The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘For God’s sake, lean against me,’ he growled in her ear. ‘I’m going to drop you at this rate.’

  She gritted her teeth, refusing to give in, to relax against him, every nerve-ending in her body fighting him, refusing to acknowledge the tantalising closeness of his touch. The muscles along her spine strained with the effort. She sighed with relief as he threw her up on to his horse, her lungs releasing, breath flooding out, then tensed once more as he jumped up behind her, bulky chest pressing heavily against her back. In response to the contact, she leaned forwards dramatically, bending over the horse’s mane, desperate to keep the space between them.

  Lussac chuckled. ‘Fighting me will merely slow us down,’ he pointed out slowly, regarding her odd unbalanced position with a smile. ‘Do you really want those...whoever they are...to catch up with you?’

  Who did she prefer? she wondered. The soldiers, hired by her father and uncle at great expense to bring her back home, or this knight at her back, handsome and dangerous, whose very nearness spiked her body into every increasing spirals of desire. With Lussac behind her, solid thighs cradling the soft roundness of her hips, his arms pressed heavily against her shoulders, Katerina questioned whether she was in even greater danger than she had been before.

  Digging his knees into the muscled flanks of his horse, Lussac pulled on the reins, directing the animal towards the darkening wedge of trees that fringed the flood plain. ‘It will be dark soon,’ he announced. ‘We need to find a place to shelter.’ He stared down at Katerina’s wet hair, her damp, sopping garments. ‘And you need to change.’

  The jerky movement of the horse forced her back into the broad solidity of his chest. Her limbs felt weak. Finally deserted by the strength to pull herself forwards, she sank into the warm, comforting brace against her spine. Her rigid, self-imposed restraint crawled away, dissipated into the limpid twilight; her eyelids drooped with fatigue. All she wanted to do was curl up and sleep.

  As she sagged against him, shoulders nudging his chest, her pliable body resting against his, Lussac gritted his teeth, unwilling to acknowledge the flick of desire through his veins. What, in Heaven’s name, was the matter with him? He told himself the physical response was completely normal; it had been a long time since he had held a maid in such a way. The faintest smell of rose petals lifted from her soaked, straggling hair. She seemed so small, so light within the cradle of his arms, it was difficult to equate the woman before him with the fighting, spitting termagent he had first encountered in the Earl of Norfolk’s forest, the same girl who had twisted and spun through the air before the Queen. She seemed to possess more courage, more daring than many of the soldiers he had encountered. He understood how much it had cost her to accept his help, to acknowledge her own vulnerability. As he negotiated his horse around the outlying trees of the forest, he wondered who or what she was running from.

  ‘Katerina?’

  Lussac’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, the low husky tone piercing the layers of blissful sleep. Lifting her head, she struggled to open her eyes. Her clothes stuck in uncomfortable layers against her damp flesh, the coarse wool of her braies itching the delicate skin on her thighs. Her eyes widened as Lussac lifted her down, her legs slithering off over the horse’s neck, jolting awkwardly.

  As he set her on the ground, his hands lifted immediately from her waist but, her feet were numb; she couldn’t feel her toes! Teetering stiffly, her cheeks reddened with embarrassment, she clutched at Lussac’s forearm; she hated herself for using him as a support. ‘Ouch! My feet!’ she gasped, as the blood began to rush back into them, prickling painfully.

  ‘Take your time,’ he murmured. In this translucent half-light, her skin was like smooth marble, the huge sparkling gemstones of her eyes viewing him warily. She looked ethereal, other-worldly, as if she had taken one step sideways out of the magic of the forest. Stung, astonished by his fanciful thoughts, he stepped back smartly as soon as she found her balance.

  ‘Where are we?’

  She followed his gaze to what appeared to be a tumbledown cottage, roof sagging crazily, set in a glade of silver birch. The setting sun caught on the silvery leaves, the breeze stretching each papery shape to reveal a white underside, some loosening, spinning down to settle on the moss-covered thatch of the cottage, like snowflakes. Some distance off, an owl hooted, answered in return by his mate, the call echoing through the trees.

