‘How clever of you,’ he commented drily, but his tone held no praise. ‘And what poor soul did you involve to help you?’
‘Nobody. I hit the guard over the head with the jug. I did it by myself.’ Tavia set her hands on her hips, tensing a little from the pain in her hand, vaguely aware of a dizzy feeling clouding her mind.
‘Sit down.’ Benois reached for the stool, set it upright.
Nausea rose in her gullet, as she plopped down hopelessly on the stool, all fight drained from her, suddenly. ‘I don’t feel very well.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Benois replied bluntly. ‘You must have lost a fair amount of blood.’
‘I must have cut it on a piece of the broken jug,’ she muttered, as his face loomed over her hand. His dark lashes fanned out over his steely eyes, his mouth com pressed in a rigid, stern line. She flinched as his fingers touched hers, trying to pull her hand out of his grip. ‘I can do this!’
‘Nay, you cannot,’ he replied calmly, flinging the bloodied rag back into the bowl of water, beginning to bind her hand tightly. ‘Stop fighting me, Tavia, at least until I have finished this.’ His brow creased as he concentrated on finishing the bandage neatly, the touch of his cool fingers sending a flicker of desire along her arm.
The moment he tied the two loose ends of the bandage together, she pulled her injured hand away from him, lacing it against her stomach, trying to work up the energy to leave, to stand up even. ‘I need to go now.’
He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘Ferchar knows you’ve escaped already…the guard has been alerted…listen.’ He jerked his head towards the door.
From outside the door, a sound grew, a noise of pounding foot steps, of fists thumping purpose fully on chamber doors. Harsh shouts demanded that every room reveal all occupants, answering protests stifled quickly.
Benois hunkered down, his knees in their woollen braies almost touching hers. The leather cross-gartering over his calves creaked against the movement. ‘Seems like Lord Ferchar is very reluctant to let you go,’ he surmised, the heat of his breath flowing her skin. ‘Any reason why?’
Tavia breathed in the scent of him, a heady masculine aroma, spiced with wood smoke and leather. ‘I’m not certain,’ she hedged, not wanting to involve him in the details she had only just learned herself.
He knew she could tell him more, knew from the stubborn position of her chin, the awkward way she held her body away from him. Benois sprung to his feet, irritated. He should just throw her out into the corridor now, push her towards the guards, have nothing more to do with her!
Tavia hunched forlornly on the low stool, cradling her injured hand. Her hair glowed like rich claret in the torchlight, her thick braid slip ping forwards over one shoulder, the curling end, secured with a leather lace, brushing the floor. A sense of desperation flooded through her, a raft of complete helplessness; her bottom lip wobbled. This was ridiculous, she chided herself, sternly. Surely she had escaped from worse situations than this? But at this precise moment, she had absolutely no idea what to do next. The pain from her hand, grief and exhaustion—all combined to make her weak, and the more she tried to fight it, the worse it seemed to become.
The shouts moved nearer; Benois’s eyes raked her huddled stance. His gaze slipped over her injured hand; he cursed, noting the faint stain of blood beginning to seep through the make shift bandage. He told himself that he only helped her because she had hurt herself; he would do the same for anyone, man or woman. But in his heart, he knew it was a lie. From the time he had left her at the cottage, Tavia had never been far from his thoughts.
‘Come,’ he announced, urging her upwards, ‘you must hide before Ferchar’s soldiers reach this room.’
‘I…’ She opened her mouth to remonstrate, the objection dying on her lips as he bent down to pick her up, looping one muscled arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, scooping her up high against his chest. Striding over to the bed, he tipped her into the middle of the linen-covered straw mattress, her arms and legs flailing.
‘Lie down,’ he ordered sternly. ‘Lie down, as flat as you can. And for pity’s sake, keep quiet!’
Fuming, Tavia sprang up, reaching over to flick the hem of her gown back down over her calves and fine-boned ankles that had become exposed with the movement. Catching her prudish movement, Benois smiled before picking up the woollen blanket discarded earlier onto the floor.
