The flickering light fell on brambles, torn awry. She had left the path. He plunged through the rent in the undergrowth, thorns scraping against his mail coat sleeves, dragging at the fine red wool of his surcoat. His pace did not falter until he sprang into the clearing and saw what had happened.
Sitting, her whole body hunched forward, folded inwards, the maid appeared to be asleep. Her face was buried in one knee, a slim arm wrapped around her head, as if trying to protect herself. Her other leg lay flat upon the ground, skirts bunched up, the teeth of an ugly metal trap gouging into her flesh. Blood stained her woollen stocking, running down the outside of her leather boot, trickling steadily.
Bruin cursed. Twisting his leather belt so that his sword lay to one side, he dropped to his knees beside her, driving the torch into the muddy ground. Close up, the poor quality of the maid’s garments was pitifully evident: a loose sleeveless over-gown constructed from a coarse mud-coloured cloth over a fitted underdress of lighter brown. Threads unravelled at her cuffs, fraying dismally in the light. She wore no cloak, her slight figure trembling in the evening air. He grimaced; his winter cloak was packed in his saddlebags, otherwise he could have draped it around her shivering shoulders. He adjusted the torch carefully so the light was cast over the mess of her leg.
The girl’s head rose slowly. The pale oval of her face, wrapped tightly in her linen veil, stared unseeingly at him for a moment, her expression hazy, unaware. In the flaring light, her skin held the creamy lustre of marble, polished and smooth, untouched by blemish or freckle. Her eyes were huge, sparkling orbs fringed with long, velvety lashes that dominated her face; in the twilight, he couldn’t see the colour. Then her eyes rounded, her head jerking back in horror, and she started hitching away from him, palms flat on the ground, yanking the trap with her. A chain and long pin secured the trap into the earth; they rattled, clinking together as she tried to pull back, the iron teeth tearing deeper into her skin.
‘Stop,’ Bruin said firmly, leaning forward to seize her shoulder, to prevent her moving backwards. ‘You’ll only hurt yourself more.’ He nodded down at the rusty trap, her mangled flesh. ‘I will take it off.’
‘No! Go away! Get away from me, you...you barbarian!’ she spluttered inexplicably, wriggling her shoulders roughly from his grip. ‘Move back!’ With quicksilver speed she grabbed the torch, wresting it from the ground with a strength that belied her diminutive stature, and swung the flame haphazardly in front of his face. Cruel, lacerating pain scythed through her leg at the jerky movement. Bruin lurched back instinctively, to avoid being burned.
Irritation flashed through him. He was used to men following his command immediately, without question, and yet this chit was physically threatening him, ordering him away as if she were the Queen of England! He was tempted to walk away and leave her to fend for herself. Another nursemaid for Lady Katherine’s children could be found, surely? But he supposed he ought to try; Gilbert and the rest of the knights would certainly have something to say if he returned empty-handed. Bruin raised both hands in the air, a gesture of surrender, keeping his voice deliberately calm, slow. ‘Look, I’m going to help you, don’t you understand? I’m not going to hurt you.’
His measured tones reached out to Eva through the dancing panic of her brain. His voice seemed different. And yet it was him, surely, the same man who had ordered her abduction? This man had the same bronze-coloured hair and sharp-angled cheekbones, the square-cut chin? And yet the voice from all those months back, the voice that had shouted and bullied her, had been silky smooth, with a subtle threat to every word. Although he looked the same, this man also spoke with an odd, foreign inflection that hitched his tone with a low, guttural melody, twisting the vowels. But how could she be certain he was not him? She could not afford to take any chances.
‘I don’t believe you!’ she whispered. Her body shook, beset with uncontrollable trembling. The brand wobbled alarmingly in her grip. ‘What you did—!’ A sob stopped her speech, as she glared at him fiercely, her shoulders sagging inwards. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bruin growled at her. He sat back in his heels, skin creasing between coppery brows. ‘Did you hit your head when you fell? You’re not making any sense!’ Flakes of snow drifted down between them in a lazy spiral, hissing as they hit the torch flame, one by one.
