Captured by her enemy…

Falling for the man

Cressida Howe, the Archer, is a well-tuned weapon. But she’s also a woman captivated by a man—Eldric of Hawksmoor the warrior knight her father ordered her to kill. Instead, for years, Cressida has simply watched him… Now she’s been captured by her formidable enemy, and her well-ordered world comes crashing down, for Eldric is even more compelling up close. Cressida curses her traitorous heart—this assassin has fallen for her target!

NICOLE LOCKE discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly!

Also by Nicole Locke

Secrets of a Highland Warrior

Lovers and Legends miniseries

The Knight’s Broken Promise

Her Enemy Highlander

The Highland Laird’s Bride

In Debt to the Enemy Lord

The Knight’s Scarred Maiden

Her Christmas Knight

Reclaimed by the Knight

Her Dark Knight’s Redemption

Captured by Her Enemy Knight

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Captured by Her Enemy Knight

Nicole Locke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90150-9

CAPTURED BY HER ENEMY KNIGHT

© 2020 Nicole Locke

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

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There are strangers, acquaintances and friends

in your life. If you’re lucky, once in a while

someone comes along who is that extra bit more,

and it’s difficult to explain how treasured they are.

Virginia Heath…friend ’til we’re all crinkly with age

and fellow writing adventurist…

I’m ever so glad you came along.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Spring 1297—England

It was the stink of the port that she hated the most. A cross between a hacked cadaver whose entrails had been exposed too long to a blistering sun, the vigorously repeated discharge of urine and the crisp, salted sea air that carried a promise of a better life somewhere else.

Those promises were a lie. Cressida Howe knew there was nothing better. Which served her well most days. Today wasn’t that day.

Today she needed fortune or fate to give her some grain of luck. She knew they wouldn’t, however, and not because she’d stopped praying, but because six months ago she’d prevented an obsessive mercenary from completing his intended murder.

A person whom he ordered she kill, but she hadn’t. Not that she had failed. She never failed. She’d simply…disobeyed orders. And now that exacting mercenary wanted her punished.

Evading his wrath wasn’t an option because he was hired by the Warstones, the most bloodthirsty of families; thus, he had unlimited resources and unlimited hate. He was also her father. Her only family.

Weaving her way through the throng of commerce and vagrants, she balanced between the uneven planks of the walkway, all the while keeping her hood sufficiently tucked to hide any chance of recognition.

Her being a woman wasn’t why she feared discovery. If any dared attack they’d realise their fatal mistake soon enough. No, what she had to hide above all else was who she was.

The Archer. The sole weapon and creation of her father, Sir Richard Howe… The Englishman. Years of training with every weapon save a sword. But she didn’t need that iron when she held her bow and a quiver of arrows, especially the ones she had carved herself in the hours spent alone. Which were more frequent as she went from being a child to a woman and her father’s commitment to hiding her intensified. Until her face wasn’t seen by anyone unless he chose it.

Everything was as he chose it. She was raised to be a weapon without thought, without questioning the rights and wrongs of what he ordered. She obeyed him at all costs.

Thus, it was shocking to both of them when she’d disobeyed him, shooting the arrow that stopped him killing his target. The look on his face… Her utter wretchedness could not have been worse than when God banished the angels from heaven.

And banished she was, for he left her behind. He was everything to her: life, death, survival. Her only contact with him now was through messages. He gave her tasks to do. It had been that way for months. Her loyalty to him in question, she obeyed his every command now.

Except…except the last message, the last task, came with a terrible rumour—that her father had kidnapped a child to raise. It had to be a lie, one she meant to discover the truth of for herself, so, between tasks, she’d followed her father’s trail here to the docks. To find him, to confront him and demand to be taken back.

Until then, she needed to find a sufficient hiding place for the day. One from which she could freely observe, but not be seen. Fortunately, she knew just where to observe the ships and the people. It was the same place she went yesterday and the day before that and the day before that because for a sennight she’d been climbing one of the port’s last remaining copse of trees.

She didn’t know why the trees survived the copious amounts of building around the docks. Perhaps it was for shade, perhaps for a landmark, but for now she would take advantage of it.

First circling her tree to test the crowd and determine if she was being followed, she waited one heartbeat more to be satisfied no one watched before climbing quickly to a secure branch, one where she could wait in relative comfort. It was half-hidden with foliage, low enough to jump from and not break her legs, but high enough to see passengers boarding and disembarking from the merchant ships to France. Dover was a Cinque Port, one which was required to provide ships and crew to the King should he need it. When she had arrived, she’d spent much time scanning each of the faces around her. But it had been like this for days and now she was exhausted.

So very tired of the games, of the travel. Of hiding and, when she couldn’t hide, she was tired of fighting. Her father was punishing her. First with exile, then with mercenaries who attacked and whom she couldn’t kill. She knew this to be the truth for the messages the mercenaries carried told her so.

But the mercenaries were also the ones who had told her the terrible rumour.

Cressida settled on the branch, leaned her back against the truck and closed her eyes. She was so tired. As no ships were leaving, there was no urgency yet. Over the years, she’d learned to rest when she could. Soon enough there would be a battle. She expected more mercenaries to find her, to fight, spar and to disperse once again.

As for death? She didn’t worry about her own life, for that had been forfeit upon her very birth, but she did worry about her father no longer loving her. It was something she must remedy. If she didn’t have him, she would be a weapon alone.

Her fear was that he’d already crossed the water to France before she could get here. It couldn’t be. She was younger and the better rider. She merely had to wait and watch some more.

She closed her eyes again. There were no ships sailing right now, no entourage that looked to be her father’s, she’d rest only a moment…

The lethal clamp of a calloused hand on her ankle broke her rest. Asleep? Cressida kicked to free herself and reached for a weapon. Her bow and quiver hanging from a branch above were useless. Her daggers were caught under her cloak and unreachable. The manacled fingers only gripped tighter.

A man’s hand, a warrior’s. Her eyes snapped to her captor.

‘All this time, I never thought you’d make a mistake. I never thought I’d catch you.’

Achingly familiar thick, long brown hair, and the bluest of eyes gleaming with victory. A jawline cut from the side of cliffs covered in lush stubble. Broad shoulders, thick, pronounced arms, all his features entirely too close because Eldric of Hawksmoor was a giant among men.

No matter how near or far, she always knew who he was.

‘You,’ she croaked.

A very unfamiliar sardonic twist to his lips as he answered, ‘Me.’

Cressida gripped the branch over her head, anchored her body and slammed her free foot to the side of his head.

A grunt, a grip loosened and she scrambled to a higher branch. He dived for her other foot and she jerked it out of his way, only to lose her grip. Lurching too far to the left, he leapt to get under her.

Clenching her right fist with her left palm, she jammed her elbow into his neck, he staggered back, but her balance was off. Grasping for her bow, then quiver, she fell to the hard-packed earth.

No breath. One moment, two, she curled in a ball and rolled as the warrior vaulted down from the tree.

With his fingertips brushing her cloak, she bounded to her feet. He leaned forward to snatch her and she gripped his outstretched wrist. Without letting go, she kicked him in the ribs two times. Relishing his lost breath, she spun into the crowd.

Trapped by people. Darting left, she hesitated and it cost her. Eldric grasped her cloak and yanked.

She dropped on her back, her breath lost again upon impact. No moment to recover as she rolled to avoid the slam of his fist. He hit the dirt, but she felt the scrape of his knuckles.

Too close. His hand caught in her cloak and ripped the hood away. He pulled back for another punch and jerked, his fist spasming before her nose.

‘A woman,’ he rasped.

Wide blue eyes, parted lips. His shock was as visceral to her as much as to him. No one saw her like this. A female. A weapon; utterly exposed and vulnerable.

