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By the saints above, what would he do? He furrowed his brows as he tugged her closer. “I could kiss you into submission.” He paused, giving the light in her eyes time to go from shock to outrage before adding, “Perhaps it would be safer for both of us if I were to simply truss you like a stag.”
“You would not dare.” She tried backing away.
A sleeve of her gown hung in tatters. While securing her with one hand, he tore a strip of fabric free, wrapped it around her wrists, then tied it off and smiled. “I would dare much more, but this will suffice—for now.”
Marianne stared at her wrists as if trying to make sense of what had just happened. She twisted her hands to no avail, succeeding only in chafing her flesh. Then she tried plucking at the bindings with her teeth. Again, her efforts were futile.
Finally, she hung her head and held out her arms. “Please, my lord, I will cease tormenting you, if you will but free my hands.”
He wanted to believe her, but Bryce had an inkling she was simply lying to get her own way. The sound of booted feet walking by the tent quickly made him choose. He took his dagger out of its sheath and slid the shiny blade through the cloth. “I cannot help but wonder what this stupidity will cost me.”
As soon as she was free, Marianne tried shoving him away. It was comforting to know his suspicions were still functioning well. She pushed at him again, catching his wound with the heel of her palm. He gasped at the sharp jab of pain.
She stepped back and stared at him for a heartbeat before nearly crying, “Oh, my lord, you are bleeding.”
“For the life of me I can hardly imagine why.” Sarcasm was not his usual way of dealing with inane comments of the obvious, but there was nothing usual about this day thus far.
“That is where I stabbed you.”
He quelled the urge to nod in agreement and at the same time swallowed his retort. Instead of making her appear the fool, he pointed at a jug by the cot. “What is in there?”
Marianne crossed the floor and retrieved the jug. “‘Tis the most bitter wine to ever exist, but it will serve the purpose.” On the way back, she picked up the eating knife from the floor. At his loud sigh, she quickly assured him, “To cut bindings from my gown.” Once she returned to his side, she pushed his cloak from his shoulders. “Undress.”
“Such an inviting offer, my lady.” Bryce took the knife and jug from her hands. “After you.”
Chapter Four
Marianne nearly choked on her sudden gasp for air. “After me?” Her rescuer was beginning to prove more dangerous than her captors.
Ashforde shook his head. “I apologize. That was unwarranted. ” He studied the tent flap. “As much as I truly appreciate your offer to bind the wound you made, we have not the leisure.”
Her own glance toward the flap assured her that no one was in the entryway. “There appears to be no lurking danger.” She hacked off a strip of her gown and held it out to him. “This will not take long.”
He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward the back of the tent. “They are pacing before the flap. Now that you have told them your brother will see them dead, they cannot risk letting you return to Faucon.” After slitting the tent wall, he held it open. “If you wish to leave here in one piece, head straight toward the forest. I will be right behind you.”
She hesitated, not certain whether to believe him or not. The shuffling sound of footsteps near the front flap hastened her decision. Marianne ducked out of the opening and as quickly as her tired body would move, dashed for the cover offered in the dense growth of the forest.
“Here, this way.” Ashforde strode past her, leading them off to the right and to a waiting horse.
He pushed her unceremoniously up onto the saddle and guided her hands to the beast’s mane. “Hang on.” Without sparing her little more than a glance, he took the reins and led them deeper into the woods.
Marianne gripped the coarse hair with all her might. Now that she was finally off her feet and not quite as worried about her immediate safety, she could feel the exhaustion of her body. The parts of her body that did not ache, burned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, drank or even slept for more than a few hours.
When he slowed down to assess his bearings, Marianne licked her dry lips. “Do you think I could have a drink?”
He looked up at her. “There’s a stream just a short way from here. We will be there shortly.”
Sunlight broke through the foliage. The shimmering brightness rippled across his ruggedly handsome face, creating an unworldly glow from his eyes.
