Warrior's Princess Bride (10 page)

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Tavia blurted out.

‘Because you were special to him, you were his favourite, born out of love, as opposed to the enforced marriage that his royal position pushed upon him. Remember, you met him once.’

Tavia nodded, recalling the handsome noble astride his horse, resplendent in a vibrant royal surcoat, his red hair gleaming in the sun. He had been alone, approaching Tavia and her mother as they had walked up the secluded valley near Allandale. Her mother had wanted to see the wood anemones, a magnificent sheet of white fragile flowers deep in the wooded valley, but now, looking back on that day, Tavia suspected her mother had contrived the walk specifically so Henry of Huntington could meet his eldest daughter. Her heart raced at her mother’s revelation…from excitement…or fear? A huge lump lodged in her chest; now, she would never see her real father again.

The smile slipped from her mother’s face, her skin sunken, withered with illness. ‘My heart broke when he died,’ she mumbled. A single tear glistened on her cheek. ‘He should have been king after David. He deserved that right—he was a good man.’

Tavia leaned across the bed, curving her arms around her mother’s limp body, astounded, nay, perplexed by the information Mary divulged. Was her mother suffering from delusions brought on by her illness—should she believe her? The similarity of her looks with Princess Ada and the young King Malcolm could not be denied—maybe there was an element of truth in her mother’s words.

‘You can reclaim what was his, Tavia. You have the key to it all.’

Tavia frowned; the words made no sense. She drew her shoulders back, tracing over the familiar lines of Mary’s gentle face, anxious that she had begun to step back from reality once more.

‘Please believe me, Tavia.’ Mary’s eyes closed with the effort of talking. ‘The knife, Tavia…when we met him that day…’ Her mother’s voice faded to a wheezing rasp.

‘Nay! nay!’ Tavia pulled at her shoulders, realising in horror that her mother had slipped away. A terrifying wretch ed ness washed over her, as she clutched the limp body to her own, des per ate to inject some life back into those frail bones.

The door opened behind her.

‘The physician’s here,’ Benois stated, ducking his head under the carved wooden lintel, preceding the elderly man into the cottage.

Tavia half-lifted herself from the body on the pallet, face wet with tears. ‘You’re too late.’

Hunkering down by the fire, Benois threw a couple of logs onto the dancing flames, stirring the glowing embers with an iron poker he had found propped up against the wall. Spreading his palms flat against his thighs, he eased into a standing position, narrowly missing banging his head on an iron skillet hanging from the wall. Glancing over at the lifeless body lying on the bed in the corner, he frowned slightly—surely the body must be washed and wrapped, prepared for burial. He wasn’t certain of this country’s customs, but no doubt they were similar to those of England—dead bodies could contaminate the living and needed to be buried as quickly as possible.

He wondered where Tavia had gone. After the doctor had officially pronounced her mother dead, she had fled from the cottage, leaving Benois to bid farewell to the physician. He had thought it best to leave her to her grief—he knew his presence would offer little consolation to her under the circum stances—but now? Now, he thought she had been away for too long. Pulling open the door, he stepped outside.

At first, he could see nothing. The bright moon that had aided their descent into this valley had been obscured by thick cloud. His pupils adjusted, allowing him to see his surroundings more clearly. Where was she? From the corner of his eye, he snared a fraction of movement in the byre, an open thatched shed used to house some of the animals in winter. He strode over the muddy yard, relishing the unhampered blood moving through his body after being cramped up in the cottage for so long.

Tavia sat in the middle of a pile of sweet-smelling hay; a pile of dry grass scented with summer. Her head was downcast, her hands covering her face. She jumped as Benois appeared at the door, hands dropping from her face and falling limply at her sides, fingers rustling against the bleached hay.

‘Go away!’ she murmured, her voice cracking with tension. ‘Leave me alone!’ Tracks of tears streaked her ravaged face.

Ignoring her rudeness, Benois shrugged off the powerful urge to drop to his knees beside her and gather her hostile, grieving body into his arms. ‘Why not come in now…sleep. The hour grows late and you’ll freeze out here.’

She slumped a little, amazed at the concern in his voice, hugging her arms around her drawn-up knees. ‘Nay…I can’t go back in there…with her.’ Her eyelids flickered down for a moment; she tried to remember her mother in life, rather than the husk that remained on the pallet. Her mind seemed stuffed with straw, her thoughts incoherent; she found it hard to concentrate on even the smallest detail. ‘We need to fetch the priest,’ she blurted out suddenly, relieved to have found something practical to say, conscious of his unnerving regard from the doorway.

‘I’ll fetch one on the morrow,’ he found himself announcing. Hadn’t he intended to return to England tomorrow? Since when had he been so concerned for another’s welfare?