Cressida slammed her head into his nose.

‘God’s bones!’ He reared back.

She pulled her own fist back to hit him again, he caught it and jammed it down to the side of her head. She struck with her left and he pinned his legs on either side of her thighs to restrain that limb above her head as well.

His eyes watering, nose bleeding, hair tangled and plastered to his brow, Eldric of Hawksmoor, the only man who could, the only man who shouldn’t, had caught and trapped her.

Eldric’s ringing ears, his pounding bruised ribs and his throbbing throat were marked cues this wasn’t a dream or nightmare. The pain was substantial enough to know with certainty he was awake.

Awake and staring down at the palest of wide blue eyes and the lushest of white-gold hair in multiple plaits that didn’t tame the loose curls framing the rest of her dramatic features.

Her skin wasn’t as pale as her other colouring, but instead spoke of time spent in the sun, though spring had barely begun. Her cheeks were rounded, her lips a full, soft-rose colour.

The rest of her… Everything about her woman’s form lying flush on her back, his hands wrapped around her wrists, was stunning. She was small, her bones fine, but strong, the curve of breasts, the indent of hips, all wrapped in warrior’s garb. Inside her dark clothing were sewn multiple straps holding several daggers that dug into his legs. Her boot blade was lying in the dirt beside them. Spilled around them was a quiver and bow that had fallen along with her from the branch above.

A woman, but also a merciless killer. It was a marked clue he wasn’t dreaming because he could never have imagined this. The woman pinned beneath him was the very enemy he’d been pursuing for months. She was the warrior, the Archer, who had killed his comrades.

She also seemed…familiar to him, though that had to be because of his shock. He’d only ever seen her from a distance fully garbed, covered and hidden in tree foliage. She could not be familiar; else he would have known her gender…he would have—Eldric shook his head.

The Archer struggled beneath him; her wide eyes remaining on his, as if she was as stunned for being caught as he was for realising her identity. The ringing in his ears grew louder. The murmurings of the crowd slapped against the words repeating inside his head.

The Archer was a woman. The Archer who killed his friends was a stunningly beautiful woman.

The words became almost a chant until she bucked to free herself and he jammed his weight against her. The rush of breath and her sudden stillness centred his conflicting thoughts.

For years, he’d fought for King Edward’s causes and earned his distinction to become a knight, then a spy. In the battles since the King’s campaign against Scotland began, he’d fought valiantly and for what was right. Then, in a battle, an arrow had slashed across his right arm and struck the friend who watched his back. More fighting, another arrow slash and Michael was felled. Among the men fighting and fallen he had tried to find the one who dared shoot an arrow among those clashing with swords, but he saw no one and called for a retreat.

Another battle, another slash to the same arm. The scenario was all too acutely familiar. He swung his gaze until he saw a figure in a tree. Sword out to anyone who dared approach, but the cry of pain and Philip falling held him back.

Blinded by wrath, bound by duty, determined to pursue a cowardly murderer and frantic to share words with a dying friend, Eldric knelt while Philip died in his arms. By the time he looked to the trees again, the Archer was gone. After that day, Eldric was no longer merely King Edward’s knight. He was a man with a vow, a quest: to seize this killer and deliver justice for his friends.

The Archer was his prey and now his captive. He had her in his very grip. Vengeance for him; justice met when the King executed her at the Tower. He seethed with the very need to fulfil his vow.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she gasped.

Her eyes widened more; her lips parted. Yes, this was right. She would beg for his mercy and he would give none. She deserved no man’s pity. ‘Say it again. Tell me.’

A pinched crease in the middle of her brow. ‘I can’t breathe.’

The Archer was…a woman. He was a warrior knight, trained to protect. He eased his weight and released his hands. God’s toes, what had he become? What—?

A fist flew into his crunched nose. He saw nothing but blackness and stars, felt her twist out from under him. Through debilitating pain, he opened a clenched eye and snatched her fleeing leg. Her arms full of her dropped weaponry, she smacked hard to the ground.

A grunt, a rush of breath. She didn’t move. Partially dragging himself until she was trapped in his arms again, he flipped her over.

She was limp; her eyes closed. Dead? He put a hand on her chest. She breathed, but she wouldn’t wake.

The murmurings of the crowd, of people staring and walking by, intruded into his world. He scooped up the woman, held her to his chest and faced them all. For a moment, a declaration began in his chest, a thumping of something primal, a claiming, before he clutched her closer and shoved his way through the crowd.

Chapter Two

The Archer woke as Eldric tied her other wrist to the bed. She jerked to free herself, but it was too late. Her ankles were bound together and each of her wrists were secured to the headboard behind her. Around her mouth was a cloth so she could make no sound until he determined she would.

Completely defenceless, her eyes blazed frustration and indignation. Eldric felt a small thrill at her defiance and, perplexing most of all, relieved. Because she was well enough to want to fight him. Their…altercation…had not harmed her.

Brutish body, brutish hands. His parents had often teased he was left on their doorstep by a mighty oak. Always larger than anyone else, he was acutely aware of his size and the damage he could cause. Other kids would jump from one side of the stream bed to the other, whereas he merely took a step. If there was a rope to swing out over water and dive, it was never for his use and enjoyment. Merely climbing a tree caused sturdy branches to break.

Unless he was unleashed in battle where his entire body was free, he was constantly contained. Indoors was difficult. Low ceilings, small entryways, narrow hallways. Garderobes were the worst. Dining in a hall required him to sit at the end of a table—even then, he took the place of three others.

Only in battle could he be free…and in his imagination. He had spent months relishing the imagery of fighting the Archer, of exacting significant harm. He knew his enemy was small and slight, but that meant nothing. Everyone was small and slight compared to him. He had no intention of containing any of his strength and, before he knew the Archer was a woman, that was exactly what he’d done. Then her hood tore free and revealed…beauty.

The Archer being a female was unfathomable. His fighting a female was equally unheard of. His nose, throbbing and swelling from her strike, altered his thinking. Still, when he trapped her leg, he had only meant to halt her pursuit as she twisted out from under him. But when she thumped to the ground at his merest touch, echoes of his past taunted him.

All the time he carried her through the crowds, she didn’t wake. He concentrated on the fluttering of her breath, the flickering of her closed eyelids and…worried.

Over the Archer, who had killed his friends and, no doubt, other Englishmen. His rage at this enemy only increased because he was caring. All for naught. The Archer was awake and even now furtively trying to slacken her bindings.

‘Stop trying to loosen the gag with your tongue,’ he said. ‘You’ll only cause yourself thirst and I have no intention to quench it.’

She swallowed and stilled her jaw.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ he said with a smirk.

She kicked her bound legs, pushing the coverlet to the floor.

‘Even if you could loosen those ropes, do you think I’d let you out of the room? No, you’re here for as long as I want you here.’

It was the only place they could be. When he’d approached that copse of trees, he had no thought other than capturing the Archer. Numerous times over the last few months he’d got close. Discovered he entered one door of a building while his enemy exited by another.

He learned that hesitating, waiting at all, cost him. No more. Trapped in a tree, unaware he’d approached from behind, was an opportunity he wouldn’t waste.

If the Archer had been a man, it would come down to a fight he would win, then dragging his enemy’s body through the port until guards stopped him. There would be a swift explanation, then he would proceed on to buying a cart, rope, etc. All to tie the Archer down and trap him on the way to London. Eldric didn’t care about the Archer’s comfort. If he pissed over himself on the way to his formal execution, it mattered not. He only cared to finally secure an enemy who had alluded him for far too long.

