To make matters worse—if that were even possible—as she shortened the reins for departure, Anselm slipped one well-muscled forearm about her waist.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked. Her voice sounded slightly breathless, and her cheeks burned with the ferocity of the midday sun.
“Holding on to you. What does it look like?”
“Well, don’t!”
“You’d prefer if I fell backward onto the road, m’lady?”
Miriam turned, smiling at him over her shoulder. “Do you prefer an honest answer or a lie?”
“Fair comment. Well, what am I supposed to hold onto, then?”
“The back of the saddle usually serves me well enough at need.”
“Ah.” Anselm gave a heavy sigh. “As to that, as much as it shames me to admit, I fear I cannot. Your boyfriend and his men put up a rather more spirited fight than I’d anticipated.”
Miriam’s heart almost jumped from her chest. Quite forgetting to reprimand him for calling Fabien her boyfriend again, she turned in the saddle.
“What? You’re hurt? How badly?” She searched his face for evidence of discomfort. And suddenly there it was. A strained look in his silvery eyes, and a faint tension about his mouth she hadn’t noticed before. Miriam was immediately repentant. “Oh, you poor thing. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I believe you were too busy thumping me at the time, m’lady.”
Shame scorched her soul. She’d hit him and yelled at him, and all the time he’d been suffering. “Oh, Anselm. I’m so sorry. Come. Get down. Let me tend your injuries before we set off.”
Her backside accidentally brushed the juncture where his hard thighs met his pelvis. Anselm winced and cleared his throat.
“Really, m’lady. ’Tis nothing of consequence. In truth, I’d prefer to be safely on our way. To my regret, not all the pirates I left behind were dead.”
Miriam’s eyes widened. She had to ask him, although she hated herself for needing to know.
“Fabien?”
Anselm nodded grimly. “Either dead or mortally wounded. I didn’t stay to find out which.” With that, he took Miriam’s shoulders and forcibly turned her about until she was facing front-ways again. “Shall we go?” His breath softly brushed her ear as his arm slipped into place about her waist.
What else could she do but obey?
As dusk approached, Mother Day daubed the inky sky with a vivid palette of color in a final farewell to the light. Against the ever-darkening backdrop, riotous colors, chaotic streaks of red, orange, and violet stained the sky. In the presence of such glorious company, even the mountain’s stern silhouette possessed an unexpected beauty, a beauty almost too lovely to be borne.
Anselm grimaced in pain as he sipped shallow breaths of the warm, fragrant air into his lungs. The heady scent of jasmine momentarily diverted his attention away from the agony of his broken ribs—a parting gift from the pirates.
The scent of wild flowers suffused the air. Or was that intoxicating fragrance coming from Miriam? The back of her dark head sat snugly beneath Anselm’s chin—so perfectly it was almost as if some benign power had created them that way, designing them to slot seamlessly together.
Moving his head to one side, Anselm took a surreptitious sniff at Miriam’s tangled hair. He soon wished he hadn’t, however, for his manhood immediately sprang to life. Squirming in the saddle, he tried increase the distance between his aching groin and the tempting curves of Miriam’s backside, but it proved a pointless endeavor.
Miriam glanced back at him. “Are you all right?” she asked. Her voice had a slightly husky quality to it, whether through lack of use or tears, he did not know. The only thing Anselm was certain of was that Miriam had lapsed into a brooding silence since learning of her pirate captain’s fate.
“I’m fine,” Anselm assured her. “Just a little sti… sore.”
Did the princess blame him, then, for killing her lover?
As they’d ridden along, since Miriam and Percy had shared their most recent news with him, in return, Anselm felt obliged to speak of what had happened to him. However, he did not tell them everything.
They knew, of course, that there had been a fight in which Anselm had been greatly outnumbered, but he’d omitted many of the details.
He said nothing about how, when the pirate pack eventually caught up with him, they’d trapped him within a tight circle of jeering men, punching and kicking at him, toying with him as they screamed for his life.