She dipped her head jerkily in agreement, unable to trust her voice.

‘Shall I…carry her body out of the cottage?’ Benois offered. ‘So that you can sleep?’

Eyes blazing, she sprung up from the straw like a vixen. ‘Nay! Leave her! Let her spend her last night in her own bed!’

‘She is dead, Tavia,’ he reminded her brutally. His voice held a curious detachment.

Balling her fists, she thumped one into the middle of his chest, hurting her knuckles against the thick band of muscle under his tunic. ‘I know, Benois. And I feel like I have died with her.’ Her grief-stricken face lifted up to him.

He cupped his warm palm around the curve of her shoulder. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t let your heart go with her.’

A peculiar inflection in his tone caused her to examine him more closely. ‘What would you know, Benois? How can you even begin to under stand what I am feeling? Death is a game to you, a way of life that you thrive on. Death means nothing to you.’

He sucked in his breath at her accusation, vivid images of the past crowding into his brain, too fast for him to stop, to extinguish. He gripped her shoulders, holding on to her as if she were a rock, the only rock in a churning, treacherous sea that could save him. He wanted to shake her, push her away, make love to her, he knew not what, but anything, anything, to drive these thoughts from his brain.

‘Benois?’ Her voice floated through to him, a bright sound in his sea of anguish.

‘I lost my family in a fire,’ he said thickly. The skin on his face turned a deathly white. ‘I do under stand.’ His eyes sought hers, and instinctively she brought her hands up to frame his face, to offer some sort of solace within his despair. He shut his eyes at her touch, moving his hands from her shoulders to clasp her against his body in a tight embrace. The tears fell easily as she wept and rocked against the comforting beat of his heart, and together, they held each other tightly as if they could stay like that for ever.

A
t some point they must have fallen asleep in the mound of hay at the back of the byre. Tavia had a vague recollection of strong hands guiding her, turning her in her grief, and tucking her into her cloak as she lay down on the cushion of dried grass. She had dozed fitfully for a time, her mind racked with doubts until she woke with a jolt, her brain still busy with the events of the day. The viciousness of Ferchar, her mother’s odd little story before she died…and Benois’s kindness. Her stomach lurched. In truth, she didn’t know what she would have done, how she would have coped, without his strong, steady presence at her side. Oh, aye, she had thoroughly resented his very existence when he had hauled her out of the castle, hated his domineering, arrogant manner…but now?

Lying on her back in the hay, she moved annoyance, the dry stalks prickling the back of her scalp. Despite sleeping in the shed, the wide doorway open to the elements, she felt warm. Her skin tingled as she drew comfort from the thick, heavy weight of Benois’s arm across her stomach, the weight of his limb creating a delicious, secure feeling. No wonder she felt warm; her cheeks flushed hotly under his possessive touch. She listened to his breathing, even, steady, and drew a deep, shuddering breath, some of the taut emotion that had bound her in knots leaking away. She hated to think she had become reliant on this man, vowing that, once this night was over, she would fight to gain her in dependence once more. But just for this night, just for this one night, she would relish the feel of this man next to her, draw comfort from his big, muscular body and remember the moment for ever.

She shifted her head, studying Benois’s features. He seemed much younger, the harsh lines of his aquiline face softened with sleep. Flexing her fingers, she resisted the impulse to smooth them along the tempting angle of his jawbone, focusing in stead on the dark, spiky lashes fanning across his cheek. He sprawled on his front, his head angled towards her, the toes of his boots almost touching the thresh old. The fine curve of his mouth tilted upwards, smiling, as if he dreamed of something wonderful. Tavia wondered at his last words, words that haunted her, hinting at some of the horrors that possessed him. His family…destroyed in a fire? How had it happened? And when…?

‘What are you thinking about?’ The fearsome, metallic eyes shot open, instantly demanding, his intelligent gaze searing into her.

‘Er…?’ Tavia grappled for an answer, dumb founded by his unnerving ability to know what she was doing, even when he appeared to be asleep! ‘I was thinking about what you said…about your family,’ she replied, truth fully.

His eyes hardened, grey steel. ‘Forget it,’ he said, callously. ‘Forget I ever said it!’

‘Why?’ Tavia asked gently. ‘Did you make it up to offer me some comfort?’

His grip around her middle tightened fiercely. ‘Do you really think I would do such a thing?’

‘Nay,’ she admitted.

Benois flipped over onto his back, the heavy weight of his arm lifting from her middle. He concentrated on the roughcut cross-beams of the roof, hating her for prying, but, oddly, wanting to tell her.

‘My family died in a fire,’ he said eventually, his voice hollow, tone less. ‘End of story.’ The memories stamped back, vividly, crowding into his brain to torment him. Sweet Jesu, would this torture never end?

