Sharon Schulze (2 page)

C
atrin drifted in a cold, black void of confusion, meaningless words echoing in her head. She sucked in a breath, the inrush of air bringing with it the taste of fresh-churned soil and wet grass.

How did she come to be lying on the ground?

Raucous laughter sounded nearby, summoning up memories of the ambush. Fear held her motionless, lest her attackers notice her again.

Icy moisture dripped onto her face. As her senses sharpened, a wave of nausea swept over her, followed by fiery shards of pain radiating from her back. Gritting her teeth, she focused upon her surroundings.

The earth trembled beneath her cheek, and her ears picked out the muffled sound of retreating hoofbeats, but the voices remained—nay, they grew louder. She risked opening her eyes.

A small group of men, four or five, she thought, stood near a mail-clad body, their speech and gestures agitated. One man stepped away from the others and motioned them to silence. “I say we go after the horses,” he said sharply. “That stallion alone’d fetch a handsome price, and the other mounts’re finer than any of ours. With our
pay for this—” his arm swept out to encompass the slaughter “—we can all live like kings.” He moved out of Catrin’s sight, then returned leading a horse. “Come on,” he urged as he climbed into the saddle. “His lordship said we could have all the pickings from this job. That means the horses, too.”

“Aye, Ralph’s right,” another agreed. “We can come back for the rest later. They ain’t goin’ nowheres.” He laughed and poked the body at his feet with a fine sword. “Best get what we can. We been cheated already—I had a powerful ache to ride a noble lady, not a damned horse.”

“Ye still could. She won’t fight you any.” They all laughed. Catrin tensed, the motion intensifying the ache spreading from her back.

“She’s dead, you idiot. I’m not stickin’ my rod in a dead woman! Christ, what fun is that?” He gave a gusty sigh. “Come on, let’s get the horses ‘fore they’re gone for good.”

To Catrin’s relief, they mounted up and rode off, but she feared ’twas a temporary victory. She had to get away before they returned, else she’d be dead in truth.

Or wish she were, she reflected as darkness claimed her once more.

Nicholas lay flat on his back, grateful for the steady drip of cold water onto his face. It soothed his battered flesh and carried him away from the deadly black cloud muddling his mind. Groaning, he rolled onto his side.

A warm, foul breeze wafted across his face. He opened his eyes just as something hot, wet and raspy swept over his cheek.

Was he dead already, and Satan beginning his torment?
Only in the devil’s pit would he find himself face-to-face—again—with Lady Catrin’s hellhound.

Nicholas recognized Idris immediately, especially from this angle. At least this time the dog’s teeth weren’t sunk into his throat, and Catrin standing over him, laughing. He blinked in a vain attempt to clear his vision, then propped his head on his hand to stare at the beast. Idris lay sprawled beside him, maw agape and fangs glistening.

’Twas a wonder the dog could move. An arrow protruded from the hound’s back, and numerous cuts marred his dark hide. Yet he’d managed to drag himself to Nicholas’s side.

Could Nicholas do any less than to search for other survivors?

He shifted and raised his uninjured arm, surprised at how unsteady he felt, and reached over to rub Idris’s head. “Why are you here, eh, fellow? Where is your mistress?”

Stomach churning, Nicholas sat up, blinking as his sight alternately blurred and sharpened. By God, he’d felt better after a night of hard drinking! But lying in the drizzle wouldn’t cure his ills, nor protect him from the next knave to wander down the road. Cursing the weather, the king and the Welsh with equal venom, he rolled to his knees and pushed himself to his feet.

He had a bad feeling about this situation. If Idris was here, Catrin had to be nearby. Nicholas lurched across the uneven ground toward the fighter he’d seen fall. His balance shifted and he pitched the last few feet, to land hard on his side next to the cloak-covered body sprawled near the underbrush.

He slipped the hood back to reveal a mass of dark, tousled hair. His touch gentle, he eased her face toward him.

Catrin.

Her pale, delicate features, devoid of her usual defiance, brought death to mind. Yet she still lived, her breath a faint mist against his fingers when he touched her lips.

So cold! Her lips had been hot—both to hear and to touch—when last they’d met. The memory of her mouth, so soft beneath his own, had come unbidden into his mind far too often these months past.