Neither did he mention how the merciful fog of battle frenzy had finally descended over him, mercifully taking him to violent oblivion beneath its protective wing while the pirates came at him one by one, taking bets on who would be the last man standing.
Without the ability to think or feel, urged on by a ravenous lust to do violence, for a time Anselm was unaware of anything at all but the sword and dagger in his hands.
When he’d finally returned to his senses, Anselm was bent double and gasping, with the pain of a hundred aches and searing wounds clamoring for attention.
The pirates weren’t laughing any more. They weren’t taking any bets, either.
Instead, they stood in silence, staring at the mound of bodies heaped about Anselm’s feet. Tangled limbs. Vacant, sightless eyes staring upward, wide with disbelief. None of his opponents had survived. But at least each kill had been quick and clean, a fate that would be denied him.
Fabien pushed his way through the vastly thinned out circle of men, his dark face drawn and grim as he regarded the blood-soaked corpses of his crew.
“It seems I may have misjudged you, sir knight,” he said softly.
“Oh?” Anselm swiped his bloody sleeve across his eyes, battling to slow his breathing and the racing thunder of his heart. “H-How so?”
“Even a pretty man has the potential to be a proficient killer. Thank you for the reminder.” Fabien reached for his sword. In one smooth motion he drew his evil-looking curved blade from its battered sheath to a chorus of rousing cheers from the remainder of his crew. Smiling, the pirate captain bowed his head. “Rest assured, I will not forget again.”
Anselm didn’t bow, not to pond scum.
“What a pity that your education has come too late. Still, perhaps the knowledge might be of benefit in whatever form of afterlife awaits you.”
Fabien chuckled and raked back his tangled black hair. “Your overconfidence will be your downfall, sir knight.”
“You think so?” Ignoring his screaming muscles, Anselm spun his bloody sword and then pointed its gory tip at Fabien. “Then let us see if you are right.”
The ensuing battle was prolonged and dirty. As Anselm had anticipated, the captain was a skilled opponent, well versed in the various tactics of an unfair fight. Egged on by the enthusiastic cheers of his men, Fabien bit, punched, kicked, and even engaged in a little hair-pulling on occasion in his bid to humiliate and ultimately defeat his opponent.
Utterly exhausted, it took every last grain of strength Anselm had, every trick, every dodge, every feint he knew, to stay up on his feet and keep his blades raised. But just as he’d begun to think it was over, that he couldn’t go on another moment, the pirate captain stumbled backward over the outstretched legs of one of his own dead crewmen. Up into the air, Fabien flew, arms flailing uselessly in an effort to regain his balance.
Too late. Seizing the moment, Anselm struck hard and fast, plunging his dagger, hilt deep, into the pirate captain’s chest with the very last dregs of his strength.
With a howl of mortal agony, Fabien hit the ground hard, and Anselm followed him down, holding the dagger in place. “This is for Miriam,” he hissed against Fabien’s ear. With that, he withdrew his blade in one quick movement.
Gasping and cursing, Fabien writhed in the dirt clutching his chest as a rosette of bright scarlet blossomed upon hi
s shirt. Slack-jawed and silent, the pirates could only gape in shock, staring at their captain as his movements became more feeble, subdued by death’s powerful bonds.
Anselm didn’t wait around to see the end.
Taking advantage of the pirates’ distraction, he barged his way out of the living circle that still surrounded him, then he turned and ran. No one attempted to stop him, for which Anselm was highly relieved. For, had they done so, he sincerely doubted that he could have survived another fight.
The pirates’ horses had long since bolted, but as he staggered through the camp, Anselm paused to grab himself a blanket and an unguarded saddle pack. Good fortune came along to keep him company, for as well as a small purse of gold, the leather pack contained a much-welcome flask of fiery spirit as well as a spare shirt. Although the garment was rather thin and threadbare with stained yellow patches under each arm, it was a good deal more presentable than his own blood-drenched shirt.
