The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘How did you do that?’ Tavia asked suddenly.

  His gaze flared over her, burning, incisive. She saw a whisker of agony trace across his features, before his expression shuttered, blank. He looked as if he wanted to kill her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ he muttered rudely, aware of her luminous gaze spark ling over him. Her lips had parted a fraction, revealing small white teeth, the tip of her pink tongue.

  Tavia studied his closed face, aware that she had trespassed through a barrier that he was not willing to reveal. Instinctively, she raised her fingers to his cheek, savouring the rough prickle of his jaw against her palm. He didn’t draw away. Rising to her knees before him, her other hand rose, curving around his other cheek so that she held his face within her hands. She wanted to erase that pain in his eyes, smooth away the hurt, whatever it was.

  His eyes flicked up to hers, smouldering.

  She lowered her mouth, touched her lips to his cheek. A chaste kiss of comfort. That was all it was meant to be.

  Benois groaned, the sound, deep in his chest, low and primitive. In a fraction of a movement, he adjusted the angle of his cheek, sealing his lips to hers. Desire ignited deep within her, bursting forth in a shower of sparks. A huge shudder coursed through his frame; his hands seized her waist, looping her body within his powerful arms, dragging her across him. Her hands trembled as she pushed her fingers up to his head, relishing the sifting, silken feel of his hair. Flames tore at her flesh, in can des cent, blood hurtling through her veins so fast that she thought she might faint at the enormity of the feeling. She clung to him, aware that reality had been left far behind as she descended into a heaving, churning whirl pool of passion.

  Abruptly, Benois shoved her away, hands at her waist, dumping her unceremoniously in a heap beside him. She touched a finger to her mouth, lips burning from the searing taste of his kiss, aghast, astounded. Beneath his furious, outraged perusal, she coloured hotly, the blush seeping from the nape of her neck to the top of her head, embarrassed at how he had made her feel. What had she been thinking of? It had been his expression, his expression of utter pain that had made her do it. The expression that he had tried so hard to hide. But he had made his sentiments perfectly clear. She was of no interest to him. Why should she be? As all those suitors that her father had unwillingly dragged before her had told her, she was too short, too lean, and the colour of her hair could only lead to trouble. This man, like all men, was her enemy, and not just her enemy, but the enemy of her country. And her mother lay dying as she was kissing.

  Traitorous flesh thrumming from the impact of his mouth, she jumped to her feet, wiping a hand viciously across her lips. Rejection sluiced over her; she chewed on her bottom lip angrily. What an utter fool she had been!

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Ragged anger edged Benois’s tone.

  She heaved a great sigh, forced herself to meet his gaze with huge eyes. ‘For a moment…back then…you looked so sad.’

  ‘And is that your usual practice? To kiss a stranger if they look sad?’ His tone barked at her, a brutal rebuke. ‘You need to guard yourself better than that, maid. God knows where it could lead.’

  ‘How dare you?’ She planted her feet just inches from where he still lay on the ground—she wanted to stamp on him! ‘How dare you chastise me?’ she railed down at him, temper igniting in her breast. ‘You started it…you turned it into—’ She broke off abruptly, unable to find the words to describe his kiss.

  Wanting to frighten her, to stop her speech, Benois sprang up wards, un balancing her momentarily as he towered over her. Tavia gulped, startled. Heels scuffing the ground, she backed away, away from his fury, away from his obvious displeasure at being anywhere near her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

  His brows drew together in a heavy frown, seeing the fear chase across her angelic features. He was being mean, and well he knew it. She had given the kiss in good faith, and he had warped her innocent gesture, transforming it into something far darker, far hungrier than he cared to admit. She had apologised, yet it was his fault.

  One of Langley’s soldiers had collected a huddle of damp twigs and managed to light a fire. As the smoke hazed languorously upwards through the trees, the other soldiers gathered around the heat, mumbling to each other in quiet voices, passing around leather flagons of mead, and chewing on day-old hunks of bread.

  ‘Come, mistress.’ Langley, still resplendent in his red-and-gold surcoat, his full-length cloak of mink, beckoned to Tavia. She stood on the out skirts of the group, a forlorn figure, unsure whether to join in, or sit alone. After her apology, Benois had marched off without a word, but, witnessing the grim set of his features, she realised some forbidden boundary had been crossed.