And he had captured the Archer, but she was an unconscious woman because of his brutal hands, brutal strength. The buying of a cart and mere explanation were no longer feasible and he’d not readied a location to take her where they wouldn’t be seen.

Unfortunately, he could hardly be hidden and his deeds… He’d fought a woman! If she hadn’t been swift enough, the fist blow he’d aimed for her face would have… He couldn’t think of it.

Others were thinking it, the crowd for one, and he couldn’t blame them. Some of the children who had watched them fight were scampering behind them. Their excited chatter and scuffling feet abraded him at every step. He wanted to roar for them to leave. As a knight, his actions were unconscionable. As a spy for King Edward, they were grievous.

Children thinking him a monster. What could he say to change their opinion? That it was the tiny frail woman in his arms who was the true evil? She looked anything but. Her colour, her vibrancy… Her beauty alone muddled his thoughts. The way she could fight muddled his reasoning.

And it was a bitter reminder of who she truly was. The Archer at all costs must be contained. Urgency overtook him to find somewhere to confront her.

In the end, coin was on his side, as was the sword against his hip. He entered the nearest inn and ordered the best room, which was on the ground floor. Large enough to sleep many, but sparsely filled, which provided space inside for his heavy frame. The only bed seemed adequate to support him.

Out of every scenario he had ever envisaged when he finally captured the Archer, her being a woman tied to his bed was never one of them. Every accusation he expected to fling, every slam of his fists, every broken finger and absolute punishment thwarted.

He had the Archer and no way to release his wrath. The world for him was only good and evil. Right and wrong. When there was evil, there was justice. The Archer was a woman? God’s bones, toes and any other body part, now he had questions.

Using his left hand, and staring down at her diminutive form, he yanked the gag away. ‘Explain yourself.’

Licking her lips, Cressida stared at Eldric. Her Eldric. Only once had she dared be this close to him. It was at a Christmas dance in Swaffham where she thought to observe this warrior from afar, but he’d requested a dance. To hide her identity, she’d darkened her hair and worn a mask, but every moment her heart had pounded in her chest much like it was doing now.

‘Explain myself? For what? You snatched me from a tree and have tied me—’ She opened her eyes and feigned shock. ‘I’ve my maidenhead. Please don’t hurt me. My family will pay whatever silver you want.’

‘Don’t,’ he growled.

‘Don’t what?’ she pleaded with all the innocence she’d never felt. She must keep Eldric distracted until she escaped. ‘I have done nothing! I—’

‘Nothing!’ Eyes burning with retribution, his vibrating body loomed over her. Bound tight, she pulled her head away and caved her stomach to avoid what blows she could.

A rough sound escaped his throat as he stepped back. She had truly hurt him when they’d fought. His nose and one of his eyes were swelling. There was a mark at the side of his neck where she had elbowed him. Tomorrow that would be purple, as would the rest of his face. She’d given him all of her fiercest of blows and none of them had been enough to take him down.

‘Don’t,’ he enunciated very carefully, ‘do that either.’

This time she didn’t know what she’d done. Her confusion real.

His brows drew in. ‘Did you think I would strike you?’

Never, her action was only instinct and training. Unless in battle, Eldric was all too careful with his body. When she dared watch him with women—before she couldn’t watch any more—he was painfully formal, his arms unnaturally at his sides. The women always appeared inadequate for him. It didn’t seem to matter for him, they often… Cressida squashed the familiar burning of jealousy in her chest.

‘How would I know what you would do?’ She tried to put disdain into her words. Knew they were weak because of past hurts she had no right to feel. ‘I don’t know you!’

‘Thank you for your lies. A dear reminder of who you are.’ He unsheathed a dagger at his waist, aimed the blade towards her throat. ‘No flinching?’ he mocked. ‘Don’t presume I wouldn’t hurt you. For months now, that is all I have thought of.’

‘You wouldn’t hurt a woman,’ she answered, knowing the truth. Unbeknown to him, she’d watched him for years.

He pressed it to her throat. ‘You don’t know me, though, remember?’

How many times would she forget her ruse? She felt the cool metal press her skin, but it did not bite. ‘Knights don’t hurt women.’

He eased the blade up, but his eyes flared. ‘Chivalry has long been gone from knighthood. It has no place during war. And we both know you’re no mere woman.’

Every ounce of Eldric was steeped in chivalry, though he hid it well when he did Edward’s nefarious deeds. As for the insult…that she deserved. Even now she could feel the sting on her forehead from when she’d tried to break his nose. Her foot throbbed where she’d kicked him and, after falling and losing her breath several times until she fainted, she still couldn’t catch her breath. A woman would normally only have these issues because she’d fainted from tightened undergarments. A true woman wouldn’t be bruised in the ribs after plunging from a tree to escape an enemy.

A true woman wouldn’t know what an injury was, let alone be able to inflict them on a giant of a man. No, she wasn’t a mere woman. If it wasn’t for that dance they had shared last winter, where she’d dressed and for one night pretended, she’d wonder if she was a woman at all.

‘I’m not anything,’ she said, covering her lies in partial truths. She was born and raised to be only what her father wished. ‘If it’s coin you want—’

‘Coin! I want your head and you well know it.’

It was a fact she wished wasn’t true. ‘Please, if you’d only listen to me—’ she didn’t need to hide the pain in her voice ‘—I can give you coin. I have family. If you let me go, I can get it for you.’

Eldric snorted. ‘You play a dangerous game, taunting me. Pretending I don’t know who you are or what you have done. I’ve caught you; I’ve bound you. You must know your life is mine to forfeit.’

Her forfeited life was something which was never in doubt.

Her father had raised her from infancy, kept her cloistered in different abbeys until she turned ten. On that birth date, he altered her role with him. No longer was she trained in private and kept hidden within the highest of walls; instead, as long as she wore her hood, she could travel with him. To learn to spy, to observe from afar and sometimes to thieve.

At first, he didn’t risk her life on enemy camps, but on fellow English ones. And that was when, a year or two later, she had first seen Eldric. It wasn’t his size that caught her attention. By then she’d travelled and seen enough of men that she only noted their weaknesses in case they should become targets.

No, it was Eldric’s actions that had arrested her. He whistled. She had never heard music until then. Prior to that, there had been no festival or celebratory events for her. The constantly rotating abbeys she was kept in secluded her in private chambers and the inhabitants never spoke to her.

At first it had been shocking to be around camps and noise, but Eldric was something other than mere noise. The songs he made were hauntingly beautiful.

Thus, she’d watched him most of all; she was grateful for his size, for it made it easy to see him as he went about his day with ease and laughter. And all the while from one tent to another, from one task to another—even in training. Constantly whistling.

Perhaps because of his size, strength and skill, he felt safe enough in the world for such exotic behaviour. If she had such a noticeable habit, her father would have carved out her tongue.

It also made it easy to find him again as the years went by and he kept his strange custom. And as time passed her fascination with him changed from that of a child to that of a woman. Until one day, when her father had given her another mission. Eldric had accepted King Edward’s position to spy. So, her father had ordered what he always did with Edward’s spies: for her to kill him.

‘What do you intend to do with me, or rather, with the person you believe I am?’ she whispered, coming back to the present with the awareness that his expression had changed to malice once more.

‘Think! I have pursued you for seasons now. Do I act like a man who is not certain? I know exactly what I will do with you. You are bound for the Tower of London for execution.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Ah, finally a reaction.’

‘Of course I’d react. I don’t know who you think I am. You snatched me from sleep, bound me to rape me and now tell me you want my head. Sir, please, you have the wrong—’

The pounding on the door made them jump. Aware of her vulnerability, she wrenched on the bindings until the bed creaked.

‘Stay still and quiet,’ he hissed. ‘It is only the supplies I ordered.’

