by Georgia Fox
"Doesn't his nephew have land near Canterbury?" Sal asked suddenly. "I daresay the old bugger has gone there to plead for reinforcements."
Raul was adjusting the bridle. He paused, thoughtful, looking at his fingers.
"Well, take care of yourself, brother," said Sal walking back around the horse to where Raul stood. "Don't do anything we wouldn't do."
* * * *
Stumbling to a halt behind the stable door, she'd heard it all. The words fell upon her like sharp, cruel, well-aimed arrowheads.
Her heart almost ceased to beat.
So he knew who she was. All this time he'd known and planned to take her back to the Comte for a reward. Sickened, she leaned against the stable wall, needing it to hold her upright. What a fool she'd been. What a naive, pathetic, pitiful girl.
She should have known better. How many times had she reminded herself of what he was? A Norman and a d'Anzeray. Had there ever been a worse combination?
To him she was just another whore, like many he and his brothers used.
This is simply how things were, as he liked to say.
Princesa, indeed. No wonder he smiled when he said it.
* * * *
"My brothers wore you out it seems," he said to her, realizing she had not spoken for several miles.
"Yes. That must be it," came the response.
They rode on, and she returned to her silence. It was unusual for her, and he'd grown accustomed to her chatter over the past three days of their travel together. Her companionship had taken him by surprise in fact, for he'd never known a woman to hold his interest in ways other than the fucking. Raul wanted to know more about her and that too was vastly unusual for him. Last night, while she slept, he'd gone prying through her bundle of "belongings" and found it contained nothing but more rags. Yet she clung to it and kept it with her as if it were treasure.
A sadness stole its way sneakily through his heart when he examined that empty bundle and thought of how she clutched it to her bosom. Perhaps it was not merely rags. Not if she wanted to believe there was something there. She took comfort from it, obviously.
It might be invisible to Raul, but that bundle held her hope, her dreams even. It held her pride.
So he did not let her know he'd looked.
Today, however, she was too quiet.
He began to suspect she might be plotting.
Did she suspect that he knew her identity?
Canterbury would be upon them soon and so would the greatest decision of his life.
Damn her! He needed a rich bride with a dowry and a father who had property at his disposal. And no d'Anzeray ever changed his plans for a woman.
Their father would be disgusted at this wavering, this softening of resolve.
Here Raul had a chance to bring home a fine wife and win his father's praise for once, instead of his disdain.
Again his mind was made up.
Until another of her damnable golden locks caught on the stubble of his chin and then all he knew was cast asunder again, tossed up in the air.
With her quizzical glances and stubborn defiance in everything but the act of coupling, all that was expected and "usual" had flown from his grasp. As she would too, he suspected, given the chance.
He thought back to a summer's day, many years ago, when he was waist deep in a river, half blinded by sunbeams bouncing off the water, and a pair of warm, heavy hands guiding his. "Let the fish come to you, boy. Have patience. Just like women they are slippery creatures and if you go charging after them they will lead you on a chase. Let them come to you, Raul. They will in time. Be cunning and lure them in."
The voice was that of his father, of course, teaching him to catch fish. The memory of that moment—a rare one alone with Guillaume—was trapped in his mind like a fly in the web of a spider. He remembered thinking at the time how much he preferred hunting to fishing— how he enjoyed the chase, couldn't understand standing still and waiting. For where was the fun in being patient and waiting for the prey to come to him?
Now that he was faced with a woman notorious for running, he didn't know how he would feel if she ran from him. Or what he would do.
Chapter Nine
Raul tossed the bloodied sack, and it rolled bumpily across the stone floor to land with a dull thud against the Comte de Tourlaville's footbath.
"I bring you the head of Armand D'Arbeque, and I claim the reward you offered."
The Comte beckoned to a nearby page, who stepped forward and peeked gingerly inside the hessian sack until his face turned green.
"Well, boy?" the Comte snapped, tapping a fistful of rings against the carved arm of his chair.
The page nodded and backed away, holding his sleeve to his mouth and nose. "'Tis so, my liege."
Smirking, the Comte sat back in his chair and observed Raul with two hard, small eyes. "Well, well, I finally meet a notorious d'Anzeray. This is quite an occasion. You and your six brothers are practically a legend." He paused. "Perhaps you will claim there is no truth in what is said of you. That it is fable made up by those who bear grudges."
"Perhaps." Raul kept his face bland. "Often truth is stranger than fiction."
The Comte's self-satisfied grin faded. "I remember your father. He beat me soundly once in a tournament. The Comtesse de Suret was the prize over whom we sought." With one flick of his beringed fingers, he gestured for the bloody sack to be removed.
Raul said nothing. He sincerely doubted his father would even remember the event. Or the woman over whom he fought.
"As a young man I did not like to be bested and I took my loss very hard. But not so hard, I understand, as the lady's husband, who found them together in bed shortly after and fell dead when his heart ceased to beat. Whether it ceased to beat of its own accord or at the encouragement of Guillaume d'Anzeray's hand around his throat I suppose we shall never know."
