Warrior's Princess Bride (7 page)

‘Let me fetch my crossbow,’ she urged, her eyes huge orbs of diamond in the gloom. ‘I might be of some use.’

‘There’s not above a few.’ He glanced at the pale oval of her face, gossamer white in the rays of moon light filtering through the branches. ‘We’ll finish them quickly if they attack. Mayhap they’ll just pass by.’

Reluctantly, she nodded, toeing the soft ground, watching his dark shape return to crouch down and waken the sleeping Langley, and the other soldiers, before taking cover around the clearing. One of the soldiers led the horses deeper under the cover of the trees. And still, she hadn’t heard a sound, just the frantic beating of her heart thumping against her ribcage.

The sound of chinking bridles, of bits ringing between the horses’ teeth, could be heard long before the steady thumping of the animals’ hooves. Benois lifted one arm, a signal for his men to stay down as long as possible, to remain hidden. With growing anxiety, Tavia watched the group of men approach, not above ten in number; a fierce-looking bunch with trailing, matted hair, eyes wild and des per ate and swords already held on high. With a bloodcurdling war-cry, the leader reined in his horse with one rapid, violent wrench so that the animal lifted its front hooves into the air, clawing frantically.

‘Come on out, you nobles!’ the leader shouted, his speech thickly slurred and guttural. ‘We know you’re in there! Come out or we’ll kill you where you stand!’

Nobody moved. Tavia held her breath. Did these men think they were still the royal party?

A moment passed, then two.

‘So that’s the way you want to play it, eh?’ the leader shouted, his head darting one way, then another, trying to discern the human shapes within the under growth. ‘Ye Gods, let’s be having you then!’

As he and his men charged forward into the bushes, Benois and the other soldiers rose up, stealthily, drawing their swords. For a moment, the brigand leader appeared astonished; he obviously had not been expecting to deal with a group of English soldiers, but it was too late to call his men away. Already swords clashed against each other, the steel flashing through the trees, grunts of pain emerging as a sword sliced through skin, or a dagger found its mark. With her back against the tree trunk, all Tavia could hear was the terrible noise of men fighting. Nervous tension strung her body tight, and she peered frantically through the trees, trying to spot their horses, to find her crossbow. Thank the Lord someone had possessed the foresight to transfer her weapon and satchel to the English horses. She couldn’t stand by and watch these men be slaughtered, she had to help. Gliding back through the woodland, she crept over to the horses, feeling along the high glossy backs of the animals until she came to the smooth wooden arc of her crossbow. Her hands shook as she drew the bridle of sinew back to arm the weapon, reaching for a quarrel from the round leather satchel, to fit it along the groove. Pulling the hood of her cloak sharply over her bright hair, hair that gleamed like a burnished coin under the thready light of the moon, she tiptoed back to the edge of the clearing to take up a position. Slinking around the curving girth of a tree, she screwed up her eyes, focusing intently on the scene before her.

Benois, his large rangy form moving with an animal grace, fought easily, the sword moving as if it were merely an ex tension of his body, slashing one way, then the other. His feet danced across the ground, no ounce of spare energy wasted, each step executed with the precision and skill of a master swords man. Glancing quickly around the clearing, Tavia noticed with relief that all the other English soldiers, including Langley, seemed to still be standing. Her hands relaxed their re lent less grip around the crossbow. They didn’t need her…or did they?

Her eyes flicked to a dark spot to the right of Benois; someone was moving, creeping along in the shadows. She raised her bow, setting her sights on the shifting area of darkness, waiting for one shadow to pull away. She drew breath, honing her gaze, as the leader of the barbarians emerged from the darkness, the menacing curved blade of a falchion winking at Benois’s back.

As she squeezed the trigger, the man’s blade slashed down, in tended for Benois’s neck. The point of Tavia’s arrow drove straight through his ragged clothes, straight into his heart. Benois whipped around, staring in astonishment as the barbarian crumpled to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his threadbare tunic.