As her father’s weapon, the Archer, she’d stay quiet, but as a female unlawfully abducted, her best bet would be to call out for help. She breathed in to call out—

‘Do you think to cry out?’ he sneered. ‘How would that favour you?’

He was right. She couldn’t trust the being on the other side to believe she was innocent. But she had to keep her ruse as a frightened female.

‘Let me go!’ She struggled.

‘You’re not going anywhere.’ With a harsh laugh, Eldric cracked open the door and stepped out. A moment or two more and he carried in a large tray with a small water basin and several linens and set it down on a chest. Another moment outside and he brought inside a smaller tray, laden with food and drink, and set it on the one available table.

The aromas of food and ale filled the room. Despite her training to go without, her mouth watered. He eyed her eyeing the food and smirked.

‘I didn’t think it would be so easy to break you,’ he said.

‘I’m already broken—what man ties a woman—?’

‘One that knows better when it comes to you, despite your gender. Despite your—’ His eyes skittered from her bound wrists down the curves of her body to her wrapped feet. Fear, and something else, brushed just under her skin as his gaze darkened and became almost calculating before his frown grew fierce and he jerked his head away.

She suddenly wished she hadn’t kicked off the linen that covered her. It was a weak protection, but at least in this moment it would prevent him from seeing her so clearly. The fact anyone could see her was a vulnerability. But for Eldric to do so was—

No, Eldric wasn’t looking at her as a woman. He was taking note of her size and seeing if the bindings held. Fully revealed to him, he could see the odd colours of her hair and eyes. When sunlight came, he’d see her freckles across her nose, the numerous scars. He’d compare her to his other women.

She’d only imagined his eyes lingered on her bound hands, at her body stretched against the bed. Imagined he saw her as a woman. Eldric would never see her as anyone other than the person who had killed his friends.

Her only option was to lie until she could escape. ‘You only think you know who I am. I’m trying to tell you, if there’s someone you’re trying to…capture, I’m not they. You’ve got me here, but the person you want could be escaping even now.’

‘Of course, you would continue to lie since every weapon you have is gone. Please, tell me more. Entertain me. I have all the time in the world to find the truth.’ He scoffed as if he was amused with her words, but a muscle ticked in his jaw as if her falsehood got under his skin. He gestured to the food. ‘I can eat while you starve. I can leave for the garderobe while you soil yourself. I can and will do what is necessary because we both know you’re anything but broken. But I will get you there.’

As if to prove his point, he leisurely unfastened his outer vest, throwing it towards a chair, though it slid to the floor. At the tray with the basin of water, he soaked the linen and wrung it. He did this slowly, methodically, as if his every thought were on those water droplets.

After all the accusations, the room seethed with a taut wariness punctuated by the sounds of splashing water and the wringing of cloth. She was used to her father and his games. Used to being ignored until he focused everything on her. And that focus was always violent. Words. Deeds.

Eldric wasn’t her father, but she was woefully without any other comparison. She might have watched others from afar, but she herself had never interacted with anyone. She didn’t know what to expect. Would he launch the dagger he threatened her with? Force her mouth and nose into the sodden linen until she suffocated?

Abruptly, he looked over his shoulder and caught her eye. She didn’t turn her gaze—it was all she had, to watch him as if he was just any other man to her. She concentrated on easing her heart rate, slowing her breath. Faked a bored mien though she could do nothing about the heated restlessness that coursed under her skin which she knew had everything to do with the proximity of this man. Another matter she could do nothing about. She’d been fascinated by him for far too long not to react when he was this near.

With a huff, he reached behind, yanked off his tunic and threw it towards the same chair. It also slid and billowed to the floor. Keeping that eerie silence between them, he lifted the cloth to his face, held it there. Dipped it back into the basin to soak.

All these years, she’d watched him from afar as he went about his daily routine. Never close enough, never fully, truly seeing him. Not like now.

His clothing couldn’t hide the structure of his body, but she could never have been prepared for what was underneath. The width of his shoulders defined by the mounds and striations of muscles from his arms to his neck. His spinal cord providing a straight boundary for the arrow-like cording that arched outwards.

The entirety of his back tapered fast and hard to his waist where his breeches hugged. The fabric was thickly woven and his back was to her, but now that his tunic was gone, there was nothing that hid his gender from her. His breeches outlined every honed muscle.

She swallowed.

How did she dare fight or think she could escape him? He was nothing but formidable strength and magnificent male. If she assessed him as simply an enemy, there would be no stopping him, his arms providing an easy reach should he snatch her and too long for her to get up close with a dagger. That was before he applied any strength. No, only with an arrow could he be killed.

The thought was unbearably desolate. The fact that there could be a way to fell him, that anything or anyone could harm him at all.

A grunt from him brought her eyes back up. He held the cloth to his face. She watched him minutely move his arms as if he was adjusting his nose. It was swelling, but she didn’t think she’d broken it.

She wanted, needed, to know. As far as he was concerned, she was an enemy, but for her…she didn’t want him hurt. ‘Is it broken?’

Another huff of breath and he dropped the linen. ‘If it was, would you add it to your trophies?’

Trophies were for those who wanted to boast of their winnings. Trophies, like mementos of sentimentality, were kept around a house to fondly remember past days. She had neither friends to regale, nor a home to hold such things…even if she owned anything. Even if the trophy was a mere ring, she couldn’t keep it. Anything that wasn’t essential to her survival was forbidden. In truth, she didn’t expect to keep her own life to fondly remember any past.

If fondly was a way to describe her past, which she doubted.

No, his talk of trophies made little sense to her, but the bite behind Eldric’s words did. She knew why he raged and wished her dead. She’d known it the moment his friend fell because her arrow pierced him. Though she hadn’t meant to harm his friend at the time, she had.

She’d been ordered to kill Eldric, but of course she couldn’t. Unbeknown to her father, she’d already been immersed in the warrior’s music and laughter. But she had to appease her father…and something in her wanted to help her warrior as well. She’d notched the arrow, meaning only to skim his arm so he’d swerve away from her reach. Her intention was to tell her father that the target was too far away.

Cressida tried to stop the next memory of that day. Tried to cease the piercing ache of guilt from creeping into her thoughts. But she couldn’t stop either, just as she couldn’t stop the past. She’d timed the arrow and the warning shot with absolute precision…and then the English warrior flanking Eldric’s side had dodged another opponent and unerringly went into the trajectory of her arrow. She watched as the man fell, as Eldric roared and searched the field so he could make amends.

The absolute anguish on his face, the whispering of vows made. She knew then that the dead man wasn’t merely a fellow warrior. She’d killed Eldric’s friend without meaning to, but that mattered little. Death was final and intentions meant nothing.

Ever since, Eldric had searched for her…the weapon, the murderer. All so he could tear her down and exact his vengeance. He had a right to his wrath, but it pained her all the same.

Eldric turned and she realised she hadn’t answered his question. His gaze skimmed her features and seemed disappointed, before he raised the linen to his face again. The water couldn’t be cold enough to stop the swelling.

‘You need peppermint,’ she whispered through a throat closed with remorse. She had hurt him…again.

Throwing the linen in the basin, splashing the water out of the bowl, he said, ‘Poison. That’s not your way.’

She was a weapon and possessed many lethal skills. In fact, she was quite adept at poison; still, he was right that she preferred the more direct route. One that separated her from her enemy. More and more she found she used the arrow as her means to kill. She feared it had nothing to do with her proficiency in it, but rather that she was beginning to feel something for her victims.

‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ she purposely stammered as if she feared him and his accusations. ‘Being a healer, I understand about poisoning, but I…would never poison someone. That goes against everything I am. I’m only suggesting something that could help you.’