‘Is it?’ she asked quietly. Would he lash out at her, like the last time?

The silence extended between them, expectant, waiting.

Tavia held her breath, willing him to speak, willing him to lower his guard with her, to tell her more about himself. The taut lines of his stern profile appeared more prominent in the dark: the shadowed hollow of his cheek, the firm curve of his lip.

Suddenly, Benois jerked upright, pulling his knees up, resting his head in his hand. His voice, when it finally came, seemed cracked, muffled somehow. ‘It was when I was just a squire, in training with Geoffrey Plantagenet. I lived with my family in a small fortified manor, but took all my meals with the other squires and knights in the great hall of the castle. My father also worked at the castle, but that day he went home earlier than me.’ He ducked his head, pushed an unsteady hand through his hair. ‘I should have gone with him…but I was detained.’

‘What happened?’ Tavia whispered, a sensation of horror building in her chest.

‘My parents and younger sister slept in one of the chambers in the tower. When I got home, the whole tower was in flames.’ He covered his face with his flat palms. ‘I ran and ran, up those stairs, tried to open the door, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t save them.’

He lifted his head, turning his ravaged gaze on Tavia. She gasped at the haunted look in his eyes.

‘But it’s not your fault, Benois. It’s not your fault.’

Guilt washed over him, an old friend that hung about him like un wanted clothing. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I know, Tavia. But it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.’ He glanced down at his palm, rubbing his fingers over the ridged scar.

‘Is that how you hurt your hand?’

He nodded. ‘Aye. ’Tis the imprint of the door latch. The fire on the other side made the metal hot.’

‘Sweet Jesu!’ The horror of his past clouded her brain for a moment. ‘I am so sorry.’ She reached out to clasp his damaged hand, her touch cool and sweet. He didn’t pull away.

Through a haze of despair, of the suffocating grief that had held him captive for all these years, he clung on to her beautiful turquoise eyes, aware that the bonds of his guilt seemed to weaken somehow, to slip away. He drank in the fine details of her beautiful face; the skin like smooth cream, that in this mysterious half-light held the quality of silk. With a shudder, wrapping one powerful arm behind her back, he crushed her to him, melding his upper body to hers, feeling the soft yield of her rounded breast, the flatness of her stomach against the hard muscle of his.

The compulsion to lose himself in her beauty, to disappear in the svelte lines of her body blossomed and grew, accelerating into a rush of desire that pelted headlong through his arteries. His lips found hers, and he was lost.

Under the pressure of his lean, hard body, Tavia’s head spun; as his lips crushed against hers, hungry and demanding, she felt herself pulled at break neck speed towards a thundering maelstrom of passion. She clung to him, a small voice of sanity lurking in her head, telling herself she sought an outlet, a refuge for her grief, nothing more.

His lips flirted with hers, tantalising, demanding more. Her fingers curled into the hard muscle at his shoulders, the ex pensive nap of his cloak smooth and rich beneath her hands. Her breath seemed to stop in her throat, her whole being entwined with a fluidity, a weight less ness that lifted her high up into the heady realms of passion. His hands plunged upwards into her hair, sifting through the loose red strands, be fore he tugged impatiently at the leather bond that held the end of her plait in place. As the gold-red water fall of hair flowed over her shoulders, he lifted his mouth from hers, devouring the sight of her unbound tresses in silent wonder, almost in disbelief. The air sifted over her scalp as the tension of her bound hair was released; at the sublime sensation, she wanted to cry out in pleasure. Throwing back her head, she jumped as Benois traced the column of her throat with his lips.

Breath jagged with desire, Benois turned her care fully in his arms, as if she were made of fragile glass, and eased them both down into the soft mound of hay. His hand smoothed down the side of her body, gently caressing her breast, the narrow indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips beneath the falling gathers of her dress. Her breath snared at the possessive touch; no man had ever been so close to her before, but she welcomed it eagerly, not wanting to push him away. Desire burst within her: a growing, shining bubble that shattered like a million tiny fragments of a star through out her body. Blood stampeded through her veins, hurtling at such a pace she wondered whether she might lose all conscious thought with the pleasure of it.

The voice in his head commanded him to stop. He had to stop, be fore the maid became his. He had to do it, for his sake as well as hers. Reluctantly, he wrenched his lips away, senses gulping at the magnificent sight of the woman beneath him: golden-red hair fanning out in glorious ripples on the hay, pulse beating wildly under the delicate skin of her throat and her face set in an expression of such exquisite rapture that he had to tear his eyes away, for want of kissing her once more.

‘No more,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot do this to you.’ Benois rolled away from her, springing up into a sitting position, knees drawn up.