The crossbow dropped uselessly from her numb fingers; bewilderment fogging her brain, stifling her. She backed slowly away, struggling to breathe, huge, rounding waves of sorrow rising up to over whelm her. What had she done? In that single appalling moment, she had lost all sense of control, or responsibility; she had killed a man. She sank to the ground, a pitiful heap, burying her head in her hands.

‘Tavia.’

She felt the warmth of Benois’s hands in her own. ‘It’s over,’ he said, hunkering down at her feet, staring in puzzlement at the tears washing over her face, dripping down from the bottom of her chin. ‘They were vicious, I grant you that,’ he admitted care fully. He pulled lightly on her hands, not understanding her tears. ‘But we got them in the end.’ He laughed. ‘Thanks to you.’

Her face turned up to him, tears streaking the milk-white skin of her cheeks. She shook her head. ‘How can you laugh?’ Her voice stung him, an accusation. ‘At least ten men lie out there, dead, all dead, and we did it!’

His eyes narrowed, dangerous cuts of spark ling granite. ‘They deserved it, Tavia. They attacked us, remember?’ Coldness invaded his voice, crushing her. ‘If we hadn’t killed them, then they would have killed us…or maybe you would have preferred that? They were going to kill us, Tavia. And I would be dead…’ she jumped as his fingers grazed her cheek ‘…if it hadn’t been for that deadly shot.’

The air in her lungs shuddered as she took a deep breath. ‘I’m not proud of it,’ she returned shakily. She hung her head, shame rolling over her.

‘You saved my life.’ His fingers tipped her chin upwards, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘I know it’s hard to see something like this, when you’re not used to it. There’s no place for feelings, for emotion, when you’re fighting for your life.’

‘Is that why you do it?’ she blurted out. ‘Is that why you laugh when men lie dying around you; why you dismiss killing with such ease? Because you have no feelings? Is it?’ She wanted to goad him, provoke him into some reaction.

His face was stony, grim under her verbal attack. ‘You’ve said enough, mistress.’

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

He grabbed at her shoulders, wanting to shake her, wanting to stop her mouth with a kiss. His hands rounded on her small shoulders, fingers splayed over the delicate bones beneath. ‘Aye,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘You are right. The best soldiers have no feelings at all. Otherwise all that they witness in battle would make them go mad.’

The soft grey of his eyes pierced hers, and she bit her lip nervously. ‘I couldn’t do it. And I don’t know how you can.’ Tavia swept her eyes back over the clearing. ‘I feel so guilty,’ she whispered, finally.

He released her chin, sprung to his feet, eyes aflame. His caustic tone tore at her rattled senses. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word,’ he ground out.

M
ist veiled the river valley: shifting diaphanous fingers of white draped length ways across the clearing like shrouds for the dead. Heavy dew coated the undulating mounds of grass, at first thick white, then changing to a spark ling net of diamonds as the sun began to rise. Through the trees, with slow onset of light, birds began to chirrup merrily, the sweet song of the black bird mingling with the more human like call of the jay. The bodies of the brigands, cold and lifeless, were scattered over the ground, a grim reminder of the events of the previous night.

Gruesome, re lent less images harrowed Tavia’s brain; in her dreams, she had reached out to touch people, and they dropped at her feet, dead, blood seeping from their limbs. Anguished, she had twisted her head from side to side, trying to rid herself of the appalling images, but only succeeded in waking herself up. She had fallen asleep, exhausted, half-propped against the tree, and at some time during the night had slipped sideways to lie in a more com fort able, horizontal position. Now, as the layers of foggy sleep receded, her limbs ached from sleeping on the lumpy ground in such a miserable, scrunched-up position. She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to relieve the tension in the knotted muscles.

‘Try to go back to sleep,’ a familiar tone barged into her thoughts. Too close! Her spine tingled beneath the deep vibration of his voice. Cursing her aching muscles, she rolled over abruptly, and found her self mere inches from Benois!