She stared into the ice-blue depths and searched her suddenly empty head for an answer. The combination of anger and fear had partly clouded her vision in the tent. But now, without the blinding need for bravado, she could clearly see him. And what she saw took the breath from her body and all logical thought from her mind.
His blue eyes were the shade of a winter pond’s frozen surface—and just as transparent. Ashy-colored lashes created a frame that made the spellbinding gaze only more intense, more piercing.
He didn’t just look at her—he seemed to peer into her very heart and soul. In that instant, she felt as unkempt, vulnerable and exhausted as she must appear.
“I…um…very well.” In an attempt to coax her tongue to form coherent words, she dropped her gaze. “I can wait.” Never in her life had she felt so ill at ease and inept around a man. And with the number of men coming and going from Faucon, she had been around a great many. She wished for the earth below her to somehow open and swallow her whole.
“Are you all right?” Concern laced his words.
Good Lord above, the man would soon think she was addled. Not that she blamed him after her senseless response. But a little worry on his part might be just what he deserved for the way he’d handled her in the tent.
If she answered him, he would hear the amusement in her voice, so she merely nodded. When he turned and adjusted the reins in his hands, Marianne did her best to swallow the laughter bubbling in her throat, but some of it escaped.
He looked at her over his shoulder, his soul-searching eyes narrowed. “You are amused?”
“A little.” Marianne shrugged. So much for hiding her laughter.
He resumed their journey with a smothered curse. It was cruel to let him believe she was not whole and hearty. He had threatened to truss her like a gutted stag. It would serve him right to live with his worries and thoughts for a time. But she was unable to be that deceitful.
“I am not addled.”
“So you say.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Without halting their progress, he said, “I find it interesting that someone in your position would consider this amusing.”
“You said you posed no threat.”
“And you believed a complete stranger? Do you not find that a mite foolish?”
She found it more than a mite foolish—and before he had the opportunity to realize what she was about to do, she unclamped her fingers from the horse’s mane, sent a quick silent prayer to God, then threw herself sideways from the saddle.
Marianne hit the ground with a thud, rolling immediately to her knees. Her heart racing, she scrambled blindly to her feet and ran into a solid wall of masculine flesh and muscle encased in chain mail.
Before she could back away, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “While I fully expected you to seek your freedom, I thought you would at least wait until we were gone from this area.”
Marianne said nothing. She only tugged sharply at his hold, trying to get him to release her.
He slid a knife from its sheath and held it between them. Her stomach flipped with dread. Her head spun wildly. She’d been right not to trust him. She would die here in the middle of nowhere and her family would never know.
Frantic, she kicked at him while trying to pull free from the hold he now had on her one wrist.
“Stop it.” He jerked hard, slamming her body against his. “Cease this stupidity.”
Before she could gasp for another breath, he pulled her wrist up, slapped the handle of the knife into her palm and forced her fingers to curl around it. He then stepped back and pointed toward the denseness of the forest. “You are free to go.”
No sooner had she spun in the direction he’d suggested, he added, “Be warned, the men who took you to begin with are right behind us.”
Marianne froze.
“You need make a choice right now. Either get moving into the forest, or get back on the horse and let us be gone from here.”
The distant sound of men’s voices ended her mental debate. She bid freedom farewell—for now—and turned back toward the horse. Without saying anything, he assisted her into the saddle, grabbed the reins and took off at a run, leading the horse behind him.
Marianne clung to the horse’s mane. “You cannot keep up this pace. I can ride pillion behind you.”
“I thank you, no. My camp is but a short ways from here.”
“Perhaps, but would it not be faster—” Shouts from the men chasing them cut her argument short.
Marianne turned in the saddle and saw four men racing toward them on foot. All of them were from the group who had kidnapped her at Faucon. And all of them held their swords before them, ready to do battle.
Her rescuer drew his weapon, while urging, “Go. My men are camped straight down this path at the first clearing.”
“I cannot leave you here alone.”
His eyebrows rose at her statement, but he only tossed her the reins and smacked the horse’s rump. The animal bolted, nearly throwing her from the saddle.