‘How can you forget?’ Fear twisted her voice. A residue of tears clung to her bottom lashes, tiny diamonds sparkling. Beneath the ill-fitting gown that she wore, her chest rose and fell quickly. The light slanted across her eyes, revealing depths of the most astonishing blue: like the shimmering sea at noon, shot through with golden streaks.
Bruin’s heart jolted oddly and he shook his head, clearing his fanciful thoughts. Something was not right here; the maid spoke as if she were acquainted with him, yet he could swear that he had never met her before. He would have remembered. Remembered those beautiful eyes, that sweet oval face. The precise curving line of her top lip.
‘Do you know me?’ he asked brusquely. His voice was husky and he cleared his throat. ‘Or are you muddling me up with someone else?’ Could she have met his brother? It seemed unlikely; his brother had been at the King’s side for the past few years and Edward never ventured this far west.
‘Do you really need to ask that question?’ Her voice was low, halting, as if she were frightened of the answer. The words staggered out of her; she held the muscles in her body taut, almost to the point of collapse, teetering on the brink of unravelling completely.
He loomed over her, this big hulk of a man, tough and intimidating, the man who had terrified her days and nights, until she had finally given in to his demands, exhausted by the days of relentless torment. His hair was more tousled than she recalled, the bronze locks falling forward across his brow. His face was leaner, shadowed furrows slashing down from high cheekbones to his jaw. He was taller.
Wait. Her mind was playing tricks on her. No man would be taller, it wasn’t possible. She tilted her head, sticking her pert nose in the air, and frowned. Embroidered across his tunic was a crest that she did not recognise: black and red lions on a gold background, a crown above. Was she mistaken about this man’s identity? The frantic beat of her heart gradually slowed, the burning brand in her hand giving her confidence. The flame created an effective barrier between them, preventing him from coming any closer. Doubt sifted through her. ‘How did you find me? How? Who told you where I was?’ she asked.
His eyes gleamed like pale frost, a glittering icy fire. Her questions made no sense. ‘No one told me. You ran away; I followed you from the castle.’ Frustration, tightly held, laced his voice.
‘Not now,’ Eva hissed at him. ‘Before. Who told you?’
‘No one told me anything,’ he replied bluntly, dismissing her questions with a cool, detached look. ‘I have never seen you before.’ Uninterest bordered his tone; he glanced pointedly at her leg, the blood on her woollen stocking. ‘I need to take this trap off and stop the bleeding.’ He leaned forward and she thrust the torch out instinctively, a quick vicious movement. She wasn’t sure who this man was, but she had to be careful. There was a crackle and the acrid smell of burning hair.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ He made an impatient sound between his teeth, almost a snort, plucking the brand easily from her fingers. He stuck it firmly back into the ground, out of her reach. ‘Stop playing games with me.’ His voice was laden with deadly intent.
‘Go away!’ she hissed at him. Vulnerability flooded over her; she wanted to cry at the unfairness of the situation. ‘I would rather have the Devil help me than the likes of you!’ She pushed at his huge shoulders, the mail coat links rippling against her chill fingers, attempting to shove him away, but he was immovable, an enormous, unwieldy rock. She thumped down on his shoulders, small fists banging ineffectually. ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’
Bruin chuck
led at the maid’s ridiculous threats, the false bravado threading her voice. Who did she think she was? She spoke as his equal, yet she was only a nursemaid, a lowly servant. Her feisty, combative behaviour should have made him angry, annoyed, but instead he wanted to laugh. Her shrill tone bounced off him like darts against a drum skin. He couldn’t understand why she was so frightened of him and this misplaced fear, obstructive and stubborn, was slowing him down. The quicker he took her back to the castle, the quicker he would be able to undertake his brother’s quest. And time was not on his side; Steffen was dying. He needed to remember that.
The snow was gathering strength, falling more thickly now. He blinked away the flakes stuck to his lashes. With gauntleted hands, he grasped the toothed iron hoops and prised them apart with a snap. Muscles bulged in his upper shoulders, rounding out the tight flex of chainmail. Eva sucked in her breath, a sharp, tearing gasp as pain radiated through her calf.
‘There was no other way,’ Bruin said, watching the tears pool in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed red, as if the cold air had slapped her.
