His Captive Princess (6 page)

A twig snapped behind her. She jumped up, palming her dagger instinctively. The sound had come from somewhere in the woods. Sayer wouldn’t come near water when the
cyhyraeths
might appear, and he wouldn’t allow De Tracy to wander off on his own. Someone else must be in the woods.

The assassins.

Without wasting time with her boots, she crept from the stream, pushing through bushes as quietly as possible. Thorns and broken acorns pierced the bottoms of her feet, but she pressed on in the direction of the sound. When she stepped out from the scrub, her mouth fell open at the sight of her prisoner on the back of one of their horses, making his way through the forest alone.

“De Tracy!”

He glanced over his shoulder at her cry, then galloped on as if he hadn’t heard her.

She exhaled an angry breath. The scoundrel! Shoes or not, she had to get a horse and go after him before he was lost to them.

Running, she retraced her path back toward their camp.

Breathing hard, she didn’t hear the telltale warnings until it was too late, running smack into the path of a wild boar.

As soon as she saw the massive bull, she froze. Standing statue-like, the beast fixed her with black, crazed eyes, his tusked mouth dripping with froth. He snorted and raked his hind legs menacingly.

She’d hunted boars before with the men. She knew sows protected their young with ferocity, but males were normally less aggressive. It made no sense why he would challenge her.

Still kicking, he made a slight turn sideways and she had the explanation. A hunter’s spear hung from his side, spilling blood on the ground.

Her dagger would be useless. Too small, the blade wouldn’t penetrate the wounded bull’s hide enough to do any damage, and unfortunately, Sayer was too far away to call.

She looked up. The nearest tree branch was too high to jump for. Running was her only option.

She sheathed her dagger, readying for a sprint, then heard the sound of a horse and rider.

De Tracy’s stolen black courser barreled straight for her. He leaned down from his saddle, holding out an arm for her. She reached for him and he scooped her up, depositing her facedown across his lap.

Awkwardly, she clung to him and the galloping horse while the ground passed under her, blurring inches from her dangling hair. At any moment she was sure to be violently sick, and De Tracy showed no signs of slowing down or stopping.

Had they not outrun the boar?

His hand remained around her ribs, gripping her securely. The sensation both comforted her and panicked her at once, with his warm reassuring touch lingering so near the swell of her bosom—which was presently pressed against his knee and the horse’s shoulder. Her face heated as blood ran to her head. Worse still, her buttocks were pointed at her rescuer’s face.

“My lord, you can stop now.” She tapped his leg.

When he did nothing in return, she craned her head to see him. His expression was stoic and determined.

They were headed away from the camp.

“Merlin’s beard! You’re not going to let me go?” Slipping, she clutched his thigh and his muscle flinched beneath her touch.

His gripping hand inched higher, anchoring her with a hold that now cradled against her breast.

Sweat sprang to her brow even as her heart skittered with delight.

Kidnapped. Held at the mercy of this enemy. What would become of her? What would he
do
to her?

Nay. A thousand times nay. The Princess of Deheubarth would not allow herself to be captured by a Norman. She would rather die.

She pulled her dagger free and lifted it to make her intention clear.

De Tracy let go and reached for the blade. But she thrust backward to tumble off the horse. She dropped the dagger as she fell, landing on her side.

Winded, she rolled on her back and watched as stars filled her vision.

She lay there focusing on the treetops overhead, thanking the goddess she still lived. The fall had been hard, but she’d had worse.

“
Par le sang Dieu
. Are you mad?”

De Tracy appeared above her, breathing raggedly. His face was tight with anger as he looked her over.

She pushed up on an elbow, gasping for air, prepared to fight, but he dropped to his knees, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” His hand went to the back of her head, feeling her scalp as he searched her arm for broken bones.

Again, his concern flustered her. She shook her head, dizzy, though not from the fall. She flattened her hand against his chest and stared into his eyes, too unsure of herself to speak. He’d saved her life and immediately afterward tried to kidnap her. At such a time, gratitude
must
be wrong.

He waited for an answer, so she gave him the first one she could. “Your hand…is in my hair again.”

