His Captive Princess

by Sandra Jones

  Still uneasy from the height, Warren sat, letting his legs dangle from the tree. His body prickled to life from the numbing sleep. “Surely her maid could’ve gone to attend her.”

  Sayer lifted a brow. “Nest? She’s not a maid. She’s a warrior, a shield maiden like the princess. Enough talk,” he growled. “We need to keep moving.”

  As Sayer jumped to the next branch, leading the way to the ground, Warren’s thoughts strayed to enticing images of Eleri bathing by the river. The water was too cold to swim, but he imagined her dipping a cloth, sponging her neck, and trails of icy water causing her nipples to peak.

  Indeed he was no monk.

  He compared Eleri against the women of his acquaintance in England. Elegant and refined, they complained of getting their slippers damp when they passed through the flower garden, and their fingers performed nothing more strenuous than stitchery. These rebel maids would seem built of iron by comparison if he hadn’t been close enough to Eleri to know better. She was all soft skin and lean feminine muscle that his hands ached to stroke and explore.

  Marrying her was thoroughly out of the question now after the Deheubarth attack, but seducing her was too tempting to resist. If she wielded half the passion in bed as she used in fighting, his efforts would be rewarded. Then he would bring her to the Norman keep—by force if he must. After all, hadn’t she made him a prisoner first?

  Chapter Five

  Eleri pulled her fur mantle tight around her shoulders. The wind from the north swept through the mountains, penetrating the sanctuary of the valley passage, and her bliaut whipped against her legs. Soon they would visit hosts who would not approve of a woman wearing breeches, so she’d worn them beneath her gown, unseen yet still providing warmth and mobility.

  With their enemies close, they had needed to change their plans by taking shelter during the day and traveling by night. She, Sayer and Nest walked their horses while the healing prisoner rode with his hands tied in case he chose to try and escape on horseback.

  Eleri smothered a yawn in the sleeve of her gown as they trudged along the path. Her long vigils at the water’s edge were beginning to take their toll. The cyhyraeth spirits had not returned for another death portent since Gwrach had wailed for Lew, but if there was going to be another Welsh death in either Deheubarth or her father’s Gwynedd, Eleri would be the first to know.

  Nest led the way and her long black braid swayed in time to her steps. Clever and loyal, the woman was the best friend Eleri could ever want. When they reached Gwynedd, she would have to ask her father to give both her guardians something in exchange for their faithfulness, though she already knew the two of them would ask for naught in return.

  At the sight of a familiar flying rowan ahead, Nest lifted a hand, signaling the rest of them to stop. “A holy well lies around this hill.”

  Eleri sighed, relieved. “Aye. St. Anerin’s Well. We should drink from it.” She had noted the strain in Sayer’s form and couldn’t remember the last time he’d quenched his thirst. “Sayer will go first, and if the water is pure by his reckoning, we will follow.” Her otherwise brave warrior avoided the rivers and streams with her at all costs, dreading he might see or hear the keening cries of the spirits.

  As Sayer left the group and disappeared over the crop of boulders that spilled down from the hill, Eleri risked a glimpse at De Tracy. Her stomach fluttered to find him watching her. How long had he done so? Mayhap long enough to see how weary she was, and now he waited to take his chance to escape.

  Reflexively, she reached for an arrow in her quiver and caressed the silken fletching. The corner of De Tracy’s mouth curved, mocking her.

  She hadn’t meant the gesture as a threat, yet standing in the path of his cool, intelligent blue gaze, her control slipped piece by piece, as if by some ancient wizardry. Without saying a word to disconcert her, he had her second-guessing her movements, her motives.

  Had she been concerned for Sayer’s well-being when she’d called for water? For Nest? Or for Warren de Tracy?

  Sayer reappeared and waved them closer. “The water is good.” He raked the back of his hand across his dripping lips. “The hermit was wise to guard the place.”

  “St. Anerin?” De Tracy spoke to Sayer. “I’ve never heard the name of that particular hermit before. Is the well pagan or Christian?”