He pushed the image aside and smoothed her hair from her face, then turned his attention to the three feathered shafts jutting from her back. “Holy Mary save her,” he muttered. Crossbow bolts. Longbow arrows would have been bad enough, but these…

Too often he’d seen men suffer a lingering, painfilled death from such wounds. He rested his throbbing head on the ground beside her and scanned her face once more.

How could he tell Gillian of her dearest cousin’s death?

A moan, a mere wisp of sound, slipped from Catrin’s lips, and she opened her eyes. Gone were the flashing silver depths he remembered. In their stead shone painglazed pewter, dull and gray. Her gaze flitted about before settling upon his face, so near her own. A spark of recognition flickered to life.

“Nightmare,” she mumbled, her voice weak. Her mouth moved aimlessly before curling about the words. “Or death.” She swallowed, her tongue darting out to capture a bit of moisture from her lips, as her eyelids drifted closed.

Nicholas pushed himself upright. Shoving the wet hair off his face with a shaking hand, he dragged his attention from Catrin and surveyed the clearing. The fog lent an unnatural glow to the carnage. Nothing moved. All was silent save for the steady drip of water from the trees. Yet he still should examine the bodies, for despite the amount
of blood spattered everywhere, someone else might have survived.

Catrin’s moan drew his attention once more. He dropped down beside her as she tried to roll to her side and, holding her steady, eased her onto her stomach. “Have a care, else you’ll harm yourself more.”

“This is real, isn’t it?” Even as he nodded, her eyes begged him to disagree. “Cursed knaves attacked us. Not enough guards.” She swallowed. “’Tis my fault—all my fault.” Moisture pooled in her eyes, but the tears did not fall. “They’ve gone for the horses—south, I think—but they’ll be back. I heard them say so.” Her fingers clenched into fists, she sought to push herself up off the ground.

Nicholas grasped her beneath the arms and held her still. “You’ve three arrows in your back—how do you expect to move?”

“We must go.” She sagged within his hold, hands clinging to him for a moment before she tried to shove free. “They’ll kill us when they return. Mayhap we can find a horse.”

“You’re in no condition to ride—”

She pushed against him with more strength. “Don’t you understand, you Norman coward? I’d rather die trying to escape than to chance certain death at their hands.”

His fingers tightened about her ribs. “No one calls me coward, milady. We’ll find a way to escape this place.”

Determination steadying him, he gathered Catrin into his arms and carried her to a nearby tree. Though she held her lower lip caught between her teeth until she drew blood, she didn’t make a sound.

“By Christ, I’ve never met a woman like you,” he muttered as he set her down. Whether he meant it as a compliment or a curse, even he did not know.

“’Tis your misfortune then, milord.” She wrapped her arms about the tree trunk and leaned against it.

Biting back a curse—did her baiting never cease?—he stepped back and eyed her pale face. She sounded more lively than she looked, but he doubted she’d fall into another swoon. “Will you be all right here? I want to see if anyone else survived. ’Twill take but a moment,” he added as she nodded.

He moved swiftly about the clearing despite the fact that his head felt no better. The pain did not matter. If he didn’t get them safely away soon, an aching head would be the least of his worries.

Only he, Catrin and Idris had survived the attack. Though it galled him to leave Catrin’s men where they lay, he could not spare the time—nor the strength—to bury them.

As for the dead outlaws, they deserved their fate.

Catrin’s packhorse must have bolted, for all he found were her guards’ few belongings scattered across the blood-spattered ground. His own possessions were gone with his stallion, lost to him now.

Feeling like a grave robber, Nicholas removed the threadbare cloaks from Catrin’s men. Further search yielded naught but their belts, a flint and a battered cup.

Something rustled in the bushes to his left. He reached for his dagger but came up empty. Before he had time to seek another weapon, a scrawny nag burst through the trees.

Ragged brown coat marred by narrow streaks of blood, nonetheless it appeared uninjured. A crude bridle drooped from its head, reins trailing, and a filthy sheepskin hung lopsided across its bony withers.

Nicholas made soothing noises and stretched his hand toward her. The mare halted before him, hooves shuffling
upon the slick grass. After a moment the beast settled down, though her ears flicked back and forth as though she were uncertain whether to heed his entreaties.

Finally the mare heaved a ragged sigh and accepted his touch. Though naught but a rack of bones, she’d carry Catrin away from this abattoir.