‘What are you doing here?’ She sucked in her breath, stung with shock, holding her body stiffly away from him. Benois lay flat on his back, the lean length of his legs crossed at the ankles, one arm folded behind his head. ‘I
was
sleeping,’ he replied. His eyes, in the faint light, had muted to the soft grey-green of old stone. ‘Until your shuffling woke me up.’

‘You deliberately misunderstand me!’ she hissed back, aware that Langley and the other soldiers still snored beneath their cloaks just a few feet away. ‘I mean that you are too close!’

The leather cords cross-gartering the bottom of Benois’s braies strained slightly as he flexed one foot, then the other. ‘You seemed upset last night,’ he said, after a long pause.

‘That’s no reason for you to sleep almost on top of me!’

He quirked one eyebrow, his silvered expression gently teasing. ‘You could have chosen a less provocative turn of phrase.’

‘Oh!’ Incensed, she pushed herself into a seated position, her numb muscles protesting. ‘You know what I mean!’

‘I know. I also know that your desire to return to Dunswick might have been greater than your desire to sleep.’

‘So you’re guarding me?’

‘Precisely.’ He rolled one shoulder forwards, trying to ease the discomfort gained from sleeping in chain mail. ‘And…you did seem upset.’

‘And you would be the one to provide comfort? How would you know how to do that?’ she taunted him. ‘You, the man who feels nothing!’ The auburn silk of her hair fell in a gentle curve across her forehead, the amazing rippling colour accenting the exquisite pearl lustre of her skin. Her sky-blue eyes, wide with accusation, provoked him.

She was wrong. Shock walloped him in the guts with the force of a cannon ball. He did feel something, but it wasn’t for those men who had brutally attacked them. It was for her. This woman. This ethereal, fey creature who had burst into his life from nowhere, who continually defied him, saved him and surrounded him with energy, and spirit, and light. He couldn’t define this fleeting, newborn feeling, but it was there. He liked it not.

Damn it! The woman was making him soft! ‘I told you before,’ he replied between gritted teeth, ‘a soldier becomes accustomed to the fighting, the blood shed.’ He con tem plated the interlacing of branches above him, new green leaves be ginning to frill along the branches, heralding spring. It was the fighting, the battles that kept him from the memories, and held them prisoner in the depths of his thoughts. He knew they were there, and, if he wasn’t careful, those memories would rise to the surface, the flotsam and jetsam of his brain, and he would remember, God help him. Without thought, he rubbed the scar on his hand.

‘How did you do that?’ Tavia asked suddenly.

His gaze flared over her, burning, incisive. She saw a whisker of agony trace across his features, before his expression shuttered, blank. He looked as if he wanted to kill her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘Then don’t,’ he muttered rudely, aware of her luminous gaze spark ling over him. Her lips had parted a fraction, revealing small white teeth, the tip of her pink tongue.

Tavia studied his closed face, aware that she had trespassed through a barrier that he was not willing to reveal. Instinctively, she raised her fingers to his cheek, savouring the rough prickle of his jaw against her palm. He didn’t draw away. Rising to her knees before him, her other hand rose, curving around his other cheek so that she held his face within her hands. She wanted to erase that pain in his eyes, smooth away the hurt, whatever it was.

His eyes flicked up to hers, smouldering.

She lowered her mouth, touched her lips to his cheek. A chaste kiss of comfort. That was all it was meant to be.

Benois groaned, the sound, deep in his chest, low and primitive. In a fraction of a movement, he adjusted the angle of his cheek, sealing his lips to hers. Desire ignited deep within her, bursting forth in a shower of sparks. A huge shudder coursed through his frame; his hands seized her waist, looping her body within his powerful arms, dragging her across him. Her hands trembled as she pushed her fingers up to his head, relishing the sifting, silken feel of his hair. Flames tore at her flesh, in can des cent, blood hurtling through her veins so fast that she thought she might faint at the enormity of the feeling. She clung to him, aware that reality had been left far behind as she descended into a heaving, churning whirl pool of passion.

