Three Nights With the Princess Page 7

  “Six?” Gasquar’s thick brows rose with respect.

  “I, on the other hand, managed her by myself, alone,” Saxxe said, with a crass bit of male pride.

  Gasquar winced as he saw her foot connect with the unprotected junction of a soldier’s legs. “What did you do, mon ami? Surely you did not thrash her.”

  “I was sorely tempted.” His mouth quirked up on one side. “But I kissed her instead.”

  “Ahhh . . . the kiss.” Gasquar nodded. “A wise choice. It is the remedy for all the problems a man has with a woman, oui?” He studied the unusual glint in Saxxe’s eye, then gestured to the demoiselle with a jerk of his head. “Perhaps you could do with another kiss, eh?”

  Saxxe straightened, sobering, and tucked his thumbs into his wide belt. Another rescue? Another kiss? Another wretched dilemma, was more like it! And his life of late had become too damned full of dilemmas to suit him. He huffed quietly and shifted his weight on his feet. If he had the sense God gave a turnip, he’d turn on his heel and walk away.

  But he couldn’t walk away. And for some reason he couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight of her elegant curves twisting in hot defiance, either. He watched as they finally bound her hands and stuffed a cloth in her mouth, and he was flooded by tactile memories; her body taut against his loins . . . her lips parting for him . . . her silky skin beneath his callused fingers. She had tasted like riches and ease. Inside his belt, his thumb nudged the hidden gold links of her necklace, and he felt a ripple of something curiously akin to desire.

  Another kiss? His eyes narrowed at the carnal drift of his thoughts and he expelled an annoyed breath. Another pitched battle, was more likely.

  Then he caught sight of the second form, a woman in a dark cloak being hoisted onto one of the horses and tied to the saddle, and his mind began to race. There was someone with his fiery demoiselle this time! It struck him forcefully: here was another chance to learn her identity and claim a fat reward. And with two women, perchance there would be twice the profit.

  That golden word, profit, echoed through the depths of him. It would mean another fight to free her; this chance for profit was not without risks. But then, few opportunities were.

  “What say you? Shall we do something to help your petite chatte fâchée and her friend?” Gasquar demanded, eyeing the second woman himself.

  “They must intend to ride a bit . . . probably to their camp outside the city walls,” Saxxe said tersely, delaying, trying not to let either his carnal or his chivalrous impulses sway him as he watched his wealthy demoiselle being wrestled into a saddle. The soldiers picked up a cloak lying on the ground and secured it around her shoulders, laughing at her protests and promising that their lord would soon be taking it off her . . . along with the rest of her clothes. A heated vision of white silk being ripped from creamy skin flashed through Saxxe’s inner senses, and his hands slid from his belt into determined fists at his sides.

  “Our only chance is to follow and watch for the time and place to take them,” he said. “Horses—we’ll need our mounts.”

  “Leave that to me.” Gasquar returned stealthily the way they had come, and when he reached the end of the lane, broke into a run for the hire-stables. Saxxe darted across the street to another low doorway and followed the soldiers, keeping to the shadows and running quietly to close the distance between them whenever he could.

  The soldiers kept to the back streets, crossing every junction of thoroughfares with extreme caution, as if wary of being seen publicly with their prisoners. More than once, his demoiselle kicked her mount into nervous motion, trying to break free, but each time the soldier holding her mount’s reins managed to regain control of the animal.

  Gasquar was waiting at the edge of the square just inside the wrecked city gates. Saxxe spotted him above the crowd trying to leave the city, and wove his way around the edge of the square to join him. He could see that the demoiselle and her abductors had been stopped by the motley-looking group of soldiers guarding the main entrance to the beleaguered city. After a brief exchange, they passed on, between the battered stone towers that once had supported the massive city gates. In the blink of an eye, Saxxe swung up onto his horse, and he and Gasquar headed straight for the gate.

  “We have just hired on with one of your captains,” Saxxe declared to the suspicious men glaring up at them, blocking their way through the gates. “We were told to report to the camp outside the city.”

  “Which captain?” they demanded, scowling at each other.

