Protected by the Knight's Proposal

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Give me your hand!’ a voice bellowed at her. A tough, masculine voice.

  Her head knocked back; she blinked upwards, water streaming down her face. A huge boot was planted on the rock above her, the leather stained with old water marks across the toes. Criss-crossed leather straps secured fawn braies to sturdy shins. The hem of a blue surcoat swung close as a man crouched down, balancing his large bulk on the narrow lip of rock with surprising ease. It was him. The man who had startled her. The man who had made her fall.

  ‘Go away!’ Cecily yelled. ‘I don’t need your help!’ Lifting one arm, she batted the air forcefully, indicating that he should go. How on earth did he come to be there? He must have followed her tumbling progress downstream.

  He seized her flailing hand in a fierce, bear-like grip. Hand over hand, as if her arm was a rope, he pulled the whole soaking mass of her upwards, slowly, slowly, out of the water, until she flopped, exhausted, on to the rock beside his feet. His thick arm came round her waist, a muscled rope tucking neatly beneath her ribcage, hauling her into a standing position. A lifeline of blood and sinew, clamping her to a solid masculine flank. Her heart jolted in an odd, flickering beat. She wobbled on the rock beside him, clenching her teeth together to stop them chattering. Her belly warmed at the unexpected intimacy of the situation. The closeness of him.

  ‘Follow me!’ he ordered her in a gruff voice, faintly accented. ‘Place your feet where I put mine.’ Dropping his arm, he gripped her hand, crushing her fingers within his.

  Clamping her lips together angrily, Cecily realised she had no choice. Hanging on to him with one hand, she lifted her unwieldy sodden skirts with the other. The rough surface of the rock pinched and chafed her stocking-covered feet. The water-soaked garments hung off her shoulders like several sets of chainmail; her feet tangled in the trailing hems, threatening to tip her back into the boiling mass of water. Kicking out her skirts with one foot, she tried to step across to the rock he had just vacated, gripping his hand with grim tenacity, but the fabric bundled unhelpfully around her ankles, and she pitched forward.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ the man cursed, turning swiftly. He caught her as she fell forward, big arms bracing against her back. ‘I’ll carry you!’ he bellowed at her above the roar of the river.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Cecily gasped back at him, outraged. How was this happening? In her desperation to keep away from him, she was being dragged ever closer. She shoved his chest away with flat palms, pulling herself staunchly upright with determined resolution. ‘I can lift my skirts higher, out of the way.’ She pushed a long tendril of wet hair from her eyes. The water had ripped her veil and circlet away, and the neat knot of braids at her neck had been dislodged, sagging dismally. One plait had fallen free, hanging down past her waist like a dark rope.

  The man’s grip tightened on her hand. His eyes are of the deepest sapphire, she thought, shimmering with blue fire. Sparkling with an energy that stabbed at her, catching her by surprise. Ignoring her protest, he leaned forward, curving his arm around her spine and tipped her over his left shoulder. Honed muscle ground into the soft flesh of her belly. He had slung her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of grain in the market! She was winded by the forceful movement, her breath punched from her lungs. Blood pumped in her ears; her head spun, a sickening jolt of stars sweeping across her vision. Reaching down to the concave dip of his spine, she grabbed a bunch of his surcoat, her knuckles white against the blue cloth. A musky smell rose from the fabric, the aromatic scent of wood-smoke mingling with a fresh, floral smell. Incongruous on such a rugged figure. She shivered, a tingling delight scything through her chilled flesh. He swung around, trudging purposefully from one rock to another.

  Cecily’s chin bumped lightly against his shoulder. Furious, she clenched her jaw in frustration. Her hands itched to thump against his back. She wanted to kick him, but he held fast on to her legs with a tight, unwieldy grip. Below her, the river flowed and rippled, the water splashing the back of the man’s legs, his sturdy leather boots, rounded out by muscular calves. His stride hitched slightly to one side, as if he carried an injury, but he still managed to navigate the oddly placed rocks with ease.

  He stepped up on to the grassy bank with her and at once Cecily began to wriggle frantically, squirming in his solid embrace, acutely conscious of his thick arm caught against the back of her thighs. ‘Put me down!’ she yelled, beating his back with small fists. The thick fabric of his surcoat muffled her voice. ‘Put me down right now!’ Reaching her hand behind her, she managed to grab a handful of his bright red-gold hair and tugged viciously.