‘Yes, there was,’ she bit out, a sob stifling her voice. ‘You could have left me alone.’ She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. The teeth of the trap had ripped ragged holes into her stocking, beneath which her skin was purple, bruised with ugly puncture marks, some bleeding heavily. But she was free, free of the awful iron cage. She tried to move her leg, tentatively, but the pain was too great. Unconsciousness threatened, blurring the edges of her mind, hazy fingers of oblivion eager to drag her down.
‘Out of the question,’ he said, gruffly. ‘No one would leave you out here, on your own. Who do you take me for?’
Him. I thought you were him. Eva cleared her throat, nibbling at her bottom lip. But now, she was almost certain he was not the same man. She took a deep shaky breath, the muscles binding her chest and torso relaxing. Failing to answer his question, she wriggled her hips around awkwardly, crawling on to all fours, intending to stand. The gleaming lions on his surcoat wobbled in front of her vision. Nausea roiled in her belly, a sickening lurch. The air around her loosened, shifted; suddenly she found herself incapable of holding herself upright. She began to tip, slowly, sideways.
‘Careful.’ The man caught her upper arm, supporting her, propping her wilting frame against him.
Her stomach churned dangerously; her forehead was clammy, sheened with a faint sheen of sweat. ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Eva spluttered out in panic. Oh, God, no. Not in front of him!
‘No, you’re not,’ he responded, his low voice close to her ear, the air from his lungs sifting across her skin. ‘Take deep breaths...there.’ Grasping her shoulders, he lifted her so that she was sitting on the ground again. His face was alarmingly close, silver eyes sparkling mere inches from her own. ‘You’ve had a shock. That’s why your head is spinning. You must keep still.’
Eva clamped her eyes tightly together, fighting the rolling waves of sickness, willing her head and stomach to settle. Snowflakes landed on her face, tickling gently. His hands were heavy on her shoulders; she could smell woodsmoke on his skin and clothes. A strange sensation looped through her chest; the muscles beneath her ribs contracted, involuntarily.
Opening her eyes, she pinned her gaze to a muddy streak across her skirts, mouth set in a straight line, determined to show this man that her nausea, her near-fainting, was merely a temporary weakness and not part of her character. ‘Who are you?’ she asked through the drifting snow. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Bruin, Count of Valkenborg.’
Not him. Not the same man. Thank God.
Chapter Three
‘Valkenborg,’ she repeated stupidly. ‘I have not heard of that place before...’
‘I am from Flanders,’ Bruin replied, sensing her tension easing, the fractional wilt in the maid’s slim frame. But why would knowing his name cause her any comfort? He was a stranger to her. ‘From across the North Sea.’
‘I know where Flanders is,’ Eva snapped. She raised her eyes to his wild auburn hair. Above the fiery bristles covering his jaw, the determined slash of his cheekbones created shadowed hollows, giving his face a lean, wolfish look. He looked so similar to Lord Steffen, the resemblance was uncanny, and yet, he was not him. Her heart plunged at the intimidating sight of him, but not with fear. With—what? He was too close, too overpowering. His rangy build hunkered over her like a Norse god of old, torch flames touching his skin with a golden patina, his lashes stuck white with snow. The man shed physical energy like shooting stars. Her hands trembled; she tucked them forcibly into her lap to disguise the shake.
Beside them, the light guttered ominously, the flame dipping and sliding, blue-tinged. ‘We’ve tarried long enough. We need to go back to the castle before this light fails,’ Bruin muttered. ‘And before this wretched snow becomes too deep.’ His gaze swept the maid’s neatly wrapped wimple, the delicate wrists resting in her lap, her slim calves poking out from beneath her gown: a swift assessment. ‘Take your stocking off so I can bind the wound.’
Eva’s head jerked upwards, eyes rounding in horror. ‘No. I cannot. You know I cannot.’ She stuck her chin in the air, bridling at his high-handed tone. ‘It would be improper.’
‘Improper or not, we have nothing else.’ He dragged off his gauntlets, throwing them to the ground. The creased leather made a scuffling sound across the newly fallen snow. ‘Unless you want me to do it for you?’ He grinned unexpectedly, diamond eyes flashing in challenge.
