The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘And as I am now your guardian, my dear,’ Ferchar leered obsequiously, ‘anything that belongs to you, belongs to me.’ His head whipped towards the two soldiers. ‘Shut your mouths and stuff that lot into the saddle bags…and you—’ he glared at Tavia as if expecting a protest ‘—mount up. If you behave yourself, I might let you have a small trinket…for now. Something to remember your parents by.’ He spoke of her parents as if they disgusted him, as if what they had done was beneath the bounds of propriety. Tavia clenched her fists at her sides; she would not allow Ferchar to sully the beauty of her parents’ relationship with his derisive speech.

  ‘I don’t want any of it, just this.’ She patted the embroidered pouch containing the parchment.

  ‘As you wish,’ Ferchar replied, tilting his head to one side in puzzlement. How could the stupid chit not want any of this fortune? She clearly was addled in the head! ‘Then mount up, girl, and we’ll head back to Dunswick.’

  Tavia lifted her head. ‘I wish to stay here a while; I’ll follow on.’ The yearning to spend some time in that special place, without the distractions of Ferchar and his men, flowered in her breast. This was the place where her parents had met, talked, made love, the place where their energy had been concentrated. She wanted to be a part of that.

  Ferchar’s brow furrowed. ‘I can’t leave you here without an escort, and I need these solders with me, considering the amount of gold I’m carrying.’

  ‘I know my way back. I’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her.’ A familiar, resonant voice cut across their deliberations. Tavia’s head bounced up, her heart pounding immediately, the beats tripping over one another in rapid succession.

  The gold lions emblazoned across Benois’s scarlet surcoat glimmered in the sun as he strode into the clearing, the embodiment of over powering masculinity, leading his snorting, sweating horse. His piercing, contemptuous glance perused Tavia’s pale, exhausted face; she quailed under his stern regard, at once sensing his anger.

  ‘So be it,’ announced Ferchar hastily, in a hurry to return home and assess the true worth of their discovery. ‘And I trust you, my lord Benois, to act in a fitting manner around the sister of the king.’

  Benois bowed jerkily, watching as the small party climbed on their horses and made their way out of the clearing, saddle bags bulging lumpily with the jewels. His disdainful glance flew to the strong box, now forlorn and empty, nestled amongst a clump of white wood anemones.

  ‘So you found it after all,’ he murmured, almost to himself, leading his horse over to a nearby branch. ‘You promised that you would wait until I returned.’ His voice slid over her, gritty, condemning.

  ‘It wasn’t like that!’ she pro tested sharply. A cold, isolating feeling slipped through her veins. ‘King Henry implied that you would be gone for a long time, and I…I…’ She toed the damp ground with the soft leather of her shoe.

  ‘You…what?’ Benois loomed up close, towering over her. ‘You thought that you could do it without me? Is that it?’ He wore no helmet, the sable strands of his hair gleaming silkily in this shifting light under the trees. The chain mail coif of his hauberk had been pushed back from his head to gather in metallic folds emphasising the ruggedness of his features, the corded muscles of his neck.

  ‘You didn’t need to come after me, Benois. I thought…’ She twisted her fingers into a painful knot. How could she tell him that he was better off without her? That King Henry thought he was better off without her?

  ‘Thought what? Go on, tell me, I’d be interested to know what goes on in that head of yours.’

  ‘I thought you would prefer it if I wasn’t at the castle when you returned,’ she blurted out in a rush, the blueness of her eyes seeking his, asking for his understanding.

  ‘You…what? Whatever gave you that impression?’

  ‘Your king suggested it would be a good idea,’ she replied, twisting her slender fingers into an agitated knot about her girdle.

  The grey turbulence of his gaze flicked over her, his mind recalling their last kiss, the warm, pliable feel of her body as he swept her up against him, the soft touch of her lips. An over whelming sense of protectiveness swept through him—what had Henry been thinking? ‘My God, woman, when I think of you, on your own, with Ferchar…who knows what could have happened?’ Without thinking, he stuck one hand furiously into his hair. A fleeting look of pain traced over his stern features; he paled visibly. He bit his lip, trying to recover from the raft of agony that swept across his body from his injured shoulder.

