The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  Lussac took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She glanced around at him, wary, blinking away the wetness from her smoke-grey eyes, her lashes soot-black, stippled with teardrops. A deep shudder coursed through her. ‘I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever said that.’ Her voice wobbled dangerously, then steadied.

  He smiled slowly at her, curiously relieved. ‘Will you let me treat that wound? I have some salve in my bag which should help.’

  Katerina nodded doubtfully, nibbling on her bottom lip, unsure. She told herself her own health was at stake, nothing more, but a whisper of caution scratched at the inner recesses of her brain. Through lowered lashes, surreptitiously, she tracked Lussac’s powerful strides as he made his way over to his bags, observed the way his close-fitting tunic clung to his strong haunches, his thighs, before falling to his knees. Despite all that had happened, a lightness danced around her heart, flickered new-born in the pit of her stomach; a lightness she couldn’t explain. As Lussac turned, holding the earthenware pot of salve, she averted her eyes, wrapping her arms securely around her raised knees in an attempt to keep the damaged tunic from falling down.

  She tensed as he hunkered down behind her, pouring water from his drinking bottle on to a pad of cloth. ‘This may hurt a little,’ he warned. He began to dab gently at the wounds on her back, his touch light, considerate, then threw the cloth down, dipping his fingers into the salve.

  Without the separation of the damp cloth, the first touch of his fingers was a shock. Katerina closed her eyes, sucking in her breath abruptly. As he smoothed the thick honey-smelling ointment across her skin, she willed herself to control her breath, the wild pitch of her heart, forced herself to remain upright, rigid. Her skin tingled, grew warm.

  Her reaction was not to the pain, but to the man kneeling inches behind her, energy radiating from his big body, encompassing her—the searing brush of his fingers, the smell of him: an intoxicating tangle of leather, woodsmoke and horse. Heat kindled within her, growing and blossoming, sparking suddenly to...what? What was it? A strange looping, coiling excitement, that drove her heart to beat faster, harder against her ribs, and snatched at her breath. In a desperate slide of realisation, she longed for his hands to stop their ministrations and smooth downwards, around, to slip beneath the flapping sides of the tunic, to draw her back, into him.

  Her heart-beat skipped, then accelerated; she fought to draw in more oxygen to keep up with the rush of blood around her body. This will be over soon, she repeated to herself, a mantra, a prayer. This will be over soon. But, in truth, she wanted the feeling to last for ever. It was as if she were on the edge of an unknown precipice, with her own body becoming a total stranger, an unknown entity. She had never known such an addictive, intoxicating feeling, such a fierce, unbounded reaction...ever.

  Katerina lurched upwards, legs weak, rickety as a puppet, finding some hidden strength to tear away from his irresistible touch, staggering over to the door. ‘I can’t breathe!’ she gasped out. She crossed her arms fiercely across her chest, anchoring the slipping tunic to her breasts. The air emerged from her lungs in short, panicky gulps.

  * * *

  Kneeling on the floor, one dark eyebrow quirked upwards, Lussac studied her closely. What was the matter with the maid? Her face was flushed, as if she were running a fever. Her expression was one of haunted panic. He tried to ignore the creamy flash of her naked shoulder, bathed in the glow from the fire, for the warm velvet of her skin beneath his fingers had begun to gouge serious inroads into his own self-control. Against the muscle-bound wall of his chest, his heart thudded dangerously, an uneven strike.

  ‘Come back,’ he said, gently. ‘Let me finish.’

  Katerina backed up against the door, the thick oak planks supporting her trembling limbs, cheeks hot. ‘I’m not sure...’ she hedged. Her eyes were reflected pools of light, silver-grey. She cleared her throat, trying to gather some tattered shreds of her dignity together. ‘It’s just that...well, you should know I’m not in the habit of doing things like this.’ Although her voice trembled, she managed to inject a triteness, a formality into her tone. ‘It’s not usual behaviour for me.’