  “’Tis water. Does it matter?” Eleri snapped, then glanced away. Her face heated. She sounded bitter like Vaughn. She softened her tone and fastened her bow and quiver to her horse’s saddle. “No matter the deity, we could use the well’s holy protection for our journey.” She removed her sword from her saddle’s pack and strapped it to her belt for the defense that only a proper weapon could offer.

  “You’ll not break any rules or anger God for sharing at this well,” Sayer told the prisoner as he went to untie him. “St. Anerin was insane. Murdered by his own people. He wasn’t called a martyr until many years later by those who knew him not.”

  De Tracy grunted and nodded his thanks. A new understanding seemed to have passed between them. Eleri did not care for it. Still, her anger had to cease. Railing at the captive for her own shortcomings was not the behavior of a woman of the royal Aberffraw family.

  She handed him her drinking horn. “We’ll make camp near a stream tonight, but ’tis hours away. Please…drink your fill.”

  De Tracy’s hand covered hers on the vessel as he gently pushed it away. “You first, my princess. You’re more tired than the rest of us. You keep the hours of the owl.”

  “Aye, and I hope my efforts are rewarded”—she forced a smile as she slid her fingers from beneath his—“by your health. Go and drink.”

  His steady eyes challenged her, not yielding.

  She growled and snatched the horn.

  After she scaled over the rocks out of his sight, new relief poured through her. The well sat in a vast alcove, peaceful and beckoning with stone steps inviting weary travelers, but the idea of the sanctuary didn’t cause nearly as much solace as being away from the handsome knight.

  Watching her footing and taking care not to fall on the slick rocks, she picked her way down toward the basin in the small amphitheater where the clear water pooled and mused on her own behavior.

  She’d been angry when Owain had shunned their bed. Angry with herself for not being the woman he desired. His death had left many of her questions unanswered. For instance, why did she not please him? What had she done wrong, and would he have ever found her desirable again if he’d lived?

  De Tracy stirred up those questions again. The first man to do so. His glances made her wonder if he found her attractive, or if he, like Owain, thought her simply a means of getting what he truly wanted. For Owain, marrying her had secured a powerful alliance with her father, but for the Norman, she held the key to his freedom.

  And damn if he hadn’t followed her to the sanctity of the holy well—if not in person, in her thoughts.

  She crouched beside the water, scowling at her reflection as she dipped her horn into the drink.

  “Allow me, Princess.”

  Eleri gave a start at the sound of her prisoner’s voice, and she spun around to face him, sloshing all the icy water on her hand. “What are you doing here? Why did those two let you come alone?”

  “They are having words. Something about sores from the ride.” He grinned. “Rest while I get your water, s’il vous plaît. Besides, I’ve been sitting in the saddle all morning myself. I need to stretch.”

  She scanned the natural rock walls surrounding them, which prevented him from running. Her companions were talking in the distance out of sight. Rest sounded like heaven.

  She gave him the vessel and wandered over to the stone seat. The cold from the rock permeated the layers of her clothes, and she shuddered.

  De Tracy’s eyes darkened as he returned with the water. “I’ve noticed you spend great len
gths of time at the river and streams. Do you expect Lord Vaughn to follow the tributaries?”

  “Nay.” She gulped down the sweet spring water and dried her mouth with her sleeve. She could tell him about her visions, but she didn’t expect a Norman to understand. “Now you, my lord.”

  His lips tightened, but he took the empty horn and fetched a drink for himself. With his back turned to her, he used his right arm to draw the water with natural movements. Healing, he would very soon be a force to contend with for the three of them when he reached his full strength. She prayed they would hand him over to her father before such a time as he could wield a sword again.

  Nest shouted from outside the alcove, her sound of alarm bouncing off the stones. Eleri stood just as a blur of black shoved her sideways, hurtling toward her prisoner. She fell to the floor and smacked her knee against the rock. Pain surged through her leg. Then, rolling onto her hip, she reached for her sword as Warren fended off the hooded assailant’s blade with bare fists.

  “De Tracy!”