“Anselm?” Miriam’s voice penetrated his reverie. “Are you sure you don’t want to stop and rest?”
“We must keep moving,” he said with careful politeness. “Though your concern does you much credit, Princess.”
Muttering something that cast doubt upon his parentage, Miriam lapsed back into silence.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When they finally arrived back at the place where they’d left Hugh and Fergus, it soon became apparent to Miriam that their former camp was deserted. Although she regretted the other men’s absence, they were wise not to wait. No doubt they were hoping to catch up with Vadim and the rest of the company, for there was much greater safety to be had in numbers.
Glad to escape from Anselm’s disturbing nearness, Miriam slipped down from their weary mount and went to check the ashes in the hearth. They were cold.
So that was that, then.
For the foreseeable future, Anselm and Percy would be her only company. She thanked the spirits for the presence of the young squire. Without Percy, her current predicament would have been all the more dire.
Although Hugh and Fergus were long gone, the good souls hadn’t dismissed the absent members of their party from their thoughts. They had left a good supply of firewood and kindling beside the makeshift hearth, along with a few extra rations of cram, and a two spare blankets.
While Percy busied himself making a fire and fetching water from the stream, Anselm and Miriam tended their weary horses ensuring they were clean and watered and given a generous helping of horse cram—a kind of ‘bread’ baked with peas and beans. Once the immediate needs of their animals had been met, they left the horses tethered beneath the trees to pick at what scant grazing they could.
Anselm still seemed determined not to speak to her—which was all well and good—but the way he kept his arm hugged about his ribs filled Miriam with grave concern.
“Now that the horses are settled,” she said at last, “allow me to take a look at your wounds.” The heavy silence between them was beginning to weigh on her nerves. Not that she cared a fig for Anselm in the ordinary way, of course—nothing like that. She was merely being practical, that’s all.
Anselm was their protector and neither she nor Percy would last long without him—not with all the bandits that roamed the badlands. Without an escort, they were unlikely to ever reach their sailing port, let alone make it as far as the Norlands.
“There’s no need to fret yourself on my behalf, m’lady,” Anselm assured her with more of that smooth politeness that so irritated her. “A few hours rest will soon set me to rights—”
“I believe I gave you an order not a request, sir knight.” Although Miriam hated using her rank against him, Anselm was so bloody stubborn he left her with no other choice. Rank or not, he was not a man to be easily cowed.
“An order?” He shook his head. “To my deep regret, I must respectfully refuse. I’m perfectly well, I assure—”
“Oh? So why do you keep hugging yourself like that, hmm? Just let me have a quick look at you.”
Anselm smirked. “No.”
“Oooh!” In frustration, Miriam threw down her grooming brush and it bounced off the packed earth with a dull thud. “Are you always such a bloody mule? Take off your damn shirt. Now!”
“’T’would not be seemly, Princess.”
“But you’re injured.”
“While you, m’lady, are the king’s youngest sister. A princess no less.” His smile broadened as he added. “And a virgin at that, I expect.”
Had she imagined it, or had the virgin remark been more of a question than a statement?
“Insolent beast. Of course I’m a virg… ” Hold on. Why did she suddenly feel the need to defend herself? Infernal man. Her state of purity—or the lack thereof—was none of his concern. “Would you please stop being so prissy and take off your bloody shirt. I want to examine your wounds not ravish you, for goodness sake.”
Anselm shrugged and winced again. “Very well. Just as long as you remember that I tried to do the decent thing.” With a muffled curse, he lowered himself, rather gingerly, onto the crumbling carcass of an old tree trunk. Then, by the light of the rising moon, he fumbled one-handed at the tie of his shirt. Another expletive escaped his lips, this one a good deal more colorful than any of the previous ones.
With a tut of irritation, Miriam stalked over to where he sat. No matter what he said, Anselm was in a lot of pain.
