by Betina Krahn
Gasquar laughed and grabbed her shoulders to restrain her. “This is a bad place to cross, mon ami !” he called out. “And treacherous in the dark. I am glad to see you both survived. We will see you by sunlight and find a place to join you. Sleep well!”
“We shall not!” Lillith declared hotly, struggling to break free. “I have to cross right now. . . . I have to be there with her, this very night, all night!” He slid an arm around her waist and hoisted her off her feet. “Put me down! Let me go—I have to see what they’re doing!”
“Why concern yourself with their pleasures, ma chatte,” Gasquar said raggedly, grappling with her defiant form, “when you should be concerned with your own.”
“I’m her cou—chaperone, her dueña. I have to know where she is sleeping.”
With a squat and a heroic heave, he boosted her across his shoulder. She squealed and smacked his back with her fists, demanding her release. He paused, sensing that her panic was genuine. It had been her task, he realized, to guard her lady’s virtue. “You must know where she sleeps this night?”
“It is my sworn duty!”
“But that is simple, ma chatte. She sleeps with mon ami, of course. She has no cloak and no shoes . . . she must stay warm. And Saxxe . . . he has a great fire for her in his loins, non?”
“Dearest Lord—let me down!” She wriggled and shoved and raked her nails down his bare, thickly muscled back. He flinched and growled, but kept his hold on her.
“Ahhh—the sharp claws of the cat.” He gave her upended bottom a warning smack that drew a choked squeal from her. “Alors—you remind me. Once, when we were in Egypt, we came across a lost temple dedicated to the ancient cat goddess, Bast. We were trapped there for three days with a score of very beautiful and very lonely priestesses. Dieu—so many hungry claws! Our backs were a month healing.”
“Heathen!” she hissed.
He laughed wickedly as he climbed the hill toward their camp. “Perhaps you need something to dull your claws, eh, ma chatte? As the lovely priestesses soon learned . . . I make a very fine scratching post.”
Chapter Eleven
Across the way, Thera climbed the bank and went straight to the bushes where her wet tunic was spread. As she reached for it, Saxxe’s hand closed over hers and she pulled back an arm’s length, clasping her blanket together. When she looked up, all she could see was his compelling green-gold eyes and all she could feel was a raw, pulsing ache of need. She tried to reach her tunic again, but he would not let her go.
“Please, let me,” she whispered.
“Nay.” His voice came thick and laden with unspent emotion. “You’ll catch lung sickness. Leave it till morning. You will not need it to warm or protect you.” He paused and a flicker of pain went through his countenance. “That is my task.”
“Saxxe . . .” The soft stroke of longing she gave his name betrayed her inner turmoil.
Lillith’s and Gasquar’s untimely interruption had saved her from surrendering her body totally to him. But the true barrier of her innocence had already fallen; the wall which for much of her life had forbidden intimacy between herself and others—the gulf between monarch and subject—had been utterly and irrevocably breached. In one shatteringly sweet moment in Saxxe Rouen’s arms, she had been paradoxically both reduced and elevated to human dimensions.
She was a woman . . . who wanted a man. For a few splendid moments they had been in a world of their own . . . the only two people in Creation. . . .
But that moment was past. The real world had caught up with them, shattering that sweet illusion of Eden and reminding her of the barriers of rank and wealth and person that still lay between them. And as she looked up into his eyes, she knew it had come just a few heartrending moments too late. What she had surrendered to him could never be taken back, could never be given to another man. Saxxe Rouen would always hold the key to her passions and the deepest stirring of her woman’s heart.
For a moment he wavered, wanting to wrap her in his arms and cover her trembling lips with his. It wouldn’t take much to make her respond again, and he knew that for a while he could make her forget her waiting lady and her waiting home. But the morning would come, and they would still face the fact that she was a wealthy young noblewoman, while he . . . he was . . .
He led her back to the fire with a pained expression. “Take what sleep you can, Thera.” He pressed her down onto his pallet. “We have a day of hard traveling tomorrow.”