A tiny smile played across his lips. “
Oui
.” His fingers moved against her scalp, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he lowered his face, stopping just inches above hers. “
Mon dieu
. I cannot leave without tasting your lips once more.”

She read the question in his hooded gaze. She would not let him leave, of course, but allowing him a kiss seemed a reasonable consolation after saving her life. Especially as she wanted it, too.
Longed
for it.

She put her hand behind his neck, mimicking him, and threaded her fingers through his thick, wavy hair. “Take your kiss, my lord.”

His lips touched hers softly as he brought her upright. She braced her other hand on his chest, and his heart raced beneath her palm. The kiss was chaste and brief. His mouth lifted, then floated to return two times, then three, then four. Each kiss left her lighter and lighter, becoming weightless, as if she were a feather drifting in the air.

The fifth time his mouth stayed upon hers, and his hand moved from her arm to her neck. Coarse fingers ran across the skin of her throat as if its texture pleased him, and indeed his touch pleased her, putting a fire low in her belly. His lips parted under hers and tugged gently upon her bottom lip, begging permission, which she granted, opening her mouth to him.

Cupping her jaw in his hand, he angled his head and moved inside. His tongue sought hers, caressing her with a long sweep. He tasted of the wine from dinner, rich and delicious.

She leaned against him, thirsting for more.

He continued to kiss her, his mouth becoming brash, seeking. He deepened the kiss, his tongue probing the inside of her mouth, his hands exploring her body, fingers splaying against her curves. New yearning filled her.

He drew away after a length, sighing, and plucked a leaf from her hair. “I am glad I returned,” he said in a husky voice. His smoldering gaze moved uncertainly from her mouth to her eyes and back, as if trying to decide his next course of action.

Eleri trembled. She touched her mouth, and her lips were scalding hot. Never had she been kissed with such recklessness, such desire. Her hand dropped to his chest. She would have more…

Reading her thoughts, he placed a gentle finger against her lips, regarding her mouth with longing. “Your man will be coming at any moment. I left while he went to urinate.”

Before she could find her senses and speak, he slid his arms around her and lifted her against him as he rose.

“What are you doing, Norman?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, though he seemed more than capable of carrying her without her help.

Suddenly, being weaponless in the knight’s embrace seemed more precarious than traversing any treetops of her memory. Yet although her head protested, her body reveled in the sensation of his hard warm chest and secure arms.

“You will call me Warren,” he corrected gently, “and I am putting you on the back of Bane—
my
horse, given to me by the Count of Anjou. I’m taking you to the keep of De Braose, Lord of Bramber. There you’ll tell him what you know of this Gareth, and I’ll tell him about the traitor amongst my men. I’m sure I have the two of them to thank for the ambush and the deaths of my innocent soldiers.”

“Oh no. I’m not going to any Norman castell with you.” Eleri kicked her feet to be let down, but he drew her tighter against the wall of his chest. His determined footsteps brought them closer to his stolen horse.
Not again.
“Put me down, Warren! Why should I help you?”

“Because—where are your boots, Eleri?” He had lowered her to the ground beside the horse, then noting her toes peeking out from under her skirt, swept her up again. “Because it would be in your best interest to appeal to the king. ’Tis for you I’ve come to Wales.”

“For
me
?”

He lifted her to sit sidesaddle, grimacing in the action. “
Oui
.” He took hold of the reins and paused to give the horse’s neck a rub, before continuing, “If it still pleases my liege, you will wed me there and—”

“Wed you?” Her heart kicked against her ribs, and she gripped the saddle, fearing she might fall. “You’re mad! Why would I ever consent to marry you?”

His jaw tightened, and his eyes grew serious. “Because the King of England has ordered it.”

Chapter Six

Warren knew women as he knew his own sword, from one end to the other, as well as how to please them, and he instantly recognized when he’d done or said something to cause their pleasure to cease. The fiery princess, who moments ago had fed his desire with a kiss so provocative he’d wanted to lose himself deep within her heat, was now an ice maiden. Spine arrow-straight and her head tipped up, she stared directly ahead as if she hadn’t heard him announce his liege’s plans for their betrothal.