  Lussac chuckled, resting back on his heels, placing the pot of salve down by his side. Lit by the flames, his huge shadow bounced on the crumbling wall behind him. ‘I would love to know what “usual behaviour” is for someone like you,’ he replied. ‘Everything I have seen so far has been distinctly unusual: poaching rabbits, climbing trees, not to mention swinging on chandeliers.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that...’ She paused. ‘I meant, this, being with you, a stranger, a man...’ she shuffled uncomfortably ‘...alone.’ She closed her eyes, mortified, hunting for the right words to explain. ‘With you...like this.’

  ‘It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,’ he replied. ‘It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I said I would help you.’ He deliberately kept his tone brisk, practical, refusing to acknowledge that the gapping edge of the tunic had slipped even further, the taut flesh below her collar-bone shining like a pearl. His loins clenched deceitfully.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think...’ She turned worried eyes upon the sculptured angles of his face. I don’t think I can control myself. She gasped out loud, balling one hand into a fist against her chest. Had he heard? Had she said those words out loud—those words that clamoured treacherously in her head? I don’t think I can control myself around him. In what way? She couldn’t even begin to imagine.

  ‘I’ve said I would help you, and help you I will. And if you come back here, I can carry on.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I need to put the salve on and then we’re done.’

  How could she tell him it wasn’t the pain, it was him, the confident press of his fingers, the draught of his breath sifting across her naked shoulders, stirring her hair? It was these things that made her hesitate and resist moving back. How could she announce something so outrageous? The lean, wiry maid who dressed like a boy—why, he would laugh in her face! He had made no secret of the fact that he had no desire for her. No secret at all. She had to prove to herself she was equally immune to him, immune to his presence, his touch upon her. She was strong, she could do it; she would make herself do it. Forcing her unwilling legs to move, she settled back down in front of him, sinking to her knees, her arms clamped severely to each side, holding the tunic in place, keeping her eyes focused on the flickering embers before her.

  Faced once more with the sweet, bare curve of her shoulder, Lussac knew he had lied. And that he had to be quick and finish the job. He gritted his teeth as he massaged the salve in firm, deft circles across her skin. His body reacted to the maid’s nearness in a way he did not like, in a way he seemed unable to control. Her loosened hair tumbled forwards over her shoulders in a riot of rapidly drying curls, the colour of amber. He longed to plunge his hands into that mass of glorious abandon, to lose himself within the silken tresses; longed to trace the mesmerising curve from ear to shoulder, to run his fingers down the notched rope of her spine, pale and vulnerable, inches from his ministering fingers. He was supposed to be helping her, for Christ’s sake, not imagining her beneath him! As that clear, evocative image drove into his brain, his loins gripped with inexplicable desire, stabbed through him, brought him sharply back on his heels. His hand dropped.

  ‘All done,’ he croaked.

  She turned her head, looked back at him over her shoulder. It was then that he saw it. Saw the desire burn in her eyes, those wide pools of light devouring him.

  A lump of charred wood fell sideways in the fire-pit; sparks shot upwards.

  ‘You feel it too,’ he whispered.

  Her mouth was mere inches from his, the delicious rosy curve half-open, expectant. In that breathless hush of stalled time, he sensed the tension within her, read it in
her rigid stance. What did she want from him? He had nothing to give. If she had any wit at all she would back away now, retreat to a shadowy corner of the cottage, away. But her huge, luminous eyes held on to his, diamond-bright, drawing him in; he shuddered with desire. He rounded his palms on her shoulders, meaning to steady her, to reason with her, to speak some nonsense about settling down for the night, to drink, to eat, anything that would take his mind off that mouth of hers, the enticing brilliance of her eyes.

  At his touch, the smallest sound escaped from her lips: a sigh.

  Logic fled, deserting him, ripping away the last fragile remnants of his self-control. He tipped his head forwards, down, lips scuffing the corner of her mouth. Flames leapt within him, tore at the very core of him, the brief flutter of her mouth against his. He wanted more, much more. Hands that had intended to set her away now pulled her close, hard, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, roping tight around the flexible curve of her back. Beneath the tunic’s voluminous folds, her figure was lean, but soft and pliable, cleaving to him, matching him. His mouth sealed down over hers, harder, questing, tongue roaming over the sensitive seam of her lips.

