The Warrior's Damsel in Distress

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Tell me!’ she cried out desperately, darting a glance towards the doorway through which Bruin had been carried.

  ‘Give me the ruby.’ Steffen crossed his legs, clasping his upper knee with both hands. ‘Ah, yes, you were very clever, my lady, to conceal such a gemstone from me, but I found out eventually. I found out what you were hiding from me.’ His voice sharpened. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Will you let me see Bruin if I tell you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  She had no choice but to trust him. ‘It’s in the castle at Striguil.’ She would do anything to be able to see Bruin, to care for him, even if it meant giving up the last valuable thing she owned: her security in these troubled times. ‘In the chapel, there’s an alcove containing a statue of the Virgin Mary. If you lift up that statue, there is a hollow in the base of the stone, and the ruby is wedged up into that hollow.’

  ‘My God.’ Steffen rocked back in his seat. ‘I can’t believe it; the ruby was there all along and yet we searched and searched for it.’ His hand floated across his forehead, touched the side of his hair briefly, almost in disbelief. ‘Why would you give such a thing away so easily, after keeping it safe all this time? Why would you do it?’

  Eva raised her head listlessly, glared at him. ‘Let me go to Bruin.’ She balled her hands into fists beneath the folds of her gown.

  Steffen frowned hard at her, as if trying to decipher the workings of her mind. He laughed, a hoarse, croaking sound. ‘Oh, Lord, I see it now; you’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you? Just like all those pretty ladies before you, falling at his feet. Unbearable to watch.’

  Eva was silent. She heard the resentment in Steffen’s voice, the hatred of his own brother. She thought of Bruin as a child, the weaker sibling, enduring the years of insults, the petty jealousies, and she bit her lip, tears gathering slowly. Steffen lurched out of his chair, striding towards her. She held her ground, curling her toes inside her leather boots, stiffening her resolve against the approaching enemy. He brought his face close to hers in a waft of foetid breath. ‘No good will come of it, mark my words, my lady. No doubt you’ve heard what happened to his fiancée; aren’t you worried he might do the same to you?’

  She struggled to speak through the clenched, frozen muscles in her throat. ‘He isn’t a murderer.’

  ‘As good as,’ Steffen replied. ‘He drove the poor girl to suicide, or at least he thinks he did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Eva drew her fine arched brows together. Steffen’s manner unnerved her.

  ‘I fooled him good and proper.’ He threw the last dregs of his wine down his throat, chucking his empty goblet back on to the table. The detritus of previous meals lay scattered around the chair legs and under the table: slices of meat, upturned platters, spilled wine and soup.

  Eva dismissed Steffen’s words. There would be time later to wonder at his meaning. Right now all she wanted to do was find Bruin. ‘You have what you want.’ She tried to flatten out the tremble in her voice. ‘I want to see Bruin.’

  ‘But how do I know that you’re not lying to me?’ Steffen folded his arms across his tunic. ‘You’re a slippery fish, Mistress Striguil, and we both know that. What if we ride to Striguil and find nothing, eh?’

  ‘If you don’t trust me, then lock me in with Bruin and keep me there until you return with the ruby. Then you can let both of us go, because you will have what you want.’

  Steffen’s gaze travelled down her body, an insolent leer pinned to his face. ‘You’re playing with fire, Mistress Striguil, you do know that, don’t you? My brother is a ruined man and he will surely ruin you.’ He tapped his fingers idly along the back of a chair, then cocked his head, suddenly. ‘All right, I agree. Simon will take you to him and I will travel to Striguil.’

  Eva stumbled back with relief. It was done; she had traded her precious ruby in order to help Bruin. And he would never, ever know.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A couple of burly guards, grim and unsmiling, flanked Eva as she walked from the great hall. Along the plastered wall, candles had been stuck haphazardly into iron holders; the soldiers’ hauberks rippled in the pale light, sword belts strapped around their hips. They wore no helmets and their tunics bore the crest of Hugh Fitzosbern, the owner of the castle. A ram’s head was embroidered on to the woollen cloth, a black splotch in the middle of blue. Gold thread picked out the animal’s horns. A queasy vulnerability swept through Eva; the tall soldiers made her diminutive figure even more apparent. Lord Steffen’s eyes were upon her, tracking her neat, graceful progress across the hall, her gown trailing across the flagstones behind her; her spine prickled with awareness. One guard drew back the unwieldy curtain from the doorway, indicating with a sharp jerk of his head that she should pass through.