  Bending his head beneath the tilting lintel, Lussac disappeared. Moments later, he stuck his head back out again. ‘Are you coming? I realise it’s not the Earl of Norfolk’s castle, but it will do well for tonight. There’s no one here...and hasn’t been for a long time.’

  Her brain fully awake, she felt the first trickle of unease, coupled with an unusual giddy sensation. Was he really expecting her to spend the night with him, in there? Her legs, stiff and cold, remained fixed to the spot, the bite wound in her shoulder beginning to smart, fiercely. ‘Er...well, I could sleep outside; it might make things easier.’ Her voice sounded feeble in the cooling evening air.

  Emerging on to the uneven, cobbled courtyard, he covered the distance between the doorway and her frozen, statue-like figure in three longs strides. ‘Easier? In what way?’ he rapped out. ‘It’s September, it’s cold outside at night. Why would you not want to sleep inside, where it’s warmer?’

  Because you would be there. With me. The vivid thought knocked into her brain.

  ‘Um...it’s not right, Lussac.’ Her teeth were chattering now as she fought to explain her doubts. ‘And we’re not married...’ She trailed off, miserably.

  ‘It’s a bit late to worry about maidenly modesty, Katerina.’ Up close, Lussac loomed over her, his diamond eyes intense, missing nothing. ‘You seem to have spent a great deal of time rewriting the rule book in that respect, leaping about the place dressed as a boy.’

  She shuffled uncomfortably, placing one hand against the horse’s neck to balance herself. The wound in her shoulder stretched painfully.

  ‘Here...’ He thrust the blanket into her arms, his voice gruff, edged with jolting formality. ‘Go into the cottage and take off those wet things. I’ll collect some firewood.’ He extracted a length of fabric from the saddle-bag, crumpling it on top of the blanket. ‘Wear this; it’s probably too big, but at least it will keep you warm whilst your clothes dry.’

  Through her utter exhaustion, she frowned at him, her expression guarded.

  He laughed, a short, toneless bark. ‘Don’t fret, you’re not my type. I will call out to make sure you’re safely garbed before I come back in. Your only concern should be to get warm and dry.’ Heat flooded her cheeks at his words and she turned away, embarrassed by his bluntness. As she stumbled awkwardly towards the cottage entrance, the heated intensity of his gaze pierced her spine.

  The interior of the cottage smelled damp, musty. At first she couldn’t see anything, only an impenetrable blackness. Gradually, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she began to discern the interior in more detail: the firepit in the centre, with an open hole lined with slate tiles in the roof above, the mud-packed floor, the cob walls bowing gently inwards, straw sticking out from the dried mud in random fashion. There was no glass at the windows; one window sat open to the elements, the other still retained one of its two shutters, hanging forlornly from a broken hinge.

  She clutched on to the blanket, the tunic, almost too frozen to move. But she had to move. Lussac would not be long collecting wood; she had to change before he returned. Her befuddled mind wondered if he would punish her for her earlier disappearance, but strangely, he didn’t appear to be angry at all. She couldn’t make sense of it, of him. But right now, common sense prevailed; she would accept the help that he offered, simply because she had no other choice. Survival was her modus operandi, survival by any means possible.

  Katerina struggled with her sodden tunic, heaving the heav
y folds up across her body, over her head. The wet material resisted, sticking unpleasantly against her injured shoulder, before suddenly releasing; she screwed her eyes up at the searing pain. Stepping out of her loose leather boots, her woollen braies, she managed to wrestle with the thin fabric of her chemise, allowing it to fall to the floor in a heap. Naked, she closed her eyes, teeth chattering uncontrollably, limbs drooping with fatigue; it all seemed like so much effort.

  She sank to the earth-packed floor, black waves swirling in her head. She wanted to sleep. Shaking her head fiercely, she tried to dispel the horrible feeling of lassitude, telling herself she had to go on, to look after herself, to take care. No one else would. On her knees beside the cold circle of fire stones, she clutched at the blanket and scrubbed herself dry, her fine pale skin turning red-raw with the brisk activity. Rippling shivers possessed her body as she pulled Lussac’s tunic over her head, the luxurious wool kissing her skin, warming her.

