‘Since you became useful to us,’ he replied bluntly. ‘I can’t have you fainting away in the middle of the journey.’
‘I’ve never fainted in my life!’ she snapped back. The hanging pearls adorning the net that held her hair in place shook violently with the movement of her head. From a central parting, her thick blonde hair had been looped into a smooth coil at the nape of her neck, secured with pins before the net was positioned. Yet the coil seemed quite loose, almost haphazardly pinned up. Idly, Bastien wondered if she had done her hair herself, eschewing the services of a maid.
‘Apart from the moment when you thought I would cut your throat. And when the Duke asked your name, in the courtyard.’
Her mouth turned down at the corners, grudging agreement. ‘Apart from then.’
His green eyes sparkled with victory. ‘Well,’ he continued mildly, ‘I can’t force you to eat. Let’s just hope you don’t slow us down.’
Alice stepped back, turning to lead the way to the inner bailey, disliking the feeling of him hulking over her. All along the corridor, he followed her, unspeaking, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled with the awareness that he was there, behind her, the rounded leather toes of his boots whispering against the flowing hem of her skirt if her step lagged.
Outside, the cool autumnal air seemed saturated with the rain that had passed over in the night, a cloying wetness that seeped into her bones. Alice hunched into her short blue cloak, now cleaned of the dirt gathered from the march to Ludlow. Most noblewoman never wore cloaks, as they travelled in litters and rarely spent any time outside in bad weather. A seamstress at Abberley had made the garment for her, after Alice became tired of becoming soaked and cold on the many expeditions with her father. Now it sat rather strangely over the more formal gown supplied by the Duke of York’s castle.
A groom stood at the head of Bastien’s stallion, holding the animal steady as it pawed impatiently at the cobbles. Beside him, two packhorses waited patiently between the traces of a brightly covered litter.
Alice stopped in her tracks, surprised, turning her face up to Bastien. ‘I have no need of a litter,’ she exclaimed lightly. ‘I will ride!’
‘Ride?’ Bastien observed her bright face closely. A honeyed wing of hair was beginning to loop down below her ear. Was she jesting with him? No woman of quality travelled on horseback, especially if the journey was destined to be long. True, noblewomen would hunt on horses, but were never in the saddle for a long time.
‘Aye, you know, on a horse,’ she replied, a teasing note in her voice. Her delicate, rose-tinted lips curved into a smile. ‘Like this. You remember, I’ve done this before.’
Before he could stop her, she bolted for his own horse, his warhorse, placed two hands on the saddle and vaulted into position, scissoring her legs mid-air so that one leg came down either side of the horse, perfectly in position. Bastien had a fleeting sensation of rippling skirts, a flash of white stocking covering a fine-boned ankle.
The groom’s mouth dropped open, and his hands released the reins in surprise.
For a moment, Bastien was totally stunned, the sight of Alice’s thin leather slippers resting comfortably against his horse, jarring with every sense of normality. Her tricks in the forest, when she had been disguised as the lad, returned to him with a horrible clarity. Dressed as a woman, he had forgotten her previous strength and agility, and now, it caught him completely by surprise.
In the forest, his horse had tried to buck her off. And it was happening again. The destrier shook its head violently, jangling the bit between his teeth, as Alice pulled on the reins, intending to ride around in a circle of victory, to prove to Bastien that she could ride, she was as good as any man. To her dismay, the horse had other ideas, pawing the ground fretfully, before rearing up on his hind legs, wanting to throw off her slight weight. Surprised by the surge of upward movement, she started to slide backwards in the saddle, slowly at first, then faster, backwards…
‘Release the reins, I have you.’ The order was rapped, sharp and hard, into her left ear.
Two firm hands clasped around her waist, the ultimate humiliation.
Bastien’s eyes flicked to the groom, a silent instruction: hold the horse steady, as he swung Alice back from the horse. As soon as her slippered feet touched the ground, she rounded on him.
‘You didn’t give me a chance! He needed time to become familiar with me!’ Alice stared up at Bastien, lifting one small white hand to loop a loosened strand of hair back behind her ear.