The effort to bring the beast under control nearly drained her of what life she had left. But she quickly dragged the horse’s head around, slowed its pace and headed back to where Ashforde fought the other men.
She had to give him credit—he fought well. He had already dispatched one man by the time she returned to the clearing. With a sudden burst of renewed energy, Marianne slid from the saddle and led the horse into the forest where she wrapped the reins around a small tree trunk. She then picked her way from tree to tree and retrieved the dead man’s weapon. Before anyone saw her, she raced back to the horse and mounted with the aid of a fallen log.
While being harbingers of death came easily to her brothers, she’d never killed a man. But there was a first time for everything and that time seemed to be now.
Two of the men attacked Ashforde. The third had spotted her and rushed in her direction. The expression of glee on his faced boded ill will. Marianne sent a quick, silent prayer for strength and kicked the horse into movement.
Her enemy did not appear to be afraid of her. In fact, he appeared to be laughing at her. She tested the balance of the sword in her hand. Poorly made, it did not swing evenly. She held the blade low, parallel to the ground, resting the flat of the blade against her leg and charged toward the man.
Caught off guard by the mere idea that a female would bring him injury, the man left his chest unprotected, making it a perfect target.
When she swung the blade straight ahead, the open target was one she did not miss.
The expression of complete surprise on his face just before he fell would have amused her, had she not been overwhelmed with the sudden urge to vomit. Marianne blinked away the tears threatening to blur her vision and urged the horse toward Ashforde.
With her borrowed sword still lodged in the chest of the man she’d just killed, the only thing she could think to do was to run one of the men over with the horse.
She chose the one farthest from the forest, leaned low over the beast and urged the horse toward the man. Flesh and bone were little protection beneath the heavy hooves of a full-grown warhorse.
Her tactic gave Ashforde the chance to dispatch the man still standing. He spun around, knocked the last man to the ground and then pressed the tip of his sword to the hollow at the base of the man’s neck.
Fear tightened the muscles in the kidnapper’s neck. He swallowed hard, unwittingly pushing his throat up against the tip of the blade.
As she dismounted, Marianne heard Ashforde ask, “Why would you think to go into battle against a knight without wearing your armor?”
She joined the men and realized he had asked a valid question, considering her kidnapper wore only a padded gambeson. The heavily quilted short tunic offered no safety against the thrust of a sword.
“We thought the odds were in our favor.”
Ashforde stepped back and ordered, “Get up.” After the man rose, he knocked the sword from the lout’s hand. “Tell your master this game is finished. Leave Marianne of Faucon alone.” He placed the edge of his weapon across the man’s throat for emphasis, adding, “You won’t be as fortunate the next time.”
When the sword lowered, the man took off at a dead run. But it wasn’t that man who captured her attention. It was the one who’d remained. Ashforde.
The sheen of sweat coated his face. His overlong hair, damp from his exertion, curled about his neck. Iceblue eyes glimmered with rage.
Warmth flowed through her veins. Her heart lurched before settling into an uneven rhythm. It made little logical sense. But she’d learned long ago that logic sometimes got in the way. She swallowed a gasp and bit back a smile.
His clothing, chain mail and weapons were of excellent quality, so apparently he had wealth enough. She’d just seen him in battle and knew without a doubt that he was strong and brave enough. While his rugged good looks made her heart beat faster, he seemed not to notice them, so he obviously was not vain. His speech was refined, so he would be considered intelligent enough.
There were many unanswered questions regarding Ashforde and she wasn’t at all certain she could completely trust him. But she could not deny the simple truth her entire being screamed—this was the man.
Rhys would not be able to find anything wrong with him. And if he did, well, she’d go over his head. It would be easy to throw herself on the mercy of her sisters by marriage.
The biggest obstacle would be Ashforde himself. How was she to convince him that a match between them would be well served? He seemed honorable, a man of his word…another smile twitched at her lips. Had he not himself threatened to kiss her into submission? What would it take for him to make good that threat?