  ‘Christ in Heaven, woman!’ he growled, seizing her wrist and pulling her hand away from his head. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Put me down, you brute! Now!’ Shoving her fists into the small of his back, she thrust her head up violently, levering herself up. Her loosened plaits swung down, the wet curling ends brushing the ground.

  ‘I’m going to put you down, you silly woman!’ Lachlan roared at her. ‘Stop twisting about, will you!’ Annoyed, he released his arms, let her go abruptly. She slithered haphazardly against the muscle-hewn length of his body, her soft curves nudging him. As her feet touched the moss-strewn grass, she staggered back, immediately raising clenched fists, as if to ward off an attack.

  Lachlan tilted his head to one side. What was happening here? Did the maid think he was going to physically fight her? For the first time in a long time, he wanted to laugh. What sort of behaviour was this, coming from a noble lady? For she was a noble, he could tell that from her fine clothes, her arrogant, dismissive manner. He had expected some thanks at least, maybe some tears after the experience she had been through, but, no, there was nothing like that. Just a bright mutinous face glaring at him with irritation. Long plaited ropes of glossy hair swinging down across her breasts. And stunning green eyes, blazing with liquid fire.

  Lachlan’s heart jolted. Oh, she was a beauty, all right. Through the spinning raindrops her wet skin gleamed, holding the lustre of fresh pouring cream. He had a sudden urge to touch, to press his thumb into the velvet plushness of her cheek.

  He shook his head abruptly, dismissing his fanciful thoughts. ‘Put your hands down. I am not about to attack you.’

  Tilting her head to one side, assessing him, Cecily slowly lowered her hands, folding them defiantly across her chest. The rain was gradually ceasing; every branch dripped, leaves shedding droplets, splattering the leaf-strewn woodland floor. Her stocking-covered feet were slowly sinking into the spongy undergrowth.

  ‘What in Odin’s name were you doing? You could have drowned, trying to cross like that!’ His voice thumped into her with all the finesse of a charging bull. A muscle flexed beneath the high, slashing angle of his cheekbone.

  Cecily took a step towards him, cheeks flaming with colour. ‘I wouldn’t have fallen in if you hadn’t startled me! This is all your fault.’ She jabbed him with one pointed finger, deep into the middle of his chest, her expression haughty, scornful. ‘This is your fault!’ Her hand fell away and she spun on her heel, intending to walk away.

  Her dismissive tone stung him. Without thinking, Lachlan grabbed her arm, preventing her forward movement. Rude, arrogant chit! What was wrong her? Aye, he had caused her to fall, but he had also pulled her out again. A bad situation made good. She could be a little more grateful. He pulled her close, hard up against his front, and bent his mouth to her ear. ‘A small thank-you wouldn’t go amiss,’ he murmured.

  Cecily shivered, but strangely not with fear. His hot breath sidled across her earlobe. Strings of fire lanced through her neck, her chest. His fingers burrowed into the tender flesh of her upper arm. ‘Thank you,’ she chanted out melodically. The false clang of her voice echoed through the damp woodland air.

  ‘Say it like you mean it,’ he growled in her ear, angling his head away so that she wouldn’t catch the twitch of his
smile. Christ, the chit had a stubborn streak!

  ‘My God!’ Cecily whirled around to face him, her emerald gaze sparking fury. ‘Who in hell’s name are you, sneaking around at such an ungodly hour? Your behaviour is despicable! Why will you not let me go?’

  His hand, holding her upper arm, was trapped against her breasts. The hard imprint of his fingers burned through the sodden material of her gown. Her cheeks flushed at the sudden intimacy and she stepped back hurriedly. To her relief, his arm fell away.

  ‘I could say the same about you,’ Lachlan replied. The outline of her breast, sweet and yielding, seemed embedded on his palm. An unexpected fire flicked through his loins. ‘I could say the same about you.’ His thick, vigorous eyebrows raised in question. ‘Why were you trying to cross the river when the water is in full spate?’