‘This is the lie you come up with to entertain me? I will tell you this, it doesn’t. Attempt something else.’

She shook her head, knowing there was no answer for that. His presence was enough to make it difficult to keep the ruse that she was merely a woman visiting at the docks. She knew enough not to feign that she was the woman who threw up her skirts for coin and food, but she could be a traveller, one who was merely resting out in the open until her ship left.

But being around Eldric when he was so familiar made fissures in her ruse. The fact he refused to believe her even more. But he couldn’t know who she was, not really. He didn’t appear to recognise her from that night they had danced, when his hands had touched hers and her skirts had swirled between his legs.

Nor could he know for certain she was the Archer for her father. She’d maintained her distance from this man, from all men. No one saw her.

So maintaining she was somehow innocent was her only available option. It was a cover that couldn’t be maintained long term, but if there was the smallest chance she could cause doubt, convince him he had captured the wrong person, she would. Otherwise…

Otherwise, she’d have to be what her father made her. But even she knew she could never be a true weapon around Eldric. Didn’t even want to test the assumption. So she was left with falsehood or the truth. It was safer for Eldric if she lied.

‘Peppermint isn’t poison,’ she continued as if he’d answered her. ‘When crushed until its oil is released, it cools.’

He retrieved the linen and brushed it across his shoulders and arms, along his torso, as if he was bathing in his chamber alone. As if she didn’t exist. She watched the small linen as it was shoved brutally across his skin, sloughing off the embedded dirt from their altercation and from whatever journey he’d made to reach her.

How could she not know he was following her? In pursuing her father, she’d made herself vulnerable. Allowing her entire focus to be consumed with a rumour. Foolish mistake. No one had surprised her ever before. Eldric, a giant of a man who whistled, truly shouldn’t be capable of stealth.

Not that Eldric was her enemy, though she knew she was his. Or…at least, he thought her an enemy. And for his safety, it would remain that way until she was dead.

Another brush of the linen up his neck and around to his chest. He rubbed roughly there. She could imagine what it felt like, the water cool after the heat of the morning and their fight. She’d hit him hard and wished he’d turn completely so she could see the extent of the damage…if he needed peppermint or wrapping. After all, if she was bound and he injured, they would be at a disadvantage if they were attacked.

That was the reason she cared, not because of bruising, swelling or pain. If those existed, peppermint would help. Rubbed along his tender side, swirled to reach… Trying in vain to stop her errant thoughts of applying the oil herself, she kept up with her useless babble while that strange restlessness increased and she shifted her body to ease it. ‘I was a healer in my other village before I’d decided to take a ship to—’

Throwing the linen with such force the wooden bowl rattled against the table, he strode to the refreshments. Swiping the flagon in one hand, he didn’t bother with the goblet and drank straight from the curved jug. His profile to her, she watched his throat take in the liquid in one, two, three gulps before he slammed the vessel on the table. It toppled over, empty.

He didn’t bother to straighten it. She glanced to his strewn clothes, the washing area slopped over with his mud-and-blood-splattered linen. That was when his gaze acutely returned to her.

She swallowed. ‘I could make some for you. It won’t heal instantly. But it will feel better. You must be in pain.’

He rolled his shoulders and a harsh breath flared his nostrils. Pivoting, he took the two steps to his satchel on the floor and yanked out a tunic that he shoved over his head.

‘Perhaps comfrey,’ she continued as if they were carrying on a conversation. ‘That may help with the colouring of it all, though I suppose you’re not bothered with aesthetics. And it should be used sparingly. But it’ll aid with—’

He scraped a chair over to the bed, turned it around backwards and straddled it to face her. It brought the hulk of him perilously close. Enough to smell the fragrant ale and the saltwater he’d washed in. Enough to smell him…a scent like frost on evergreen.

Keeping his silence, he laid his hands against the back of the chair and leaned his chin on them. Like this, he looked…boyish. Draped on the chair, his body in repose, he could have been any mother’s son.

But the look in his blue eyes was a man’s. And the lethal glare told her he sat this way not to be congenial, but to barricade himself.

Since she was already bound, the shield wasn’t from her, it was to block his own action, his own reach. And some twisted thing inside her cherished his trying to protect her…even if it was she who aggravated him. No one had ever tried to protect her before.

Yet, for both their sakes, she must still provoke him. She must escape. ‘I don’t know what you want with me, what…you intend to do with me, but I feel we must have got off on the wrong foot. I’m a traveller, like you.’

He tilted his head, his blue eyes, already swallowed by the dilating of his pupils, darkened even further. His chin remained rested on the back of the chair, but now his hands clenched the seatback, the tips of his fingers turning white.

‘I’m travelling to France, to meet my family.’ It was as much of the truth as she could muster. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, you simply took me by surprise… I was defending myself. Surely you can realise that, you grabbed me and—’

‘Are you done?’ His deep voice resonated around the room like a sentence. It wasn’t a question; it was an order. ‘Because I’m done.’

‘I don’t know what—’

He made a sound of frustrated anguish and soared out of his chair so fast the heavy oak slipped and slammed on the bed. The carved back of it didn’t hit her, but she felt the heavy weight of it against the overstuffed mattress.

It was the man towering above her who was the true danger. His hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his chest heavy. He seemed to want to get hold of himself and couldn’t.

If he picked up the chair, he could easily slam it against her. Bash her head in and there would be nothing she could do about it. This wasn’t even something she could arch her body to avoid. Nothing. But she did keep her eyes open, her mouth shut.

‘You lie,’ he growled. ‘You lie so terribly, that even if I didn’t know it was a falsehood, I’d know you weren’t telling the truth. And you know this. God’s bones, do you know this. You are tied to that bed and I could starve you to death. Slowly scrape my blade across every inch of your skin until you bled out. Or I could pick up a blanket and smother you in an instant. And still you defy me.’ He looked wildly about before his gaze swung back to hers.

‘You waste time,’ he said, ‘but remember it’s your time you waste, not mine. Perhaps I should demonstrate the dynamics between us. I am free. You are not. A day? Perhaps two? A sennight, a fortnight. Trapped in here, tied to this bed, how long do you expect to live?’

Without a backward glance, he stormed out of the room, the lock crashing into place behind him.

Chapter Three

He’d…left her.

She waited one, two heartbeats, but not even the stamp of feet could be heard from the hallway. Immediately, she worked to loosen her bindings, her fingers on her left hand just long enough to reach the wrapping around her wrist to worry the fabric enough to slacken it.

All the while, the room echoed Eldric’s wrath. Reverberated with the words he’d targeted her with. He wanted her dead and she believed him. She’d frustrated him with her lies and, knowing him as she did, she hadn’t left him with much else to do but to harm her. Starvation was a brilliant decision on his part.

She could have answered him because she knew how long she could last before she became delirious with dehydration. It was a lesson her father had taught her long ago. And if she went longer than that, she would die.

But she couldn’t. Not because she had a sense of self-preservation. A weapon didn’t care if it lived or died. Her father had long ago stripped that weakness from her. It also wasn’t because she felt an injustice of being kept against her will. A weapon did not reflect on rights and wrongs; it merely did what it was told to do.

That’s why she’d always remained faithful to him. The rumour of the other daughter must be a lie. For years, her father’s sole focus had been to secure something the Warstone family desperately wanted: the Jewel of Kings. A legendary jewel which had influence much like Excalibur in King Arthur’s realm. Except Excalibur was merely a story; the Jewel of Kings was truth.

