The Warrior's Damsel In Distress. Meriel Fuller
bald by the time I reach my horse.’ Pulling on his gauntlets, he bent down, sweeping her feet from beneath her, one arm under her knees, the other around her back.
‘I don’t—’
‘I don’t care.’ Bruin cut off her speech, his tone low and forceful. ‘You’ve held me up long enough. We’re going back to the castle and we’re going like this, whether you like it or not.’
* * *
Hoisting her high against his chest, he carried her back through the trees, through the scurries of falling snow. His stride was purposeful and sure, never losing his footing across the lumpy, uneven ground, ignoring the over-arching brambles that clutched and snagged at his surcoat, at the flowing hem of the maid’s gown. Sensibly, she had fallen silent, quiet in his arms, but he wasn’t fooled by her chastised demeanour. Her shoulder muscles were tense, contracted against his upper arm; she kept her head positioned stubbornly away to avoid touching him, refusing to let it rest. He grinned suddenly; her neck must be hurting like hell with the strain of maintaining her distance from him. Her hip curved temptingly against his forearm, the faintest smell of lavender rising from her skin. His chest squeezed with unexpected delight.
Eva gripped on to the torch, holding the flame out before her like a ship’s figurehead, her knuckles white. The memory of this man’s over-familiar touch on her flesh was branded on her brain: a scorch mark, throbbing, vivid. The way he had plucked at her stocking. The way his fingers had rasped against her soft skin, leathery and calloused like those of a peasant, and yet he was obviously high-born, a count in his own right. The air shivered in her lungs. The wound on her leg was sore, making her unsettled, unsure of herself.
She gritted her teeth, hating her incapacity to walk on her own two feet, hating the fact that this man had to carry her. His confident domineering behaviour rattled her; his assumption that she would blithely follow his orders, no matter what. She had always been able to look after herself, even more so after what had happened to her; she resented his intrusion, this foisting of unwanted intimacy upon her. His chest pressed against her shoulder, flat plates of hard muscles rippling against the curve of her upper arm, but she was unable to shift away any further, his arms held her too securely. His horse waited on the outskirts of the forest, cropping the few wisps of spindly grass that poked up through the settling snow, jangling the bit irritably between its teeth as they approached.
‘We’ll ride back,’ Bruin announced, shifting his grip on the maid. His short beard scratched against her wimple; she jolted back at the inadvertent contact. ‘Hold tight to that torch.’ He turned her in his arms, clasping her waist to lift her into the saddle, but to her surprise, he placed her up front, nearer the horse’s neck.
‘Oh!’ Eva said, surprised, rocking forward to grab the horse’s mane for balance. Her grasp loosened on the torch; she almost dropped it. She sat with both legs dangling to one side, hip wedged up against the animal’s neck. Why had he not placed her in the saddle? ‘I thought you said I was going to ride!’ Her voice juddered slightly, panic slicing through her veins. A beat of pain streaked through her leg.
‘You are. But I’m riding, too.’
‘No, no, you’re not. You’re going to lead the horse.’ The words jabbed out of her before she had time to contemplate their impact. He couldn’t be near her again; the closeness of him tangled her brain, made her lose her train of thought. He flustered her.
Bruin’s chin shot up at her imperious tone, his eyes, mineral dark, glittering dangerously. ‘I am riding.’ Rummaging in his saddlebags, he extracted a thick woollen cloak, handing it up to her, frowning. ‘You give yourself of lot of airs and graces, my girl, for one in such a lowly position. Why, anyone would think you were a noble lady, not a servant dressed in rags. By rights, you should be walking alongside me.’
Eva flinched as if he had hit her. Her mouth snapped shut. She grabbed his cloak with her spare hand, bundling its voluminous folds in her lap, staring rigidly ahead with flushed cheeks. Good God, this man made her forget who she was supposed to be! Not Eva, Lady of Striguil, but Eva Macmurrough, nursemaid to the Lady Katherine’s children. She needed to watch her step, remember to behave in a manner appropriate for a servant. ‘I apologise if I’ve caused offence,’ she replied eventually. ‘Lady Katherine encourages all her servants to be outspoken. She prefers it that way.’ Her reasoning sounded limp, pathetic.
‘Really.’ His response was caustic, disbelieving, silver eyes scrutinising her wan face. He had seen the sudden lurch of her body at his accusation, the flare of panic in her eyes. What was she hiding? Her high-handed manner, the regal tilt of her head—all was out of kilter with her appearance, with the clothes she wore. But then, her feisty, stubborn behaviour matched no other woman he had ever met, ever, in his whole life. The girl was a complete puzzle. ‘Well, you’ll just have to put up with my unwanted presence.’ Sticking his booted foot into the shining stirrup, he sprang into the saddle behind her. The horse shifted sideways under his added weight. ‘I’m sorry it will be such an unpleasant experience for you.’
Lifting the cloak from her lap, Bruin laid it around her shoulders, pulling Eva against his hard torso to tuck in the edges firmly around her. She wrenched forward instinctively, unwilling to submit to his control of her, unwilling to let him win. The torch dipped precariously.
‘Give me that,’ he said, taking the torch from her. ‘We can’t afford to lose the light.’ He gathered up the reins in one hand. ‘Do you behave like this all the time? I pity the poor man married to you!’ Circling her with his arms, he jabbed his knees into the horse’s sides, setting the animal in motion, the jerky forward gait of the animal forcing her to grasp at his arm.
‘I’m not married,’ she bit out.
In the flickering light, he traced her haughty profile, the stubborn jut of her chin, and chuckled, a long low rumble in his chest. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Your father must be wringing his hands trying to find someone for you!’
The luscious sweep of her eyelashes dipped fractionally. He caught the fleeting trace of vulnerability crossing her face, swiftly masked. ‘My father is dead, as is my brother. Killed by the King, fighting to protect their land!’ she blurted out, then clapped her hand across her mouth. Why had she not curbed her speech? She rode with a man who had arrived at the castle with a knight wearing the King’s colours. It was easy to guess where this man’s allegiances lay.
‘So your father was a rebel,’ he said slowly, ducking his head to avoid a low-hanging branch, steering the horse through the last few trees at the woodland edge and out on to open ground. His eye trailed across the flushed curve of her cheeks, the ebony hair curling out from beneath her linen wimple. ‘With his own land,’ he added significantly. The saddle leather creaked as he adjusted his weight slightly.
A hot prickling sensation swept up her spine. She had made a mistake. Playing the role of a servant, she should have remembered that her family would have nothing, no land or estates, being entirely dependent on their master, or in this case, Lady Katherine. ‘No—no! I meant—his lord’s land.’
‘I see.’ But in truth, he didn’t see at all. He had caught the false note in her tone and wondered at it. What was she doing with Lady Katherine? Maybe the chit’s mother was living at the castle, too. As he tipped back in the saddle, leading the horse down the snowy slope to the castle, he told himself that the maid was not his concern. He shouldn’t care. But strangely, he realised that he did.
* * *
‘My God, Eva! What happened to you? Where did you go?’ Katherine emerged through the arched doorway leading to the great hall, her graceful body silhouetted by the light spilling out behind her. Her willowy slenderness was encased in a sleeveless gown of patterned red velvet, cut low at the sides to reveal a tight-fitting underdress of rose-pink silk. Descending the wooden staircase, set at right angles to the door, she came down into the bailey. At the bottom of the steps, she paused, hugging her arms around her chest to ward off the cold. ‘Goodness, it’s freezing! We were so worried, especially when Peter came back and told us you had run off into the forest.’
‘I’m