  Drops of water hung, suspended like tiny crystals, from the tips of his coppery curls. Cecily’s heart twisted, a warm knife deep in her chest. She took a step back. What was she doing? In her irritation towards this man, she had forgotten her purpose. Why was she talking, arguing so much? Her sister needed her, needed the midwife. A huge shiver coursed through her slender frame and she lifted first one leg, then the other, trying to drive the creeping coldness away, trying to warm up her muscles. She needed to go.

  ‘I was in hurry,’ Cecily said pointedly, taking another step back. And yet her body seemed stilted, as if it had forgotten how to move. Energy leached from her slender frame.

  ‘That’s no answer,’ the man rapped out. ‘I asked you, what are you doing?’

  ‘It’s none of your business!’ Her retort was brusque, violent. The strength sapped from her knees, her muscles like wet wool. She wavered on the spot. Water dripped down her face, from the incessant rain, from her hair; she licked her lips, tasted blood. Lifting her hands to her forehead, she touched her hairline, almost in disbelief.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Lachlan stated bluntly. In the dim, rain-soaked daylight, her pale green eyes shone out, a delicate chartreuse colour, like glass beads. The blood, mingling with the rain, tracked down through the wet tendrils of her loosened hair, trailing down her cheek to drip off her chin. Her skin held the patina of rich pouring cream, emphasised by the incessant rain, the moisture in the air. His loins jolted.

  ‘Let me look.’ His hands felt too big, too clumsy to be performing such a delicate task, moving awkwardly over the wet, clotted strands, pushing her hair to one side, exposing the wound, a ragged cut about an inch from her eye. ‘It’s not too bad.’ His knuckles grazed her cheek, a fleeting touch, the brush of a moth’s wing. Christ, her skin was like silk.

  At his touch, Cecily sucked in her breath, dragging air deep into her lungs. A desperate longing drove sharp and hard into her belly. The lick of desire. She gasped in shock, lifting her arm, a jerky, haphazard movement that knocked his hand away. Who was he, this stranger, to appear from nowhere and make her feel like this? As though he trespassed on her heart?

  ‘Leave it!’ she admonished him, quickly dousing the delight that flickered in her belly. ‘It is barely a scratch.’

  ‘Make sure you see to it, then, when you return home.’ His glittering gaze raked over her. ‘I’m assuming home is somewhere nearby?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is.’ Cecily turned, summoning her last vestiges of strength to walk away from this man.

  He stared at the proud, neat set of her head, the creamy curve of her cheek, flushed with colour. Despite her outward show of bravado, the disdainful look on her face, he had traced the fear in her beautiful eyes, as though she was hiding something.

  ‘Can I take you there?’ Lachlan offered. For some reason, he was reluctant to let her go, just yet. He jammed his hands into his leather belt. He wasn’t so heartless as to leave this woman alone in the woods after such an ordeal. He had time, after all. ‘You’ve had a shock this morning.’

  ‘No, no!’ She shook her head violently. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. Thank you, you can go now.’ A faint blue colour tinged her lips, but she managed to turn and walk away from him through the spindly birches with a slow, dogged gait. Her wet clothes hampered her, dragging on her slender frame. She must be freezing. The pink flesh of her heels, her unshod feet, flashed beneath her hem. Her hair was a mess, plaits dislodged, straggling across her cloak. When she had gained some distance from him, she twisted her head, looking back, and realised that he hadn’t moved. Her bright eyes blazed at him, shedding sparks of resentment. If looks could kill, he thought, he would be dead.

  * * *

  Lachlan stood for a long time, watching until her dark-cloaked figure vanished into the shadowed trees of the woodland. Curiosity nibbled at the edges of his brain. The woman mystified him. Who was she, this noblewoman on a servant’s errand? Skipping across the river on nimble, dancing feet, clad in a fine emerald gown. He remembered the silk velvet beneath his fingers as he lifted her from the water, the way the material clung to her slender frame; the lightness of her. Her firm breasts sliding against him as he lowered her to the ground. His belly twisted, a strange sensation.

  When was the last time he had held a woman? His heart, reduced to a frozen lump within the packed muscle of his chest, was starved of tenderness. After what had happened to his family, he was incapable of feeling any emotion. It made him a skilful fighter, a man who was prepared to risk everything. He simply did not care what happened to him, whether he lived or died. And so, in battle, he would fight longer and harder than anyone, gaining him notoriety, a demand for his fighting skills. And with every battle, he hoped, prayed that this time all the raging, all the bloodshed would drive out the bad memories, and make him whole again.