Taking hold of his horse’s bridle to lead, his arm brushed Eleri’s leg. She flinched at his touch, drawing into herself with a shudder that mortified him more than he wanted to admit.

At least she wasn’t trying to flee or fight again. He wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse since his shoulder still burned inside and out from the assassin’s attack at the well.

“So this is truly why you and your men were in Cantref Mawr when we ambushed you?” Her voice was small, less sure. She folded her hands in her lap.

He studied the side of her face, the way she’d tucked her mussed hair behind her ear and draped the cascading plaits over one shoulder, leaving the column of her creamy neck exposed, beckoning him for a nibble.

His tongue felt thick. “Aye. The king wishes to re-establish English authority over Deheubarth, as well as the other Welsh principalities, starting with Castle Dinefwr.”

She turned halfway toward him, her eyes reflecting remorse. “’Tis too late now, but I want you to know we were told there were many more of you—an army—which we’d assumed was equipped for invasion.”

The confession, delivered with such humility from the princess, nearly knocked him off his feet.

“You may rest assured, Eleri, I’ll include this in my report to the king. I’ll hold you blameless. Your leader…” He let her imagination finish for him. She’d shown great concern for her brother-in-law. He didn’t want to alarm her when he didn’t know what would happen either.

Despite her obvious discomfiture, her face remained luminous, almost ethereal
.
It made sense she’d been wed to the late Prince Owain, the ruler of a powerful territory. Coming from a royal lineage, she would’ve been considered a prize among men, and with rare beauty to boot, as well as a body a man would give anything to possess and enjoy night after night…

Of course she’d made a good match, but to Warren’s reckoning, her intelligence made her more of an equal. No wonder she fought as she did alongside them.

Blood quickened to his groin.

He needed a second horse for Eleri. At the moment, he couldn’t possibly share Bane with her, enduring a ride with his rigid flesh against her perfect buttocks. He forced himself to think of less pleasant things than the beguiling woman—his mother, for one, who wore an expression similar to Eleri’s when vexed with one of her lovers.

“Lew is more boy than man, still learning from his mistakes. Even so,” her eyes gleamed down at him with renewed mischief, “you don’t know where De Braose’s keep is, and I won’t tell you.”

The more she challenged him, the more he wished to spar…though not with words.

“Then we’ll wander aimlessly until we find it.” Desire made his voice hoarse.

Eleri’s brows lowered. “That isn’t a wise idea. Did you happen to see the boar back there? Did you get a good look at it?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Terrifying.”

She exhaled, scowling. “If you saw the beast, then you must’ve seen the spear in its side.”

“Aye. What of it?”

“A huntsman’s spear. Possibly an Englishman’s, but more likely a local clansman’s. He would be stalking his kill, waiting for the creature to bleed to death. And he would be hunting with other men.”

Her voice sounded smug. He stopped their progress to give her his full attention. “And if we cross paths with this hunter and his clan?”

She grinned coolly. “Sayer and I will share in the kill with wine at the table of our neighbors, but as for you…” She clucked her tongue and shook her head, feigning sadness.

Bane’s head tugged against his hold, ready to keep moving, but Warren resisted. His face heated with indignation at her veiled warning. When he’d left England with his orders, he’d never expected his offer of a union sanctioned by the king to be met with a threat.

Yet even as her affront ruffled his pride, it failed to stop his lustful craving. Unfortunately, if he acted upon his urges now, dragging her from the horse and taking her into his arms again, she would surely reject him.

He gritted his teeth. “I find the risk preferable to life as your father’s slave.”

“Either way, the choice is yours, but do not expect me to go with you willingly.” Her eyes darkened with challenge.

He needed her account of the chain of events to lend truth to his own. His past followed him everywhere. Try as he might, no deed ever seemed to rectify the damage he’d done. If the princess chose to cry foul against him and claimed he’d threatened her people, King Stephen would accuse Warren of disobedience—or worse, treason.

He required her allegiance.