Abruptly, Benois shoved her away, hands at her waist, dumping her unceremoniously in a heap beside him. She touched a finger to her mouth, lips burning from the searing taste of his kiss, aghast, astounded. Beneath his furious, outraged perusal, she coloured hotly, the blush seeping from the nape of her neck to the top of her head, embarrassed at how he had made her feel. What had she been thinking of? It had been his expression, his expression of utter pain that had made her do it. The expression that he had tried so hard to hide. But he had made his sentiments perfectly clear. She was of no interest to him. Why should she be? As all those suitors that her father had unwillingly dragged before her had told her, she was too short, too lean, and the colour of her hair could only lead to trouble. This man, like all men, was her enemy, and not just her enemy, but the enemy of her country. And her mother lay dying as she was kissing.

Traitorous flesh thrumming from the impact of his mouth, she jumped to her feet, wiping a hand viciously across her lips. Rejection sluiced over her; she chewed on her bottom lip angrily. What an utter fool she had been!

‘Why did you do it?’ Ragged anger edged Benois’s tone.

She heaved a great sigh, forced herself to meet his gaze with huge eyes. ‘For a moment…back then…you looked so sad.’

‘And is that your usual practice? To kiss a stranger if they look sad?’ His tone barked at her, a brutal rebuke. ‘You need to guard yourself better than that, maid. God knows where it could lead.’

‘How dare you?’ She planted her feet just inches from where he still lay on the ground—she wanted to stamp on him! ‘How dare you chastise me?’ she railed down at him, temper igniting in her breast. ‘You started it…you turned it into—’ She broke off abruptly, unable to find the words to describe his kiss.

Wanting to frighten her, to stop her speech, Benois sprang up wards, un balancing her momentarily as he towered over her. Tavia gulped, startled. Heels scuffing the ground, she backed away, away from his fury, away from his obvious displeasure at being anywhere near her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

His brows drew together in a heavy frown, seeing the fear chase across her angelic features. He was being mean, and well he knew it. She had given the kiss in good faith, and he had warped her innocent gesture, transforming it into something far darker, far hungrier than he cared to admit. She had apologised, yet it was his fault.

One of Langley’s soldiers had collected a huddle of damp twigs and managed to light a fire. As the smoke hazed languorously upwards through the trees, the other soldiers gathered around the heat, mumbling to each other in quiet voices, passing around leather flagons of mead, and chewing on day-old hunks of bread.

‘Come, mistress.’ Langley, still resplendent in his red-and-gold surcoat, his full-length cloak of mink, beckoned to Tavia. She stood on the out skirts of the group, a forlorn figure, unsure whether to join in, or sit alone. After her apology, Benois had marched off without a word, but, witnessing the grim set of his features, she realised some forbidden boundary had been crossed.

She stepped forwards, hauling the long, drooping sleeves of her gown upwards, conscious that, as well as losing her veil, she had also lost the golden circlet that belonged to the princess. Smiling widely, Langley handed her a chunk of bread, apologising for its stale ness. He balanced a lump of cheese on top with his thumb, and she smiled grate fully as she reached out for the parcel of food with two hands. With an elaborate, courtly gesture, Langley unfastened the brooch that held the two sides of his cloak together and laid it flat on the damp ground.

‘Please sit, my lady.’

‘Thank you.’ Tavia sank down, aware that her legs still trembled from the heated en counter with Benois. Langley sat down companionably beside her, pushing his stocky legs out before him.

‘Good God!’ he groaned. ‘I’m not cut out for sleeping on the ground. The sooner I return to the luxury of my castle, the better. I can only hope that you fared more favourably than I last night, my lady.’

‘I slept very well,’ she admitted, unwilling to admit that waking up had been a shock. She swallowed a mouthful of bread. ‘But, my lord, you don’t need to keep addressing me as “my lady”. I do not own such a title.’