  Tavia grabbed his elbow. ‘What’s the matter? What have you done to yourself?’

  He shook her hand away. ‘It’s nothing,’ he snapped. ‘Just a scratch.’

  ‘Nay.’ Tavia spoke slowly, touching a finger gently to the patch of blood blossoming at his shoulder through the metallic links of his chain mail. ‘It’s more than a scratch.’

  ‘Leave it,’ he growled, resisting the urge to knock her hand away. How typical of a woman to avoid the argument in hand by homing in on in significant details, trying to distract him.

  Tavia planted both hands on her hips. ‘Nay, Benois, I will not leave it. That needs to be looked at before it develops into something more serious.’

  He set his mouth in a mutinous line, impassive before her. ‘Stop nagging at me, woman!’

  She shoved at him then, annoyed at his stub born ness, placing two hands flat on his chest. He swayed from the force of her attack, amazed at the power in that small, lithe body.

  ‘Sit down,’ she ordered, ‘before you fall down. Otherwise I might have to get cross with you.’

  He smiled weakly at her words. ‘You talk to me like a child.’

  ‘That’s because you’re behaving like one,’ she replied archly.

  ‘It was only a nick,’ he began to explain. Tavia reached her hands up, placing both palms on his shoulders in a vain attempt to pull him down. The urge to loop his arms about her slim waist, to swing her around, loomed temptingly, but a further glance at her determined expression made him realise the foolishness of that decision.

  ‘I’m all yours,’ he acquiesced finally, subsiding to his knees before her. The fragile scent of the wind flowers lifted on the breeze as he knelt on the ground, crushing a few of the delicate heads beneath his powerful calves.

  ‘We need to take this off.’ Tavia tugged at the hem of his surcoat, his hauberk. As she reached down, the wide neckline of her dress gaped forwards, offering a tempting glimpse of her rounded bosom.

  ‘Let me.’ He pushed her fingers away, pulling off the surcoat, then his hauberk, followed by his white linen shirt, covered with a soaking patch of blood on one side. Removing his garments made him almost gasp out loud at the ripping pain in his shoulder, but he managed a shaky smile when he finally knelt before her, naked from the waist up.

  ‘Oh!’ Tavia gawked at him, the tapered muscles at his waist, the honed plates of muscle across his chest. Her determination to tend his wound had driven her on; now, faced with a broad, naked torso, her sense of purpose shrivelled in a moment.

  ‘What’s the matter, Tavia?’ he teased, wide mouth breaking into a grin. ‘Is it worse than you thought?’

  Aye, she thought, much worse. But it wasn’t the wound she was referring to. It was her own reaction to this powerful body just inches from her own. With trembling fingers she plucked at the loose, ineffectual dressing, almost throwing it to the ground in disgust.

  ‘When did this happen?’ she asked, studying the puckered skin around the wound. ‘You stupid fool!’ She must, must force herself to ignore the physical beauty of this man.

  Benois raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t do it deliberately. And if you’re going to give me a tongue-lashing, then I’ll take my chances else where, thank you.’

  She caught the amused flare in his eye, and chewed on her bottom lip. Being angry with him was the only way she could handle this situation, and it would make it all the more difficult if he were kind
to her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just that, well, it’s worse than I thought.’ She met his silvered eyes. ‘Did nobody think to clean it?’

  Her hand felt warm against his shoulder. God, but she was breath taking up close. How could he have ever left with Malcolm that day? ‘One of the men had a go,’ he answered, a guttural thread to his tone.

  ‘I need to clean it. Where’s your water bottle?’

  He jerked his head in the direction of his horse, and watched the enticing sway of her hips beneath her gown as she fetched it.

  ‘Ouch!’ He sucked in his breath as she splashed the water over his wound, and began dabbing it with a clean piece of his linen shirt. She frowned. ‘I don’t think it needs stitches, the cut doesn’t seem too deep. I’ll bind it with my veil.’