  But, no. It hadn’t happened.

  * * *

  ‘Christ, man, it’s only just light now!’ Raising one arm, Simon slid another arrow from the leather holster strapped to his back, holding the feathered shaft in place across the bow. ‘What were you doing out so early?’

  The metal arrowhead gleamed dully in the watery sunshine. The looming bundles of grey cloud thinned slowly, as the weak sun rose, vanishing into a washed pale blue sky. Rags of white cloud floated above their heads, all that remained of the earlier heavy rain. Simon focused on the huge red target, set at a distance across the field, and let the arrow fly. The glinting point hit the target, dead centre. Satisfied with his performance, Simon switched his gaze to Lachlan, drawing his thin eyebrows together, waiting for his friend’s answer.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. And I needed some exercise.’ Lachlan rubbed his thigh—his stitches had stretched painfully when he’d dragged the maid from the water; he was lucky that the wound hadn’t opened up again. More fool him, he thought. He should have left her, ungrateful chit.

  ‘And the maid? Why was she there?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Lachlan’s damp cloak began to steam in the sunshine. ‘She said she had to reach the village.’

  He recalled the desperation in the maid’s voice, the flash of guarded anger in her leaf-green eyes. The agitation in her slim frame had been palpable, yet, for some reason, she hadn’t tried to run away. In her heavy water-laden clothes he would have caught her in an instant, even with his injured leg. But he would have caught her if she had been wearing nothing.

  Desire slammed into him, a sudden, fierce longing at the surprising trajectory of his thoughts. He jerked his gaze up, forcing himself to focus on the target, the large circles of black and white, the painted red bullseye, set before the hawthorn hedge around the field. Above him, a flock of geese honked loudly, held in a loose arrow formation as they flew across the luminous sky. What, in heaven’s name, was wrong with him?

  ‘Lachlan!’ Simon said, resting his bow against his side. His brown eyes narrowed, hawk-like. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  Lachlan laughed, shaking his head to rid himself of his thoughts. The powerful memory of her. Why did it stick with him so? ‘No, I’m sorry.’


  Simon clapped his hand against Lachlan’s shoulder. ‘I’m curious about this maid. Did you ask her anything at all? Where did she come from?’

  A pair of huge green eyes sparkled across his vision. ‘She spoke little and, when she did, was possibly the rudest chit I have ever met. I sincerely hope I never have to meet her again.’ The lie soured his tongue; chipped at his conscience.

  ‘She must have had a shock at the sight of you.’ Raising the bow and arrow on a level with his ear, Simon took a single deep breath and immediately released his fingers on the taut bowstring. The arrow flew through the air, straight and true, hitting the centre of the target again. He turned to Lachlan. ‘That’s the reason she was so anxious to escape; she was probably scared to death!’ Simon laughed.

  Nay, she had not been frightened of him. That was the odd truth. She had been frantic, desperate to escape him, but not because of him. Because of something else.

  ‘To be fair, I probably ruined her morning,’ Lachlan said slowly. ‘She was crossing on some stepping stones, but the river had flooded and they were underwater. I called out to her...startled her. And she fell. It was the least I could do to pull her out again.’ His long legs had carried him alongside the river, his eyes pinned to the maid’s rapid, tumbling progress through the foaming water. The pale green flag of her cloak as it flew in the air, the stark white of her face as she turned in the water. Thank God she had managed to cling to that rock. She had closed her eyes and leaned her head against it, exhausted, and for a moment, he wondered if she might slip off again before he reached her. His heart plummeted, looped with the memory.

  ‘Wait. Where did you say she was crossing?’ Simon drew his eyebrows together, puzzled, bringing his bow down to rest on his side.

  ‘By the stepping stones,’ Lachlan repeated.

  Simon groaned. ‘She’s from the castle,’ he supplied grimly. ‘That is the way we always use...always used,’ he corrected himself. ‘It shortens the distance to the village by a couple of miles at least.’ He clapped one hand to his head. ‘I should have told you. If I had been there, I would have held on to her, questioned her about that woman in the castle. She might have helped us gain access, if I had offered an appropriate bribe.’