  The entrance hall was cold, shadowy, moisture cloying the air. The same guard wrestled with the iron bolt, rusty in places, on the main door.

  ‘Where is Lord Bruin?’ Eva asked. Her voice trembled with worry. ‘Where have you put him?’

  ‘He’s out in one of the stables, mistress,’ the younger guard said, touching the leather hilt of his sword like a talisman. His face was white, shining like a greasy moon; strands of black hair splayed out across his forehead.

  ‘My God, he’ll freeze out there!’ Eva clutched at her throat, hopping from one foot to the other, blue eyes wide with anxiety. Blood rattled through her veins, thready and rapid with fear; she hoped she would reach him in time, before—nay, she couldn’t think like that. The blood spreading across the floorboards beneath his head—she sucked in her breath, heart puckering. She sent up a silent prayer to the heavens: please, please let him be all right.

  The underside of the main door scraped across the flagstones as the soldier opened it, a small stone catching beneath the weighty planks. Outside, in the darkness, the inner bailey was deserted, the occasional flake of snow falling, trailing a lazy, diagonal path through the icy air. Then, on the far side, a door opened, light blazing out from the interior, spilling across the cobbles. Two figures emerged: a tall woman, a woollen shawl crossed tightly over her upper body, carrying a flaming torch, and a child, huddled close into her side.

  Eva peered closely at the child. A boy. He looked familiar, with his hair of flaming bronze, shining out clearly beneath the woman’s torch. His hair was the exact colour as Bruin’s. Eva’s mind scrabbled for comprehension. Was it possible? Did Bruin have a son? Dismay rippled through her and she frowned suddenly, dismissing the odd feeling. If Bruin did have a son, how could it be possible for his son to be here, in England? But curiosity, jealousy, she knew not what, made her reach forward for the soldier’s arm, clutching at his elbow, stalling him.

  ‘That child,’ she blurted out, jabbing the air with a pointing finger, ‘who is that child?’ She watched the figures descend a flight of steps across the bailey and disappear through a shadowed archway.

  The soldier shook off her arm, his face a dark scowl. ‘That’s Lord Steffen’s son,’ he replied curtly. ‘Young Arwin.’

  A jittery relief flooded through her. Of course. Lord Steffen was Bruin’s twin; he had the same hair colour. It made perfect sense that the boy should be in the image of both of them.

  ‘And the woman?’ she asked. ‘Is she Lord Steffen’s wife?’

  ‘Aye, she is,’ the guard confirmed with a nod. ‘That is the Lady Sophie.’

  * * *

  The raised hayloft was at the end of the stable, accessed by rickety, open-tread stairs, almost a ladder. A wide door at the top, bolted securely, led off from a small landing bounded by a wooden rail. The construction of the rail and steps was crude, uneven, both made up of roughly planed branches. Standing at the bottom, Eva’s thoughts floundered, riven by conflicting emotions. Sophie. The lady crossing the yard had the same name as the woman who Bruin thought was dead and buried. Could
that tall, willowy woman be the same person? The girl whom he had intended to marry?

  ‘Come on, mistress! We haven’t got all night!’ The young soldier glared down at her from the top of the stairs. Eva shook her head, bunching her weighty skirts in one hand. Now was not the time to be thinking of such things. She needed to tend to Bruin. Setting her small foot on the first wobbly step, she climbed steadily and fast; the guard leaned down, giving her his hand to pull her up on to the wooden landing.

  ‘Well done, my lady.’ He smirked briefly, a hint of praise.

  ‘Open the door, please,’ Eva ordered. Her chest and throat prickled with emotion, as if she were about to cry. Blood filled her ears; her heart bumped unsteadily. Grinding her teeth into her bottom lip, she dug her nails into her palms, willing herself to remain in control, to ignore the giant hollow in her chest. Bruin will be all right, she kept saying to herself. He will be all right.

