The Knight's Runaway Maiden

by Nicole Locke

  Like here. Now.

  She clutched her hands in her lap. ‘It’s healing. The stitches are holding. They’ll need to come out, but there’s something else I need to—’

  He’d looked away while she’d been wrapping, but at her words his head snapped back. ‘We’re done today? You’ll leave?’

  If he could have killed her right then, he would have. She saw it in his burning gaze, the tenseness of his body, his fisted hand.

  ‘You can’t keep me here forever, and even so they’ll come for you,’ he said. ‘My servant knows what direction I went. He may take one look at this village, notice the walls you’re building, and gather mercenaries. None of your preparations will mean anything. If anything, they’ll make it worse.’

  ‘How do you know—?’

  ‘That there are walls being built, that they are preparing for my family to attack? Because I can hear everything.’

  ‘We wouldn’t be under attack unless you followed me here.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ His smile was not kind. ‘I wouldn’t be here but for you.’

  The consequences of her actions were with her always...as was protecting her sons. Refusing to show him how much his words pained her, she snatched the linen that bound his damaged arm to his chest and the floor and wrenched it free from the spike.

  His shocked expression was only matched by the pain she caused. As a person trying to heal someone, it was foolish. As a woman who had been plagued by this arrogant family most of her life, it was satisfying.

  When she leaned over him to free his good arm, he said, ‘What are you doing?’

  It wasn’t his tone that was the warning, it was the fact she felt his breath against the side of her throat, the vibration of his words in her chest that stopped her immediately.

  Gone was the feud, this village, her fleeing. Gone was this pit and its reasons for being built—everything in her narrowed down until it was just this man beneath her.

  Her belly over his torso, her breasts pressed into his side, her arm stretched to the other rope, giving his eyes, his mouth, access to whatever he wanted. And he felt...solid, warm. Her thoughts telling her to flee, her body wanting to sink, to simply rest on him. She flushed, hated herself, and wrenched the other rope free, as well.

  He held still, his eyes roving from her shoulder, to her hand pressed to the floor, to her ear to her hip, before his eyes found hers, and he slowly lengthened his arms along the floor above his head.

  What had she been thinking? Only wanting to prove a point, to rip off the ropes binding the other arm, she failed to heed the danger of her awareness of this man.

  She shoved herself away and pushed back. Still kneeling, but waiting to see what he would do.

  His eyes, the mistrust, almost broke her silence until she remembered who he was. How could she have any feelings other than hatred for this man? For his family and where he came from?

  How could her body, even for one instant, want to...rest against him as if he was safe?

  She may heal him of his affliction, and possibly it might soften him towards them to leave her time to escape, or it might not. But in the end she would escape. She and her sons would be free of the Warstones and this man who made her feel she had no right or a desire to escape, waited.

  His eyes never leaving hers, he slowly sat up. When she didn’t move, he looked above them, craning his neck.

  ‘There’s no one there,’ she said. ‘I expect them soon, but I don’t know what’s holding them up.’

  ‘You’ve harmed me, and then freed me. Now you have no one to protect you?’

  She was impatient to see whether if what she’d done had been successful. She wanted it all done so she could leave. Or he could.

  ‘Move your hand,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not moving a cursed thing for you.’

  Back to the words, and the anger. Back to his hatred of her. The first few days after his fever had broken, she’d tried to explain what she had done and why, but he had been feral with rage and mistrust. Further confirming that this man, though he seemed different, was flawed like all Warstones were flawed. Sarah was right that she couldn’t trust him.

  Though, in truth, she deserved his anger, and she’d never expected his full trust. This was about healing a man in pain. He’d be grateful, and she could persuade him to leave them alone. Perhaps he could tell her what he wanted with her and it would be over.

  ‘Balthus, move it in a circular motion.’ She laid her hand on his bound leg. His eyes narrowed at that touch. Flustered at his response, she returned it to her lap. But her palm still felt the heat, and she curled her fingers. This was ridiculous. She needed this over before she fell on the poor man. ‘Please.’

  His eyes on her, he rolled his good shoulder and then down his arm, circled his wrist and flexed his fingers.

  She swallowed. ‘Now do the same with your other hand.’

  He jerked as if she’d slapped him. ‘You’re mad. That’s what’s happened.’ Wariness gone, he yanked at the cords around one of his ankles, but she couldn’t have that. Not yet. He didn’t understand. She had to make him understand. She was a fool for untying him before that.

  She laid her hand on his leg again. Again, it had the same effect. He stilled. This time his gaze stayed with her palm resting against his thigh, his brows drawn in, and he took in one uneven breath.

  Taking in his closed expression, the width of his shoulders, the arrowing of his torso, and then where her hand lay. On his bound leg. On his thigh, her fingers almost brushing what was, most distinctly in the casing of his breaches, the outline of a man who—

  She gasped, pulled her hand away.

  His nostrils flared with something darker and more primitive than anger, and he flung himself away.

  She was losing him! Séverine slammed her palm on his wound.

  He roared, shoved her, and furiously unlaced one of his leg straps.

  ‘Did that hurt?’ she said.