"I did not come here to talk of my father. I came to collect the reward purse."
The Comte was a short, square man with rolls of fat overflowing his belt, fleshy, swollen fingers, a ruddy complexion and a balding pate. When Raul looked at the beast and thought of how it once raped a beautiful young girl with golden hair, he felt sick to his stomach. Until that moment he had not realized how the sight of the Comte would affect him.
As he watched, the man raised his hand again for yet another lazy gesture and a second page came forward with a purse of coins on a tray. But the young boy tripped against the footbath and accidentally dropped both purse and tray. They landed on the Comte's bare feet in the water, and he cursed loudly. The back of his hand swept hard and furious across the boy's pale cheek and left a bright slash of blood.
Raul stared.
"Idiot boy!" the Comte roared. "Pick up those coins and make haste before I cut your other cheek."
The page stumbled to his knees and rushed to gather up the purse and its contents, even with blood still dripping down his face.
Raul's gaze moved from the boy to the grotesque figure in the chair again. He looked at that fist gleaming with gold rings and thought of the scar on Princesa's cheek.
A patch of weak sunlight trickled shyly through the tall, narrow arched window and lit the stones at his feet, warmed the toes of his new boots.
He cleared his throat. "I don't want the coin, Tourlaville. That's not why I came."
The Comte frowned. "What can be your purpose in bringing me the head of a sworn enemy if you don't want the coin?"
"I have another reward in mind."
Abruptly that red, weathered face split open in a raucous laugh. "I hope you don't think to get your filthy bastard hands on my daughter's dowry, d'Anzeray. You're not the first ambitious young man to come sniffing after her, but you can think again. You'll take this coin and be gone. You'll get nothing more of mine."
Raul felt his pulse galloping like a war horse into battle. At his sides, his fingers squeezed into fists and then opened again. Flexed. He took a breath. "Perhaps I have something else of
yours already."
Tourlaville squinted, his eyes almost disappearing completely in that doughy face. "What?"
"But first we will talk of terms."
"Terms? What nonsense is this? I don't bargain with your sort."
Raul forged ahead regardless of the other man's disdain. "I know that you are here seeking help and soldiers from your nephew. I know that you are an unpopular overlord, that your own men have rebelled. Every day brings news of more skirmishes in your region."
"So?"
"Your nephew is in no position to lend you any men. Even if he could, it's doubtful that he would. He owes you no fealty. You are greatly disliked."
Tourlaville began to tap his fingers again on the arm of his chair. "What is your point, d'Anzeray?"
The patch of sun spread farther, and he felt it touch his face with tender, exploring fingers. Winter was passing and soon there would be spring, he thought. Change, growth, fertility. Life.
"Well, d'Anzeray? I haven't all day to sit about waiting for you to explain yourself."
He nodded. His mind was settled. "I will offer you my services for twelve months, Tourlaville. I will bring my men to help subdue the rebels on your land."
At once the other man sat up, surprise lifting his brows. "But you mercenary soldiers always charge a high fee."
"Oh yes," Raul smiled slowly. "Yes, we do indeed."
* * * *
She didn't wait for him to come back.
Raul, not knowing she was aware of his purpose in Canterbury, had left her in the custody of a thick-armed blacksmith while he went to meet Tourlaville. But he had reckoned without taking into account her seductive qualities. The quick promise of a cock sucking soon got her out of her wrist ropes and then a hard bite to the groin won her a sliver of escape through which she ran.
Of course, Raul hadn't told her where he went or what he planned to do, but she surmised easily from what she'd overheard. The bastard had gone to get his noble lady bride.
Well, good luck to him. May he never have a day's peace with the wench!
* * * *
Returning to the forge an hour later, a parcel under one arm, Raul was greeted at once by a furious blacksmith who claimed the girl had tricked him and run off.
He stared at the untied ropes she'd left behind. Damn her! He'd just sold his soul to Tourlaville for her— promised a year's service to the foul old villain in exchange for her freedom. Ingrate!
Glancing at the package he'd got for her, his temper surged and bubbled into a white-hot rage. She'd run from him, even though she said she never would. Liar!
According to the blacksmith she'd ridden off on Raul's horse, so apparently he hadn't spanked her hard enough or fucked her soundly enough to keep her out of the saddle. Now she was a horse thief as well as a runaway bondslave. His runaway bondslave this time.
While he stood in the dirt, staring in the direction of his horse's hooves and grimly assessing the next course of action, he suddenly heard a rumbling sound that trembled through the ground at his feet. He looked up.
Four riders emerged from a cloud of dust and turned their horses directly toward him.
A moment later they were close enough to recognize, and he felt a rush of relief at the sight of his brothers.
* * * *
"We decided we couldn't let you give her back," Sebastien announced as they all dismounted. "So we came to get her."
Dominigo added, "We'll all look after her if you can't put yourself to the task, you bloody little fool."
"Splendid idea. But you're too late," he snapped, scraping a hand over his rough cheek.