‘Forgive me,’ Langley replied. ‘But you are so similar to the princess that I cannot stop myself. I keep thinking that you are her.’ He tilted his leather flagon to his lips and took a deep gulp. ‘Have you never wondered about it?’

Tavia chewed on her bread thought fully. ‘Nay, I only met her for the first time just after Ferchar asked me to help them.’

‘Then believe me when I say, you are the spit of her.’

‘Maybe her mother has a secret.’ Benois strode into the clearing, brandishing a quarrel, which he cleaned with a lump of grass.

Eyes darkening, Tavia pursed her lips together, determined not to retaliate. She continued eating her bread, watching the flames hiss and lick around the wood in the fire.

Benois chucked the bloodied grass into a thicket behind him, and handed the arrow to Tavia. ‘Your quarrel.’

She stared at the fatal tip, glinting in the morning light. ‘I don’t want it,’ she murmured, thinking again of the man dropping dead be fore her eyes.

Benois studied the quarrel. ‘It’s a shame; the bolt’s well made. You’d be a fool to throw it away, mistress.’

‘I don’t want it!’ she repeated, clambering to her feet. ‘You can bury it with him for all I care.’

‘No time for that,’ Benois said brusquely. ‘We need to go.’

‘Who?’ Tavia said suspiciously.

‘Why, you and me, of course.’ Benois’s eyes flicked over her. ‘If you wish to return to Dunswick before dark, then we need to go now.’

‘Oh, but…’ Tavia looked frantically at the rounded, shorter figure of Langley, before returning to Benois’s leaner profile. ‘So you’ll take me back?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’ he replied impatiently.

‘I assumed Langley would take me,’ she responded, a hint of desperation in her voice.

‘I’m afraid I cannot, my lady,’ Langley chipped into the conversation, clapping one hand to his left shoulder. ‘I took a slice in the arm from one of those brigands yestereve. I would be unable to defend you.’

‘Oh.’

Benois raised his eyebrows, sensing her reluctance. ‘Believe me, mistress, escorting you is the last thing I want to do.’

Tavia fiddled with the long ties of her cloak. ‘If you point me in the right direction, I’ll probably be all right on my own,’ she uttered with more confidence than she felt. ‘I have my crossbow…’ She saw the light flare in Benois’s eyes, and trailed off.

‘Which you shoot with admirable precision, my lady,’ Langley complimented her. ‘Why, if it hadn’t been for you—’

‘Mother of Mary, don’t give the chit ideas, Langley,’ Benois cut him off forcibly. ‘If it wasn’t for this girl, none of us would be here in the first place. Now, you bury these bodies, and I’ll take her back to Dunswick.’

And God help us both, Tavia thought.

Sticking his booted foot into the metal stirrup, Benois swung himself grace fully on to his horse. The leather in the saddle creaked as he adjusted his weight, bunching the reins into one hand as the horse skittered with excitement, ready to go. His cloak spread in gleaming folds across the horse’s rump as he looked over at Langley.

‘Give the maid a leg up, Langley.’

In reply, Langley adopted a sorrowful expression, patting his injured shoulder.

Benois shot a glance heaven wards. ‘Ah! I forgot.’ Realising the rest of the soldiers were busy digging shallow graves for the bodies, his razor-sharp gaze honed in on Tavia. ‘Can you climb up yourself, maid? We’re running out of time.’

Looking up at the high saddle of the horse, Tavia sincerely doubted it, but she would try.

‘Just jump up,’ Benois commanded arrogantly. ‘Put your foot in the stirrup, then throw the other leg over!’

He made it sound so easy, thought Tavia, grimacing as she tried to hook her toe into the high stirrup. But, despite Langley holding the animal’s head, the horse shuffled slightly, and she was left bouncing around with one leg on the ground, with the other foot trapped in the stirrup.