Gathering all the strength he possessed, he kept his boiling emotions in check. “What would you have me do? These hunters may be upon us at any moment, as you say. If we return to camp and they find us there, do you intend to send me back into the treetops to hide?” Although the rebels depended upon the trees for defense, the tactic seemed cowardly by comparison to the ways of his brave Templar and Norman brothers-in-arms.

She watched him seriously for a moment, finding something of interest in his response. Then she shook her head. “We have another day of travel before we take shelter. I had already planned to hide you, though not in the trees.” She swiveled back around, preparing to ride. “Take me back to the stream for my boots, then I’ll explain.”

Warren weighed his options. Armed with his sword again, he felt freedom beckon, but at what price? Another accusation of treason, or death at the hands of some barbaric tribe? He would bide his time with Eleri a little longer.

Retracing their path, Warren led Bane back to where he’d first seen her as she’d spotted him attempting to escape. He should’ve known he couldn’t make his exit quietly enough. In Devon, he’d hunted en masse with his brother and friends, so stealth had never been necessary for their sport. Then in the Holy Land, he’d hunted with falcons—again he’d had no need to temper the noise of his horse. No wonder the princess, herself a half-fey creature, had caught him trying to flee.

Admit it. You wanted her to catch you. Wanted that last taste of her.

He would have more than a sample of her lips when he took her to the castle.

When Eleri moved to dismount, Warren stopped her, putting a hand on her knee. “Nay, you’re barefoot. I’ll fetch your boots.” He sighed and handed her the reins, avoiding her gaze and whatever objection she might raise.

He turned and plunged into the brush, taking the direction he’d seen her come from.

The thorny bramble opened to more woods. He startled a ground-dwelling bird, whose beating wings sent a burst of surprise through him, too. No wonder the princess thought him an ill choice for bridegroom. He could not perform such a simple task as walking through the forest without disturbing the tranquility.

He rubbed his sore shoulder as the stream appeared in the clearing. Eleri’s boots lay beside a stone where she’d no doubt sat to remove them. What was she doing bathing in such cold weather? He crouched to pick them up, surveying the area for anything else she might’ve left when he’d interrupted her.

Movement downstream caught his attention.

A hunchbacked and bedraggled old woman appeared at the side of the water. Alone, she limped clumsily forward, not having seen him. Perhaps she was one of the huntsman’s tribe.

He rose slowly with Eleri’s shoes in his hands, searching the trees for any signs of the woman’s companions, but saw no one.

The old woman waded into the water.
Bon sang
, she was naught but skin and bones. A more revolting creature he’d never seen, with fingers like bird’s claws and a shriveled face. She began washing her hands.

“
Fy ngŵr, fy ngŵr
!” she wept over the splashing water.

Warren’s stomach squeezed at the pathetic sight. He should offer her some form of aid. He followed the stream, looking for a place where he could ford and approach her. She might be in pain. He knew nothing about herbs and medicine but Eleri seemed somewhat knowledgeable in healing.

When he was directly across from her, she turned about and made for the bank.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Her cries died away, and she drifted toward the woods she’d come from as if she hadn’t heard him. He shrugged and went back. There was no time to follow her. Eleri was waiting, and the boar was still loose. A flash of light came from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, and the harpy was gone.
Strange
.

The hair stood on his arms. He searched the darkening sky for signs of a brewing storm, something to explain the brilliant flash of light, but there was nothing except a clear sky and stars overhead. Mayhap his wound had begun to fester, and now his mind played tricks on him.

When he reached Eleri still sitting atop Bane, she studied him as he handed up her boots. “What’s wrong?”

Better to keep silent than admit to her he’d seen a deaf woman whose horrible visage sent a chill through him more troubling than the assassins and her maddened boar combined.

He relaxed his brow and shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”

Later that evening, Sayer snared three rabbits for supper, and the meat sat heavy in Warren’s stomach as they rested by the campfire. The guard tipped back his drinking horn, gulping noisily.

As much as Warren liked Sayer, he disapproved of the man’s drinking and the risk to the princess’s safety. Eleri hadn’t told her friend that Warren had attempted escape, but he had yet to figure out why. Pride, mayhap, but was it her own? Or out of respect for the guard’s?