He turned to look down the path and flinched. Worried about the wound she’d given him earlier, Marianne touched his arm. “Have you suffered further injury?”
Bryce couldn’t help himself. He laughed in disbelief. The woman had disobeyed a direct order. Yet she stood there inquiring about his welfare? She should be concerned with her own. Had the ordeal of killing a man left her in a state of shock?
“You were told to go join my men.”
“I know, but you were outnumbered.”
“Those men were inexperienced knaves. I was in little danger of losing life or limb.”
“How could you be certain of that? I only thought to help.”
Oh, aye, it was comforting to know that this woman, barely more than a girl, thought he needed her help in a fight. In truth, it was nearly more galling than he could bear. “While your brothers may require your assistance, I do not.”
When she finished laughing, a sound that set him more on edge than he already was, she said, “My brothers do not require assistance from anyone.”
Her laughing statement drew bile to his throat. To think, he’d once felt a moment’s guilt for using her as a pawn in his revenge.
He’d earned his title and lands by his prowess on the battlefield. He’d not become one of Matilda’s trusted men by any means other than the use of his sword arm. As much as he wanted to throw that fact in this woman’s face, he bit his tongue, adding the taste of his own blood to the bile.
By divulging that information he would only give away his plans. That was something he was not yet ready to do.
He could not prolong this discussion. If he did, he would end up losing what little control of his temper remained. “Get on the horse.”
“You are angry.”
If nothing else, she excelled at stating the obvious. “I would be concerned for any man who would not be angry.”
“I fail to understand. Why?”
Bryce felt that last thread holding his rage intact snap. He turned to face her. “Why?” To keep his hands from doing something he’d only regret, he tightened his grip on his sword until he thought his knuckles would break. “I do not require any more assistance from you than any of your brothers would. I have not lived this long by not knowing how to defend myself.”
“But—”
“Cease.” He lifted his free hand. Her shocked expression led him to realize that his fingers were curled into a fist. After unclenching his fingers, he said, “No. Do not say a word. I am a man, I know and understand my duties. And I perform them quite well. You, on the other hand, are a woman and it is obvious you do not know your duties. So, let me explain exactly what I wish you to do.”
She crossed her arms against her chest. “Oh, please, do.”
He ignored the sarcasm in her tone. “You will do as you are ordered, without question. When danger strikes you will take yourself to safety and stay there until I tell you otherwise.”
“You will, of course, let me know when to eat, drink, sleep and relieve myself?”
It wasn’t her question that added to his anger, it was her sickly oversweet tone and the brightly false smile she pasted on her face.
Bryce reached over and grabbed the reins of the horse. Before he was able to stop himself, he picked Marianne up and nearly threw her onto the saddle.
“We will be at my camp soon. Once there, you will keep your mouth shut.”
“If I choose not to?”
What was she looking for him to do? Did her brothers truly permit her this much free will? Did they never seek to restrain her mouth or manners?
It was no wonder that Marianne of Faucon was still unwed. What man in his right mind would wish for a wife so contrary and stubborn?
If anyone was foolish enough to marry her and later discovered her willfulness, what could he do? He would likely be risking his own life if he so much as raised a hand to her. If she did not kill the man in his sleep, her brothers would take care of the deed for her. And Bryce doubted if they would make it a quick or relatively painless death.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, silently praying for the strength to deal with this woman.
As if through a thick fog he again heard her laughter. For some odd reason it brushed soft and warm against his ear.
“You did not answer me, Ashforde. What will you do if I refuse to follow your high-handed orders?”
He opened his eyes and looked up at her. Marianne was leaning closer to him, smiling as if she had not a worry in the world. Perhaps it was time the woman learned that her brothers could not always protect her.
Before she could stop him, he pulled her off the horse and into his arms. Bryce fought to ignore the sudden heat rushing through his veins. He pretended he didn’t hear the loud, rapid tattoo of his heart in his ears.
