The Warrior's Damsel in Distress

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Bruin, that bed is far too small for you,’ Eva announced, levering herself up on to her elbow. ‘Let me sleep there.’

  ‘I’ve slept in far worse places.’ He turned his head, glittering eyes regarded her calmly. Against the whiteness of his pillow, his hair appeared darker, more coppery; beech leaves in autumn.

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Eva replied. ‘But I can fit into that bed, whereas you cannot. You’ll never sleep properly like that. It makes no difference to me.’ Because you are still here, in this chamber, with me.

  ‘Why so considerate about my welfare?’ Bruin asked. Suspicion traced his voice. ‘I hope you’re not feeling sorry for me, after what I told you downstairs?’ His mouth hardened. ‘Because believe me, I am not worth the worry.’

  You are! she wanted to scream at him. ‘No, no! Nothing like that,’ she responded immediately. ‘I’m thinking only of myself. You’ll be tossing and turning all night in that rickety bed; you’ll keep me awake.’ Despite the faint blush of colour touching her cheeks, she managed to keep her tone brusque, practical; he must never guess her true thoughts.

  ‘Well, if you are sure—’ his eyes sparkled as he sprang up from the low bed ‘—I won’t turn down your offer. Thank you.’

  Eva threw back the covers, her stockinged feet touching the floorboards. Her skirts rumpled messily around her.

  ‘I thought you said you were ready for bed.’ His withering look took in her gown, the stocking-covered feet. Her ebony-coloured braids swung down past her waist. His heart lurched; the long plaits made her look younger, more vulnerable, if that were possible.

  ‘I am.’ She wound her arms across her chest, a defensive barrier. ‘I prefer to sleep like this. I feel—’ Her speech faltered to silence beneath his piercing gaze. What had she been about to say, that she felt safer like this? But he would question her logic, because he had told her to trust him. An immense foolishness rolled over her. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if she had appeared stark naked in front of him; he was immune to her; he had made that perfectly clear, even before he had told her about Sophie. ‘I thought, I thought I would be warmer like this,’ she explained lamely. ‘And I have no nightgown.’

  Bruin moved over to the bigger bed. ‘It’s up to you, of course,’ he said, ‘but I think you will be too hot.’

  Through the gauzy linen of his shirt, the honed slabs of his chest flexed as he came towards her. Towered over her. She dropped her gaze. His large feet were bare, a strangely intimate sight against the burnished floorboards.

  ‘As you say, it is my choice,’ Eva croaked out, pushing past him. She lurched for the safety of the small truckle bed, diving beneath the thin covers, turning her back towards him. She could hear him climbing beneath the furs, a small sigh of satisfaction escaping his lips, and her belly melted at the sound, liquefied. She scowled at the plastered wall, horribly awake, senses acutely aware of the man in the bed, of his limbs stretching across the feather mattress, his coppery hair curling wildly across the pillow. A faint headache creased her brow. Sleep was a long time in coming.

  * * *

  Eva heard the shouts behind her, louder now. The guards were climbing the spiral staircase towards the ramparts. Knees buckling, she forced herself to run harder, faster. Up the spiral steps, out into the midnight air, on to the walkway that skirted the inner castle walls. Nerves bouncing wildly, her knuckles scraped against the rough stone wall, drawing blood. Doubt plagued her heart, for what she was about to do seemed utter madness. But it was the only way. The only way she could escape from him.

  Setting her slippered foot on a gap in the crenellated wall, she placed a hand either side on the stone work, balancing herself. Her fingers ground into the gritty stone. Down below, the water in the moat glittered in the moonlight. She hoped, prayed that it would be deep enough to break her fall. She jumped out into the dark air, skirts flapping, stifling a scream as she hit the chill, dark water. Then a hand grabbed her, dragging her on to the bank, and she hit out at the faceless assailant, tears coursing down her cheeks—no, no, this couldn’t happen!

  ‘Eva—stop this!’ A cool firm voice penetrated the swirling fog of her brain, the nightmare that consumed her, chasing the fragments of horror back into the dark recesses of her mind. ‘Eva, wake up now! You’re dreaming.’