  Thick iron bolts held the door firmly shut; the guard shot them both back swiftly. Grabbing Eva’s shoulder, he shoved her into the darkness, closing the door behind her with a slam. The bolts rasped on the outside of the door. ‘Have fun in there, mistress!’ he guffawed.

  At first it was impossible to see anything; the hayloft was pitch-black, shadowy, and yet, as her eyes adjusted, she discerned the outline of a square window, high on the opposite wall. Stars shone through the open space, twinkling against the midnight blue of the night sky. The snow had stopped completely now, the low cloud shifting away. A slick of fear passed through her like a blade. ‘Bruin?’ she whispered. ‘Where are you? Speak to me, please!’ Urgency lifted her voice, making the pitch shrill, terrified.

  A muffled curse emanated from the corner of the chamber, then a groan. Dropping to her knees in the bundled hay, Eva groped her way forward to the source of the sound. A quivering hysteria rose in her chest. Her fingers bumped against cloth, a rounded arm muscle; Bruin was sitting up, his back propped against the stone wall. ‘Bruin, is that you?’ Her voice jerked out with sobbing release. Tears ran down her cheeks, luminous pearls of light, falling across her wrists and into the hay. Relief surged through her. She touched his hair, the side of his cheek, as if in wonderment that he was there at all. Her hands fluttered along the corded sinew of his neck, a butterfly touch.

  ‘Aye, it’s me, Eva,’ he said softly.

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ Winding slim arms around his enormous shoulders, she hugged him tightly, sparkling tears creating dark spots across his red surcoat. ‘Thank God!’ Her cheek nuzzled against his jawline, her veil drifting over his bright gold locks, the diaphanous silk floating down across his back. ‘I thought he had killed you!’ She sobbed against his ear, a ragged sound, muffled.

  Her breasts pressed into his chest. The scent of her skin, rose petals in rain, filled his nostrils. His groin tightened. ‘It would take more than a blow to the head to kill me, Eva,’ he managed to croak out. The sudden onslaught of sensation struck his mind and body like a whirlwind, battered him: the cool silk of her cheek, her arm cradling his shoulders; the delicious flex of her body against his. Excitement flickered deep within his belly, sparking into life, amassing with a slow, heavy power.

  ‘There was so much blood,’ Eva choked out, on a whisper, her face buried in his neck. She blinked against his skin, velvety eyelashes skimming the bronzed bristle of his jawline, inhaling his musky scent. ‘It was spreading across the floor.’

  ‘You’ve had a shock,’ he said, his arms lacing her waist to comfort her, spanning her slender frame. ‘I have a small lump on my head, nothing more.’ His thumbs splayed upwards, along the delicate rope of her spine.

  She sighed against his cheek, a small gasp of relief, shifting against him. The pleated fall of her cloak draped across his legs, rich velvet rippling across his fawn braies. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to stifle the fresh surge of delight pulsing through him. Her knees nudged his hip. He should push her away now, unwind those fragrant arms from his neck and set her back in the hay with a stern word of caution.

  He should.

  He told himself he was in complete control; he could stop this all in a moment, break free from the trap of her enchanting beauty. He knew he was taking advantage of her, luxuriating in her beauty, when her only intention was to offer kindness towards him. But the Devil was on his shoulder, urging him forward with persuasive whispers, burrowing beneath his swiftly diminishing self-control. She was so utterly beautiful, so desirable and yet completely innocent to the lust raging within him: the savage tightrope, wobbling and unsteady, on which he balanced.

  ‘Let me look at it for you,’ Eva mumbled against his neck. Reluctantly, she began to pull away, turning her head. The corner of her mouth brushed his. She stopped, her heart stalling. Blood pounded in her ears. Time hung between them, the moment drawn out, caught in a bubble of air. His lips tasted of salt, the faintest hint of soap. Her belly plummeted, stabbed by a sudden, intense longing. All concern for him fled from her mind, chased away by a snapping, incoherent yearning. As if poised on the edge of a whirlpool, her body seemed unable to move forward or back, teetering on the brink of unspent desire, waiting for him to push her away.

  But he did nothing.