‘He threw you off the last time, and he’ll throw you off again, given half a chance,’ Bastien replied quietly. ‘He’s not the sort of horse to try your stunts on; he’s only used to me and my command.’ Bastien contemplated her neat head, resisting the urge to push in another gold hairpin that seemed to be nudging its way out. ‘The groom can fetch you a more suitable horse, and then we can start.’
Alice shrugged her shoulders, deflated. ‘I can ride.’ She had embarrassed herself in front of him, wanting to prove herself, and it had all gone wrong. She lifted one hand self-consciously to her hair, jabbing a pin back into her bun where it had dislodged itself. Looking down at the top of her neat head, Bastien could see it was not the only hairpin to have come adrift.
‘Aye, you can,’ he agreed, ‘but maybe not that one.’ His eyes crinkled upwards at the corners, the hint of a smile. ‘We’ll find you another, more suitable horse, and then we’ll be on our way.’
The narrow path, weaving around and about the great trunks of oak and beech, forced the horses to walk in single file, with Bastien leading the way. The track was little used, and remained dry under the dense canopy of trees which made the going easier. Alice hoped that Bastien was sure of his direction; she certainly did not want to become lost…with him. His dark presence made her jumpy, skittering her normal self-control, reducing her to a mass of contradictions.
Down to Alice’s left, the valley sides dropped steeply, leading to the banks of a fast-flowing river, the boiling water jumping and splashing over great slabs of rock, creating plumes of froth that spat up into the air. Deciduous trees clambered along the water’s edge, gnarled boughs of oak dipping into the rushing water, interrupting the flow.
And up ahead, Bastien’s straight, rigid back. She had stared at it for hours; her eyeballs felt dry, itchy. He had dispensed with his woollen cloak, rolling it up and securing it with leather straps at the back of his horse. His surcoat was fashioned from a plain green velvet, and shorter than normal to make riding easier. A wide leather belt secured the tunic just below the waist before it flared out to end at his knees. His head was bare, and when the weak autumn sunlight poked through the trees, it lit upon his short, ruffled hair, burnished with streaks of copper.
Since the groom had brought a docile grey mare out for Alice to ride, and helped her to mount up, Bastien had not said another word to her, had not even turned his head to see that she was following. He simply expected her to keep up. She wondered if he would notice if she started to drop back; the temptation was to look for a suitable gap in the trees to make a bolt for freedom. But the horse she had been given was slow, and would never be able to outrun Bastien’s powerful stallion. He would catch her in moments.
Alice hoped they would stop soon. A dryness invaded her mouth; she needed a drink. Above the forest canopy, the sun had already begun to descend from its zenith; it was past noon. To her relief, as the trees began to thin out and the path dropped closer to the river, Bastien twisted in the saddle towards her.
‘We’ll stop down there.’ He pointed down at a flat, grassy area beside the water, where the grass grew long and lush, before leading his horse into the middle of the area. His saddle creaked as he leaned forwards, scissoring one leg over to dismount. He let the reins drop, allowing his horse to crop at the grass in freedom. Quickly, Alice slithered off her own horse, not wanting him to help, or to witness her untidy dismount. She landed in a flurry of skirts, wincing slightly as her aching
muscles protested. Despite telling Bastien she could ride, she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had ridden so intensively over such a long time. The ligaments in her legs seemed to have tightened in all the wrong places; and now, as she walked to the spot where Bastien had spread a rug across the grass, they screamed out at the unfamiliar activity.
‘Come, sit and eat,’ Bastien commanded her, his moss-green eyes sparkling over her. ‘I’m famished, and so must you be, having eaten no breakfast.’
He began to unwrap the muslin packages: floury rounds of bread, hunks of fresh cheese, cold roast chicken. Alice’s stomach grumbled.
