by Nicole Locke
He whipped off his tunic, turned to reveal his right arm to her and traced the top two scars. ‘Do you remember these?’
Her eyes never betrayed her. Her body remained perfectly still and he felt his anger press once again to the surface.
She should display nerves; she should be nervous. Instead, he was unnerved. He didn’t know what to do, what he would do, from one moment to another. Trained as a warrior and a spy, he only had one type of enemy these many years: ones he defeated with force.
He had fought every one of them with determination and a will to live, to defeat. They were enemies who needed to be captured or conquered, that was all.
But the Archer... This woman was the worst of them all because it felt...personal when she had killed his friends. He couldn’t explain it, but her marking him as precisely as she did; her ability to murder his closest companions wasn’t dispassionate.
And when it came to her, he didn’t burn with a righteous determination to conquer her. His hatred for her was personal. Many others had been killed by his hand, but he hadn’t bargained with the King pursuing with singularity any of them. On the battlefield, he meted out his vengeance and those who survived and escaped, he simply fought again on another field.
Not so the Archer. No, she’d marked him. Marked him and shown him what she was capable of and his need for retribution against her felt as though he’d marked her as well. Marked her as the one enemy he would defeat.
So sure of this belief that they were personal enemies, that the fact the Archer was a desirable woman—the fact she lied about her role in his life—only made his frustration blaze brighter. Why was she lying to him? He would get answers!
‘You should be aware, I didn’t actually feel the first cut you gave me,’ he said. ‘I was too intent on fighting the enemy in front of me. But Thomas’s sudden drop from his position, his sword arm flinging within my line of sight, alerted me. I was so...so aware of Thomas’s death. A friend since we were young. I felt that bolt he received in his chest.
‘Felt it, but could do nothing about it. I was still surrounded. You can imagine how I fought after that. What am I saying? You don’t have to imagine it; you watched it, didn’t you? My God, why haven’t I thought of this before? Of course you watched me. You marked me. Did my pain amuse you?
‘It must have amused you greatly because during that same battle you did it again. That one burned across my arm. Already consumed with Thomas’s death, I had to face Michael’s. You know what I did then, don’t you: called for retreat. With that arrow lodged in his throat, I called for retreat!’
Her breathing stayed the same, no finger twitched. As a warrior, everything in him demanded instant retribution. As a spy who needed information, he had to get more...creative.
Over the years, he’d promised pain to his enemies. Held a knife to throats; placed perfect cuts along the most tenderest of skin. He’d seen other spies, other warriors, mete out their own justice. Since Thomas’s death, the rage had carried him forward. The Archer deserved the harshest of punishments.
And here she was, captured, bound. He could do anything to her. Anything. Yet he found himself frustratingly bound by custom, by some moral code instilled in him.
He couldn’t raise a blade to her, couldn’t harm her. Could do nothing but rage words at her and they fell uselessly in front of him. She simply laid there, keeping her eyes on him, her breath even. With her wrists bleeding from nightmares, she looked at him as if he was the madman.
If he was mad, she was the one who brought him there. ‘This one—’ Eldric pointed to the wound directly underneath the other two ‘—I earned from you as well. It, too, preceded the killing of a man who was watching my left flank. I knew, immediately, it was you. What did you feel when I spotted you in that tree?’
She shook her head, refusing him or acknowledging his anger and pain?
This was personal. He was sure of it. He felt it in his soul.
‘Tell me this, when I found you that day. Why did you mark me? I knew it was you. You know I knew it was you. There was no need to kill Philip.’
Chapter Five
Every word a blade sliced across her chest and she felt the cut of each one. All to tell him the truth. Her father asked her to kill him, but she couldn’t. So she’d warned him away. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter that her arrow accidentally killed his friend the first time.
It didn’t matter that it was her father who killed Philip...or Michael. Those men, the anguish on Eldric’s face, haunted her, but now she knew their names. Names!
To tell him the truth and prove her disloyalty to her father? To tell him, so he’d pursue her father with certainty and get himself killed? Never.
If she could have, she, too, would have roared and left the room as Eldric had done. But she couldn’t, she couldn’t. All she had left was, ‘I need to relieve myself.’
His head jerked as if she’d slapped him. One thundering step until he leaned over her. Took in every one of her flaws. She knew he did as his eyes flicked from one cheek to the other, her eyes, her lips, where his eyes stayed for one moment, two before they wrenched to her bound hands.
He growled. ‘This is what you say to me. This!’
She knew what he wanted. But it was truth, at least after a day bound. Raising her chin, she answered, ‘You’re the one who captured me and imprisoned me here. What did you plan to do when it came to this?’
She knew what her father would do. He’d leave her. She knew what Eldric wanted to do, his anger was so great. If possible, he grew colder, more formidable.
But that was his expression. Everything else... He didn’t put on his tunic. His body remained partially bared. Forgotten in his anger? She couldn’t forget. The scars she gave him were stark. Jagged. Accusing, if such a word could be used for wounds purposefully inflicted.
On a harsh breath, he wrenched on the ties around her ankles to release them, then abruptly stepped back. ‘Thinking to kick me?’ he said.