‘I said, “lie down”!’ he said, moving back to the bed. Pushing one huge, bear-like hand against her shoulder, he shoved her back down wards, the force literally bouncing her slender frame against the mat tress. ‘Don’t give me a reason to not help you!’ he growled. As Tavia glared at him, he flapped the blanket wide, letting it float over her, covering her completely from head to toe. The coarse fibres of the blanket tickled her nose; she brought up one hand slowly to lift the smothering softness away from her mouth so she could breathe. A heavy fur landed thickly on top of her, followed by another.
Someone banged on the door; fear tore at her chest. She heard Benois open the door, answer the guard’s questions with his deep, velvety rasp. Whatever he said seemed to satisfy them, and, holding her breath in the roasting heat of the bed clothes, she heard the door latch click back into place, the iron key turn with a satisfying clunk.
‘You can come out now,’ Benois said. The bed covers were thrown back, and Tavia emerged, blinking, into the light of the room. Pushing herself upright, she fought the haze in front of her eyes, looking over towards him. And gaped.
Benois had removed his surcoat, his linen chemise, and now stood a few feet from the bed, clad only in his braies, naked to the waist. The honed muscles of his chest appeared as if carved from wood, the sheen of his skin a polished lustre in the torch light.
The bunched muscles of his shoulders, his arms, flexed powerfully as he took a step towards the bed.
‘Oh…!’ She gulped, ducking her gaze, a wave of colour suffusing her face as she studied a loose thread on the blanket.
‘What’s the matter? Never seen a half-naked man before?’
Nay, she wanted to shout back, at least not one built like you! ‘Of course I have,’ she lied, a jolting primness strangling her voice.
‘Really?’ The hint of sarcasm in his voice made her wince.
‘I should go,’ she blurted out, hurriedly pushing back the covers on the other side of the bed.
‘Where? Where will you go, Tavia?’ His voice was harsh again, demanding.
Her head whipped around; she studied his face for meaning, for understanding. If she concentrated on his face then she would not have to look at his body, and maybe these strange, flipping sensations that churned in her belly, her breast, would disappear.
‘You have nowhere left to run, Tavia,’ Benois explained patiently. ‘Ferchar will hunt you down. You must finish this now, whatever it is between you and him, otherwise you will run for ever.’
Chapter Eleven
Tavia stood up, pivoting slowly on her leather soles, her frazzled nerves straining thinly under Benois’s questioning perusal. Wrapping her arms across her chest, feeling the flex of the tight bandage against her hand, she knew he was right, damn him! There was nowhere she could hide from Ferchar. The man was well known for his grim tenacity; if he wanted something, then he would achieve it. Every instinct, every fibre of her being, badgered her to trust this man, to tell him of the mystery that surrounded her birth, the strange answers that Ferchar seemed to think she possessed. But how could she involve him in such personal matters? He regarded her as nothing more than a nuisance, making no effort to conceal his irritation on seeing her again at Dunswick. She must have imagined those fleeting bonds that tied them after her mother’s death; he had effectively severed them by stealing away in the middle of the night.
Tavia balled her fists in frustration. The urge to sort out the problem gnawed at her, but at the moment her mind seemed washed with a blank, white exhaustion, devoid of solutions.
&n
bsp; ‘Well, I can’t stay here, can I?’ she snapped, finally.
‘Why not?’ he questioned, equably. The hairs on his chest covered his smooth skin like golden down.
‘This is your chamber,’ she stuttered. ‘Mayhap I should return to the chamber in which they locked me up.’
He frowned. ‘What…so your whole escape attempt will come to nothing?’
‘Well, what do you suggest?’ Tavia forced her limbs to move around the bed, to walk up to him. Her mind worked uselessly, yielding no answer. ‘I can think of nothing more.’
‘Nay, surely not, surely the indefatigable Tavia of Mowerby can’t have run out of ideas?’ he mocked. ‘What would you have done if you hadn’t met me?’
‘I would have left the castle, returned to the cottage.’
Benois raised his eyebrows. ‘And Ferchar’s men would have found you there the next morning, brought you back. And the whole thing would have started again.’
The energy drained from her; her body slumped, but she willed herself to remain standing, tipping her head defiantly to one side. ‘So what is your suggestion?’