  She tossed her sword at him, hilt first. He caught it in his left hand in time to thwart the downward arc of the would-be killer’s stroke.

  Ignoring the biting pain in her knee, Eleri grabbed a loose rock and aimed at the attacker’s back as De Tracy parried the man’s blows in resounding clangs of metal.

  The man’s rabbit fur boots…the green mantle draped over the black hood…

  Although she couldn’t see his face, familiarity brought goose flesh to her skin and bile to her throat. She lowered her weapon as the two men fought, unable to make her shot as the two men turned, putting Warren’s back to her.

  Her prisoner was faster, stronger and taller, but the assailant struck him with the hilt of his sword against his bandaged wound.

  Warren doubled over, wincing in pain, as his opponent lifted a sword high in the air for the killing blow.

  Rampant fear seized inside her chest. She aimed the rock and caught the attacker in the side.

  He yelped, dropped his sword arm and reached for the wound. She charged at him, but catching her progress, he rallied to retreat through the water for a hasty exit.

  “Sayer! Nest!” She dropped her bow and slid an arm around Warren’s back.

  “I am not hurt.” He leaned against her briefly, cradling his side, then righted himself, bracing against her shoulder gently for support. “I did not know him. Were you wounded?” He bent over her, struggling to catch his breath. Then, straightening, his hands swept down her arms, the bones of her hips, and skimmed her buttocks.

  “No.” She took a step backward, flushing.

  His hand cupped her elbow and he drew her closer. “Are you? You were on the ground when I spied you.”

  She frowned, flattening her hands against his chest to keep a distance. His concern had her heart racing though the danger was gone. “He knocked me down. I didn’t land well, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Bien.” He cupped her cheek with a gentle hand. His thumb brushed softly across her cheekbone, then passed over her lips. His gaze followed, focusing on her mouth.

  Her breath caught with nervous anticipation.

  “Dywysoges!” Sayer bellowed.

  They moved apart. Regret engulfed her, and the dull pain returned to crawl up her leg.

  The guard emerged through the rocks. “Are you two well? ’Twas the Norman again. He struck Nest down with a nasty blow to her right arm.”

  Eleri’s gut clenched, and she forgot the throb in her knee. “There were two of them, then. How is she?”

  “Madder than a fire-breathing dragon. The bastard realized his mistake when she hefted her blade in her left hand and chased him on foot.” Sayer’s gaze passed over her and then De Tracy, assessing the damage. “I take it our assassin’s ally didn’t fare well?”

  Still favoring his side, De Tracy picked up the sword he’d used against the attacker and offered it to Eleri.

  She touched the handle, then took her hand away. “Nay. Arm yourself.”

  His dark brows lifted with incredulity.

  She touched her lips in thought, recalling the assailant’s actions. “This was a planned attack to kill you. They watched us, waited until we were divided, then struck when they thought you were at your most defenseless. You should be able to defend yourself if you must.”

  Warren nodded. “But if Sayer’s man was indeed Norman, who was the man you hit?” His eyes narrowed. “You knew him. You had the chance to hit him in the head, but you injured him instead.”

  Eleri bent her leg, testing it, and a new stab of pain made her grit her teeth. “’Twas Gareth, Owain’s advisor. I know not how or why he tried to kill you, but I recognized him. And he wished that I had not.”

  When they rejoined Nest, she was leaning against her horse, rubbing her arm and swearing beneath her breath. “I hate Normans. I hate them all!”

  Eleri gave her friend a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  Nest shrunk away, but flashed Eleri a brief smile before turning to mount her courser. “Now we simply must ride, Princess. If we continue to walk, we’re easy targets. They wouldn’t have gotten far.”

  Eleri touched Nest’s boot before her distracted friend could ride away. “Gareth is with the Norman.”

  “Gareth?” Nest frowned.

  “Aye. He attacked De Tracy. Lew might be in danger. I should’ve told him—”

  Nest shook her head. “He wouldn’t have allowed you to leave even if he’d known about the death portent.”

  “We must return to Castell Dinefwr at once and tell the prince what we’ve seen.” Sayer went to retrieve his horse nearby.