“Come to me, my beauty,” he coaxed as he grasped the reins. “There, my fine lady.” Heaving his own sigh of relief, he laid his head against the mare’s neck and stroked her wet, quivering hide. After a brief hesitation she followed him across the clearing to Idris’s side.

At Nicholas’s touch the hound tried without success to stand. He should have known the dog would share his mistress’s stubborn nature. He could almost wish the dog had succumbed to his injuries, for Catrin would never agree to leave her companion behind. Cursing, Nicholas stilled Idris’s struggles and hefted him up and onto the mare’s back.

Blood trickled down his left arm as the barbed arrow shifted deeper into his flesh. Looping the reins through his belt, he pressed his fingers hard against the mail surrounding the shaft to stop the bleeding and led the mare across the clearing.

Still cursing, he dropped down beside Catrin. Jaw clenched, he gripped the arrow and tried to snap the wooden shaft. The arrowhead ground further into his arm.

Nicholas groaned, the sound piercing Catrin’s painfilled lethargy. She forced her eyes open. “Are you mad?” she shrieked when she saw what he was about. She reached out to stop him but could scarcely lift her arm. “You’ll make it worse! You cannot pull—”

“Do you think I know so little?” He let go of the arrow and rose to his knees, shoving his fingers through the
sweat-darkened blond curls plastered to his head. “I can’t get hold of the damned thing to break it off.”

“Lift my hand so I might help you,” she said, struggling to shift to a better position.

He shook his head. “You haven’t the strength for it.”

“Stop wasting time, Talbot, and do it! I’ll hold your arm while you snap off the shaft.” He didn’t appear convinced. “Come—I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

“No doubt you’ve the might of a warrior,” he snarled. “There’s little enough that’s womanly about you.”

“Is that why you kissed me when last we met?” She curled her lips into a shaky smirk. “I’ve heard that some nobles of the Norman court prefer a manly bedmate.”

“Once we’re away from here I’ll show you what I prefer.” Face flushed, he swept his gaze boldly over her. “It appears you have the necessary equipment.”

His eyes had darkened to a deep violet, the pupils wide. They reflected more than temper; she’d seen that in his eyes often enough.

Was it pain that shadowed his gaze? Mayhap he’d taken a blow to the head. She doubted the injury to his arm would much affect so powerful a warrior as Nicholas Talbot.

The warmth of his fingers as they closed about her wrist made Catrin realize how chilled she felt. Though the cold had permeated her entire body, it did little to blunt her pain. When Nicholas lifted her hand, agony streaked across her back. She sank her teeth into her lower lip to stifle a groan and forced her fingers to close about his arm.

“If they’d left my knife I could have notched the shaft to weaken it. I need something to break off the arrows in your back, as well.”

Catrin dragged her attention from the sinewy strength of Nicholas’s arm beneath the cool, rough mail. “My eating knife is on my belt.”

He slid the blade from its sheath. “This bauble?” Expression mocking, he examined the dainty, bejeweled dagger.

“Lift my skirts,” she told him, her mouth dry.

“Under other circumstances, milady, I’d be pleased to oblige.” His smile taunted her. “But now’s not the time.”

“Arrogant dolt!” Given a choice, she’d not permit him to so much as touch her hand.

But these were not normal times. Raising her chin, she cleared her throat and met his eyes. “Go ahead. I’ve a blade strapped to my thigh you’ll not sneer at.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes burning with a strange light. “I doubt there’s anything beneath your skirts I’d sneer at,” he murmured, his hand already on the hem of her gown. “Which leg?”

“The right.” She focused on a dripping branch as he pushed the wet fabric high enough to reveal the scabbard—and most of her leg. An icy weight settled into her stomach, threatening to break free when his knuckles brushed against her skin.

Startled by the warmth of his touch, she shifted her gaze to him. All she could see was the top of his head as he bent over her. “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

He slipped the blade from its worn leather casing, then eased her skirts into place before he glanced up. “’Tis indeed a knife,” he said, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb. The corner of his mouth quirked into an uneven smile. “It should serve well.”

Covering her hand with his, he tightened his fingers. “Hold fast,” he told her. She saw a measure of trust in
his eyes, and something more—something she’d never dare acknowledge.