His Captive Princess (3 page)

Chapter Three

Eleri stared over the campfire at the Norman’s profile as she ground fresh mint into the rest of the paste with a wooden spoon. After a grueling night and day of travel on foot while leading the horses through the thorny scrub, they sat resting as Nest watched the path they’d taken in case Vaughn or his men had followed. Sayer gathered kindling in the forest for the cold night’s fire, leaving Eleri alone guarding the captive. Meanwhile the gravity of her actions sank in.

They’d stolen the prisoner to deliver him alive to her father, and there would likely be outrage at her decision.

Oddly, the Norman formed a proud figure from the side, sitting in the weeds with his broad shoulders back, head high and hands relaxed even in the tight bonds Nest had gleefully cinched around his raw wrists behind him. Despite the leather hood they’d used to blind him, he had the perfect posture and bearing of a nobleman at court.

The possibility of his royal birthright had grown more likely in Eleri’s mind ever since they’d slipped from the castell at nightfall, unnoticed. He hadn’t complained much about his circumstances, hadn’t even tried to barter for his freedom. If he was a member of the Norman king’s family, he should at least ask for a ransom price.

Unless he wasn’t the idiot Eleri had first thought. Perhaps he realized they weren’t interested in his money.

The prisoner’s calm demeanor might be more of his trickery. She wouldn’t put it past him. He was no doubt waiting for them to make a mistake, then he would attempt escape. His promise for retaliation lingered in her thoughts…along with the things she’d claimed he wanted to do to her.

Though it had been hours ago, she still felt the heat of his breath on her neck, his long legs of iron tangled with hers and the alarming hardening of his body—something not even Owain had shown her in their short time together when he’d come to their marriage bed. The stranger’s touch had brought back longings and desire she’d hoped to keep forgotten.

Made her wish for things she would never have.

Arrogant cur!
She shouldn’t have risked coming so near him. And yet she must approach him again. His presence and cryptic words created too many questions.

Gathering her courage, Eleri left the fire, taking her bowl of herbs and an extra fur. Catching Sayer’s glower as he stomped back into the clearing with an armload of twigs, she patted the dagger strapped on her hip and arched an eyebrow, daring him to argue with her. He shook his head as he dropped the wood and trudged back out into the darkness. He wouldn’t be far away as she interrogated the Norman, probably listening for any hint of the prisoner’s disobedience.

Stealthily creeping up behind the man, she heard a soft recitation coming from beneath his hood.
“Oh, to be a sparrow-hawk, a goshawk. I’d fly to my love.”
An Occitan poem from his court, she realized, and her heart felt a tiny dart. She’d learned the foreign language of troubadours in her own father’s keep. So strange to think the dreaded enemy cared for such trivialities. But then, she knew nothing about him. He could’ve left a family behind, a wife and children. She focused on the foreign words, translating as she folded her legs to sit opposite him.
“Touch her, embrace her, kiss her lips so soft, sweeten and soothe my pain. I like it near the fountain. I trained a falcon. Spread her wings so wide—”

The words took a naughty turn. Face heating, Eleri cleared her throat before she might endure worse.

His head slanted, but he gave no start. His voice lifted. “Do not fear you’ve lost your ability to take me by surprise, my lady. ’Tis strong medicine you have there, to penetrate this foul covering.”

Eleri hugged the bowl tighter. He’d sensed her coming and recited his bawdy love poem a’purpose!

She braced for a fight, preparing to cast aside her bowl if need be and draw her dagger. But to extract the information she wanted, she would have to wheedle it from him carefully. She forced friendliness into her voice. “If you behave yourself, I’ll let you have some relief.”

“Ah, I somehow knew ’twas Red, not Nest, come to visit.” His chest expanded on a sigh of satisfaction.

Another wave of heat fanned through her. Anger, she hoped.

“Aye, I’ll behave, as you say, my lady, but I doubt you’re here to offer the relief I’m thinking of.”

Blood boiling, she yanked off his hood, and his dark hair fell loose, framing his rugged face. He cringed against the firelight, meager though it was. Perhaps unjustly, they’d kept him under the hood for the entire day. Now Eleri could scrutinize his looks in the light for the first time since they’d taken him.