With what he hoped was his most stern and commanding look, he glared down at her. The sparkle in her eyes and the half smile flitting at the corners of her parted lips was his first clue that he’d made a grave error in judgment.
Marianne reached up, ran her fingers through his hair and gently drew his head closer. “That took you long enough, my lord.” She brushed her lips against his, before pulling back to ask, “How much further do I need to go before you kiss me into submission?”
He closed his eyes and groaned. Dear Lord above, his enemy’s sister was out to seduce him.
And God help him, he rather enjoyed the thought.
Chapter Five
Marianne looked away from the shimmer of high emotions racing across his eyes. Had she made a grievous mistake with her boldness? The queasy churn of nervousness fought with the butterflies in her stomach.
Surely his ragged groan and stark expression spoke of his horror at her actions. But when she tried to pull free, he tightened his hold.
“Forgive my boldness, my lord. Let me go.” The bands of steel surrounding her only strengthened at her plea.
Ashforde dipped his head, brushing his lips across her cheek. “Let you go? I thought you wanted me to kiss you into submission?”
His raspy tone of voice bid her do what she must to gain her freedom. “Yes—I mean no.” At this moment she wanted to run. “Please, I rashly spoke out of turn. I did not mean to sound so wanton.”
A low, soft laugh was his response. Before she could say anything else, he cupped her face. Strong fingers held her still.
He did nothing more than stare down at her. A mind-robbing look that kept her rooted to the ground. His hand on her face seemed to burn her flesh. Far from hurting her, his touch made her want to lean into the warmth.
Some wild, uncontrollable part of her wondered what his lips would feel like against her own, but ingrained self-preservation warned this was not the time, nor the place to make that discovery. Long-suffered caution urged her to be rational. To think of her safety at this moment and not of her wants.
Before his soul-searching gaze could cast any more of a spell about her, Marianne pushed hard against his chest. “For the love of God, please, let me go.”
For a moment longer he held her, an odd half smile curving his lips. To her relief he relaxed his hold. “You need not fear me.”
“Fear you?” Without thought, she admitted, “I fear myself more.”
Ashforde stepped away and glanced at the dead men on the ground. “With good reason.” He’d spoken more to himself than to her, so she remained silent. The last thing she wished to do was repeat the argument that had led her to act so foolishly in the first place.
“Let us go.” He grabbed the reins to the horse and helped her mount. “My camp is nearby.”
True to his word, Ashforde’s men were camped a short distance down the path. Though Marianne wouldn’t quite call it a camp. It was nothing more than a clearing with half a dozen men gathered around a crackling fire. Their horses were tied to nearby bushes. Beyond that, she heard the rushing of a stream. A small, hastily erected tent leaned toward the trees at the right side of the clearing.
And at the moment, it was the most wondrous sight she could envision.
She slid from the saddle and could not decide what she wanted to do first—seek much-needed slumber in the tent, slake her thirst with water from the stream, or fill her belly with the unidentifiable meat roasting over the fire.
The wildest-looking man she had ever seen in her life rose from his seat by the fire and approached, ending any thought of sleep, water or food. Marianne instinctively stepped behind Ashforde.
An ill-healed scar twisted one side of the man’s face, giving him a permanent sneer. White and gray streaks in his untrimmed, brownish-hued hair lent him the appearance of a wild animal.
“Jared!” Ashforde quickly stepped forward, meeting the man halfway across the clearing and grasping his forearms in greeting. “When did you arrive?”
“While you were out gaming.” The man nodded toward Marianne. “I see you won.”
“That’s debatable,” Ashforde mumbled before waving her forward. “Marianne of Faucon, this unkempt dog is Jared of Warehaven.”
The Dragon? He looked more like a war-scarred wolf than a dragon. She looked from Warehaven to Ashforde uncertain what to think, or what to say. As far as she knew, Warehaven was her brothers’ enemy. So, what did that make Ashforde?
Yet, Jared bowed slightly before fixing his off-colored green gaze on her and said, “Your brother Darius is well-known to me. He is an interesting man.”