‘That you stay in here tonight…and on the morrow I will ask King Henry to grant you protection from Ferchar. That way you’ll have the English crown on your side.’
Laughter bubbled up inside her. ‘But that’s preposterous! Why would King Henry help me…a peasant? And you…why you’re just a…’ The word ‘barbarian’ echoed in her brain, but remained unsaid.
‘A…what? A Brabanter…a mercenary fighter with nothing to lose? You’re correct, Tavia, I am those things. But I am also a good friend to Henry, and that’s what would count in this matter.’
Tavia picked at the fraying edge of her make shift bandage, mute for a moment, trying to compel her sluggish brain to concentrate on his words. ‘Why are you helping me?’ she whispered. ‘You were pre pared to give me up back there on the stair well. You’ve…you’ve made no secret of the fact that you want nothing further to do with me.’ The image of their close ness in the barn at her cottage swept unbidden through her thoughts.
He touched her elbow lightly, his fingers whispering against the silk sleeve of her gown. Mesmerised by the polished beauty of his chest, she fell away, the backs of her knees bumping against the frame of the bed. How could he know that his brief touch sent of spiral of desire shooting through her body, direct to her heart?
‘Despite what you think of me, I’m not completely heartless, Tavia,’ he replied slowly. Beneath her wide-eyed, luminous gaze, the last vestiges of his anger, that boiling rage he had experienced on seeing her at Dunswick Castle again, leaked away. ‘I am well aware that you have nobody to protect you. Your parents have gone, you have no guardian.’
She shrugged her shoulders, toeing the ground with the soft leather of her slipper. ‘I am not afraid, Benois.’
‘I know, Tavia, I’ve seen more courage and bravery from you than most of my soldiers, but it wouldn’t hurt to have someone on your side.’
A deep, shuddering breath of relief seized her body. Someone on your side. The words wove around her softly, permeating her skin like a balm. The hollow grief that had washed through her at her mother’s death receded a little.
‘Then I thank you,’ she offered simply, stepping forward. Instinctively, she raised her good hand to the side of his face, a sincere gesture of gratitude, feeling the prickle of stubble against her palm. His hand came up immediately, over hers, nurturing warmth, the colour of his eyes sharpening to a deep, glittering jet. In the corner of the chamber, the loose burning coals shifted, tumbled within the charcoal brazier. Benois pressed her palm closer into his cheek, closing his eyes briefly at the delicious, floral scent of her skin, the exquisite touch of her fingertips. The steady beat of his heart lurched forwards, increasing rapidly at the maid’s close ness.
‘Benois…?’ Tavia pulled annoyance at her hand, aware of the dangerous shift in atmosphere between them. ‘Let go,’ she murmured, ‘please.’ Her voice wavered, laced with a tremulous desire. How could she have let this happen; how could she, the ever sensible, practical Tavia of Mowerby, have allowed herself to desire this man? But she knew why; beneath that cold, war-roughened exterior she had glimpsed something else: a heart capable of kindness and compassion.
The stern lines of his face grew solid, in flexible at her plea; his body stiffened as he tried to ignore the unwanted rush of feelings coursing through his body. Guilt nipped at him; he cursed his inability to remain un responsive around her, to remember what he was, who he was in her presence. What kind of magic did she weave, with her dark red hair and her corn flower-blue eyes? Christ in Heaven, he was a soldier, not some lackwit dog trained to follow a lady’s skirts! Yet the last time he’d been with her, he’d poured out the details of his past like some blubbering child, caught in the snare of her own grief. He drank in the fine details of her face, resenting her beauty, her kindness, hating her for dredging up the long-lost memories, for making him feel again. There was only one way to assuage this driving need for her, to dampen these flames of yearning.