His face was built in ridges and angles, with a small bump in the bridge of his nose, and thick dark brows marred by a narrow scar through their luxuriousness. Yet the imperfections in no way detracted from his handsome appearance. When his eyes opened fully and fastened on her, she felt the air siphon from her lungs. Cool ocean blue, as she recalled, but now she noticed a trace of brown near the irises as if his maker hadn’t fully decided which color to paint them. It lent him an air of mystery and made him fascinating to stare at, if only he wasn’t such a brute.

She frowned, remembering why she was angry.

His perfectly bowed lips curved at her expression. “I meant the
relief
you might provide by finishing me…er, with that dagger of yours. But if you’ve a mind to do otherwise, my stamina isn’t fully returned. Still, I would like to get my hand in your hair again. Mayhap if you aided me—”

“Enough!” She glanced over her shoulder, burning with mortification. The others were nowhere in sight—a thought that both comforted and discomposed her. Then returning to him, she hissed, “See here, if you continue to speak to me so, I’ll have Sayer attend you, and I vow he’ll leave the hood on.”

His jaw tightened. “Well, then I shall hold my tongue, as you wish. I’ve had more than enough of your guard’s help for one day.” Some of the color leaked from his tawny face, and Eleri wondered if he was remembering the times Sayer had aided him when he’d had to urinate. Fearing the prisoner would try to escape, they’d kept his hands tied then, too.

“I’ve brought you some cover.” She lifted a corner of the soft fur blanket held in her lap. “The night will be colder than you are used to in Normandy, I warrant. And here’s a poultice for your wound.”

“I’m from Devon,” he corrected, then sniffed. “Mint?”

“Aye. Also honey, oak, verbena and juniper berries.”

“Are you trying to make me tasty for the birds?” His voice was dry, though not entirely bitter.

She bit the inside of her lip.
He would not make her smile!
She smoothed back a lock of hair from her brow that had escaped her plaits. Then she averted her gaze to the pungent green glob in the bowl. “Actually, it’s more to cover your smell.”

“Your healer bathed me only yestereve. I trow I smell better than the three of you.” He arched an eyebrow, clearly affronted, and again Eleri was struck by his highborn mannerism.

She gave the goo a stir with the wooden spoon. “I do not doubt your cleanliness, but we will soon be passing through other cantrefs that do not belong to the Deheubarth. Would you have them recognizing a Norman?” His eyes narrowed, thinking, and she hastened to add, “Aye, perhaps you would. But we would rather not lose you to them. And you must remember, we’ve not mistreated you, but other Cymreig would. Your time with them would not end quickly enough. Torture, maiming, your eyes, tongue—”

“
Oui. Oui.
I take your meaning. But where you’re taking me, is it any better? How do I know you’re not bringing me to someone who’ll take pleasure in my pain?”

She couldn’t stop her smile. “You don’t know. Consider this your penance for being a
Gorthwr fud
and for all the crimes your kind has visited upon Cymru.”

“Wales,” he translated aloud. “And I didn’t come to Wales to do you or the Deheubarth any wrong.”

“Why did you come here then?” Her heart started as excitement ran through her. Perhaps she’d have her answers simply for the asking.

“Untie me and I’ll tell you.”

Or not.

Eleri rested the spoon in the bowl and dipped her middle finger into the slime. “And have you attack me again? I think not.” His gaze followed her movement as she lifted the poultice to her nose, sniffed, then touched it to the tip of her tongue. “You’re right. ’Tis almost tasty.”

He sighed. “You know, I
am
hungry. Mayhap I would answer your questions for food.”

Eleri snorted. He would rather die by blade than from starvation? The healer had told her he’d eaten enough for three men after he’d recovered his strength. “I’ll bring you something to eat once you’ve answered my questions. What were you doing here?”

“How about a trade? An answer for an answer.”

“A princess does not bargain with a slave.”

His expression darkened. A tiny line formed between his serious eyes. He wanted to tell her who he was. She could sense the tension of his powerful body, the indignity he suffered for his present situation and…his hate for her.

“Fine. I will die of hunger if you do not answer my questions. They say the end from starvation comes in pleasant slumber.” He lifted his good shoulder. “If you wish to keep me alive, my first question is your name, my princess.”