  He tracked the graceful movement of her slender arm arching over her head, plucking the gossamer veil from her rich, glorious hair, sweeping the material down so she could fold it into a serviceable bandage. Fronds of wine-dark hair curled tantalisingly around the creamy oval of her face, gleefully escaping from the practical braid that swung down her back. The faded gown in which he had last seen her had been replaced by a fashionable bliaut of sage green, with an underdress of cream linen. The ladies of the castle had obviously been ordered to dress this new-found royal daughter in clothes more be fit ting to her rank. He doubted it would change her.

  ‘Stick your arm out so I can wrap this underneath your armpit,’ Tavia ordered, her tone brisk and efficient.

  ‘Whatever you say, my lady,’ he replied in a mocking chant, extending his right arm outwards.

  She looked at him sharply, disapproving. ‘Do you want me to help you, or nay?’

  The pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull ache after her vigorous cleaning, but the movement sent another sear of agony through the limb. He tipped his head to one side. ‘It’s a long time since someone has tended me so,’ he replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘That’s still no excuse for bad manners,’ she chided softly, starting to bind his shoulder. He nodded, mindful of the delicate scent of lavender lifting from the veil to his nostrils and drew a deep shuddering breath, willing her to finish.

  ‘There, now,’ Tavia said, after what seemed like a lifetime, ripping the trailing end of her veil so as to fashion an effective knot. She took a step back, admiring her work, her heart jolting as the lowering sun high lighted the ridged and furrowed muscle of his torso. ‘Maybe I could help you back on with your shirt?’ Doubt clouded her voice.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘I stink to high heaven, woman. Surely you must have noticed? Is there no place around here to wash?’ He cast his eyes across the budding green foliage of the glade. Above him, a branch sidled in the breeze; the lean planes of his face leapt from mysterious shadow into brilliant light.

  ‘Come,’ Tavia said, glad of the distraction from his magnificent body. ‘I know a place.’ She moved to the edge of the clearing, a wood nymph against the backdrop of swaying branches, of arching, staggered ferns, and stretched her arm towards him, a gesture of innocent friend ship.

  Benois pushed himself up awkwardly from the forest floor, a strange clumsiness invading his movements. Heart thumping, he stepped toward her, instinctively clasping her cool, strong fingers. Her long hem swished through the under growth, the pale anemones backed by dark green foliage; she stepped care fully as if wading through shallow water. He followed her silently, appreciating the elegant line of her spine flowing beneath the well-fitting gown, the determined set of her shoulders. It was a mystery to him, how this maid had managed to constantly dominate his thoughts, his every waking moment. This girl appeared so completely at odds with his own jaded perception of a woman, a perception moulded and tarnished by years of watching the emotional shenanigans of the ladies at court, by years of ruthless soldiering. Once, he had thought being a soldier was the only thing that kept him alive, able to live with the memory of losing his family; now, he was not so sure. Tavia was so different, so in com parable: her quick wit, her indomitable spirit, and that fierce beauty that drew him again and again, like a fish to a lure.

  The breeze sifted through the canopy of trees above their heads, a gentle sighing through the branches with their new, bright-green growth. And then, a more per sis tent noise to their right; the incessant bubbling of a brook, growing louder and louder until it managed to drown out the wind in the trees. Tavia stopped so suddenly, Benois almost ran into the back of her. He thought his chest might explode with the effort of holding his body rigidly away from her, of resisting the temptation to move up close behind her, to wrap her in his sinewy arms.

  ‘There!’ Tavia announced proudly, twisting sideways, a soft smile curving her lips. He stepped forward. The sound of rushing water swelled and spread. Below him, some six feet or so, lay a pool, cool and green in its depths, sunlit. To his right, a stream cascaded down over a series of serrated rocks before dropping in separate strings of moving water to break the surface of the pool in widening, circular ripples.

  ‘How did you know…?’ he breathed, all gruff ness erased from his voice.

  ‘That this was here?’ She laughed, finishing his question for him. The limpid blue of her eyes reached his. ‘My mother met Earl Henry in these woods; this was their special place.’

  ‘My God,’ he murmured. ‘It’s beautiful.’ He stood, motionless, at the side of the pool, entranced by the dancing water, the brilliant green of the leaves. The air thickened, sultry, fragrant with the heady scent of flowers.