  Katerina could hardly breathe; she was lost, sunk in a ferocious tumult of emotion: new, untried, feelings so exquisite that she wanted to shout aloud, to sing her joy to the skies above. Her limbs burned, liquefied under the relentless onslaught of Lussac’s mouth, heart thudding recklessly, unevenly against the iron-clad wall of his chest. Powerless to resist, the touch of his mouth was inevitable and she had welcomed it. She craved the taste of him, the feel of his strong body against hers; she wanted this piece of time, this boundless spell of delicious intensity, to last for ever.

  Lussac tore his mouth away, breathing heavily. Sitting back, he stuck one hand roughly through his hair, sending the silky dark locks spiking upwards. ‘My God.’ He stared at her, eyes bleak, fathomless, as if he were trying to work out what had just occurred between them, decipher the logic of the attraction, the kiss. ‘That was unforgivable of me.’

  I forgive you. But the strength to voice the words deserted her; his kiss had sapped the toughness from her speech. Katerina shook her head weakly at him, negating his words with the gesture. Nay, it was not unforgivable. It was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to her.

  ‘Cover yourself up.’ He rose to his feet, snatching up the blanket where it lay strung out in gathered folds across the floor. He threw it at her.

  Passion shrivelled, died within her. It was if he had taken a bucket of icy water and doused her with it. How could he change so quickly? How could he be kissing her one moment, pulling her towards him as if the moment would never end, then shove her away, hostility in his eyes? He couldn’t even look at her. He had tried and found her wanting. The simple explanation sprang into her head: she was not woman enough for him, for one as experienced as him. The kiss had revealed her innocence, her lack of knowledge when it came to men. What a fool she was, for having even one iota of hope, of expectation. Despite the stony expression on his face, he was no doubt laughing at her inside.

  Alongside the feelings of loss, of hopeless rejection, caused by the blunt finale of his kiss, temper erupted within her, fiery and haphazard, unstable. ‘How dare you treat me so!’ she blazed. ‘Don’t even think to take your pathetic frustrations out on me!’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Lussac frowned.

  She hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry if I failed to live up to expectations!’

  So that’s it, Lussac thought, walking over to his saddle-bags on the other side of the room. She thinks I’ve used her, found her wanting and have now discarded her. How wrong could one woman be? Her eyes burned into him, hating him, hot, fiery coals of wrath; even with his back to her, he could feel her disdain, her anger. Maybe it was better this way; maybe it was better if she hated him. He sank down against the bale of straw once more, watching Katerina as she yanked the blanket over her shoulders, curling herself into a tight, miserable ball with her back to the fire and to him. Aye, it would be easier if she hated him; that way, she would never be hurt. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but especially not on her.

  He sighed, tilting his head back, closing his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was early morning when Katerina woke again. Somewhere near the open chimney-hole, a blackbird trilled frantically, a continual bombardment up and down the musical scale, warbling and squawking. The air in the cottage was chill; lying on her back, Katerina saw her breath form a white cloud above her face as she exhaled. Lifting her hand, she brushed one finger across her lips, remembering. The sensitive flesh tingled, stung slightly, as if bruised. Something wilted inside her, twisted her gut. She switched her head abruptly to the left, eyes travelling over the fire’s ashy remains, seeking out the space where Lussac had slept. Empty. Loose strands of straw poked out from the bales, drifting listlessly in the slender draught from the open window. She wondered where he was, but doubted he had gone far, after her exploits yesterday.

  A long slow breath escaped her lungs. Last night, she had been lucky. Fortune had been on her side; he had been on her side, scooping her up on the river bank last night when she was down, at rock bottom, and tending to her wounds. Any decent man would have done it. Of course, not any man would have kissed her, but from the way he had ended it, he had no intention of ever trying that again. She stared at the ground miserably, recalling the hot, white-light intensity of his touch, his eager, skilled mouth against hers. How could she have known what such closeness, such connection could feel like? She was naïve to the ways of men, an innocent.

