soldiers, curse them, and then return to the beach. The day had almost reached its zenith and Mortimer would be thinking about finding a suitable location for his Queen to spend her first night in England.
His yank effectively dislodged her and she fell into his arms, a screaming, spitting bundle of femininity. Her constant noise, her yells of outrage, clamoured in his ears, reverberating. Her hands flew out to rake against his face, as he clutched her awkwardly around her waist, the other hand grabbing at a branch, fighting to keep their combined balance.
‘Stop that! You’ll have us both down!’ His order cut into her, sharp.
‘Get your hands off me! I don’t care!’ she shouted back, the peerless skin of her face mere inches from his. He caught the sweetness of her breath, the indignant flash of her smoke-grey eyes, the delicate rosebud curve of her upper lip. Desire burst through him: hot, powerful...and unwanted.
One of her flailing legs made impact with his shin, jabbing painfully above the thickness of his boot, dousing the unexpected flare of feeling. His grip tightened about her as she struggled, mean little fists coming forwards to pummel his chest, to push and strain against his greater strength. Desperate to escape him, to escape that dangerous, deepening blue of his eyes, Katerina flung her weight backwards, hoping to dislodge the iron manacles of his arms in the risky manoeuvre. Her only wish was to release herself from the imprisoning clutch of his arms; if she hurt herself, then so be it.
He didn’t let go.
They fell together, a coiling, thrashing bundle, through the whispering leaves, the pale branches. He clung like a limpet, his big body curved resolutely around hers, trapping her arms, her legs, in a vice-like grip. A moment before she hit the pile of leaves, before she smacked her head on the solid lump of dead wood hidden beneath, she screamed out in frustration, a vent of sheer fury at her inability to dislodge this insufferable man.
His tremendous weight knocked the breath from her body as pain began to spread around the back of her skull. His thick arms and legs formed a cage around her, strangely comforting as the forest dimmed before her eyes. The trees and leaves lost colour, becoming shadows, black and white on the edge of her vision, the birdsong faded, then nothing.
* * *
‘Now what are you going to do?’ Lussac murmured. Beneath the curving wing of her coppery hair, her ear was pink with cold. He could see the soft, downy hairs on the lobe. He couldn’t remember the last time he had lain next to a woman and found it such a pleasurable experience. Despite the maid’s leanness, the smooth curve of her hip nestled comfortably into his stomach and through the flexible chainmail of his sleeve the rounded curve of her breast pressed, softly.
No answer.
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, so he could see her face. Her eyelids had shuttered down, spiky black lashes fanning the chalky whiteness of her cheeks. The stupid chit had knocked herself out. Sitting up, he ran practised hands over her head, ignoring the silken coolness of her hair, finding the lump at the base of her skull, the bleeding cut. She moaned softly as he lifted her head; guilt spiked through him. He laid the back of his hand across her satin cheek; her breath sifted over his fingers. He had done this, he had provoked it—why hadn’t he left her alone? But the sheer unusualness of the maid had goaded him, made him curious, made him pursue her when he should have walked away.
‘Come on, woman, wake up.’ Placing two hands on her shoulders, he shook her gently. All of a sudden, he yearned for the spitting, fighting termagant who had fallen from the tree with him, not this limp, lifeless doll.
‘Need any help with that one, my lord?’
Rising to one knee, Lussac twisted around at the guttural tone, hands flying instinctively to the jewelled hilt of his sword, ready to attack.
A group of soldiers, on horseback, had found a pathway through the undergrowth. Isabella’s soldiers. He sheathed his sword, rose to his feet in one swift movement.
‘I see you managed to deal with the other one.’ Bomal, the oldest in the group, nodded in the direction of the silent, fallen figure. ‘A right pair of deviant characters, stealing rabbits from right under the Earl’s nose!’
‘Pair?’ Lussac asked, frowning. Surely there wasn’t another one like her? Every bone in his body wanted to turn around and see her eyes opening, to see her lift her head. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge.
‘Aye, that’s correct, my lord. We caught the other lad, forced him to take us to the nearest village, then let him go. We found enough food there.’ Bomal grinned, showing crooked, stained teeth, then frowned. ‘Should we have let him go? He was poaching rabbits, after all.’
‘Nay, it’s not our concern,’ Lussac replied curtly.
‘That one was the worst, anyway.’ Bomal nodded in the direction of Katerina’s limp figure beyond Lussac’s broad shoulder. ‘He must have pinched young John’s horse as well; we found it wandering in the woods. The utter cheek of the lad! He deserves a good walloping if nothing more...’ Dismounting, he started to head towards the figure.
‘Nay.’ Lussac stopped Bomal’s forward gait, his gloved hand snaking around the soldier’s stocky forearm. ‘Nay. You go back to the camp and pick up John on the way. I’ll deal with this one.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’ Bomal eyed him suspiciously. ‘Make sure you rough him up good and proper.’
Lussac stood in the small clearing, watching the squat, stocky soldier mount up, and the rest of the group kick the flanks of their horses to funnel away through the trees, leading the horse that the maid behind him had stolen. He could see his own horse some distance away, through the serried trunks, cropping idly at the spindly grass.
Why had he not mounted up and gone back with them?
He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers. The stretched skin between his thumb and forefinger still bore a trickle of blood, the imprint of teeth marks. Why was he staying to see if this spitting wildcat came back to her senses? A wildcat who sent needles of desire, oddly, spiking through his broad frame. He had no wish to think about her, no wish to talk with her. He needed to recall why he had come to this country, not engage in cat-like brawls with foolish maids.
It was guilt. Pure, unadulterated guilt. He wasn’t in the habit of using his strength against women, overpowering them; it felt wrong, unnatural. He tried to tell himself that the maid had got what she deserved, with her constant attempts to escape him, to best him. Why had she not given up? Why had she persisted? Either she was very, very stupid, or very, very brave. Whichever it was, he hated to think of where her outlandish behaviour would land her next.
He turned around. In a puddle of filtered light, the maid was sitting up on a mattress of shining leaves, a ray of sunlight firing her hair to a dazzling gold, a jewel-like beacon that snagged his gaze. Lussac breathed out: one long, measured breath of relief. Striding over to her, he picked up her boot where it had fallen.
‘Here.’ Lussac shoved the boot across her field of vision.
Feeling his shadow move across her, Katerina jerked her head back, a faint sickening sensation lilting through her skull. She willed herself to remain calm. As she reached up, the baggy sleeve of her tunic falling back to reveal her thin wrist, she snatched the boot from him, shoving her bare toes back into the unwieldy leather. Tilting her head back once more, she fixed him with a bold, defiant stare.
‘What have your thugs done with Waleran?’ Her voice cracked slightly, eyes darkening to stormy grey.
‘Who?’
Katerina folded her arms tightly across her belly, drawing in a deep, unsteady breath. What was this knight planning to do with her? ‘Waleran.’ She raised her voice in consternation. ‘My friend, Waleran. The one your soldiers kidnapped... My God, they might have killed him by now!’
In response, he hunkered down beside her, his big body surprisingly graceful, balancing easily on his heels. ‘No, he’s safe. They let him go.’
She