Benois dropped his hand, only to wrap his bare arms around her, welding her to his unyielding, muscular frame. Tavia’s eyes widened as his chestnut head dipped, his lips lowering to meet hers. Heart pounding in her chest, she leaned back wards, away from him. ‘Nay, Benois, you must not do this,’ she protested faintly. But already, as his big body loomed closer, a fluidity coursed through her muscles, making a mockery of her half-hearted objection. The raw, masculine scent of him tormented her nostrils, an earthy, spicy tone that plucked at her heart strings. Arms braced around her waist, he drew her slowly upwards, giving him greater access to her mouth, his lips slanting across hers, greedy, unremitting. A deep hankering ignited in her belly, a craving for something more, for something unknown. Her hands, hands that rested lightly on the solid panels of his chest with the thought of pushing him away, now crept upwards to the corded muscles of his neck. Her legs, her whole body, weakened under the onslaught of his mouth, the deepening demands of his kiss, and she crumpled against him, un resisting, lost.
As her slim frame sagged against him, he felt no elation at the conquest. He was using her to prove a point, to establish that he could possess her without emotion, without any depth of feeling. He would claim her with that pure cold-heart ed ness for which he was notorious. But as his hands roved across the sensuous lines of her body, down the graceful line of her back, the gentle curve of her hip, odd little voices began to clamour in his brain, warning him. He paid them no heed, forcing them to the darkest recesses of his mind. He prided himself on his self-control, his ability to remain detached from situations, to be un involved. This en counter, like all his other meaningless liaisons with women, would be just the same. Cold, in different, detached.
Except…it wasn’t. Tavia’s face, alive and sweet with passion, turned up towards him like a flower in sunlight, trusting, naïve. Her expression drew him down, down to a place he had only been when his mother, his sister, had been alive…that of love. Nay…nay…it couldn’t be! His heart clenched with the knowledge, then burst into a frenzy of uncontrollable desire. The layers of hurt, of pain, peeled back; his whole world shifted, teetering on the edge of unreality. A wildness crashed into him, a grim desperation to finish what he had started seized his limbs, his brain, driving him onwards. Gripping her arms, he edged her up against the bed, tipping her back on to the furs in a puddle of skirts. He just needed to end this, to possess her, then this intense raft of feeling would disappear, and he would be in control once more.
‘What are you doing?’ As her spine bounced against the mattress, a coil of doubt snaked through Tavia’s heart. She forced herself to steady her breathing, to slow the headlong thumping of her heart. Benois’s face, lit by the flickering wall sconces, was for bid ding, predatory. He flung his big body beside her, not meeting her eyes, his fingers tearing at the side-lacings of her gown, impatient with the thin leather thongs. Tavia reached over to stroke his hair, b
ut he jerked away at her touch.
‘You know what comes next, Tavia….you know where this is going?’ His voice splashed over her, rough, cold. She stared at him aghast, the heated blood in her veins stilling to ice. In his frustration, Benois tore at the side-lacings, ripping the material on the side of her dress. Incensed, she slapped at his hand. His face loomed up to hers, impassive, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. ‘Do you want it…or nay?’
‘Nay!’ she shouted at him. ‘Not like this!’ Tavia sat up abruptly, hands covering her face, ashamed by her wanton behaviour, appalled at the change in him. Tears welled in her eyes, and she dashed them away, hurriedly, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He sprung up from the bed then, moving away from her with powerful strides, chestnut hair flaring in the golden light of the torches. ‘What other way is there, Tavia?’ he demanded, a note of despair hitching his voice.
Tavia’s vision blurred with tears as she studied her hands folded into her lap. The flesh of her body still hummed, still throbbed from the ferocity of his passion. Why did it have to be him, this big man of war? She desired him with an intensity that scared her, that drove her to such extreme heights of exhilaration she wanted to scream out loud with sheer joy. But his in difference, that blank look in his eyes, frightened her more than anything.
‘The way of love,’ she replied, a catch to her voice. She spoke of a subject about which she possessed little knowledge, having never been intimate with a man before, yet she spoke from the heart.
His mouth curled into a sneer. ‘I’ve no time for that. When I buried my mother and my sister, all my love was buried, too.’
‘Then that’s a shame,’ Tavia answered slowly.
‘Why?’ His gaze raked her bitterly.
‘Because without love, you may as well be dead.’ Her huge azure eyes searched the stern lines of his face for some hint of understanding, for some softening of his earlier rough ness. ‘What sort of life is that, to live it without love, without emotion or feeling?’
The Warrior’s Princess Bride Page 14