His scars. Her scars distracted her from keeping up her ruse of protesting, begging him to release her. Instead, to ease the ache, she curled her legs into herself. ‘They hurt. I was—’ She shook her head. What would he believe?’
‘Lay them flat. Now.’
Protest? No. This wasn’t a situation she knew. Slowly, she lowered them until she felt his gaze. She adjusted her back, her shoulders, if only to relieve whatever tension this was.
‘You mean to release me?’ she said.
He wrenched on another tie and her left arm was free. When his eyes snapped to her hand, she lowered it as well.
‘No release. And I’ll be watching your moves, Archer, as I’ve no intention of falling for that again.’ He pointed to his nose. He’d said it was not broken, but the swelling was spreading along both cheekbones.
‘Comfrey...’ she said.
‘Turn on your stomach,’ he bit out.
Blood drained from her face and, despite her trying to keep as still as possible, because she truly did have to relieve herself, her limbs twitched.
‘Are you ill?’
She didn’t want to turn on her stomach, there would be no way to protect herself. And her father had her do this when... No, she didn’t want to recall that at all.
‘Why do this? Why not have me use a pot?’ she said.
‘I don’t welcome trouble by bringing in a servant. And I don’t desire to clean a pot, Archer. Especially yours.’
The blush spread up from her chest to the roots of her hair. She hated that she had that disadvantage. Her father had used it against her many times and he’d varied the punishments, thinking she could unlearn it. She’d tried to please him. She’d tried so that no one would know—
Eldric noticed it now. The blue of his gaze changing again. She wished she could understand what such a reaction meant, but she had no reference for it. No
one looked at her the way he did. And if Eldric looked this way at another, she never saw it.
His stare was riveting, as if she was prey, and he was calculating her weaknesses. No, it was different. How? The longer she stared the more he stared right back. The pupils of his eyes darkened until his gaze felt intense and warm.
Her blush deepened. Horrified, she flipped on to her stomach.
For the longest of moments, nothing happened. Turning her head to the side, she captured a bit of how still he stood before a harsh breath left him.
Curious, she tilted her head to catch more of him; winced as it pulled something that much tighter in her bound hand. Bewilderment, as he roughly untied her other hand.
‘Turn on to your back again.’ His voice roughened.
She could move freely, her tunic and leggings loose. Unfortunately, with the way she’d been tied, then with her flipping to her back, the extra fabric was now a hindrance.
‘I can’t.’
‘You’ll do it now.’
His voice brooked no compromise and she didn’t want to argue. She truly needed to get to the garderobe. ‘I’m trapped. My clothing twisted. I’ll need to lift up from the bed to—’
‘Don’t move.’ Cursing, he gripped the back of her leg. She felt the practical way he lifted it, his efficient tug of the fabric before he released her leg and did the same to the other. Except it didn’t feel practical or efficient. The backs of her legs were sensitive.
When he grabbed the second one, she couldn’t stop her body’s reaction to his touch.
‘Don’t fight me.’ He tugged again, his fingers digging when the fabric of her leggings didn’t release, and suddenly she wanted much, much more of his fingers, of his hands. Her blush deepened.
Too many weaknesses! Sleeping, hunger, blushing, being caught. She didn’t need any more when it came to him! ‘Let go of my leg.’
He didn’t. She wouldn’t tolerate it. With a huff, she flipped on her back so she could face her enemy. Fight him the way her father would want. Escape if possible, the way she should. She was free.
Unlike Eldric, who seemed locked over her, his hand still clutching her leg. All of it simple. But Eldric was tall, his grip kept her leg up and out towards him.
Only a few candles were lit, but even in the dim flickering light that kept the corners of the room in shadows, she could see her actions surprised him.
He gave off a choked sound, not like hers at all. No. Nothing light and surprised and useless like hiding a laugh. It was almost a shocked helplessness to it. But deeper, rough...possessive.
His hold slackened enough so that she could have eased her leg back on to the bed. Except for the way he was looking at her. If she moved, if she blinked, she didn’t know what he would do.
Would he react as if she was fighting him? She didn’t want to fight him.
‘I’ll stay still,’ she assured him.
His gaze, which had been riveted on her leg in his hand, broke away, travelled to the juncture in between. To her very exposed belly which brought her acutely aware of how he held her, with his bare hands, arms. His bare chest. The bottom of her foot pressed lightly to his lower rib. To the marks and lines, and scars that made him everything he was: a warrior, a spy. A man.
Did she think she had weaknesses with her back to him? This...this was far more dangerous. She’d watched this man since she was a child. She knew what she felt for him. The longer he held her, the longer they stayed like this, the more chance she’d do something and reveal what she shouldn’t.
‘I won’t fight you,’ she said, her voice sounding as irregular as his. ‘Tie my hands in the front, I can—’
He shook his head hard, once, twice. The softness of his lips from before pressed hard as he ground his teeth. He flung her leg to the bed. ‘What do you play at?’ he said.
‘Play?’
‘Flipping on the bed, tightening your clothes...is this how you free yourself when men capture you?’
