The Warrior's Damsel In Distress. Meriel Fuller
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 chuckled 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,