  Her drying braids dragged at her scalp, and she pulled out the hairpins, scattering them to the floor. Two long braids looped down, falling to her waist. She ran her fingers deftly through her loosened hair, separating out the damp strands. Wrapping the blanket around her tightly, bundled like a cocoon, Katerina swayed, then sank gracefully to one side, curled up on the ground, allowing sleep to claim her. Let Lussac de Balbigny do what he liked; she simply didn’t care any more.

  * * *

  ‘Katerina?’ Lussac knocked and called. Then knocked again. Something was wrong. Arms full of wood, he shoved one shoulder against the rotten planks, crashing the wide oak door inwards. Dropping the collected branches into a rattling pile, he picked out her hunched-up form in the gloom of the interior, hunkered down swiftly by her side. Was she breathing? His decisive fingers sought the pulse in her neck, found the regular beat of blood. His heart steadied. He snatched his hand away, conscious of the silken touch of her skin against his fingertips, of another feeling building slowly, inexorably, in his chest.

  Katerina lay on her side, spine curved around knees drawn up to her chest, hands bunched into little fists against her neck. Her hair, her magnificent hair, lay loose and beautiful over her shoulders, spilling in a glorious amber puddle on to the floor. Drying tendrils curling softly around her face, resting against her cheek. Her skin gleamed. Why did his fingers itch to touch, to test that velvet softness of her face, against the better judgement of his conscious mind, the cavernous hollow that formed his soul? He should know better than to be tempted, to be entranced by such beauty. Normally, the utter blackness of his spirit, the void that consumed him, overpowered such desires, but with Katerina? In her presence, despite her wilfulness, her misguided self-reliance, all seemed different. With this maid, the bad feelings seemed to vanish, to be replaced by a lightness of heart that he had not known since his youth.

  His gaze switched to the wet clothes strung across the floor. She had managed to change into his tunic at least. The fabric that had covered his own body now clung lovingly to her curves, the rounded press of her breasts, the raised flank of her hip. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; she obviously had no idea his tunics were split to the waist along the side seams to ease riding and now, the front panel of fabric had fallen forwards to reveal her pale, shapely thigh, a lean calf and narrow ankle. He suspected she hadn’t planned to fall asleep before he returned; her whole demeanour was that of a woman constantly on her guard, ready to fight her corner at every opportunity. But this time, the experience, whatever that experience had been, had obviously been too much, even for her. The blanket wound chaotically around her neck and shoulders; she had failed even to pull it down over her body for warmth. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Lussac teased out the blanket folds, one knuckle brushing against her hot, silky cheek, and pulled the woollen fabric down over her, tucking it in around her toes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Katerina had no idea of how long she slept, but she had a very strong idea of what had woken her. Shifting on to her back in her sleep, the wound in her shoulder bumped against the solid ground and she cried out with the searing pain, forgetting where she was; who she was with.

  ‘Katerina?’ In the glimmering darkness, Lussac called out to her, his voice low, hushed.

  Lussac?

  Her eyes popped open, brain struggling to comprehend, fighting back the layers of drowsy sleep. For a moment she savoured the warmth suffusing her body before her current situation rushed back, details vivid, uncompromising. Her capture, the dog attacking as they thrashed in the water; her own belittling humiliation as Lussac caught up with her, saw her beaten and wasted, cast up on the river bank like a wrung-out length of cloth. And now she lay, wrapped in his tunic smelling of sweet, lavender washing-soap, a tunic that belonged to a man with dangerous eyes, who slept a few scant feet away from her.

  Except that he wasn’t asleep.

  She struggled to a sitting position, head fuzzy. Stubby flames danced in the fire-pit, a thin trail of bluish smoke rising lazily to the chimney-hole in the roof. Several layers of slates had been set round the hole to prevent sparks alighting on the thatch. Lussac sat opposite her, hair like polished chestnut, bulky shoulders propped up against a dishevelled pile of straw. One leg stretched out before him, his booted foot almost touching the white-grey stones of the fire-pit, the other leg was bent, one arm resting loosely across his knee. His fingers were long, tapered, she noticed, the ridged sinews in his hand prominent in the flickering light. Alongside him, her wet clothes were draped across a broken chair, the fabric steaming gently in the heat from the fire. A kernel of odd delight skipped within her at the thought of his strong hands upon her clothes, busy in the menial domestic duty that she should have performed herself. Or would have performed, if she hadn’t fallen asleep.