  Her eyes popped open. Bruin knelt on the floor, looming over her. Firm hands lifted her upright. Sweat sheened her skin. She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead; her hairline was wet. Her gowns stuck uncomfortably to her body, hems bunching around her hips beneath the linen sheet. She must have thrown off the blanket and furs in her sleep, for they lay in a discarded heap on the floor.

  Bruin sat back on his haunches, his shirt glowing white in the dimness of the chamber. Moonlight slanted through the window, pooling to the floor with pale luminescence. His eyes moved over her. Wisps of hair had escaped her braids, clinging to her cheeks in a net of damp fronds; her face burned with a bright, fiery colour. ‘Eva, you’re too hot. You need to take your gowns off.’

  Embarrassment washed over her; she hung her head, fingers pleating the edge of the sheet. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied bluntly. ‘I’m sorry I woke you.’

  ‘You cried out.’ Her screams had ripped through his deep sleep, hauling him awake in a moment; snapping back the sheets, he had vaulted over to her. Writhing around on the sparsely stuffed mattress, Eva had seemed impossibly wrapped in fabric: her clothes, the sheet, the blankets and furs, all trussing her body like a cocoon. He had torn them away, shaking her awake.

  Eva drew up her knees, encircling them with her arms. ‘It happens sometimes.’ Her voice was a whisper. Fear chased across her face.

  ‘What was it about?’

  Bruin’s question hung in the air between them. The dying embers from the charcoal brazier cast a flickering glow across his lean features, accentuating the tough line of his jaw, the shadows beneath his cheekbones. Eva’s fingers clutched at the sheet, creasing the fabric. ‘It’s always the same,’ she replied in a small voice. ‘My escape from—’ she met his eyes squarely ‘—your brother.’

  His hand reached out, pushing back a damp strand of hair from her cheek. The rough pads of his fingers trailed down from her ear, savouring the silken caress of her skin, lingering.

  ‘No.’ She gripped his forearm, delicate fingers surprisingly strong. ‘I don’t want your pity,’ she said, misinterpreting his gesture.

  His hand slid down, cupping her chin. ‘I don’t pity you,’ Bruin said. ‘But I hate the fact that this haunts you; that the memory of what happened to you is always there, lurking in the back of your mind.’ He could have been speaking about himself, he thought suddenly.

  ‘You feel sorry for me.’ Eva twisted her face away: a halting gesture. His hand fell away. ‘Why would you care, anyway? If you did, then you wouldn’t keep insisting on taking me to your brother.’

  ‘But those nightmares are never going to go away unless you confront your demons,’ he said.

  ‘Like you have faced yours?’ Eva flung back at him immediately. A faint sarcasm laced her voice; she folded her arms across her chest as if bracing herself for the onslaught of his anger.

  He rocked back on his heels, stunned by her perspicacity. ‘This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It has everything to do with you,’ she replied tartly. ‘You are forcing me to confront my demons, in this case, your brother. I suggest you do the same. Let go of your guilt about Sophie.’

  He stared at her for a long moment, waiting for his anger to rise, waiting for the guilt and hurt and desperation to flood over him. But it never came. Eva’s eyes sparkled over him, huge blue pools that challenged him; he clung to them, drinking in their beauty. No one had ever said anything like this to him before, no one had ever dared to speak to him about Sophie’s death. But here she was, this enchanting woman whom he’d found in th
e snow, blundering into the subject, forcing him to think, to question. The tight bands around his heart eased a little, fiercely knotted ribbons loosening.

  ‘Careful, Eva. You know little about what you speak.’ Despite the warning, tenderness edged his voice.

  ‘You had nothing to do with her death,’ she insisted. ‘I know that, at least, even if I hardly know you.’

  But the people who should know him well, his mother and his father, his friends and comrades back in Flanders, all of them had been too frightened of his reaction to say anything at all. So he had fled, guilt-ridden, to bury his self-hatred in a life of lawlessness. It hadn’t worked. These last few days with Eva had done more to change his opinion of himself than his year at sea.

  ‘Sometimes the clearest perspective comes from people who know you the least,’ Bruin replied enigmatically. He rose to his feet. His toes were numb, the nerve endings squashed, prickling; he had been kneeling for too long. ‘Do you think you will dream again?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Take those gowns off,’ he said again.