He used words, but she couldn’t put them in context. He was angry, but she’d only followed his instructions. And he might have let go of her leg, but his eyes roved and touched every bit of her as if compelled to do so.
‘I’ve never been captured.’ At the gleam in his eyes, she added, ‘Why would anyone capture a healer waiting for her family to arrive?’
‘Lies and games. What do you think to do? Use this—’ he waved over her ‘—as a distraction?’
A distraction. She couldn’t think around him. Kept imagining something else in his eyes when it was she who felt, she who wanted. The longer she stayed around him, the more confusing it became. Constantly she wanted to blurt the truth, her feelings, everything. Reveal every embarrassing vulnerability. And he thought her a distraction?
She might not understand fully what made him bewildered, but she understood she didn’t want to be here. Eldric might believe he was entitled to his vengeance against her, but she had her own desires. She’d be damned if he had his before she discovered the truth of the rumours. She was lying there, but she wasn’t defenceless.
‘I play no games and only followed your exact instructions, though I am under no obligation to do so. You’ve untied me, Sir Knight. How easy would it be for me to roll off this bed and slice the back of your legs with the dagger attached to your waist.’
‘Such healing words. And you remind me again why I loathe you. Let’s not forget it’s for your comfort we do this.’ He lifted the ropes in his hand. ‘What shall it be?’
She might have made her point, but Eldric’s long reach meant there was no certainty of escape. The only certainty was losing whatever this tiny bit of trust was. Next time, she wouldn’t be allowed the garderobe. For now, she needed trust when they were on the road to the Tower. That was her best chance to escape.
She would get free. He might know how to swing a sword and tie some knots, but she’d been trained to elude and vanish. Watching his eyes for any change to his decision, she clasped her palms together and raised her hands.
If anything, his frown grew darker. Displeased she was cooperating with him tying her wrists? He cinched the last of it, snatched his tunic and yanked it on. All the while his eyes never went to hers.
‘Get up,’ he ordered.
The rope bit into the cuts she’d made earlier in panic. Knowing he meant to hurt her this time, she didn’t give him the pleasure of making a sound. If she had her wits about her from now on, she wouldn’t give another reaction or say another word. She’d shown him enough of how best to hurt her.
* * *
The Archer lied horribly, but Eldric found no comfort in that fact. Nor did he find comfort in the straw mattress, the five thick wool blankets, nor the four down pillows he’d demanded from the innkeepers once the Archer was through with the garderobe and tied up again to the bed.
He’d also ordered fresh food and drink. He ate every crumb of the bread and cheese from earlier along with the steaming bowl of stew. No wine, but a weakened ale that he drank fully of, and after a bit gave her some as well.
Through it all, she stayed quiet, which suited him fine. The rest...he was too open with her, as if someone had scoured his skin on the inside and then felt it wasn’t enough. The heartache he had of losing his comrades, his pursuit of the Archer, then being thwarted again and again burned inside him.
To capture her only to be trapped in a room. Too close. No chance for her to escape, but none for him as well. He didn’t want to risk her escaping... Risk her rolling off the bed and slicing the dagger across the back of his knees.
A healer! No healer would have such a clever and resourceful way of felling an enemy. To loathe and admire her was unfathomable.
To desire her? Unconscionable! And yet...she was stunning—he’d acknowledged that when her hood fell back and all her glory was presented. He’d never seen hair or eyes her colour. The golden
hue to her skin, the painted bud of her lips.
And her form, her strength, the way her body curved beneath him as he felt her foot against his side and he looked down at her splayed on the bed. Her body...how she could wield it like a weapon. How effectively she used it against him! She had trained and someone had taught her. Who? How?
Those were the matters he should be thinking of and discovering more about. There were surprises other than her gender. Far too many to simply turn her over to the King.
No. He might have been too hasty in taking the hunting horn from his King and entering a pact. From now on, he’d find his own answers.
One answer he must face. He more than desired the Archer. All those moments his body jolted with awareness, with possessiveness, with need: carrying her through the crowd to the inn, tying her to the bed, holding, and being unable to release her ankle...all because she lay under him.
Did this ferocity stem because she was the enemy? Perhaps, having pursued her, his body equated his vengeance with his desire and pursuit of women. If so, he could reason his way out. Pursue another female. His enemy was tied to a bed, he could find one now.
No. Even the thought didn’t hold merit. Her lure for him was something else. Some familiarity that shouldn’t be there. Her! He desired her, was tempted by her. A mix of vulnerability and strength. Of innocence and deadly intent.
He could never act on it. Never. The sooner he discovered her secrets, the sooner he could rid himself of her. Forget this moment in time. No victory. No satisfaction. Just finish it. Until then...
He welcomed her silence. He was incapable of words, of conversations, of pressing for answers.
No words could be said as his body locked on to quelling a heated response when his hand clamped to her wrist, when her body fell into step with his. Arm against arm, against hip, against leg. Sharing one side of his body with hers as he took her down the hall and back again.
He argued with himself it was necessary. Outward restraints might be noticed and bring questions or, worse, some fool to her rescue. Holding her any further away and, given her talents, she’d try to escape.