  Her breath punched out, unsteady, erratic. She should draw back from him now, stand up and back away, instead of behaving appallingly like this, like a wanton. Was this sort of behaviour even normal? To want a man like this? To crave him so much as to drive all common sense from her mind? She had no idea. All she could do was follow her instincts, her gut feeling. But as her mind commanded her to retreat, her heart and belly drove her on, like a hand at her back, nudging her onwards into the unknown. She had nothing to lose and fully expected him to reject her, but she would hate herself for ever if she did not at least try.

  She covered his mouth with her own. A tentative, delicate manoeuvre, for she was an innocent and had little idea of what she was doing, of how to kiss a man. His lips were firm and cool. Bruin groaned, his hands sweeping around to cradle the sides of her face, to lift her mouth closer to his. Her lips were like the first cherries of summer: lush, plump and delicious. Warm. He ground his mouth against hers, taking charge, riding roughshod over her halting virtue. Lust burst through him, a blistering rush of sensation. All self-restraint fled, utterly destroyed, trampled to dust beneath the solid weight of his desire. His tongue flirted inquisitively along the closed crease of her mouth, intimate, sensuous.

  Eva gasped; his tongue slid deep into the sweet cavern of her mouth. Her body liquefied, melting into his muscled warmth. His powerful kiss sapped her strength, making her weak, pliable; the ligaments in her knees and shins refused to hold her up any more and she sagged against him, unable to support herself. Bundling her in his arms, Bruin rolled her down into the hay, his lean, rangy frame sprawled across her, the links of his chainmail glinting in the faint starlight cast through the window.

  The clamours of restraint grew fainter and fainter, the doubting whispers that sat in judgement on the threshold of his heart. With a supreme effort, he slid his mouth from hers, feasting on the glossy pink curves of her lips, the pulse beating hard and fast in the pearly hollow of her neck, and the way she watched him, midnight eyes gleaming with delicious anticipation. Desire etched her expression and his heart leapt. Was it possible? That she wanted him as much as he wanted her?

  Holding himself up on propped arms, his sculptured cheekbones wavering above hers in the dark, his lungs fought for breath, for the energy to speak. ‘Eva, for God’s sake if you value your innocence, push me away now!’ His voice was throaty and raw, silver eyes glittering in the half-light.

  The low rumble of his voice thrilled along her veins. Her lips burned with the searing impact of his kiss, cheeks scuffed red by the bristles on his chin. She shook her head from side to side in the hay, a violent movement. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop now. Her eyes pleaded with him, enormous pools of blue light,
and her rumpled veil flowed out beneath her like the white wing of an angel. How could she tell him that her innocence mattered not, that nothing mattered other than this moment in time, this moment in his arms, so precious and beautiful, that she wanted to continue, for ever and ever.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I am not going to do that.’

  ‘Eva, do you know what will happen?’ His voice caressed her flesh.

  ‘Aye, I do.’ She smiled up at him shakily. The hard contours of his thighs pressed through her gown into the cushiony pillow of her hips; the nub of desire in her belly rippled out, concentric circles of pleasure, a stone thrown on to the surface of a quiet pond.

  In response, he fell upon her, wedging his brawny build against her slender frame, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. His booted feet knocked against her ankles, and she welcomed it, welcomed the feel of him against her, rocked by one newborn sensation after another. He dipped his head, slanting his mouth against hers, prowling steadily, roaming. Curving her arms upwards, she wound her arms around his back, smoothing one hand down the powerful cord of his spine, wanting him closer, wanting more of him.

  Raising to his knees above her, Bruin gripped the hem of his surcoat, tearing it over his head. His glittering hauberk was chucked into the corner, followed by his linen shirt. His bare chest gleamed: bulky slabs of pectoral muscle above the rigid planes of his flat, honed stomach. The waistband of his braies, held up by a knotted leather tie, dipped below his belly button, riding low on slim hips.

  Eva gazed up at him in awe as he rose above her like a god of old, a golden Adonis. She lifted her fingers, knuckles sketching against the sheen of his skin, the ruts of muscle packed across his stomach. He sucked in his breath at the tentative contact, then grabbed her wrists to pull her upright, plucking swiftly at the side-laces of her gown, his movements feverish, expansive. She should have felt shy, but instead, a feeling of an innate safety spread through her, a trust that he would treat her properly, with care, and she laughed out loud as he tried to yank both her gowns over her head at the same time, muffling her in yards of cloth.