He sat back on his haunches and braced his hands on his knees. “Il n’est pas possible.”

  The sound of an owl brought their heads up.

  “Sayer.” She stood and moved to the opening in the tangled boughs where they’d entered. Leaning out, she returned his signal.

  Her guard, friend and protector was closer than she’d suspected, but she prayed not close enough to see what had transpired between her and De Tracy.

  A coil of rope dropped across the branches. Eleri wound the cord around one of the thicker boughs, and Sayer soon glided down to join them. His big arms draped across a branch as he faced them, his expression lost in the shadows.

  “Are they all out of sight?” She rubbed the spot where her enemy had kissed her, convinced his touch had somehow left a visible mark in the darkness.

  “Aye, but they weren’t alone. Another rider followed at a distance. He turned off the path when they stopped and disappeared in the forest.”

  “One of Vaughn’s or the prince’s?” Eleri pulled her bow higher on her shoulder and looked into the gloom. A thread of unease ran through her that someone could be out there, watching unseen. Oak trees spread out endlessly into the night.

  “Neither. He wore a domed helmet.”

  “Norman,” she echoed with Warren de Tracy, and he glanced at her, frowning.

  Not possible? She held her sarcasm to herself. He might be her enemy, but one of his own men had meant to kill him. Mayhap hunted him still. That idea festered in her like an open wound. The captive was hers! She’d taken him in the skirmish. No man, Norman or Cymreig, would steal the vengeance owed her, nor cause the wraith’s prophecy to come true.

  “Well, my lord is in a fine position.” She sighed dramatically. His dark eyes lifted to hers. Remnants of anger and disbelief clouded his expression. “You are wanted dead by both your people and mine. You must have done something dreadful to deserve such.”

  He said nothing in return to argue or deny her accusation, merely backed into the shadows. Silent at last.

  Day broke with the sounds of horses and voices. Warren recognized Sayer and Nest communicating in brisk tones, but when he pushed himself upright to see them, his legs and arms were restrained in two lengths of rope. New anxiety brought sweat to his brow upon the memory of the night before and how Princess Eleri had ordered him tied to the tree branches several feet from the safety of the ground.

  After they’d traveled deeper into the forest that night, Warren had gleaned from the few details he knew of the territory that the River Wye was to the west and the Black Mountains were to the east. Sticking to the trees, his captors seemed to shun the easier territory of the barren hills where days of hiking could be turned into hours on the backs of the horses.

  Warren gritted his teeth. Why bother with the coursers at all if they weren’t going to ride them?

  The rebels’ concern over the Norman rider had to be unfounded. For all they knew, he could’ve been one of De Braose’s sentries, making the evening rounds from the nearby castle. Warren had searched his memory for any clues that one of his conroi had wanted him dead and found nothing. If King Stephen had desired him gone, he’d have arranged it at court. An easy thing for him to accomplish with no need for subterfuge. A simple charge of treason and Warren would lose his head.

  King Stephen had given Warren youthful knights for this quest—men striving to prove their loyalty to the new monarch, just like Warren. Stephen wasn’t a popular choice as king, but he had more power in England than Empress Matilda. When Warren’s younger sister Claire’s future had been threatened with marriage to some lackwit distant cousin of the king’s, Warren had made the difficult decision to pledge loyalty to Stephen—even though he detested the usurper.

  Had his fealty angered one of Matilda’s followers so much that the cur wanted him dead?

  He’d drawn the ire of Henry’s faithful before and had deserved it. His past was full of mistakes. If the murderer succeeded, Warren would accept his fate. He should have died years ago in the disaster at sea that took the true heir, Prince William’s life.

  Although, he reasoned, if he could locate De Braose’s castle, he could salvage his mission by turning the tables on the princess and kidnapping her instead, taking her there. Then he would find out if the man Sayer had seen was a sentry or a would-be-killer, and the princess would have to face the consequences for the Deheubarth prince’s actions.

  But first, he had to get out of the damned tree and earn the trust of her pagan rebels.

  He hailed them. “I pray you’ve not forgotten me.”

  His words were met by silence. As he’d feared, his attention to Eleri last night had caused her to regard him with more suspicion.

  But tempted by her, he simply couldn’t stop himself.

  Cozied up against her soft form in their hiding place, his brain had become addled and his cock had taken control. After she’d brashly kissed him to keep him from shouting at Lord Vaughn, Warren had wanted to reciprocate with a kiss of his own…and more. The fact that she’d thought to silence him with her lips meant she’d at least thought about kissing him before that moment. He’d hoped to charm her into offering him another kiss—a lasting, deeper one which would lead to others—but apparently she’d read his intentions and would have none of him.

  Should’ve just stolen the kiss. Should’ve parted her lips, caressed her tongue, given her all the pleasure she desired until she begged for release. Then you could’ve taken your own.

  Warren strained against the ropes again. He must get down soon before his regrets became evident to his captors.

  “Damn, I see you lived through the night.” Sayer climbed onto the limb beside him. The branch bowed beneath his weight.

  Warren grimaced. “No thanks to you. If one of our pursuers had returned to slaughter the three of you, I’d have been no help in this tree.”

  Sayer snorted. “You’d have been no help with half the Norman army at your back.”

  Warren bit back a retort. In his present condition, he could scarcely argue with the man. “I could be useful, though. Don’t say you haven’t considered the thought. You’re all better archers, but I’m faster on the ground and on horseback.”

  Sayer grunted and stooped to untie him. “For a prisoner, you think highly of yourself. To arrive on foreign soil with no mail? The princess said you had the look of a noble son and spoke in Occitan. With your training you’re no bard, no troubadour, nor priest. What are you? Templar? You’re no monk, for certes!”

  Warren was thankful the guard couldn’t see the
shock on his face. It had been two years since he’d worn the white mantle of the Order, and yet this Welshman recognized its stain on him.

  He felt the ropes loosen on his arms as the man kept unwinding. Even under amicable circumstances, he never shared his past. The memory of his excommunication stung.

  After Sayer took the rope away from his arms and legs, the man leaned back, studying Warren. “Your silence betrays you.” His gruff voice and astuteness pricked at Warren’s nerves, making him regret that he wasn’t a skillful liar. “If it’s a Templar you were, haps I should’ve left you tied up. An assassin with the blessing of the Church and his god…now that’s a man with nothing to fear.” Sayer’s hand wrapped around the worn hilt of the sword in his scabbard, and his eyes narrowed.

  Warren rubbed feeling back into his arms and squeezed his hands into fists. He returned the guard’s stare. “As you said, I am no monk. Not then, not now. I am loyal to England, but that doesn’t make us foes unless you choose to make it so.”

  Warren surveyed the Welshman. He was powerfully built and slightly older with gray at his temples. Whatever advantage in combat Warren had in speed, the rebel would overcome in experience.

  Sayer gave him a faint nod, acknowledging his new understanding and, Warren hoped, an inkling of respect for his battle experience. “I’ll remember to watch you more carefully.”

  Warren anchored an arm around a branch and peered down at the camp where Nest was stuffing a blanket into a bag on her horse’s back. “Where is the princess?”

  “At the river, not that it should matter to you.”

  Warren looked up from the dizzying view below. “Is that safe? What sort of guardian allows his princess to go about unprotected in woods with enemies afoot?” He frowned. This was far from the diplomacy he’d hoped to use with the man, but after years of combat, his instincts ofttimes overpowered his tact.

  “The sort who follows the daughter of the King of Gwynedd. Besides, where she went, she had to go alone.” Sayer’s tone was defensive despite his assurances.