  She stepped forwards, hauling the long, drooping sleeves of her gown upwards, conscious that, as well as losing her veil, she had also lost the golden circlet that belonged to the princess. Smiling widely, Langley handed her a chunk of bread, apologising for its stale ness. He balanced a lump of cheese on top with his thumb, and she smiled grate fully as she reached out for the parcel of food with two hands. With an elaborate, courtly gesture, Langley unfastened the brooch that held the two sides of his cloak together and laid it flat on the damp ground.

  ‘Please sit, my lady.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tavia sank down, aware that her legs still trembled from the heated en counter with Benois. Langley sat down companionably beside her, pushing his stocky legs out before him.

  ‘Good God!’ he groaned. ‘I’m not cut out for sleeping on the ground. The sooner I return to the luxury of my castle, the better. I can only hope that you fared more favourably than I last night, my lady.’

  ‘I slept very well,’ she admitted, unwilling to admit that waking up had been a shock. She swallowed a mouthful of bread. ‘But, my lord, you don’t need to keep addressing me as “my lady”. I do not own such a title.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Langley replied. ‘But you are so similar to the princess that I cannot stop myself. I keep thinking that you are her.’ He tilted his leather flagon to his lips and took a deep gulp. ‘Have you never wondered about it?’

  Tavia chewed on her bread thought fully. ‘Nay, I only met her for the first time just after Ferchar asked me to help them.’

  ‘Then believe me when I say, you are the spit of her.’

  ‘Maybe her mother has a secret.’ Benois strode into the clearing, brandishing a quarrel, which he cleaned with a lump of grass.

  Eyes darkening, Tavia pursed her lips together, determined not to retaliate. She continued eating her bread, watching the flames hiss and lick around the wood in the fire.

  Benois chucked the bloodied grass into a thicket behind him, and handed the arrow to Tavia. ‘Your quarrel.’

  She stared at the fatal tip, glinting in the morning light. ‘I don’t want it,’ she murmured, thinking again of the man dropping dead be fore her eyes.

  Benois studied the quarrel. ‘It’s a shame; the bolt’s well made. You’d be a fool to throw it away, mistress.’

  ‘I don’t want it!’ she repeated, clambering to her feet. ‘You can bury it with him for all I care.’

  ‘No time for that,’ Benois said brusquely. ‘We need to go.’

  ‘Who?’ Tavia said suspiciously.

  ‘Why, you and me, of course.’ Benois’s eyes flicked over her. ‘If you wish to return to Dunswick before dark, then we need to go now.’

  ‘Oh, but…’ Tavia looked frantically at the rounded, shorter figure of Langley, before returning to Benois’s leaner profile. ‘So you’ll take me back?’

  ‘I said so, didn’t I?’ he replied impatiently.

  ‘I assumed Langley would take me,’ she responded, a hint of desperation in her voice.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot, my lady,’ Langley chipped into the conversation, clapping one hand to his left shoulder. ‘I took a slice in the arm from one of those
brigands yestereve. I would be unable to defend you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Benois raised his eyebrows, sensing her reluctance. ‘Believe me, mistress, escorting you is the last thing I want to do.’

  Tavia fiddled with the long ties of her cloak. ‘If you point me in the right direction, I’ll probably be all right on my own,’ she uttered with more confidence than she felt. ‘I have my crossbow…’ She saw the light flare in Benois’s eyes, and trailed off.

  ‘Which you shoot with admirable precision, my lady,’ Langley complimented her. ‘Why, if it hadn’t been for you—’

  ‘Mother of Mary, don’t give the chit ideas, Langley,’ Benois cut him off forcibly. ‘If it wasn’t for this girl, none of us would be here in the first place. Now, you bury these bodies, and I’ll take her back to Dunswick.’

  And God help us both, Tavia thought.

  Sticking his booted foot into the metal stirrup, Benois swung himself grace fully on to his horse. The leather in the saddle creaked as he adjusted his weight, bunching the reins into one hand as the horse skittered with excitement, ready to go. His cloak spread in gleaming folds across the horse’s rump as he looked over at Langley.

  ‘Give the maid a leg up, Langley.’