"You mean you gave her back to Tourlaville? Of all the asinine—"
"No. She ran off." The words burned in his throat. How dare she? His gauntleted hands tightened around the package he'd obtained for her in the market that afternoon. For a moment he thought of throwing it across the dirt, but no. It cost him too much. Just like she did.
"Are you certain she's not with Tourlaville?" Salvador demanded.
"Of course not. I made a bargain with that scheming old bugger and won her freedom. In return she spits on me and takes off. Unfaithful wench! Wait till I catch her again!"
The brothers looked at one another. Dominigo laid a heavy hand on Raul's shoulder. "Let's go and get our slave girl back again, eh?"
Raul rubbed his jaw where it was tense with anger. His head ached. Again he glanced at the bundle in his hands.
There was, really, no other thing to do but go after her.
He couldn't bear to lose something he'd paid such a high price to own.
Besides, he was in love with her.
It was that simple, that devastating.
Finally he nodded. "Let's go fetch our bride."
Chapter Ten
Thirsty, she paused at the river to drink water from her cupped hands. All day the sky had hung overcast and grim but no rain had fallen yet. When it came, she knew it would be plentiful. She must find shelter before nightfall.
Princesa had no idea of the direction she rode, only that she must get as far and as fast as she could. She was carried by fear and anger. And heartbreak.
But she refused to think of him. The one who would fuck her and then betray her without a second thought? Him? Ha! Now he was nothing to her. She was glad that she'd called him a pig.
Why she was ever surprised by the betrayal, she couldn't say. Like most things she'd felt in regard to Raul d'Anzeray within the short period of their acquaintance, it was all a mystery. One she was probably better off not trying to figure out.
That person who once told her a man would come to claim her and love her was probably addled. Or the entire conversation was something her imagination had made up during one of her darkest hours. That seemed more likely.
Her lively sense of make-believe had always been the one thing that saved her from the pit of utter despondency. It was something that could not be taken from her.
The horse, which had been drinking from the stream beside her, suddenly lifted its long neck, looked around and whinnied. It shifted restlessly and flicked its tail.
Princesa glanced over her shoulder and saw five men on horseback emerging from the forest, stirring up clouds of dirt in their wake.
"Dear God, save me!" She'd never been much for prayer, but now was as good a time as any to convert, she thought. In the next breath she was in the saddle again, wincing as her sore backside hit the leather seat.
They'd already seen her. She heard the shouts as the arrogant bastards celebrated victory in advance.
Well, she'd show them!
Spurring the horse forward she rode onward through the water.
Her head was spinning, her pulse uneven. If they caught her, what would they do? Raul must want his reward very badly to come chasing after her, but she couldn't go back to Tourlaville. She would sooner die. So she set her face to the horizon and rode harder, letting the cold wind dry her tears.
* * * *
She put up a good chase; he'd give her that. Deceiving little wench. But she had no chance against five determined hunters. They raced after her in a wide arc, ready to close in as they would upon a stag. Raul rode behind Dominigo on a great black war horse that could more than take their weight. If anything the beast seemed to sense their resolve and it put itself to the task with a long thundering stride, pushing the ground away beneath its massive hooves. On either side of them rode Sebastien and Alonso with Salvador on the far left.
Thought she could run from a d'Anzeray, did she? Now that he had that flare of gold hair in his sights again Raul was bemused, rather than angry. He blamed this foolishness on her pride. He'd known from the start that she nursed a curious amount of that commodity and now it seemed she thought she could out run him, on the horse she stole from him. But she rode well for a woman. He'd give her that too.
Up ahead she began to take a left turn.
It would be her undoing for Salvador was already closing in on his end of the crescent formati
on, ready to form a circular trap around their prey.
* * * *
Breathless, her gown sticking to her with sweat, she turned the horse about but found men on all side, riding toward her, closing in. A sudden grumble of thunder overhead caused her mount to rear up, but she held on. Then the skies opened and the rain came down, making the ground and her saddle slick and treacherous. The vivid flare of lightning that followed caught both horse and rider by surprise, and she landed on her sore arse in the dirt and mud.
Nothing else for it, Princesa picked herself up and ran.
Rain pelted down on her head and her gown was soon heavy with water, clinging to her legs, making it harder to keep up the pace. But still she ran, even when a painful stitch cleaved her side as brutally as the head of a battle axe.
She dare not look back and the noise of the thunder was deafening overhead so she had no idea who or what followed.
Lightning flared above, raising every pore on her skin, surely making her hair stand on end. And as the breath was sucked out of her, hands swooped down, grabbed her around the waist and she was lifted up over a man's lap.
The horse did not stop.
As she hung there, half blinded by rain, she saw other hooves racing alongside and then she heard the whooping sounds of her savage captors.
So much for God's help. She was in devils’ hands now.
Five pairs of them.
* * * *
They reached the shelter of a barn, where she was dropped into the hay and stripped of her wet sackcloth.
She fought the hands that undressed her, kicking and squealing and cursing.