  She raised one arm in the air, stretching her muscles, testing, then raised the other arm with her damaged shoulder, assessing the strength of the movement. The healing, overly taut skin across her shoulder strained cruelly, ached. She couldn’t afford to be injured, couldn’t afford to be unfit to perform. Did those men her father had hired know she was with the troupe? Or had they been lucky in Ipswich, catching sight of her across the market?

  Reaching for her clothes, dried stiffly over the chair, she lifted Lussac’s tunic up and over her head, the movement awkward with her damaged shoulder. She folded the fine material carefully, smoothing her hand across the creases. Her naked skin puckered in the cool air and she shivered. The folds of her own tunic had clumped together and she held the garment across her bare thighs, tugging irritably at the unwieldy fabric.

  The door sprang open. Lussac filled the opening.

  Instinctively, Katerina hunched over, clasping the tunic across her naked bosom, dragging it down so it covered the tops of her bare thighs. ‘Lord in Heaven, you might have knocked!’ she blurted out, horrified.

  ‘I thought you would still be sleeping,’ Lussac replied, breath snaring in his throat. One gleaming swell of naked breast peeked out from the inadequate covering, framed by the delicate cage of her collar-bone above. Her legs were slender, feet pink-tipped with tiny, shell-like toenails. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such small feet. His fingers gripped around the edge of the door, fighting to steady himself, fighting for equilibrium. ‘I’ll be outside,’ he announced jerkily, dragging the heavy, unwieldy door back into its frame with unnecessary force.

  Desire thrummed through his broad frame as he staggered back from the door, away, away from the lustrous perfection of those limbs, the tempting slope of bare bosom, her sweet, enchanting face. Christ, she acted upon him like a siren of old, calling to him, luring him in with those staggering grey eyes, that magnificent hair. Seeing her there, with that flimsy piece of fabric barely covering her nudity, he had truly believed he would lose control and take her there and then, rolling around in the hard, corrugated ground.

  It was imperative he remained focused on his purpose in this country and the reason he had searched for her. Katerina’s family held the key to everyt
hing, the key to his life, his salvation. He needed to reach Longthorpe and he needed Katerina to take him there, willing or not. He had to avenge the death of his family, nothing more, nothing less; his own physical desires should never have come into it. And that was all this was. Physical desire. It was a long time since he’d been with a woman; the cold hollowness of his spirit had made sure of that and now this delectable morsel was thrown before him. His body, devoid of physical contact for so long, was responding in the only way it knew how. He frowned. But why now? After all these years? He simply couldn’t explain it.

  * * *

  Fully dressed, Katerina tugged at the door, then slid out into the fresh morning air. Her braies were damp around the ankles as she tucked the loose ends into her leather boots, but everything else, her chemise, her hooded tunic, was dry. Wrenching her hair back, she had plaited it roughly, allowing it to swing down her back, securing the braid with a leather lace. The sunlight picked up the golden flecks in the bronze strands, flaming her hair with a lustrous beauty.

  In front of the cottage, the grass in the clearing grew thick, with vigour, soaked with a heavy, clinging dew. Tiny spiders’ webs clung to single blades, stretched into uneven octagons, like tented lace. Viewed from above, the grass appeared coated in a diaphanous veil of white. Katerina hesitated on the threshold, reluctant to move into the clearing, to find Lussac. She had no wish to face him. His humiliating rejection of her, after their kiss, preyed on her brain, and the embarrassment of him barging in on her naked made her want to hide, to slink away without seeing him.

  But there he was, crouched down at the side of the clearing over a small fire, adjusting some kind of trivet from which hung a small iron pot. He poked at the ashes with a long stick, one chainmail sleeve pushed back, revealing a lean forearm roped with muscle. Strong, skilful arms that had held her, pulled her in tighter, harder. Her heart flipped in shame, the urge to run away almost overwhelming. She must have made a sound, a small movement that gave her presence away. His head lifted, features unsmiling, chestnut hair falling in silky spikes over his forehead.