She gave a silent nod, keeping her eyes averted, and lay back on the skins. He took a deep, shuddering breath and drew a cover of stitched pelts over her. Then, pulling a blanket around his shoulders, he went to sit by the fire.
As the dew fell, he stared into the golden flames, seeing in their wanton destructiveness the pattern of his own life. All day her question had echoed in his mind, opening doors long closed and raising thoughts and feelings long buried.
Who do you think you are?
He was a hireling, a man who spent his strength and blood fighting for other men’s importance and worth. He ate like a wolf when there was food to be had and slept with one eye open . . . in sour, rotting taverns when he had a bit of coin, and on frozen or muddy ground when he had none. He was a man who lived each day in death’s shadow . . . who carried his past in a leather pouch . . . who had no future, only a dream.
There had been a time, years ago, when he had worn fine mail and plate armor and kept a squire to see that his hair was neatly cropped and his face was close-shaven. He had worn fine woolen tunics, trained in the company of knights and nobles, and dined by the head of a great table. He glanced down at his cross braces, lying nearby, and ran his callused fingers over the scarred boss.
This single plate was all that was left of his fine armor, and the tempered strength of his body was all that was left of the years that had passed between then and now. And the desperate craving for a scrap of land—a meadow, an orchard, and a stream—was all that was left of his dream of a land and a title . . . a kingdom of his own. The ache in his chest approached unbearable, but he had never shrunk from pain in his warring life and he made himself face it squarely.
His knightly armor and his knightly manners and graces had been pared away by the years of hard living. He was left with only the hard-fighting, surviving core of himself. He was indeed little more than a barbarian. And he now knew with dread certainty that the only title he would ever hold was Prince of Dreamers.
As the night wore on, Saxxe laid more branches and a good-sized log on the fire, then, rising quietly, he crept onto the pallet and slid beneath the skin cover with Thera, curling his body around hers and pulling her gently back against him. He held his breath for a moment, and when she didn’t stir or protest, he slowly tightened his arm around her. It was sweet pain, lying there with her, knowing it was for the last time. He laid his head on her damp hair and sank gradually into a dreamless sleep, not seeing the tears that slid from between her closed eyes.
* * *
Gasquar’s and Lillith’s shouting had roused not only Saxxe and Thera; it had alerted other eyes encamped in darkness on the nearby ridge. At their first call, three dark-clad forms scurried along the crest of the hill behind Lillith and Gasquar. Catching sight of the people below and of the tantalizingly pale forms on the far side of the stream, the burly black-clad soldier with ratlike eyes had pulled the others down into the bushes with him.
“Silencio. We listen first.”
When the greeting was past and the two pairs below parted, each to their own campfire, the leader’s eyes narrowed with cunning. “Two women. No doubt the ones we seek.” He paused and thought for a moment. “They may not cross the river tonight . . . but we will.”
He motioned sharply with his hand and instantly they were creeping back along the ridge to their horses and backtracking to a crossing not far downstream. Soon they lay on the opposite hilltop, looking down into their quarry’s camp with glistening eyes.
“They are naked, eh?” one
whispered breathlessly.
“Sí,” another snarled, watching the dark-haired giant warming himself. After a while, he joined the girl, curling around her and holding her tight against him. “Sacre Christo—why do we just lie here? We could surprise them and take the woman for ourselves.”
“And have the duc flay us alive?” the leader growled in a thick Spanish accent. “We are sent to find her . . . nothing more. You know the duc. He does not like to share.” He turned to one of the others. “Sleep while you can. At sunrise you will ride to the duc’s camp and make a report.” He turned his gaze back to the flickering fire and settled down in the tall grass to watch and to wait for dawn. “And while you are gone, we will follow to learn where she goes . . . so that we may lead the duc to her when he marches into Brittany.”
* * *
The next morning Saxxe and Thera rode along the stream, uncommonly silent with each other as they looked for a suitable crossing. They were reunited with Gasquar and Lillith at the same place where Thera had been swept downstream two days before.