‘The Duke’s servants never stint on good food.’ Bastien stretched out his body on one side of the rug, propping his head up with his left hand, and bit into a chicken leg. Alice threw back the hood of her cloak, kneeling down on the rug. Her knees sank into the damp ground through the woollen fabric. Eagerly she reached for a bread roll, lifting it to her lips, before she noticed Bastien smiling at her.
She froze in amazement. The wide grin lit up his face, showing white, even teeth, making his eyes crinkle up with sheer merriment. It made him look much younger, more boyish somehow. It unnerved her.
Alice’s fingers released the bread roll, letting it fall with a soft ‘plop’ on to the rug. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ She coloured under his intense, teasing scrutiny.
‘Er, well, it’s your hair,’ he replied, still grinning, trying to suppress an outright guffaw. ‘It seems to have come adrift.’
‘What?’ Alice automatically lifted one hand to the back of her head, astonished to find that the net seemed to have slipped, and now was hanging down, secured by a single hairpin, while the rest of her hair had fallen down in soft coils. ‘Oh, I see,’ she replied calmly. ‘It must have been the riding; it’s all come apart. I suppose I’ll have to put it up again.’ She eyed the food longingly in front of her, torn between knowing she should tidy her hair and a ravening hunger.
‘Eat first,’ Bastien made the decision for her. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘I don’t,’ she chipped back at him, picking up the roll, her small teeth biting delicately.
A silence descended between them, but it was not strained. The air was filled with the sound of birdsong, chirruping through the branches, and the perpetual, relaxing sound of the river beside them. The sunlight finally managed to burn through the hazy cloud cover of the morning and filled the early afternoon air with heat. Having eaten his fill, Bastien turned his body slightly, closing his eyes, relishing the warmth washing over his limbs, as he tucked his arms behind his head, extending his legs, his thigh muscles flexing with the movement. Any other woman would be having seven fits about the state Alice was in, but she seemed unusually relaxed about the whole affair. The pinched, resentful face of his mother loomed into his mind’s eye. He had never, even as a small child, ever seen her in a state of disarray. Her presentation had always been perfect, every pleat pressed within an inch of its life, all stray hairs plucked, all velvet free from lint and dust. Even on that dreadful night when he had returned home from the Duke of York’s castle, carrying the news of his older brother’s death, she had made him wait for hours, before coming to see him in full dress, an elaborate head-dress completely hiding her hair. In fact, he had never even seen his mother’s hair, as high fashion dictated that not a scrap should be seen; he didn’t even know what colour it was.
Next to him, Alice continued to nibble contentedly, trying to ignore the large man stretched out opposite her, until she realised he seemed to have fallen asleep. Then, through dipped lashes, she studied him covertly. What a size he was! She knew he towered over her in height, that she had to tip her head to look at him, but it was the sheer muscled breadth of him that took her by surprise. The hem of his tunic had fallen back, revealing long legs encased in buff-coloured wool chausses. These were covered from the knee down by his calf-length boots, the leather of which, although polished, was scarred and scuffed with use. Everything about him was hard, masculine—the cut of his tunic, the plain fabric of his shirt—so different from the other men at court, who competed to outdo each other with their complicated, elaborate costumes.
Darting a quick glance to Bastien’s face to assure herself he still slept, Alice endeavoured to sort her hair out. Sleep seemed to erase the severe edges of Bastien’s face; his proud, straight nose flared out around the nostrils—even his high cheekbones appeared softer, somehow. But his mouth still sent reverberations of shock through her, every time she looked at it, its softness unexpected in the harsh, craggy face of a soldier; wide, sensuous, with a full bottom lip, made all the more alluring by the set of his square, chiselled chin. For a moment, Alice just stared, drinking in the carved beauty of this man’s face, able to do so because he slept.
A bird squawked nearby, startling her, breaking her out of her reverie. Ashamed at her blatant perusal, she tilted her head downwards, lifting her fingers up to dislodge the pins, the net, to start again, tearing with agitation at the tangled strands. Her breath emerged rapidly, her heart thudding strongly in her chest—what was the matter with her? Was she ill?