“Move your head back and let me see. Oh, look. You’ve knotted it.” With careful fingers, she began trying to work the knot free. As she did so, she tried to ignore the disturbing scent of the wretched man.
“Miriam… ” Anselm sounded odd and rather gruff. “I really do think you ought to let Percy attend me.”
“Oh, hush and be still. I almost have it now. Yes!” Suddenly the knot gave way and Miriam stepped back with a triumphant grin. “All done. Do you need any help removing your shirt?”
“No!” Anselm roared, making her jump. “Percy?” he yelled into the gathering night. “Where the devil are you, boy?”
From a short distance away they heard a cheery, “Here I am, m’lord!”
“Hurry up and get yourself over here. Oh, and bring me bandages and a fresh shirt while you’re about it.”
Miriam arched her eyebrows and laughed softly. “Coward.”
“Is that what you think of me?” Anselm chuckled and patted the vacant space beside him. “Then. By all means, come and sit here with me, Princess… if you dare.”
Bubbles of excitement raced through her blood. “A dare, Northman?”
Even weary and injured, he really was the most attractive man. So golden and fair, nothing like the dark-eyed men she was so accustomed to. Perhaps the sun did not shine so fiercely in the Norlands as it did here in the south. That might explain why most of the northerners had such pale skin. Whatever the cause, she liked the way Anselm looked… and the way he looked back at her.
“I accept your challenge, m’lord.” Before she could stop herself, Miriam sat in the space beside him and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue in direct provocation. Judging by the muscle that suddenly started throbbing in his tense jawline, her goading had not gone unnoticed.
“Do your worst, Northman,” she purred, leaning toward him, mimicking the easy manner of the dancing girls. “But first know this; I am not afraid of you.”
Anselm smiled and cupped her cheek, gently caressing her bruised skin with the pad of his thumb.
“And I would not have you fear me, Mirry,” he murmured, his hot breath brushing her lips. She shivered and closed her eyes, reveling in his touch while her heart galloped out of control. “I would rather die than cause you harm, my princess.”
Something touched her lips, gossamer-light, and feather-soft. A kiss or a sigh, she couldn’t decide.
When she opened her eyes, she discovered just how close Anselm was. Ta
ntalizingly close. Only the most insignificant distance separated them. The mere breadth of a hair, nothing more. Almost nose to nose… mouth to mouth.
At such close range, his mirror-bright eyes shone quick-silver, glittering with something she recognized all too well from her fervid dreams.
Desire.
How well did she know its name, but this was a much fiercer emotion than the tepid version she’d once experienced. This was something more vital.
Savage, almost.
Needful.
The hunger in his eyes lit an answering fire within her, a blaze both wild and demanding that invaded her heart and down to her very core. The look in his eyes held her in place—a willing captive—and seemed to liquefy her very bones.
Anselm’s breathing was just as rapid, but still they stared at one other. In this battle of wills, who would break first?
Miriam was under no illusions. She might be an innocent of the flesh, but over the years she’d heard more than enough to educate her mind in the ways of men.
Knights—even those not blessed with the masculine beauty Anselm possessed—were especially sought after. Virile and strong, they made ideal bed-mates for women who had been widowed too young, or lusty young wives grown bored of their elderly husbands’ lack of attention.
Deep within Anselm’s eyes, Miriam fancied she glimpsed the shadows of his former lovers; a veritable legion of them. A flame of white-hot jealousy flared within her heart at the thought of other women touching the man beside her. But how could she ever hope to keep him there?
Anselm might be more experienced than she was but he wasn’t immune to her either. Her personal charms, modest as they were, had their own kind of magic. Anselm was just as aroused by her as she was by him.
She stared at his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him, to press her lips to his? To taste him? Would his kisses be rough, like Fabien’s, or would they be gentle and tender? Perhaps they’d be a combination of the two?
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