“All right, Norman. You’ve made your point. I’ll answer your questions because I have naught to hide from the likes of you.” She tossed the fur across his lap and put the bowl down as he raised his head, confidence glowing in his damnable, imperfectly handsome face. Putting her hands on him again both repelled and intrigued her, a mistake she didn’t want to repeat. She pushed the bowl beside him and freed her dagger from her belt. “I’ll cut you loose so you can apply your poultice, but one sign of your trickery and I’ll make you a gelding.”

He nodded. “You have my word. Another question, where are we now? ’Tis cooler, though we’re still in a valley.”

Perceptive
. She cut the first loop of his ropes, hoping to have enough left to bind him later. “We’re on the northern border of Cantref Mawr, about to cross into Buellt, the Norman stronghold, but we’re still several days from where you’re headed.”

Flexing his big hands in front of him, he scowled. Half to himself, he murmured, “William de Braose, the Marcher Lord. Loyal to Stephen. He has holdings in Devon too.”

“Aye, but do not get any grand ideas about escape. I’ll put an arrow in your back to match the wound in the front. Besides, we’re in the woods of the Britons. The true people of Buellt bow to no ruler, least of all a Norman.” She gave him her nastiest grin to dash any hopes he had of running. “Now my turn. Who are you?”

He favored his shoulder as he stretched his sinewy arms. “Warren de Tracy. And you are?”

She shook her head. “I care not for your name. Who
are
you?”

His eyes widened, and then one eyebrow arched with appreciation. “You wish to beg a ransom for my life?”

“No more questions from you. ’Tis my turn.”

“I am of no consequence…to anyone now. Go ahead, ask for a ransom. The king will laugh.” His teeth, perfect and white, gleamed in a grin, yet concern riddled his brow. His healthy smile said more for his birthright than words ever could.

He hooked his thumbs in the hem of his long tunic and drew it up revealing a bronze, muscle-clad torso. Then he slowly pulled one arm free and the next.

This handsome soldier with his insolence and cryptic answers was treading on her patience—which she did not possess. She shouldn’t be sitting with her enemy, shouldn’t be admiring his sculpted chest, his fine smile, his poetry, or his intriguing blue-brown eyes.

Pulse ticking in her throat, she snatched the bowl and backed away. “Never mind. Don’t answer. I’ll bind your hands again and you can die from your wound. Of that you will suffer in painful misery, for certes.”

He casually rolled onto a knee and sighed. “Very well. My family had connections to the late king, Henry Beauclerc, who as you know died just last month. Stephen of Blois, his…
successor
…sent me here in the hopes of claiming Castle Dinefwr.”

“And we were to simply give it to your men for asking?”

He chewed on his lip, his speculative gaze traipsing down her length.

Her heart skittered nervously.

“I never said he was a wise king.” His mouth quirked. “Now answer my first question.” He took the bowl and, holding it one hand, peered at the wound beneath his bandages. He scowled at what he saw, then took a scoop of the aromatic herbs and rubbed it under his bandage. “
Votre nom
, Princess of Deheubarth. Your name?” He watched her beneath his lashes as his hand made slow, wide circles on his smooth skin.

Don’t tell him. He doesn’t need to know. Don’t—

“Eleri!” Nest hissed from the woods, emerging on the back of one of Lew’s coursers at a brisk pace. Her eyes grew round when she noted the unbound prisoner. Reining her mount before them, she corrected herself, “Princess, ’tis Vaughn and his men!”

Nest circled Warren on her courser—his horse, Bane, taken alive in the skirmish,
thank God—
which was
snuffling and tossing its black mane in its excitement to be near him.

“What is he doing untied?” She drew her blade on him. “He’ll slow us down and alert Lord Vaughn.”

Ah!
Warren observed the princess’s reaction and found her alabaster skin becoming even whiter. He should’ve asked the most important question plaguing him that day: why were they leaving the castell in the middle of the night in such haste? But he’d let his lust take the lead, first inquiring after her name—as if such mattered anymore.

Yet now he had the answer to both.

Eleri
.

“Who is Lord Vaughn and why should I wish to alert him?” He bent to retrieve his tunic.

“Shut up!” Nest halted his progress, keeping her mount between him and the princess. “We ought to let him have you.”

“What is happening here?” Burly Sayer jogged into the firelight.