  In reply, Langley adopted a sorrowful expression, patting his injured shoulder.

  Benois shot a glance heaven wards. ‘Ah! I forgot.’ Realising the rest of the soldiers were busy digging shallow graves for the bodies, his razor-sharp gaze honed in on Tavia. ‘Can you climb up yourself, maid? We’re running out of time.’

  Looking up at the high saddle of the horse, Tavia sincerely doubted it, but she would try.

  ‘Just jump up,’ Benois commanded arrogantly. ‘Put your foot in the stirrup, then throw the other leg over!’

  He made it sound so easy, thought Tavia, grimacing as she tried to hook her toe into the high stirrup. But, despite Langley holding the animal’s head, the horse shuffled slightly, and she was left bouncing around with one leg on the ground, with the other foot trapped in the stirrup.

  ‘Oh, help! Help!’ she called out. Langley released the bridle and came round, supporting her back so she could disentangle her foot.

  ‘Come on!’ Benois ordered. He hadn’t seen her display of complete ineptitude, as he waited impatiently on the other side of her horse. ‘Langley, stop faffing around, and come and hold her horse’s head.’

  Tavia marched around to Benois, hands on hips. ‘Will you just give me a chance, and stop ordering me around like one of your foot-soldiers. It’s really difficult!’

  Benois chuckled, watching her cheeks burn with a becoming rose colour. ‘It is for some people, obviously!’ He jumped down from his horse, grabbing her waist firmly, and set her in the saddle with an easy movement. His hand rested on the pommel, vigorous strands of chest nut hair on a level with her waist. ‘Have you ever ridden before?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘What do you think?’ she answered grumpily, the reins slack between her unknowing fingers.

  ‘Just try to keep up,’ he muttered, before swinging away.

  In the afternoon, the white strands of cloud began to swell, billowing in front of the sun. Tavia shivered, her hands tightening instinctively on the reins with the in voluntary movement, every muscle in her body straining with the effort of keeping up with Benois. Her hip and thigh muscles ached from the un familiar position; her knees shook from clamping them either side of the leather saddle. It seemed like they had ridden for hours, Tavia’s eyes riveted on Benois’s broad straight back, the swishing rump of his horse, but she knew it was not past noon. She should have welcomed Benois’s re lent less pace; like her, it was obvious that he wanted nothing more than to be rid of her, and wanted this journey to be over as soon as possible, but a tiny part of her wished to plead for a rest.

  The horses followed a path along side a shallow, fast-flowing brook that meandered, glistening, at the bottom of a gently sloped valley. The running, gurgling water provided a melodious backdrop to their ride, and Tavia was thankful that the horses had to slow to a walk in order to pick their way amongst the stones that littered the green valley floor. Further up the slope, the landscape took a harsher profile, with great grey carbuncles of granite growing out of the valley sides until they flattened off into moorland above.

  A huge spot of rain splashed down on to Tavia’s hand. The water slid off her pale flesh to stain the faded leather of the reins. Then an other spot. And another. In a moment, the gathering clouds darkened significantly, and the rain surged down, shining needles of water. The rain sluiced over Tavia’s face, trick ling down beneath the rounded collar of her gown, the damp wool at her throat itching uncomfortably.

  Benois whirled his horse around, yanking at the sides of his cloak to try to shield himself from the worst of the rain. Already his hair was plastered seal-like to his head, emphasising the raw beauty of his features, the high angularity of his cheek bones, shadowed and dangerous.

  ‘We must find shelter!’ he yelled at her. ‘Come on!’ He wheeled his animal away from her with an assured, practised hand, jabbing his heels into the horse’s flank to set it into a gallop.

  How in considerate, thought Tavia. She knew that he meant her to follow him, but at a gallop? Her horse continued to plod steadily on wards and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to encourage the animal to go any faster.

  Several yards ahead, Benois glanced around. Tavia sensed rather than heard his groan of disgust at her woefully lethargic pace. He gal loped back, his horse kicking up clods of soggy earth, before dragging on the reins to halt beside her. ‘Will you come on!’ he bellowed down at her. ‘We’ll be wet through at this rate!’