  Warren moved in front of Eleri, blocking her view of the others. She craned her neck to look into his serious eyes. “Princess, what if something has happened since we left? What if your enemies in Deheubarth have overthrown your Prince Lew? You could all be walking into a trap set by Lord Vaughn.”

  She shuddered, half in fear for her husband’s brother and half in revulsion for the idea of bowing to Lord Vaughn. “You have a valid point.” She moved around him and spoke to the others. “One of us will go back. The rest will continue on to my father’s.”

  “I’ll not leave you, Princess.” Sayer’s hands tightened on his reins.

  “If you wish me to return, I will, my lady.” Nest lifted her chin. “I can slip into the castell unnoticed and watch for the prince.”

  “He’ll not be pleased with you,” Sayer warned.

  Eleri shook her head in disagreement. “I know my brother-in-law. He’ll be angry at Nest, but more so with me. He would never blame her for something I’ve ordered her to do.”

  If her worst fear was true and something bad had happened to Lew, Gwrach would’ve let her know. And if he was in danger yet again, the wraith would cry for him that night.

  As the last trails of sunlight faded from the woods surrounding their camp, Eleri left the men eating and returned to the stream they’d crossed an hour earlier. In a few moments, it would be dark, and she couldn’t risk missing the death-portent, if there was one.

  The stream, barely enough to hold a fish or two, bounced around a low, flat rock—a perfect place to rest and wait.

  Gareth. Of all the people who would form an alliance with an enemy Norman, she’d never thought it would be her husband’s confidant, his advisor and Lew’s. They’d trusted him. Although they weren’t on friendly terms, she’d had no suspicions about him in the past. Why had he suddenly come after De Tracy and in such secrecy?

  Stewing over the day’s events, she removed her boots, examining the worn places on the soles. She would never make it to Gwynedd in the old things. Mayhap she could buy more footwear from the white monks of the abbey.

  A twig snapped behind her. She jumped up, palming her dagger instinctively. The sound had come from somewhere in the woods. Sayer wouldn’t come near water
when the cyhyraeths might appear, and he wouldn’t allow De Tracy to wander off on his own. Someone else must be in the woods.

  The assassins.

  Without wasting time with her boots, she crept from the stream, pushing through bushes as quietly as possible. Thorns and broken acorns pierced the bottoms of her feet, but she pressed on in the direction of the sound. When she stepped out from the scrub, her mouth fell open at the sight of her prisoner on the back of one of their horses, making his way through the forest alone.

  “De Tracy!”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her cry, then galloped on as if he hadn’t heard her.

  She exhaled an angry breath. The scoundrel! Shoes or not, she had to get a horse and go after him before he was lost to them.

  Running, she retraced her path back toward their camp.

  Breathing hard, she didn’t hear the telltale warnings until it was too late, running smack into the path of a wild boar.

  As soon as she saw the massive bull, she froze. Standing statue-like, the beast fixed her with black, crazed eyes, his tusked mouth dripping with froth. He snorted and raked his hind legs menacingly.

  She’d hunted boars before with the men. She knew sows protected their young with ferocity, but males were normally less aggressive. It made no sense why he would challenge her.

  Still kicking, he made a slight turn sideways and she had the explanation. A hunter’s spear hung from his side, spilling blood on the ground.

  Her dagger would be useless. Too small, the blade wouldn’t penetrate the wounded bull’s hide enough to do any damage, and unfortunately, Sayer was too far away to call.

  She looked up. The nearest tree branch was too high to jump for. Running was her only option.

  She sheathed her dagger, readying for a sprint, then heard the sound of a horse and rider.

  De Tracy’s stolen black courser barreled straight for her. He leaned down from his saddle, holding out an arm for her. She reached for him and he scooped her up, depositing her facedown across his lap.

  Awkwardly, she clung to him and the galloping horse while the ground passed under her, blurring inches from her dangling hair. At any moment she was sure to be violently sick, and De Tracy showed no signs of slowing down or stopping.