  ‘You’re the devil,’ he bit out. ‘I don’t know if it was before or after you married my brother, but your soul is bound to Satan’s. Of course it hurt—you just struck a wound you made!’

  He wrenched on the other rope, freed himself and stood.

  ‘But did it hurt...really hurt?’ She grabbed his leg.

  His gaze snapped back to hers.

  ‘Is it still hurting, like in a circle, never stopping?’ She rushed the words out.

  His eyes struck her, and he shook off her feeble attempt to hold him back, grabbed the ladder and hoisted himself up on the first rung.

  Then stopped.

  * * *

  Pain lessening. Receding. Becoming nothing more than an ache, then diminishing even from that. Balthus pulled himself up to the second rung, his legs unsteady, his body trembling. Fighting what his body was telling him, what he didn’t dare hope to realise. Aware that behind him Séverine waited, watched. Asked him again.

  What was it she wanted? To know if the pain circled. He grabbed the next rung up. His mind begged him to run. To flee.

  His body shook. Stopped him again, forced him to feel...not agony.

  He fell to his knees on the floor.

  Séverine cried out, but he felt nothing, more or less. No reverberations, though the impact stung the wound. It was still open, there was some blood at the end of his bandage. But there was no blackness around the edges of his sight, no sudden weakness. All gone.

  ‘What did you do?’ he whispered.

  When he looked up, her green eyes were steadily on his, but the emotion behind them wasn’t. She looked as wrecked as he felt. Tears shimmered, a frantic sort of worry, of something else he didn’t want to name, but it was like...light.

  ‘I tried to help you,’ she said. She closed the distance between them. Her eyes on his, she raised his arm.

  He let her. Her
hands were gentle but firm. Secure. ‘I may need to unwrap this again.’

  Feel nothing, show nothing. Words of his parents, words of his brothers, words that he lived by, all torn to bits since she’d given him a tincture that made him sleep, and then sliced his wound, his weakness and shame.

  When his fever had broken, he couldn’t remember what he had been before he’d met Séverine. Rage, hatred, retribution had seethed. Lust, desire and something so carnal it had scared even him. He’d borne it all. Now this new emotion created by revelation, by disbelief and hope, felt like it would take down him, her, his entire world.

  ‘You...’ he swallowed, hard ‘...healed me.’

  ‘I’ve been telling you.’

  ‘But I didn’t trust you.’

  ‘I couldn’t explain properly before. I still can’t. There was a healer I knew, and a man had a missing foot and constant pain, and the healer cut it again and let it heal differently. The bandages were tighter, and she rubbed it often. Made certain there was movement every day...and then it healed. I know it was wrong, but I thought I would try it with you.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘There was no certainty. I don’t blame you.’

  ‘I—I don’t hurt.’

  ‘At all?’ She ran her thumbs down his arm. ‘I don’t have the means to stitch it again or I’d take this off.’

  ‘The ache is different.’

  ‘You were cut before—’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘Before there was throbbing pain and something sharp in the background I didn’t understand until it healed. But that sharpness intensified the more it scarred and then never stopped. Now...that’s not there.’

  ‘May I?’ She raised her palm, and he braced himself.

  If this was only a few moments of reprieve, he didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want her to aggravate it, but she looked so eager, and he was half-delirious with need. Could it be true? He nodded, giving her permission.

  She rubbed her palm over the end, gently, so carefully. The blood seeped a bit more, and she made a small pitiful sound.

  He waited. He knew the agony was coming back at any moment.

  ‘And now?’ she said, licking her lower lip. His eyes went to that, and to the other signs that he wasn’t dreaming this. He wasn’t alone in his relief. Séverine felt this same wild freedom. Was that what had caused the flush to her cheeks, the rapid pulse in her long slender throat? That tentative curl to her lips that was almost a smile.

  ‘It’s... I’m wary,’ he started. What was wrong with him? He was talking about his arm, not himself, but those emotions that seethed, rolled, were overtaking him. ‘There’s no...reason to this.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. Her expression was open, that hope he still fought beaming. ‘You, your arm, suffered twice. The swelling is greatly down, there’s no fever today, and now this. It’ll take another full moon before you’re truly well, and I should have waited longer to test it, but I think you’re better.’

  He blinked, swallowed. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She shone so brightly it was painful to look at her.

  Balthus’s words... His grey eyes clear, glistening. One tear was trapped in those eyelashes of his. Fascinated, choked with something she couldn’t name, she laid her hand on his cheek and caught it on her thumb, pulled it away and they both looked at that infinitesimal sign of vulnerability. Him with perplexity, her...with certainty.

  Balthus was different. He felt. She clenched her fist around the teardrop to absorb it.

  ‘I thought you had betrayed me,’ Balthus whispered. ‘I thought—’

  She shook her head, frantic, suddenly wanting whatever it was he was thinking to disappear. ‘No!’

  He grasped the back of her neck, lowered his head, and laid his forehead against hers until their breaths were wedded.

  ‘I thought everything I’d believed was wrong,’ he said. ‘I thought what sustained me was wrong. The promises you made all those years ago. I thought you’d lied.’