Since England now fought with Scotland such a legend could sway many. Such power was enviable and the Warstones coveted it. Her father had lost it when, six months ago, she disobeyed and didn’t kill Mairead of Clan Buchanan. When, for a mere moment, she thought him wrong to harm a brave woman. So she’d released her arrow and shot him in the shoulder instead. Mairead and Caird of Clan Colquhoun had escaped while Cressida was exiled from the only person she knew.

Her father was angry with her, testing her, but he’d never abandoned her. He gave her messages still. Further, he continued his training by sending warriors for her to fight. He must care for her still. She needed to be free from here. She couldn’t die with the doubt her father no longer wanted her.

She arched her whole body, stretched until the bed creaked and her muscles ached, then she relaxed as much as she could. She hoped she stretched the bindings, but her legs were still bound too tight, her right hand unmovable. The left-wrist binding was reachable with her fingers, but she couldn’t get the right angle. She needed to wedge a finger under, but couldn’t.

She eyed the heavy oak chair he’d abandoned against her bed, but it was out of reach to be used as any kind of leverage. Arching again, she curled her limbs in with all her strength. When she flopped against the bed again, she expected the chair to slide to the floor, but it was a heavy oak thing and refused to budge. As did her bindings.

It was her turn to huff. To simply rest against the bed, which was one of the most comfortable ones she’d ever lain on. Certainly, the ones in the abbey had never been well filled or secured with thick linens so that none of the straw was felt beneath her back.

The entire room was opulent, if sparse. Not that she could see that much under the chaos he had left, leaving the contents of the room as they were. The askew chair, the basin and flagon. Had he been this messy before? She wondered if it was a sign of his frustration, or a shortcoming in her observations of him. That night in Swaffham last winter, when she laid her arrow on his pillow…the bed had been unmade, the quilt crumpled on the floor.

She saw Eldric’s sloppiness as a weakness. One of her keys to self-preservation was to leave behind no trace she’d occupied a space. If a chair had been shoved under a table at an odd angle, she made sure to leave it so. If a mattress was so soft that the indent of her body could be noted, she slept on the floor.

Eldric left a wake of wreckage and he’d only been in the room mere moments. Water splashed against stone would be impossible to cover up. For a moment, she entertained the conversation she’d have with him on the subject, simply to offer survival help, and imagined how it would proceed. Poorly, no doubt.

A man secure enough to whistle wouldn’t care who found him. She couldn’t fathom being so cavalier, but then an arrow didn’t imagine itself a table. If she stretched her imagination, she could see herself as a sword, but that was only another weapon. To be a warrior and welcome an enemy instead of hide from one was too strange a difference to comprehend. Eldric lived and behaved so differently from her.

Unfortunately, wondering on their differences without knowing all of them wasn’t enough to fill in the time before he returned. Another deep breath as she waited…and waited again. When he didn’t storm back in, she started to count the objects in the room and to count the time she tapped her toes in her boots.

Whatever she could do to not fall asleep. It spelled her doom if she slept. But she hadn’t slept properly in weeks; her rest in the tree had been too brief and the exhaustion in her limbs from straining against her bindings had drained her. However, as angry as he was, surely he’d return. He’d left food here. Surely he’d want to eat. Surely…

Eldric stood over the sleeping form of the Archer. Hours had passed since he completely lost his temper. He didn’t even know he had one. In battle, he had unnatural strength and, certainly since he’d targeted the Archer, his rage had weathered and tightened to splintered wood within him.

But a temper where the rage burst from his being with no target to aim it towards? Never before. Only this time. With this enemy. With this woman who lied.

He expected those he captured to lie and, over the years, he’d learned what to do about it. Now, he could do nothing. Nothing. Threats wouldn’t stop her; she was too resilient for that.

And being in the room with her ever-watchful eyes? Even if he could get over their colour, the way she looked at him… It was as if she was waiting for something. Or knew something of him.

So he’d left, knowing that, no matter how strong she was, she couldn’t break her bindings. Remembering, too, to never underestimate her, he’d paid two boys to watch the room so he could walk the docks and come to terms with what was revealed to him.

To what he knew. On the battlefield, he’d held his friend as he died and made a vow to avenge his death. He vowed again to God now and burned a candle in church. He’d made another vow when he’d accepted a hunting horn from King Edward of England. Some would argue that vow could be the most important one of all. One that couldn’t be forgiven or altered as could be done with a deity or the dead.

With certainty, that meeting with Edward might prove the most fateful. For there in the monarch’s chambers he’d agreed to obtain the Archer for the King.

Eldric knew he’d made a deal with the devil and agreed to pay the price. And why not? The King’s wants and his own were the same. They both desired the Archer’s head. But it went further than that. Because by pledging this vow and loyalty to the King, he could also conceal the disloyal act he’d done.

Christmas past, Edward had ordered him to Swaffham to locate the traitor who had sent private messages to the Scots. A specific traitor who possessed a half-thistle seal.

The traitor was Hugh of Shoebury, a childhood friend, and one whom he’d trained with at Edward’s court. It was revealed that Hugh had a viable reason to convey certain information to the Scots…because Hugh was protecting Robert of Dent, Black Robert.

Robert, who was reported dead, was in fact hiding from the King. He did it so he could have his life with his Scottish wife, Gaira, and their adopted children. The private information was sent to Robert and his wife, Gaira of Clan Colquhoun, to specifically protect them.

And Robert… Robert was also his friend who needed any information that could be passed to him. For the last several months, he and the Colquhoun Clan had been searching frantically for the daughter who was stolen from them.

Of course, he’d immediately given his loyalty to his friends.

Eldric realised then that loyalty had many sides. Thus, he was left with only one choice. He’d lied to King Edward to protect them. Robert had faked his own death and, so, Hugh with the woman he loved faked theirs. Leaving him, a spy, to report that the half-thistle-seal traitor was dead.

Thus, three people Edward had concerns over no longer existed. It would risk too much to contact them again. Ah…but loyalty. Eldric knew he needed to make right with the world again. To make clear the lines of good and evil, right and wrong. Two lies to the King meant he’d doubly bound himself to the Sovereign.

So he vowed to bring the Archer to Edward and accepted the royal hunting horn, the coin, the royal papers to flaunt and terrorise with when needed. Because he knew last Christmas that if there was a price to pay, he’d make the Archer pay it. He’d do it not only for vengeance for his friends who were dead, but also to protect those beings who were alive and wished to remain hidden.

Edward must never know he was disloyal or the lies would unwind like pegs in a well-worn instrument. Hugh, Robert and their families must stay safe.

Except the Archer was a woman. Now, it wasn’t a simple matter of transporting an enemy to the Tower of London to be done with disloyalty and treason. Because now there were more falsehoods. He needed to make a decision: to hide or reveal them?

He could see now he should have been cautious last winter. Walking the docks, allowing the putrid air and the chaos to thump against him, he had examined the meeting with the King in a different light. He’d been so concerned and focused on his own words and deeds in that room, he hadn’t properly analysed the ruler’s.

The King had informed him he knew that Eldric had been pursuing the Archer because of his friends’ deaths. The King had been spying on his spy. It was a possibility the King knew the Archer was a woman. It was very likely he also knew what she was about, her deeds…and purpose.

The Archer being a woman changed everything.

Not because she was a female and wasn’t capable of murder. Knowing his own mother, he knew the strength of women. He didn’t argue the Archer’s skills either…he’d seen that first-hand.

No, it was the methodical way the Archer did such deeds that called them into question. So he made another vow, this one to himself. To keep her here until she confessed. To reflect on the ramifications and different angles of the pieces. To be more cautious. Something he should have done when he was summoned to King Edward’s private chambers when there wasn’t anyone else in attendance.