  “I do not recall a name . . . only a great Spanish belly and the smell of much garlic,” Gasquar proclaimed with a bold flourish. Saxxe’s sword arm tensed with expectation.

  “El Boccho,” one said with a flash of recognition. The others laughed and waved Saxxe and Gasquar through the gates.

  Outside the city walls, the road descended a grassy slope toward a stream shrouded in trees. Beyond was the invaders’ sprawling camp, which from a distance appeared surprisingly organized, like a city unto itself. If the soldiers and women reached that far, both Saxxe and Gasquar knew, their mission was forfeit.

  “We will have to take them just before they enter the trees,” Saxxe said, searching the woods. “No time to cross blades—just go for an arm wound and make our escape that way.” He pointed to an unguarded stretch of trees to the north. “We’ll have to ride like demons . . . and hope my little cat and her friend know how to keep their seat on a horse.”

  Gasquar grunted agreement and drew his blade from the scabbard slung across his shoulder to tuck it beneath a shaggy cloak of animal pelts thrown over the front of his saddle. Saxxe did the same with his sword, maintaining a sound grip on the hidden hilt, and together they kneed their horses to a gallop and closed in on their prey.

  * * *

  The ropes bit into Thera’s wrists, her lungs felt raw, and her muscles ached from the violent exertion of her struggles. For the second time in two days, she was captive in the hands of pillaging barbarians. These mail-clad soldiers wore a better class of garments and recognizable armor, but they smelled no better and they certainly behaved like cursed barbarians.

  If only she had been quicker to realize the danger and react, she groaned silently. They had been halfway to the old High Gate of the city, in the early gray light, when they came across a band of soldiers searching dwellings. She had stubbornly insisted on traveling with only her own small escort so as not to draw attention to herself. They should have bolted for the north gate the minute the soldiers spotted them. Instead, she had signaled her captain to comply with their order to halt, thinking that they could hand over some coin and be on their way.

  “White,” one of them had called out when he glimpsed her gown through the opening of her cloak. “It’s her—she’s the one!”

  They sprang at her and Lillith, and her captain gave her a shove and yelled “Run!” before drawing his modest weapon and meeting their charge. Stunned and reeling from the eruption of danger, she had snagged Lillith’s wrist, lifted her skirts, and run with everything in her. They led their pursuers a chase through the streets and back alleys . . . hiding behind wrecked carts and ducking around corners. But the soldiers finally caught up with them and seized Lillith, who lagged behind. And when Thera wheeled to help her, more soldiers pounced on her from behind.

  Now she was being taken to their camp to suffer God knew what degraded—

  The sound of pounding hooves broke in on her thoughts, and her abductors quickly shuffled their column to the side of the road, cursing the two figures bearing down on them . . . assuming they were fellow soldiers, riding hell-bent for camp. But as the two riders drew almost even, they reined up sharply.

  Swords suddenly appeared in their hands as they charged the soldiers, their blades flashing. Two soldiers went flying from their horses before the rest could even drag their blades from their scabbards. The burst of angry shouts and clanging blades caused Thera’s horse to rear and plunge. It was all she could do to hang on to
the saddle and keep her seat; she had no time to be afraid or even to search for Lillith.

  In the confusion, a dark form swooped down by her mount’s head and jerked it into a frantic run across the grassy fields away from the road and the invaders’ camp. Hanging on to the saddle took every bit of her strength, but as they streaked across the grassy slopes she did manage to turn her head long enough to see a second dark form riding hard behind them, and to catch a glimpse of Lillith’s blue gown and dark cloak flying on the wind.

  How long they rode she could not say, nor did their twists and turns allow her to judge in what direction they were being led. Fear, amorphous and unreasoning, spread through her thoughts as the world careened around her. For the second time—no, the third, or was it the fourth?—she was being dragged away against her will, and, again, she was utterly powerless to do anything about it. Only when the horses’ sides began to heave did her new abductor slacken his desperate pace. As they slowed, she struggled upright in her saddle and looked frantically at the one leading her mount.