  ‘Go on,’ Tavia urged, panicking at his hesitation, ‘go and bathe! You’re right, you do stink!’ The midnight fringes of his eyes met hers as he began to undo his belt. She averted her eyes hastily at the slither of leather in the loops. ‘I’d better go,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I have no intention of offending your maidenly modesty,’ Benois assured her quickly. Now he’d found her again, safe, unharmed, he was reluctant to let her out of his sight once more. He pulled off his braies, then his leather boots in quick succession, suddenly standing before her in his bleached linen loin cloth. He turned, executing a neat, perfect dive. Quivering under the impact of his near-nakedness, Tavia watched his muscular beauty plunge into the water, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

  Benois floated to the surface, clearly relishing the cool silk of the water against his naked skin. She moved annoyance to the edge of the pool, wondering whether to stay…or go. To stay was to enter the unknown, to flirt with danger. Leaving Benois to his bath would be the safer option. She could see the white glow of his corded limbs moving beneath the glassy surface, the strength in his shoulders as he broke upwards, tossing his head to flick the water from his eyes.

  ‘What’s it like?’ she called down, watching him with envy as the water spilled over his burly shoulders.

  ‘Like Heaven,’ he responded, grinning, his teeth white and even in his tanned face.

  Beneath the heavy folds of her gown, her skin began to prickle and itch; the water sparkled enticingly below her. Wrenching her eyes from Benois, she prowled along the side of the bank, leather soles slipping on the mossy grass, trying to suppress the urge to dive into the water beside him.

  ‘Why not come in when I come out?’ Benois suggested, noticing the way she tugged irritably at the folds of her skirt. His melodious tone was careful, guarded.

  ‘Could I?’ Tavia’s head shot around, questioning with such child-like glee that he wanted to laugh out loud.

  He shifted his shoulders under the water, a gesture of in difference. ‘Why not? Ferchar gave no indication of when we should return.’ At his words, Tavia ducked her head, fumbling with, then loosening the fastenings of her gown, her eagerness to enter the water evident in her nimble fingers.

  ‘Wait till I climb out, Tavia!’ Benois eyed her warily. ‘Let me dress so you can disrobe in private!’ He groaned inwardly as she yanked the voluminous folds over her head. Through the churning rush of water, she hadn’t heard him. Reluctant to lea
ve the water, but realising he must for the sake of his own sanity, Benois swam to the edge of the pool, to a place where he could regain his footing, to a place where the stones on the stream bed moved loosely under his feet. Fixing his gaze on the muddy, crumbling earth of the bank, he levered himself up on strong forearms, the water spilling down, running over his honed skin in a shower of spark ling droplets. In the corner of his vision, he caught a flicker of white, and knew, without looking, that Tavia wore only her shift. Christ in Heaven! Would she never cease in placing temptation in his path?

  ‘You had better get in,’ he muttered roughly, striding towards his discarded clothes.

  With a small whisper of delight, Tavia sank into the delicious water. Unthinking, Benois lifted his eyes, checking the source of the sound. Desire smacked into him like an arrow in the chest. Tavia floated on her back, her face set in an expression of intense rapture, the white folds of her chemise fanning out around her, revealing the shapely curves of her slim frame.

  He was lost.

  Tavia’s eyes sprang open at the sight of Benois, still wearing his loin cloth, splashing towards her. ‘I thought you were dressing.’ She frowned, arching at the waist so that she could tread water, her slender arms making wide circles on top of the pool.

  His expression was raw, intense. ‘I changed my mind.’ Standing chest deep in the pool, he seized her hands. ‘I cannot resist you, Tavia. God knows, I’ve tried, but I cannot.’ His words emerged starkly, roughened by the emotion in his voice. ‘I’m sorry.’ He wanted to be with her, to make love to her and to experience those intense emotions he had spent his whole life running away from.

  Tavia clung to his forearms, steadying herself, though her heart raced at break neck speed. ‘Nay,’ she whispered, wondering if her chest would burst. ‘Don’t be sorry.’

  The jewelled granite of his eyes glittered; he lifted her hand, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her inner palm. ‘Christ, woman,’ he murmured, ‘this is the moment when you must push me away. I’m giving you that chance.’