Lillith ran to Thera, embracing her, then holding her at arm’s length to inspect her. “Your gown—it is filthy!” she wailed. “And your hair!” She looked down at Thera’s bare feet and blanched at the sight of her unbound breasts straining her silk tunic. With an accusing look at Saxxe, she bundled Thera off into the bushes to tend her needs and right her clothing.
“That brute—what you must have been through!” Lillith said, her eyes flashing as she seated Thera on a log.
“He saved my life, Lillith. And he warmed and fed me . . . and helped me get back to you,” Thera said tersely, feeling Lillith’s eyes measuring every part of her body for some evidence of what had transpired in the nights just past. Her cheeks reddened, but she knew she had to face Lillith with the truth before the countess’s fertile imaginings made it into something to count.
“Last night, when you came upon us, I had been washing in the stream and fell into the mud. I had to remove my tunic and . . . he . . . washed it.” When Lillith’s eyes widened with expectation, Thera frowned and turned away. “Nothing happened between us.” She dismissed it with the wave of a hand and reached for her shoes. “Put it out of your mind entirely. There is no need to speak of it again.”
But even as she ordered Lillith to forget about her time with Saxxe, she knew she would never forget what had happened between them. She would forget only when thoughts of him no longer roused pleasure or desire or sadness in her. And she couldn’t imagine ever thinking of him without feeling some of the sweet womanly longings he had stirred in her.
Lillith, too, would have a difficult time forgetting . . . a royal command notwithstanding. She kept recalling the sight of Saxxe Rouen’s nakedness, a glaring omission in Thera’s explanation. She searched Thera’s glowing face and luminous eyes. Something had indeed happened between them; they had been naked, and he had warmed her. Gasquar’s bawdy conjectures about what sort of fire Saxxe would use came back to Lillith with a vengeance.
The standards by which she was constrained to count were strict and explicit. From what she had observed, the two nights would have to be counted. And all together, that made three.
Three nights spent—Lillith groaned and rolled her eyes—and two yet promised! For once she prayed that Thera had some sort of devious, unscrupulous plan in mind . . . for by the terms of her charge, she was forbidden to reveal her “count,” lest she influence her princess’s decisions. Thus, as much as she wished to, she could not warn her princess that the count of her nights had already begun and was rapidly mounting.
* * *
The tensions between the foursome eased as they spotted the dwindling track that was the trading road through Brittany and they were able to orient themselves once more. They climbed a nearby hill and Thera spotted a gray-tinged ridge among the peaks in the distance. She pointed to it, saying her home lay near those slopes, and they struck off across the uninhabited hills.
It was only when they had eaten and lain down to sleep that night that Thera allowed herself to look at Saxxe again. She found him staring thoughtfully at her, as he had much of the day. As she pulled her cloak and blanket tight about her and closed her eyes, she felt oddly desolate. And she knew in her deepest heart what sort of warmth she was missing.
Across the fire, Saxxe watched her turning and shifting and curling up into a ball as she tried to fall asleep. She was disturbed by what had occurred between them, he knew, but he sensed that her tension also had to do with approaching her home. She probably worried about what would happen when he confronted her father with his demands. He intended to tell her that he would make no mention of the nights and would ask for the hundred in silver that she had once offered him instead. But there didn’t seem to be an opportune moment. She seemed to be avoiding all contact with him, and, as much as it annoyed him, he told himself it was probably just as well. This dull ache inside him was difficult enough to live with.
But as they went on the next day, he saw her biting her lip and glancing nervously his way when she thought he couldn’t see. And his own tension began to rise as he thought of what she might be keeping from him . . . a jealous father, perhaps, or a vengeful bridegroom. He began to scour the cliffs and rocky, boulder-strewn hills for signs of danger, and his sword hand began to ache with anticipation.
They paused just past midday for water and a rest, and as they sat on the rocks, there came a scraping, rustling noise from a ledge above them. Thera had gone off for a bit of privacy and Saxxe shot to his feet, looking around for her, then up toward the source of that sound.