  Tavia was already wet through, but she thought now was not the time to mention it. ‘I would if I knew how!’ she shouted back, her aqua marine eyes challenging him through the stinging rain.

  ‘I cannot believe you never learned to ride,’ he muttered, edging his animal round so that his horse was parallel to hers. He leaned over and grabbed her reins. ‘Now, hang on!’

  Her direction became uncertain after that; all she did know was that the animal beneath her turned into a see-sawing, unpredictable ride. She clung on to the reins, the stringy mane, the saddle, anything to stop her toppling to the ground. Her hips slipped from the left to the right; one of her feet fell from the stirrup and she lurched forwards, the pommel digging into her stomach. When, finally, the horse stopped abruptly, she lay forward over the animal’s back, exhausted, her fingers inter laced with the mane, trying to control her rapid, frightened breathing.

  ‘We’ll stop here!’ Benois declared autocratically. He had already dismounted, appearing at the side of her horse. ‘Look, there’s some shelter over there.’ Lifting her head wearily, peering through the incessant rain, Tavia followed his pointing finger towards a dark hole in the side of a granite escarpment. A cave, she thought. Well, anything was preferable to staying on this horse. Leaning forwards, she man aged to swing her leg over the back of the horse, slither down its side shakily, reluctant to accept any more help from Benois. As her feet touched the ground, she clutched on to the saddle for a moment, trying to regain her balance.

  Through the dismal, sluicing rain, she appeared as a bedraggled waif, her elfin features pale and luminous. One of her braids had become hooked around the pommel, tugging at her head as she took a step towards the cave and she shrank back as he reached forwards to gently detach the curling end. The silky softness of her hair made his fingers linger; suddenly he longed to see her with her hair free and unbound, with no veil, no ribbons confining its glorious colour.

  Her frowning expression jolted him back to reality, and he released the end of her braid as if it stung him. Pulling her by the top of her arm, he dragged her towards the cave and into its dim, damp interior, annoyed that her beauty lured him so, made him forget his true purpose. He released her shoulder abruptly, wanting to push her away, to punish her for attracting him so, and she stood there, fixed to the spot, limp a
nd trembling. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gruffly, no hint of concern in his voice.

  ‘Am I all right?’ she repeated his words, astounded, scrabbling behind her for some sort of handhold in the rock. ‘Nay! I am not. Not only do you chide me for not being able to mount my own horse, you also start galloping at a tremendous pace when I cannot even ride, before pulling me off the horse like a sack of grain and dragging me in here!’

  ‘We needed to shelter from the rain!’ he responded. ‘And you dismounted on your own, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Only because I knew you were about to pull me off,’ she replied defensively. ‘I’ve had enough, Benois!’ Eyes bruised with tiredness, she slumped against the rock behind her.

  She’s exhausted, thought Benois, suddenly. Her cloak had fallen back over her shoulders, the ornate brooch that fastened the two sides together digging into the skin at her throat. Beneath its cloying folds, the elegant lines of her bliaut were revealed, the fabric clinging wetly to her svelte figure. His breath caught, his eye tracing the soft round of her bosom, an elaborate girdle embracing the indentation of her waist. Her com plaint was justified: the maid was half the size of him, yet he had pushed the pace this morning, covering the same distance as if he had been riding with a group of experienced soldiers. And, until now, she had not uttered one murmur of com plaint, or failed to keep up.

  He ran the flat of his palm over his face. ‘I am sorry,’ he admitted, ruefully. ‘I’m used to riding with soldiers, not escorting ladies.’

  Tavia nodded jerkily. ‘At least you have the courtesy to apologise.’ Her voice, prim and formal, echoed around the cave. Fatigue washed over her as she leant back against the rock, a natural ledge supporting her weight.

  Benois moved around the space, treading with the minimal grace of a cat, to gather an armful of the dry sticks that littered the floor of the cave. Reaching for the pouch at his belt, he drew out a sharp flint, and a piece of metal, glinting dully. Crouching down over a bunch of dried moss and grass, Benois struck down on the metal, producing a shower of sparks. A tiny curl of smoke appeared from the kindling. Benois fed the fire quickly, building it up, so that soon the heart of the wood burned strongly. The occasional raindrop, blown in on the breeze, hissed into the flames. Tavia’s eyelids began to droop.