  The same frantic pulse thumped in his neck that she felt in her chest. He wasn’t making sense. These were similar to the words he’d said when the fever had overtaken him before. She’d never made him promises before. And what about sunshine?

  She didn’t make him any promises now, but she wanted to. If only to give him something he needed. She laid her hand on his cheek. His breath hitched and he came closer, his lips almost touching hers. The joy he was expressing staggered her.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Séverine, forgive me. I should never have—’ He pulled away, eyes searching hers, fluttering down to her lips and back again. He was going to kiss her. Did she want him to kiss her? Her hand on his cheek slid to his shoulder.

  ‘Balthus?’

  His fingers on the back of her neck trembled, he groaned, her fingers bit into his tunic, tugging him towards her. But he held back and a tortured sound escaped her. It was a plea, and his eyes flashed with fevered longing before his mouth crashed down on hers. His lips firm, demanding. Utterly stunning.

  She had to have more. To feel more. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders at the same time he laid his feet flat on the ground, using his legs to prop her up and lean her against him.

  His bound arm was a deterrent between them, but he used his body, as she did hers, to get closer. She straddled him now. Feeling the weight of her gown, the firmness beneath her that told her he was a man. One who had almost kissed her before. Wanting more, she shifted and slid her hips once and again, and Balthus wrenched away on a groan.

  His breaths heated her lips. His eyes bounced across her every feature before resting on one curl, which he trapped between his fingers. She felt the sharp tug in her scalp before he released it.

  Trailing his fingers across her cheek, rubbing a thumb on her bottom lip to pull it down. His expression pained, awestruck. Was he looking for permission? To acknowledge what was between them? Desire had been building between them since the woodcutter’s hut. Lust fraying every time she’d unwound the linen. Permission. He didn’t need words for that. It was the heat she felt between her legs, the swelling in her breasts.

  The fact his eyes were so dark that she couldn’t see his irises, when his nostrils flared, she’d had enough of waiting and tightened her arms to pull him in again. A quirk to his lips as if he was pleased before his hand gripped her hip hard and he yanked her against him to slam his mouth on hers again.

  This time there was only him, the steady support of his legs behind her, the way his hand gripped and released her hip, her waist. A caress along her side, against her breast, which spilled over.

  She knew he wanted to touch more, and her nipples ached for the scrape and pluck of his fingers, but she was loath to let him go. He knew it too and bit her lower lip, ran his tongue along the swollen seam—

  A thump of the door latch, a blast of cold, heavy steps.

  Séverine scrambled back, while Balthus stiffened. Neither of them could still their panting breaths.

  ‘He’s awake,’ Imbert choked incredulously.

  Balthus tilted his head up.

  Knowing her cheeks were flushed, Séverine refused to look at Balthus and stood on trembling limbs.

  ‘You freed him while we weren’t here?’ Imbert said.

  ‘Not now,’ she said, her voice so husky it was unrecognisable.

  She hadn’t had time to process her own feelings in this matter, let alone have the courage to discuss it in front of Balthus. A Warstone. One of the brothers from a family who bore her ill will.

  And one she’d kissed. It had been the need in his voice, that tear. It was the way he’d felt to her, solid and safe. It was the fact they shared the same rapturous relief. He was different, and everything about him called to her.

  ‘I’ve not harmed her,’ Balthus said.

  ‘You know that’s a li
e, Warstone,’ Imbert said.

  It was, but he wished with all his being it wasn’t.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Séverine picked up the bucket.

  ‘He will, as well,’ Imbert said. ‘We have a guest who is asking for him.’

  Séverine did look at him then. The closeness of what they’d shared was there in the flush along her neck, her lower lip wet and slightly swollen. How badly he wanted to press her against him again. He could still feel the urgent dig of her nails in his shoulders, the heat of her palms through the thin tunic. He clenched his teeth. He had to stop his thoughts, or he’d never make it up the ladder, and he was already having difficulty. His arm throbbed, but his weakness came more from the willing and demanding touch of this compelling woman than his injury, and his desire didn’t stop abruptly because Imbert had arrived. Worse, he wore a short tunic because of his injuries so there wasn’t any hiding his reaction to this woman.

  When he got to the top, Imbert’s glower could have felled kingdoms. ‘I should have a dagger pointed at you.’

  ‘You should.’

  Imbert scoffed. ‘And give you an opportunity to take it from me?’

  Balthus shrugged. ‘I’m injured and have only one hand. How fast do you think I’d be?’

  ‘You could have no arms and I’d still never turn my back on you.’

  ‘You used to.’

  ‘What are you feigning?’ Imbert said. ‘You forget I performed tasks under your family all my life.’

  If this man had still been his servant, his mother would have cut off his tongue. At one point in his life Balthus wouldn’t have stopped her, but he would have regretted the loss. This was a man he could respect. ‘Not all your life, and I’m presuming you’re not under our roof any longer.’

  ‘Do you think I would be?’

  ‘You weren’t that good a horseman. Why would I insist on you returning to your duties...although your wife and her remedies would be convenient.’

  Imbert called down to Séverine, ‘Do you need any help with anything?’

  ‘I’m simply getting the supplies in the bucket,’ she said. ‘Here.’