  ‘How long have I been...?’ Her voice croaked, throat dry and parched, and she swallowed rapidly, trying to force the words out.

  ‘Asleep?’ he supplied. His eyes, charcoal-dark and sparkling, moved over her, touched the gold-spun magnificence of her hair cascading over her shoulders. The glowing light from the fire made his lean features appear chiselled, as if from stone. ‘Not long. Were you dreaming? You cried out.’

  She swallowed once more, attempting to dispel the dusty coating within her mouth. ‘Dreaming? Er, no, I’m not sure.’ She was reluctant to draw any attention to the real reason for her waking: the flaring pain in her shoulder. ‘Have you anything to drink?’

  ‘Here.’ He rummaged in the saddle-bags beside him, then leaned forwards with his leather water-bottle.

  ‘Thank you.’ As she shifted to take the bottle, making sure she used her right as opposed to her left hand, the blanket slithered from her shoulders, pooling down around her hips.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ he said sharply, noticing her awkward movement.

  Flinching under the diamond-intensity of his eyes, she pulled the stopper on the flagon, tipping the vessel to her lips. The fresh cool spring water slipped down her throat. Slowly, she replaced the stopper, keeping her eyes lowered, studying the dirt-ridged floor with exaggerated concentration. ‘No,’ she replied carefully.

  In one rapid, easy movement, he stood beside her, towering over her. The toe of his boot nudged at her hip. ‘There’s blood on the back of my tunic.’ His voice was blunt, matter of fact.

  ‘I’ll make sure I wash it before I give it back,’ she replied hastily. ‘What are you doing?’ Cool fingers moved the silken bundle of her hair to one side and slid down the back of her neck, proprietorially, lifting the garment’s decorative collar. Her heart stalled at the blatant over-familiarity, the graze of knuckle against her skin. A blade rasped through the material, slicing down with expertise, then air rushed over her injuries, exposed.

  ‘Christ alive!’ Lussac stared, shocked at the pulpy mess of her shoulder, the deep puncture marks in the white skin, the torn edges of each bite mark already pur
pling. ‘You little fool! Why didn’t you tell me what happened?’ His acerbic tone attacked and dismissed her in one go, chewing relentlessly at some fragile, vulnerable part of her. He jammed the knife back into his belt, crouching down beside her, folding back the fabric even further to view the extent of the damage.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ she flared back at him, wiggling her shoulders violently to deflect his fingers. Snatching at the blanket, she struggled to cover her bare skin, the offending shoulder, but it seemed inextricably lodged beneath her hips. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Leave you alone? And let your wound fester, so it becomes infected?’ Anger jolted through him, anger at those people who wished to harm her, who threatened her safety. ‘Even you, foolish as you are, should know better than that.’

  Katerina hung her head. Tears slid down her cheeks, dropping freely; her spirit sapped. ‘I do. I know. I would have sorted it out,’ she mumbled, watching the hot tears splatter into her lap, trickling across her slim wrists.

  ‘Are you crying?’

  Stung by his acid tone, her head whipped around; she fixed him with a wild, furious stare. ‘Aye, I am, and there’s not a thing you can do about it! If you don’t like it you can go—I’m not asking you to stay. I never asked you to help me.’

  Her tear-stricken voice nipped at him, burrowing deep within some inner core; shame flooded his body. He had been too harsh. Since their first meeting, she had sparred with him at every turn, stood up to him, condemned him, matching him in verbal, if not physical, strength. Her initial feistiness had led him astray. He had misjudged how helpless, how broken she was at this moment; she spat at him like a wounded vixen, cornered. She was not some soldier he could bawl out on the battlefield; by attacking her at her lowest ebb, he had cracked through her seemingly impenetrable shell of spiky self-confidence. Dropping down beside her, he reached for her hands. The rough pads of his fingers rubbed the soft skin.