  She pursed her lips stubbornly. ‘Then go back to bed and close your eyes.’

  He chuckled, turning away. She watched as he climbed back into the big bed, sliding his long limbs down beneath the covers, his back towards her. Her breath released slowly, by degrees; beneath the covers, she proceeded to wriggle out of her cumbersome garments.

  * * *

  Eva awoke again in the early hours, light peeking through the wobbly, hand-blown glass in the casement windows. Rays of sun touched her face, but there was no heat in the light. Bruin snored faintly. Rolling over, Eva felt her heart skip stupidly. He lay sprawled on his back, the sheets crushed down around his waist, one arm flung out, over the edge of the mattress. Strong tapered fingers hung suspended in the air, the roped sinew of his wrist lacing up his tanned forearm.

  Her gaze prowled across him, tentatively at first, half-expecting those shuttered eyes to spark open and catch her watching him. He had removed his shirt, after all. She traced the blue line of a vein up to the crook of his arm, then higher, to the bulging muscle of his shoulder. A pulse beat in the corded strength of his neck; coppery hairs brindled his bare chest. Her eyes tiptoed across his body, feasting on the dips and hollows: the shadowed line of his collarbone, the flat rippled plane of his stomach. Her mind consumed him, delighted in exploring this unknown masculine territory. He would never know how much she desired him, how much she had come to care for him, but at least she could have this secret, hidden moment, this precious parcel of time to study him.

  What would happen if she went over to him now and slid her body next to his? Would he turn towards her and take her in his arms? Kiss her like before, his firm lips capturing hers? Her flesh shivered in lustful anticipation. Her silken limbs pushing against that hard, roped flesh; chest against chest, thigh against thigh. She knew how a man and a woman lay together; she was not naïve. Her belly quivered, racked with longing, plunging down into a morass of unrequited pleasure. She gasped at her own wantonness, wrenching her gaze away.

  Sadness stumbled through her and she threw her covers off, stepping carefully towards the window. What was the matter with her? No other man had consumed her thoughts like this; she had considered most to be arrogant buffoons, or imbeciles, at best. Leaning her forehead against the cool panes of the window, she searched her mind for sanity, for some remnants of the woman she used to be: sensible, resilient—a woman who could survive alone. Where was that woman now?

  * * *

  Bruin opened his eyes. Sunlight spilled across the bed furs, sheening the pelts with a velvet caste. His breath misted the chill air; the flames in the charcoal brazier had died out long ago. And Eva’s bed was empty; the sheets rumpled, a colourful pile of gowns heaped on the floor. A movement by the window snared his eye; she was there.

  Light seeped traitorously through the diaphanous material of Eva’s chemise. Beneath the gauzy fabric, she was naked, the glorious silhouette of her body outlined in sunlight. Desire punched him, hard in the solar plexus, a blow from nowhere. The fine hairs on his body stood up in ripe anticipation. Lust churned in his belly, a dangerous wildness, kindling swiftly to a raging, unstoppable blaze. His logical mind admonished him, told him to look away, to close his eyes. But his flesh was weak, defenceless, stalked by desire, entranced by the woman at the window, the magic of her body.

  Oblivious to his perusal, Eva leaned against the windowsill, resting her stomach against the cold stone, peering out. Her chemise shifted forward, clinging lovingly to her hips, the slim column of her legs. The rounded lines of her rump pushed out the lightweight fabric. His self-control fled, defeated, chased away by a hot savage lust. Very slowly, Bruin lifted the sheet back, settling his bare feet against the floor. Caught in her own thoughts, her silent reverie, Eva did not hear his step. He crept towards her, quietly as a cat, flesh taut with desire.

  ‘Eva.’

  She gasped at his closeness, but didn’t turn around. Her chemise was transparent; she had left her bed without any form of cover. If she stayed with her back to him, it would protect her from his knowing gaze. She jumped as he placed his big hands squarely on her hips, thumbs rasping the fabric. The heat from his body flared into her. Her breath seized; although his touch was light, she could not move, or pull away, as if a single thread held her suspended, dangling, stretching slowly, slowly until surely it would break and she would fall.