He couldn’t execute her without knowing who she was and why she did what she did. Would he have waited if she was a man? Would he have cared for reasons then? No. If the Archer had been a man, he wouldn’t have questioned anything. He’d have merely tied and slammed his enemy in the back of a cart to roll around for days until they reached London. Instead, he did wonder why and how a female was his enemy. Why it was different, he couldn’t say.

No. He did know. She was a surprise. An unknown. His world had always been simple. The fact she was not was unacceptable. Unwanted.

And whatever actions he needed to take to gain those answers would be acceptable. His monstrous strength did not pertain to this situation. If harsh words and harsh deeds were needed until she broke, he would do them. To keep his vows to his friends both here and gone, he’d have to break a lifetime of habit. With a determined heart, prepared to confront her, he entered the room…only to find her asleep.

His first thought was to wake her by pressing a blade against her heart so that each steady breath she took would prick until she awoke to the danger. Instead, he grabbed the bowl with filthy water and prepared to fling it on her.

She was…restless. Her stunning eyes closed, he could see more clearly the dark circles under them, hear her uneven breaths. Dreaming, or a nightmare?

Clenching the bowl in both his hands, he warred with himself as he had done all day while she was bound in this room. While he’d walked, returned to the inn, eaten, watched the day turning into twilight, he’d wondered how she fared alone in the room.

He had intended to wait even longer, but that plan failed. She’d escaped him too long for him to be sure she was truly trapped.

Now he stood over her, and wondered about her dreams? He hated this woman; shouldn’t care if she was awake or asleep. Shouldn’t wonder if she merely dreamed or if she was plagued with something darker. He needed these lies over with. The longer they went on, the more involved they became, the more likely they would unravel.

But he couldn’t bring her harm. She looked… She looked exhausted. The kind of bone weariness that only the hunted carried with them.

Beauty, that was still there. There wasn’t another woman like her and the sleep softened her exotic features to something almost unearthly. But he could see the sunken hollows of her cheeks from lack of food. Could recognise the tell-tale signs of exhaustion in her body as her limbs twitched because they were unused to rest, because she had to keep alert to nearby danger.

And she was in danger. He was her captor. She was bound, in an unknown location. The fact she slept when this vulnerable was a testament to her true depletion.

She gave the softest of sounds. A whimper. One that held a fragment of pain and he was brought back to reality. This woman was not music and no matter how great her beauty was, she was no angel. If she was, she was part of the fallen and very deadly. Lethal and ethereal.

He stood over her ruminating, but he could easily be the true enemy with a knife in his hand. He was death to her and she slept. Exhausted beyond her strength.

If she was as poorly rundown as this, how had she fought him? His face was throbbing; each breath he took pricked with the kicks she’d landed against his ribs. She was fierce. He’d returned as many blows to her. The fact they didn’t land wasn’t a saving grace. He didn’t cause her the same harm because he’d held back. She wasn’t as harmed as him because she had fought, blocked and fallen from a tree!

He’d heard and felt the impact when she hit the ground. How much more could she take? Could there be another way to gain his answers? Could he…pretend to befriend her? Or, at least, give her a false sense of safety? She could rest and gain the sleep she so obviously needed. He could feed her until the pallor of her skin disappeared. Maybe kindness could be a way to—

But the mere thought of his friend Thomas’s last breaths choked that idea. Knowing that Robert had a family laid rest to any kindness. He couldn’t do it. It was also clear the longer he stood over her, he wouldn’t be tossing the cold dirty water and interrogating her until she broke.

He’d trained to be a spy, knew the methods needed. Enemies didn’t confess or capitulate when they were strong, they only did so when they were weakened. He needed her sleep deprived, hungry, her position vulnerable. He needed to break her. Her brows drew in and she let out a keening whimper.

He felt his own brows furrow at such a helpless sound. A nightmare, then. What did a killer dream of? This woman was a weapon he must find the owner of before throwing her in the fire to be melted, far from anyone’s grasp.

God’s bones! With a frustrating reluctance, he lifted the chair off her bed and slammed it on the ground.

Chapter Four

Cressida thrashed awake. The clench of the ropes around her ankles panicked her, the ropes on her wrist cut deep. Her gaze locked on the man looming over her. Heart thundering, she felt the blood slam through her body, readying her to run, to fight. With instinct to survive battering her, she screamed.

Somewhere wood hit stone and water splashed. All she knew was the punishing grip of the man’s hands on her shoulders.

‘Enough!’ he roared.

Where was she? Not in an abbey, not in a tree. A room she didn’t recognise. A darkness enveloping it that jarred against her attempts to understand. It shouldn’t be dark.

‘Leave me!’ she cried, flinging her body up to break free, but the grip tightened, a weight pressing her deep into the mattress.

To suffocate her! She gasped deep, gathering as much air before it became too late. She fought harder.

The man loomed until his face was a breath from hers. ‘Stop this!’

Cressida blinked. Could that be Eldric?

She was dying, going into her dreams before sleeping for ever. She must be. Eldric wasn’t here, not this close, not touching her.

She wrenched on the cords binding her, welcomed the jagged bite as they drew blood. If she broke her wrist, if she lacerated the skin, the blood and loss of skin would loosen knots. Pulling, pulling!

The grip shook her body before it seized around her wrists, stopping her bid for freedom. ‘Nooo!’ she keened.

‘Wake, Archer! What are you doing?’

The voice…she recognised. Eldric. So close his hair waved down to brush across her cheek. To see the blue of his eyes altered by the darkness of his pupils. There was something there: concern.

Eldric in a room where he’d bound her. But she fought it, still, because it couldn’t be truth. She remembered when he’d stormed from the room. There could never be concern or caring when it came to him. ‘It’s dark. It was morning when you left. Morning.’

He released his grip, but her eyes had adjusted to the dim light; she could see all of him now. ‘It is turning to night.’

‘I slept all day?’

He canted his head and straightened, but did not move away from the bed. She could smell the sea on him and something else. Bread from his hands where he brushed her shoulders. He’d eaten. Time had passed.

‘You slept,’ he repeated.

‘You let me?’

His spine snapped straight, the concern she’d fleetingly witnessed gone. She’d said something wrong. ‘I was gone because as my enemy you were bound securely in this room. All day here to contemplate the uselessness of your lying to me.’

‘But I slept.’ She couldn’t get past that point. When was the last time she’d slept? And never when survival was tantamount.

‘And I woke you. You’ll feel it. The need to relieve yourself, your hunger, thirst? All of it must be beginning.’

She was too confused to feel anything else. Eldric touched her. It was rough, but the purpose of it didn’t feel as though it was to hurt her. He demanded she wake, he stopped her from harming her wrists. ‘Why did you try to wake me?’

He frowned. ‘So you could suffer.’

But she was suffering already when locked in a nightmare. It’d happened to her before when her father trained her too hard. There were moments when the truth of her torture clashed with what had happened to her weeks before, and weeks before that. And on and on until she didn’t know where or who she was. She’d only become a weapon who survived to be wielded again.

Which only made the truth more acute. She needed to be free, find her father, to become his weapon again because without that, without her father, she didn’t know who she was.

Just this little time in the presence of someone else, talking with someone else, was confusing. Like now. This Eldric was different than the one who’d stormed from the room. He’d behaved differently when he shook her awake as if he was desperate to wake her, to make her stop.

However, in the time she’d slept, he’d done things—maybe he had had second thoughts. Maybe he was the Eldric who whistled and laughed. Maybe this was the kind Eldric.

Her eyes swept to her wrist. ‘I’ve suffered. I’m hurting now.’

He glanced to her bindings, which were secure, but oddly hadn’t pained until she wrenched them in her panic.

‘Good,’ he said before his expression became absolutely resolute. ‘The entirety of this is your own doing.’