  Her overtaxed heart gave a lurch as her captor straightened in his saddle. At first all she could see was a massive back crossed by an ornate scabbard, a wide leather belt, and a tangled mane of dark hair. Then her gaze slid downward to an ornate dagger, a heavily muscled thigh, and a fur-banded boot that seemed surprisingly familiar. The rocking motion of her mount stopped, and she stared with her throat constricting as that big body gathered, flexed, and swung to the ground ahead of her.

  A long, airless moment later, she found herself staring down into glowing green-gold eyes set beneath thick brows. Large sinewy hands reached for hers, and as she felt them working the ropes that bound her to the saddle, her eyes slid to the center of that bush of hair on his face . . . where she glimpsed a full, healthy set of teeth bared in a knowing grin. It was him—her rescuer from last night! Relief erupted through terror, sending a welcome tide of warmth through her icy limbs.

  But her relief was regrettably short-lived. When he lifted her down, her knees buckled, and he supported her for a moment with his body, looming well above her, crowding her, looking huge and dark. She recalled more from the night before: the feeling of being trapped against his big body and the unthinkable price she had been forced to pay for her freedom. New fears threatened to overwhelm her, and she summoned every scrap of authority she possessed to combat it.

  “Y-you,” she croaked the minute he removed the rag from her mouth. She staggered back as far as the rope would allow.

  “Me, indeed,” he said, winding the rope around his hand and reeling her closer, bit by bit. “We meet again, demoiselle.”

  His smile broadened and she found herself staring fixedly at his mouth, which she was shocked to recall in intimate detail: wide, broadly curved lips with the texture of coarse satin . . . surrounded by a soft, dark beard. As he pulled her closer, she caught the scent of him—male heat and sweat, leather and horse—and suffered a rogue wave of remembrance that swamped her thoughts and left her floundering between sensations past and present.

  “Let me go—take your filthy hands off me!” Lillith’s voice broke in on Thera’s shock, and she whirled to find the countess struggling in the hands of a burly brute of a man with long dark hair and a full, red-brown beard.

  “Lillith!” Thera called out hoarsely. Lillith spotted Thera and with a frantic lunge broke free and rushed to insert herself between Thera and the hulking barbarian who held her captive.

  “Run, my lady!” she cried, attacking his broad chest with her bound fists.

  “Gasquar—take this one!” Thera’s rescuer grabbed Lillith by the shoulders and thrust her back into the arms of his companion, who seized her by the waist and hauled her back, kicking and flailing. The sight of Lillith captive in a barbarian’s arms shocked Thera’s regal self-possession and brought her protective instincts crashing to the fore.

  “Let her go, you!” She strained toward Lillith, but her own captor grabbed her by the waist also and hauled her back against him, hoisting her so that only her toes touched the ground.

  “Bon Dieu, Gasquar, we have not one but two angry cats on our hands!” He panted a laugh while wrestling with her. “Here, here, ma chatte. Is this any way to show gratitude to your rescuers?”

  Thera fought for a moment longer, surrendering only when it was humiliatingly clear that she could never prevail against him. With her back as stiff as a fire iron against him, she hissed: “Rescuers?”

  “Do you doubt it, demoiselle . . . after last night?” he said in a taunting tone.

  Lillith froze with horror, her eyes widening on their captors’ dark shaggy heads, bared and bulging torsos, and odd leather braces and belts. “Merciful Mother of Heaven! These are the same barbarians—”

  “Who rescued your lady last night,” Saxxe declared with a vengeful curl to his mouth.

  Lillith gasped and looked to Thera. “Is it so? They rescued you?”

  Thera’s face burned with humiliation at being caught in a half-truth she had never expected would be made into a whole one. “It’s true. He was the one,” she spit out, struggling to conquer the turbulent emotions that admission caused. After a tense moment she forced herself to be calm and demanded once more: “Release me.”

  “I will indeed release you, demoiselle . . . as soon as I am paid for my trouble.”

  “Paid?” Wrenching violently, she burst from his restraining arms and scrambled as far from him as she could with the tether of her bound wrists still caught fast his hand. In the crackling silence, his gaze fastened on her mouth, reminding her pointedly of the kiss he had taken from her, then drifted lower on her body. She straightened and drew royal hauteur around her like a cloak.