He thought of dire possibilities—bandits and thieves . . . or those black-clad soldiers. Though they had seen no sign of the marauders for several days, he sometimes felt a prickling at the base of his neck, as if he were being watched. It was a familiar warning sense that had saved him more than once in treacherous situations; he could not ignore it. Drawing his blade as silently as a passing breeze, he motioned Lillith to be silent and beckoned Gasquar along with him.
They climbed onto the rocks, broadly circling the source of that noise. Thera was returning just at that moment, skirting some boulders, when she caught sight of them climbing up the hillside . . . crouched and moving stealthily, their blue blades glinting in the sun. Her throat constricted and she flattened back against the rocks. Scraping and thudding broke out and she saw Saxxe signaling Gasquar to attack—at the same moment she spotted wild goats on the ledge beneath them. Her shout of warning was too late; Saxxe and Gasquar were already hurtling down the rocky slope with fierce cries, preparing to jump onto the ledge and do bloody battle.
The goats panicked and took flight in all directions. Saxxe managed to change course at the last moment and slam against the rocks, narrowly missing the bleating, lunging animals. Gasquar, however, was not so lucky. He fell straight in the path of a frightened buck and was nearly impaled on a nasty set of horns. Only his quick thinking—using the flat of his blade to bash the beast away—saved both him and the wild-eyed animal from disaster.
It was over in an instant. All four of them froze in stunned silence as the sounds of scrambling, clopping hooves faded. Then Gasquar pulled himself upright, grinning. Saxxe joined him, and Lillith came running.
“Goats—it was only goats!” Gasquar roared. And they laughed, even Lillith.
“Hazardous country in which you make your home,” Saxxe said with a twinkle in his eye as he helped Thera remount her horse. “I shall have to speak with your father about these dangerous, marauding goats.”
Thera managed a smile, but it was more relief than humor. Her knees were weak with the realization that those goats could have been some of her shepherds in search of stray lambs . . . and that Saxxe’s great blade might not have been stayed so easily if his quarry had proved human.
As they rode on, she remembered the sight of him fighting the soldiers that first morning on the cliff top. The power and savagery of the fight came back to her with a focus that h
er original perceptions had lacked. Now she saw not just Saxxe but also the slashing blades, the faces contorted by fury, and the gore that seeped from the still, silent forms.
There was a fierceness bred into his very sinews, a thirst for fighting that had been deepened by years of experience into a habit of violence. Despite his stunning lapses into gentleness, the urge to draw steel was ever-present in him . . . and alarmingly near the surface.
The hills became steeper and more deeply fissured, and they had to travel single file along narrow paths that led ever higher. They stopped in the late afternoon in a small clearing in the midst of craggy stone walls and massive boulders. Thera recognized the place and sent Lillith a speaking look as she announced that they were yet a day’s ride from her home. Lillith’s dark eyes widened, then lowered, to hide her reaction to the half-truth.
In fact, as Thera and Lillith both knew, they already stood on Mercian soil. And when Thera ventured away from the others, stretching her legs, she glimpsed confirmation of the fact carved in stone. On a huge rounded boulder just outside the clearing, the crest of the royal house of Mercia, a circle of oak leaves encompassing two entwined hands and set beneath a crown, was hewn into the rock. The emblem had been erected on stone markers or carved into rocks to identify the outer borders of her kingdom.
She stood looking at it, running her fingers over the smooth, delicate design, and the full impact of their arrival came crashing down on her. The journey was over; Saxxe had indeed brought her home. Her mind flooded instantly with images of her people, her lands, and her city, and they pointedly reminded her of who and what she was. Crown Princess Thera of Mercia, heir to a throne and ruler of a people.
In that moment, facing the duty embodied in her own royal crest, she felt the mantle of her responsibilities settling upon her shoulders once more. The sense of it stunned her, for in order for her royal obligation to fall upon her again, she must have shed it somehow, somewhere.