The princess kept watch over a boiling pot and poured its steamy contents into a bowl. Having shed her bliaut, she now wore breeches and a linen tunic, which displayed her lean curves as she rose and walked in the shadows. When she disappeared into the woods and blessedly out of his field of vision, he felt as if he’d been released from a spell.

Celibacy had been one of the first oaths he’d broken upon quitting the Order, but he’d not been with a woman since he’d last visited court.

“Why did you become a Templar if you didn’t want to take orders?”

Warren’s gaze cut to Sayer’s and feeling his glare, his neck heated. “A penance, I suppose.” He shrugged, unwilling to explain his regret to the Welshman, no matter how forthright he felt in the warrior’s company. Instead, he continued, “My life was worth nothing. I had no property, no title. Other noble sons had done the same. It was the only thing for a man in my situation to do. Still is, though the Templars were not as altruistic as I’d expected.” In fact, he hated the memory of the so-called holy wars he’d fought in that land—the greed behind the ordered slaughter of a people.

Sayer grunted. He stretched out on his sleeping mat and braced his head on an elbow. His eyes looked heavy, and rightly so. He’d drained the last of the wine from dinner.

Eleri entered the camp again, coming from the opposite side of the fire with fur pelts in her arms she’d taken from the satchels on the horses. An owl suddenly fled a tree branch above them, making a startled whoop. The princess gasped, putting a hand to her heart. Then turning to meet Sayer’s gaze, she smiled broadly, laughing at herself—a lovely, unaffected grin which Warren longed to receive.

She threw a fur blanket in Sayer’s face when he laughed too.

Warren burned with envy.

The guard drew the cover over himself and rolled onto his side. His snores followed almost immediately.

Left alone with Eleri, Warren’s mind reverted back to where it had been a moment ago, to her tempting curves, her soft skin and fluid movements. She picked up the cooling vessel by the fire and strode toward him.

Sitting upright, he clutched his gut. “Nay. I’m full.”

Her eyes glittered with mirth. “’Tis not food. Remove your shirt, and I’ll show you.”

If she’d wanted to make overtures of a sexual nature, she wouldn’t do so in front of her guard, sleeping or not. Warren had no such qualms himself.

He doffed his tunic to put behind him.

She dropped to her knees in front of him, staring at his shoulder with concern. “I’ve brought you a different medicine. Father’s warriors swear it helps them heal faster for battles. There’s bruising where Gareth hit you, but the bastard didn’t reopen the wound. ’Tis a blessing and a wonder he didn’t.” She passed him the bowl. “’Tis still a little hot, but that’s when it works best. Rub it around the cut.”

The liquid was dark and smelled of pungent pine. “What are you about, Eleri?” He thrust the bowl at her.

She rocked back on her heels, refusing to take it. “Trust me. This is the answer to your healing until we reach the safety of the abbey.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What is this sudden concern for my well-being?”

Her eyes flashed, but she smiled wryly. “You have nothing to lose if it doesn’t work…unless your Templar oaths forbid you from using pagan medicines…”

“So you heard?” He glanced at Sayer’s back, his body motionless and snoring beneath his blanket. Returning his gaze to Eleri, his cheeks heated. She would’ve found out sooner or later, but her knowledge of his shameful past stung. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Templars, but I’ve broken most of my oaths. I’ve severed my ties with their murderous kind. God has worse quarrels with me than what I do to myself.” He looked away, avoiding those sharp eyes.

“Good. Do it then, and I’ll plait your hair as Sayer wears his. ’Tis better to smell and look like one of our kind than Norman.”

Without waiting for his consent, she hopped up and came to sit beside him.

The instant her hands fell on his head, his objections died on his tongue. Not that he cared how he might look with the tiny plaits the Deheubarth wore to keep their hair out of their eyes—and he’d long outgrown the round-topped cut of his brethren Templars—but the braids seemed the very embodiment of a rebellious, untamed culture. That added to the strong-smelling ointment and he would be exactly as she’d said. Deheubarth.