Damn the man! His big knee was planted heavily in the spreading cloth of her skirts; she tugged at the material ineffectively, wanting to be free of him. Turning away, she lifted her skirts to release the ribbon that secured her stocking top to her thigh, fumbling awkwardly with the fragile ties. The icy air, the large feathery snowflakes, tickled her naked skin. For some reason, she seemed incapable of undoing the ribbon; her cheeks grew hot as she repeatedly failed to release the tight knot.
Strong, sinewy fingers pushed hers aside, tearing the pink ribbon in half and smoothing the stocking down her bare leg, his palm intrusive, shocking against her satiny skin. Eva squeaked in outrage, rocking back at the rough contact as he hauled off her boot and stocking; threw them into the snow. Never, ever, had a man touched her like that! His hand knocked against her toes and she curled them downwards, recoiling at the abrasiveness of his calloused palm. A strange heat staggered through her chest, flexing the muscles of her diaphragm. What on earth was the matter with her? Her mind felt besieged, wooden and loose, as if it were not functioning properly.
‘I can do it!’ Eva flared at him. ‘Stop manhandling me!’
Bruin raised his eyebrows. ‘This is hardly “manhandling”,’ he replied coolly. ‘I’m trying to help you.’ Ripping lumps of moss from a decaying piece of wood, he packed the wound on her leg. ‘And anyway, you’re too slow; we’ll be sitting in darkness if I let you do it.’ Winding the stocking around her leg, he bound it tightly, lifting her leg to wrap the limp wool behind her knee. His movements were deft, efficient, his careful touch minimising the spiralling pain. Tearing the end of the stocking in two to make a knot, he secured the makeshift bandage.
‘There,’ he said, sitting back on his heels. Snow fell around him, spangled flakes landing on his massive shoulders, dousing the bright flame of his hair, flecking his red surcoat. Seizing her leather boot, he cupped her foot, cradling her heel. ‘Shall I put this back on?’
‘I’m surprised you even ask me,’ Eva replied haughtily. Heat radiated across her exposed ankle. His deft fingers tightened fractionally around her fine bones; tiny darts of heat pulsated upwards from the point where he held her. ‘You seem to do most things without asking.’
Ignoring her, he eased the boot carefully around her ankle, securing the wooden toggles that held the pliable leather in place. Eva threw her skirts down over her feet. The damp from the g
round had begun to seep through the thin layers of her gown; she shivered. High up in the trees an owl hooted, a lonely drawn-out cry, echoing through the stark, crooked branches. Picking up his gauntlets, Bruin sprang to his feet. He adjusted his belt over his lean hips, bringing his sword around to swing diagonally across his left leg. Semi-precious stones gleamed in the hilt; a strip of red leather, creased and worn, bound the sword handle, a gold circular disc decorated the top. Pulling the torch from the ground, Bruin held out his hand. ‘Do you think you can walk?’
‘I can try.’ Eva hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand, the ridged web of sinew. His nails were clean, clipped short. Since her imprisonment she had actively avoided the company of men, developing a hesitant wariness in their presence. It had become second nature to her, an added protective layer. She couldn’t allow what had happened to her once to happen again.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, take my hand!’ A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead; he shoved it back in frustration. What was the matter with her? Why did the maid resist every single offer of help? ‘Don’t you trust me?’
Her eyes darkened. ‘Why should I? I have no idea who you are! You look like a barbarian!’ Her gaze flickered over the blond-red stubble coating his jaw, the flick of messy, rumpled hair, the size of him.
‘No more than any other knight,’ he countered, rubbing his chin ruefully, noting her pointed stare. Maybe he should have taken time to shave before he had started the journey that morning. ‘And you seem to have enough of them at the castle.’
Not like you. The thought whipped through her, a streak of fire. This man was young, only a few years older than herself, with every muscle in his body honed, not an ounce of spare flesh on him. Katherine’s knights were older, grizzled, barely capable of running for more than a few yards. They had the experience, aye, but were no match for this man’s physical ability.
‘I’m right to be cautious.’
The Warrior's Damsel in Distress Page 3