Hearing the rustle of sounds to his left, Bastien open his eyes a fraction of an inch. He had not been asleep, merely content to listen to the bubble of water, the wind sifting through the trees. Through the mesh of his dipped lashes, Bastien watched Alice as she pulled her fingers through the tumbling ripples of her hair, watched the curling ends pool in her lap. She reminded him of a mermaid, told about in the old myths of the sea, sitting on her rock, combing her locks. In the sunlight, her dark-gold hair burned with a brilliant fire, falling around her like a curtain of gold. Whereas before he had slumbered in a state of warm relaxation, now all the nerve endings in his body snapped to attention.
As she raised her arm, the material of the tightly fitted sleeve strained at her elbow, emphasising the slenderness of her limbs. She seemed to be having trouble coiling the unruly bundle into some semblance of order; every time she stabbed a long pin into the back of her head, another thick tendril came loose once more.
‘Let me.’ His voice, husky, poured over her with the sensuality of liquid cream.
Alice jumped. ‘I thought you were asleep!’ she squeaked. His eyes flared over her: an emerald flame. ‘Nay, I can do it,’ she protested limply as he sprang to his feet and came around to the back of her. She felt him kneel, felt his close, heated presence burn along the length of her spine.
‘It will take too long if you do it,’ he said, simply. His cool fingers brushed against her neck as he took the heavy weight of her hair into his hands.
His breath caught. He couldn’t remember the last time he had touched something so lovely, so silken against his fingers. His many days of battle had been filled with roughness, with steel, cracked leather, mud and stone. This was something different, something silky and soft, so pure. Each strand of hair had a life of its own, sparkling with a slightly different hue from its neighbour, lending the whole mass of wondrous silk a dynamic intensity that he longed to bury his face into.
An excitement leapt through his body, filling him with fierce, longing need. Gritting his teeth, he tried to suppress it, tried to suppress the urge to bend his head, to drop his lips to the smooth, tempting curve of her neck.
Alice sat rigidly, her fingers balled into fists on her lap. Surely this wasn’t proper? But she had long ago lost all sense of what was proper behaviour and her mother wasn’t around to tell her. But it didn’t feel proper; nay, it felt dangerous, as if someone was pushing her inexorably towards the edge of a blazing fire. She wanted to flee, to run away. Every time the rough pads of Bastien’s fingers grazed her neck, a splinter of exhilaration drove through her, kindling a churning, fluttering sensation in her stomach, increasing her sense of unease.
One of his fingers glanced against the downy lobe of her ear. Her stomach flipped. ‘I’ll finish it,’ she spoke hurriedly, wanting him away from her. This was not right! This man was her en
emy—what in Heaven’s name was she thinking? As she gritted her teeth against the heated feelings coursing through her blood, her hand whipped upwards and back, snaring his muscled wrist, trying to pull it away. The blood, pumping through the artery in his wrist, pulsed against her fingers.
‘I’ve nearly finished.’ He continued to pull the silken strands through his fingers, reluctant to relinquish the wonderful feel of her hair. Her slim fingers around his wrist felt cool, smooth.
‘Enough!’ she uttered, with sheer desperation, jerking her head forwards, pulling her hand back at the same time. Tears jumped to her eyes as the hair tore against her scalp, but she wrenched herself to her feet, stumbling backwards. ‘I said I’ll finish it!’
On his knees, Bastien stared up at her, his body a churning mass of heightened need. Alice’s eyes glowed down at him, her azure orbs holding a heady mix of anger, frustration and, yes, desire. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her neat bosom strained against the fitted fabric of her dress. By Christ, his need was such that he wanted to strip her right now, and take her swiftly, there on the rug. He saw it in her eyes; her need matched his.
‘You feel it too,’ he said, bluntly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied haltingly, studying the toes of her leather boots with unnecessary attention.
He leapt up then, the unfulfilled desire making his body restless, itching for action, and strode over to her so that she quailed at his threatening approach. He leaned down, whispered, close to her ear, ‘I think you do.’
Captured by the Warrior Page 9