Tavia lay there, flat on her back, shocked and astounded, bereft of his touch. Nay! she wanted to rail at him, to shout and to tear at his clothes, nay! You can, you can do this to me! She didn’t care as to the consequences of their actions, she just wanted him, wanted him hungry and passionate and demanding. Her body still screamed for him, yearned for him, every fibre of her being bawling out for release, yet now he sat apart from her, expression cold and hard, eyes devoid of emotion. Humiliation, shame, hot, blinding shame washed over her; of course, he was like all the rest, all of those suitors who had thought her too lean, too head strong to marry. They had come and found her wanting, just as Benois had. But only he had come close to possessing her. And why? Because she found him handsome, good-looking. Foolish, foolish girl! Drawing a deep, shaking breath, Tavia rolled away from him, huddling into a tight little ball. ‘Oh, well,’ she muttered, endeavouring to conceal the hurt in her voice, ‘at least you realised sooner rather than later. No harm done.’

He baulked at the jolting offence of her tone. Better, though, that it was like this, he told himself. Better that she hated him; it would make it easier to sever the tie, if there were one, between them. The woman placed him in a dangerous position; already he had told her things about his past that he had never spoken of before, and he resented it. That feeling, that feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, carved into him like a sharp blade, slashing through the thick, impenetrable hide that he had built over his painful memories.

‘You’d better go to sleep,’ he ordered her coldly. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day.’

She bit her lip, tying to dampen down the bubble of tears that threatened to break from her chest. Moments before, this arrogant, powerful man had been about to bed her, and she would have given herself to him willingly. And now, now all she felt was an utter disgust at herself—he didn’t want her, he didn’t find her attractive. Why had she ever fooled herself into thinking otherwise?

Trying to ignore the icy tentacles wrapping around his heart, Benois’s eyes traced the maid’s rigid back, the ramrod set of her spine. Tension poured from her, in every slight, jerky movement, from every line of her graceful body. He wanted to blame her, to rail at her for allowing him to speak, to divulge the secrets of his past. All he wanted was to forget, but in speaking those words to her, the raw memories had been unlocked once more.

He lay back in the straw, endeavouring to control his breathing, still ragged from their love-making. To stay with her would be to destroy her, he decided. His guilt, his grief would mar what little joy they might have. He brought his arms up to pillow his head, thinking. Better to go now, to leave and return to King Henry, and tuck away the fragile memory of this bold and beautiful maid close to his heart.

The small church that served the hamlet in which Tavia lived was constructed of stone: large, unwieldy lumps of granite, the various mineral seams that streaked the rock spark ling in the afternoon sun shine. A low wooden fence surrounded the building and grave yard, again of simple construction: knobbly hazel sticks driven into the ground and joined together with thin, pliable willow branches. Her family had been coming to this chapel for as long as she could remember, Tavia thought, to hear the priest’s sermon on a Sunday and to be present at weddings and funerals. Somehow, she had never envisaged walking to her own mother’s burial, but here she was, following the hastily constructed coffin, hoisted up on the shoulders of their neighbouring farmers. There was no sign of her father; he had obviously decided to leave for good, never to return.

Misery clung to her heart; for her mother, aye, she grieved, but al though she hated to admit it, she grieved for another as well. When she had awoken that morning, her muscles stiff and aching from sleeping in the open barn, the hay beside her had been cold. Benois had left. In her restless sleep, in her dreams, maybe, had she imagined the light kiss he had placed on her forehead before he swept away into the darkness? After he had rejected her, after she had curled away from him and desperately sought oblivion, forgetfulness in sleep, she knew he would go. In his own way, he had been kind to her; he had taken the honourable, chivalric path. He could have gone ahead, made love with her anyway, despite not being attracted to her. She had known many men who would. She should be happy that he had stopped when he did—at least her virginity was intact. So why did her heart feel like it was breaking?

A sharp stone cut up into her soft leather sole, stopping her thoughts. She still wore the fine shoes that belonged to the princess, but had changed back into her own rougher, more practical clothes for the funeral. Bodies were buried quickly here, sealed up inside the wooden coffins when the blood was scarce cold. Tavia still could not believe her own mother was carried before her; the whole event seemed tinged with a surreal, night marish quality. Surely her mother was back at the cottage, her capable hands kneading the dough for their bread, stirring the pottage for break fast?

She flinched at a sudden eruption of noise behind her, someone shouting, and a sound of thundering hooves. Turning, her heart swooped, then plum meted as a group of Scottish soldiers pounded up the hill towards her, chain mail flashing in the sunlight, green and gold pennants flapping furiously with the forward motion of the horses.

‘Mother of Mary!’ Tavia breathed, clutching at her neck, unable to quell the panic rising in her chest, as she recognised Ferchar’s cruel features under one of the helmets.