  A sigh escaped her lips, a breath of longing. She prayed silently: God forgive me.

  She leaned back. Into him.

  Bruin groaned, hands sliding forward, around her neat waist, yanking her roughly against him. His groin pressed against her backside; her body melted, liquefying, sinking down and down into a whirlpool of quivering need. His hands splayed possessively across her belly, sliding up the sinuous indent of her waist, cupping her full breasts, thumbs scuffing her nipples. Shock sliced through her, volatile and edgy; her blood raced at his intimate touch, fringed with fear. Where was he taking her? She wanted to lie with him; every bone, every sinew in her body cried out for that delight, but then what? He would take what he wanted and discard her; she recalled the look of disgust on his face as he turned away from the glimpse of her naked body. She couldn’t risk that again, the sneer of mockery on his face.

  She grabbed his wrists, pulled his hands from her body, trembling. ‘Nay,’ she croaked out. ‘I cannot.’

  The quiet sadness in her voice ripped through his roaring blood, tore at his heart. Stopped him, even though the voice in his head bawled at him to continue. Go on! Claim her for your own! The shrill tone of a petulant child; his mouth twisted with self-disgust at the direction of his thoughts. His chest was a hair’s breadth from her spine. A delicious scent of roses lifted from the back of her neck, at the point where her hair divided into her two plaits. Delicate wisps of hair formed little curls at her nape. She held his wrists out to the each side of her, as if unsure what to do with them, hanging her head. Vulnerable. Innocent.

  What did he think he was doing? Trampling over her feelings as he rediscovered the man he used to be? It never would have happened if he hadn’t met Eva. His spirit, brittle, bludgeoned into passivity by Sophie’s death, had started to unfurl again, sparking into life. Eva had done this. And this was how he repaid her, by treating her like a whore. She deserved more respect than that, much more.

  The neckline of her chemise rode low around her shoulders, a white ribbon gathering the material into tiny pleats. Above, her bare skin was smooth, creamy, like marble, blotched by the rose-coloured birthmark. If he hadn’t stepped on her trailing hem that night, then he would never have seen it, would never have realised who she was. Would that have been better for both of them?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Blood thumped disconsolately through his veins, thwarted, unsatisfied, the speed dwindling.

  Her
small hands manacled his wrists, the press of her fingers like silk. She released him and he stepped back, away. The glass before her eyes blurred with tears; heart closing up with misery as she fought for equilibrium. She cursed the fear that had made her stop; why had she not let him continue, why had she not seized the moment to be with him, to lie with him? She hugged her body with her arms; could she really let a man who had no feelings for her take her innocence? Was she so mesmerised by his sheer beauty that she would let such a thing happen? Inwardly she groaned, for she knew the answer and hated herself for it. If she had possessed the courage, the bravery, then it would have happened.

  Dipping down to the truckle bed, Bruin grabbed a blanket. He laid it carefully around her shoulders. Eva was shivering; his hands rested on her shoulders. ‘Forgive me.’ His voice was low, unusually hesitant, speaking to her bowed head. ‘I promised that you could trust me and I broke that promise.’ His pupils were wide, dark, obliterating all colour in his eyes.

  Amazed by the tenderness in his voice, she turned in his loose hold. Her eyes shimmered, a magnificent periwinkle blue. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Bruin.’ She hesitated—could she risk telling him the truth? ‘I stopped because I was afraid.’ The words blurted out on a whisper.

  Bruin’s diamond gaze roamed across her face. His blood hurtled, an unstoppable force. What was she saying? That she would have lain with him, would have given him her innocence if she had been brave enough? The rigid walls around his heart weakened and crumbled, as if made of dust, blown away on a stiff breeze.

  ‘Afraid of me?’ he asked gently.

  ‘No,’ she replied quietly. ‘But afraid of...what would happen.’ A hectic colour flushed her cheeks. She jammed one fist against her mouth, aghast at the words emerging from her mouth, her thoughts spilling out before him like unwashed laundry. He didn’t want to know about her feelings, for God’s sake, he didn’t even care about her! She had never talked like this before, to anyone, let alone a man!