  “Then I fear you will be gravely disappointed. I have no coin, no jewels . . . no possessions at all. Your fellow barbarians were most thorough . . . they took everything.” She lifted her chin, pleased to have cheated his greed this time. “I have naught but the clothes on my back.”

  She was utterly unprepared for his slow, determined smile or his response.

  “Fair enough,” he declared, stalking closer and planting himself before her with his fist at his waist. “They look to be worth a considerable sum . . . silk and wool woven together, unless I miss my guess.” He pinched the cloth at the neck of her gown, rubbing it back and forth between his fingers, and she sputtered and jerked away. “And your cloak is lined with silk.” With a lightning-quick movement, he jerked the ties and the heavy garment slid from her shoulders to remain in his hand. “What say you, Gasquar?” He held the cloak up to his companion with a triumphant flourish. “Worth a goodly pouch of silver, eh?”

  “Perhaps more than one, mon ami.” His burly companion grinned.

  “I’ll take them, demoiselle,” he declared, fixing her with a heated look as he unwound her rope tether from his other hand. “Take them off.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “Take them off, demoiselle . . . unless you prefer I do it myself,” he insisted, his voice filled with the threat of determined greed. He tossed her cloak onto a nearby boulder and stared at her expectantly. He was serious, she realized. He’d take the very clothes from her back!

  “Y-you . . . unprincipled . . . wretch!”

  “Yea, I am that. It is part of our barbarian oath. We vow to behave as despicably as possible on all occasions,” he said with a mocking edge, nudging closer, filling her sight with his fierce, dark visage and glowing golden eyes. “Especially to foolish females.”

  “Your greed knows no bounds,” she charged, backing straight into a rock ledge that jutted out of the uneven hillside around them.

  “Right again,” he said, piercing her confidence with that keen, predatory gaze. “I do nothing without taking a profit, including rescuing demoiselles in distress. And since you have nothing else with which to pay me . . .” His voice dropped to a compelling rumble. “Take them off.”

  When she made no move to obey, his eyes narrowed and he came toward her with h
is big hands rising, reaching.

  “I owe you nothing! I didn’t ask you to rescue—Don’t you dare lay a finger on me, you monstrous ox!” she ordered, sliding along the rock face, jerking at the ropes still binding her wrists. She hadn’t a prayer of resisting him without the use of her hands.

  “Run, my lady!” Lillith cried.

  “A waste of time and effort, demoiselle,” he warned, watching her like the hawk does the hare. “I can run faster, and farther, and longer. I once ran for two days and nights . . . with a legion of howling Turks right behind me . . . on horseback.”

  He read her intention in the dart of her eyes, and the instant she bolted, he pounced, slamming his arms against the rock ledge on either side of her, pinning her there with his body. A traitorous ripple of fear ran down her spine, and her heart beat in her throat as he overwhelmed her with his heat and weight. After an agonizing interval, he straightened his arms and pushed back enough to run a speculative eye over her elegant curves.

  “But then, I might be persuaded to forgo your clothes . . . if you offer me something better,” he said with the glint of fresh calculation in his eye. “Your father is wealthy, eh, demoiselle? Holds a castellany at least . . . a rich fief, perhaps, or even an earldom. Perhaps he would pay well for your safe return. Tell me who he is and I will arrange to collect my reward from him instead . . . in cold hard silver.”

  Cold hard silver. His offer to escort her home was a thinly disguised ransom demand! He was unprincipled and greedy and unpredictable . . . a barbarian who had obviously turned against his fellow plunderers in hope of securing more gain for himself. Imagine what he would do if he were to learn she was the crown princess of a wealthy, peaceable kingdom!

  “Let you take me home?” she declared tautly, intending to divert his curiosity about who she was and where her home was located. “Suffer your stench and your foul barbarian ways for days on end?” She made a face of disgust. “In your care, who is to say I would ever see my home again? For all I know, I could be drowned in a river . . . imprisoned and held for ransom. It is a foolish sheep indeed who makes the wolf her protector.”