Not if she wasn’t who he thought she was. Not if she kept her ruse. ‘Where am I?’

‘It matters not where you are,’ he said.

‘I can smell the port, we can’t be far,’ she said.

He arched a brow. ‘And that would be significant because?’

Because her father could be in the port. He could be alone or with another daughter. In the worst case, they would be on a merchant ship already bound for France where it would be near impossible to find him.

When her whole existence in life was in jeopardy, she needed her freedom most. But to say anything would harm her relationship with her father. To reveal anything to Eldric would be fatal for him.

Even though it might irreparably harm her own life, she would tell Eldric nothing. She would, as she had always done, protect the man who hated her.

She jerked her chin and flexed her fingers, which tightened the rope around her wrists.

‘Because I need to be on the port.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Why?’

To give him a reason he’d believe? ‘To meet my family.’

‘Tell me.’ His eyes never left hers.

Too much. Too close to the truth. There was still a chance to find her father. To repair whatever harm she had done. How had she fallen asleep? To be so vulnerable again! This time, she knew an enemy was there, knew Eldric was far worse to her than some faceless mercenary she could easily fight. Eldric had loyalties, he had vows and vengeance he wanted to exact.

‘None of this makes sense to me. You have to know none of it does.’ She spoke a lie, but it felt like a truth. ‘Let me free.’

‘No,’ he rasped. His chest heaved, his shoulder bunched.

‘Then tell me. Tell me what you intend to do with me.’

He took one more breath and stilled. Something changed in his eyes, as his gaze swept across her body to the tangled linens between her legs, up again to her bound hands. Stayed there and turned…calculating.

It wasn’t something she could readily comprehend, but it felt familiar, none the less. Oh, yes, he’d looked that way at her once before—when he’d held out his hand to dance with her. And, like then, her body tracked faster than her thoughts. His pupils dilating, a flush to his cheeks. On that day, he’d looked so deep into her eyes she thought she’d be discovered. Now, he looked everywhere but and it didn’t matter. Her body felt her reaction to him all the same. Except now, she didn’t have the protection of the mask and layers of clothing. Now, she was bound, exposed. And she felt something in her wanting to blurt out her words, to tell him—

He ripped his eyes away and cursed under his breath. ‘What game is it you think you play?’

Nothing, yet to have him look at her… Just a glimpse of something other than hatred. She’d give anything, yet she had to be wrong. He didn’t look at her with anything but loathing. It was her own longing, her own stupidity for not understanding people as well as she should.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me who you are.’

She swallowed her emotions, the way her body felt. She’d get through this. ‘I told you. I’m a healer.’

Eldric was glad for his walk, for his sustenance before he’d returned to confront this enemy. But the nightmare she’d been gripped in… The fact she couldn’t wake from it unsettled him.

What to do with her, bound by his hand, helpless, vulnerable? Yet she still defied him with lies, with some sort of fragility he couldn’t navigate himself around. When she looked at him with those eyes…

He couldn’t shake that she was familiar to him. That he knew her. He couldn’t seem to forget that she was a woman bound on his bed. Unfailingly stunning with something else that lured him closer to her, to desire her, which was a sick madness he couldn’t seem to reason against. It made no sense.

She. Had. Killed. His. Friends.

‘Enough of this! We will get nowhere if you continue with lies. Why do you pretend? I know who you are, little Archer.’

She flinched, just a little, just enough for him to see, and he relished it, but that was all she gave him. ‘Archer? I’m a woman. Archers are men who battle from parapets against Scotland.’

‘So aware of warriors you know their position in battle?’ he said. ‘And have you forgot you were in a tree with a bow and quiver hanging at the ready? It fell to the ground along with you. Spilled at my feet, defeated as surely as you were at that moment. And, like you, it’s trapped in this room.’

Her eyes narrowed, but they stayed on him. He both admired and detested her will. He knew she wanted to survey the room, to determine its position so, when she did free herself, she’d have the weapon at the ready. It was that very reason he’d hid it under her bed.

‘You may think you know me, sir,’ she said, ‘but I can assure you, I do not know you.’

‘You lie so easily. How can I believe you? You have been too difficult to capture not to be aware of me.’ He welcomed the malicious impulse that bolted through him then. ‘Maybe you need a reminder.’

He whipped off his tunic, turned to reveal his right arm to her and traced the top two scars. ‘Do you remember these?’

Her eyes never betrayed her. Her body remained perfectly still and he felt his anger press once again to the surface.

She should display nerves; she should be nervous. Instead, he was unnerved. He didn’t know what to do, what he would do, from one moment to another. Trained as a warrior and a spy, he only had one type of enemy these many years: ones he defeated with force.

He had fought every one of them with determination and a will to live, to defeat. They were enemies who needed to be captured or conquered, that was all.

But the Archer… This woman was the worst of them all because it felt…personal when she had killed his friends. He couldn’t explain it, but her marking him as precisely as she did; her ability to murder his closest companions wasn’t dispassionate.

And when it came to her, he didn’t burn with a righteous determination to conquer her. His hatred for her was personal. Many others had been killed by his hand, but he hadn’t bargained with the King pursuing with singularity any of them. On the battlefield, he meted out his vengeance and those who survived and escaped, he simply fought again on another field.

Not so the Archer. No, she’d marked him. Marked him and shown him what she was capable of and his need for retribution against her felt as though he’d marked her as well. Marked her as the one enemy he would defeat.

So sure of this belief that they were personal enemies, that the fact the Archer was a desirable woman—the fact she lied about her role in his life—only made his frustration blaze brighter. Why was she lying to him? He would get answers!

‘You should be aware, I didn’t actually feel the first cut you gave me,’ he said. ‘I was too intent on fighting the enemy in front of me. But Thomas’s sudden drop from his position, his sword arm flinging within my line of sight, alerted me. I was so…so aware of Thomas’s death. A friend since we were young. I felt that bolt he received in his chest.

‘Felt it, but could do nothing about it. I was still surrounded. You can imagine how I fought after that. What am I saying? You don’t have to imagine it; you watched it, didn’t you? My God, why haven’t I thought of this before? Of course you watched me. You marked me. Did my pain amuse you?

‘It must have amused you greatly because during that same battle you did it again. That one burned across my arm. Already consumed with Thomas’s death, I had to face Michael’s. You know what I did then, don’t you: called for retreat. With that arrow lodged in his throat, I called for retreat!’

Her breathing stayed the same, no finger twitched. As a warrior, everything in him demanded instant retribution. As a spy who needed information, he had to get more…creative.

Over the years, he’d promised pain to his enemies. Held a knife to throats; placed perfect cuts along the most tenderest of skin. He’d seen other spies, other warriors, mete out their own justice. Since Thomas’s death, the rage had carried him forward. The Archer deserved the harshest of punishments.

And here she was, captured, bound. He could do anything to her. Anything. Yet he found himself frustratingly bound by custom, by some moral code instilled in him.

He couldn’t raise a blade to her, couldn’t harm her. Could do nothing but rage words at her and they fell uselessly in front of him. She simply laid there, keeping her eyes on him, her breath even. With her wrists bleeding from nightmares, she looked at him as if he was the madman.

If he was mad, she was the one who brought him there. ‘This one—’ Eldric pointed to the wound directly underneath the other two ‘—I earned from you as well. It, too, preceded the killing of a man who was watching my left flank. I knew, immediately, it was you. What did you feel when I spotted you in that tree?’

She shook her head, refusing him or acknowledging his anger and pain?

This was personal. He was sure of it. He felt it in his soul.

‘Tell me this, when I found you that day. Why did you mark me? I knew it was you. You know I knew it was you. There was no need to kill Philip.’

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