Three Nights With the Princess Page 9

  By the end of their sixth trip, both Thera and Lillith had scraped hands, smudged sleeves, and sundry small snags in their fine garments. Lillith tried to help Thera brush the bark and dirt from her white surcoat, but her dirty hands only seemed to make it worse. Thera ground her teeth and told her “Never mind,” stalking off into the brush again. As Lillith tidied her own tunic, a motion nearby brought her head up and she found herself caught between Gasquar and a large boulder.

  “Your pretty gown, demoiselle. Such a shame,” he crooned softly, leaning closer and brushing at the debris on her surcoat. After three quick whisks, his hand hovered, then slid down the contour of her breast, sweeping it with an entirely different stroke.

  “Ohhh!” Lillith knocked his hand away and lurched back, her dark eyes glinting and her shoulders rising like an outraged cat’s. “Keep your hands to yourself, you filthy barbarian.”

  “Ah, demoiselle.” Gasquar laughed, then his blocky features settled into a canny smile. “You have much to learn about the world. Fortunately, I am the most willing of teachers.”

  “It appears you have a thing or two to learn as well,” Lillith said with a contemptuous tone. “I am no demoiselle. I am a widow and a—” She halted short of blurting out her rank and drew herself up as tall as she could. “I have no need of anything you could teach.”

  His brows rose with fresh speculation and he cocked his head, viewing her from a slightly different angle. “I see the first thing I must teach you, ma petite widow, is the difference between a barbarian and a soldier for hire.” He stalked closer and closer... then sprang at her, knocking her back atop the boulder and landing over her on braced arms. She squealed and shoved furiously at him, but he seized her wrists and held them.

  “A true barbarian, ma dame, would make you his possession . . . strip your garments and ease his loins in you without a moment’s thought. But a soldier for hire asks only a fair price for his services. We have not yet agreed on the price you will pay for your rescue. . . .” He licked his lower lip, eyeing hers. “Perhaps a kiss, eh?”

  “Nay!” she cried, struggling to bring her knee up. But his mouth swooped down on hers, claiming it with a long, hard-soft possession that robbed her of breath. When he released her and stepped back, her heart was pounding, her legs were weak, and she could scarcely focus her eyes.

  Thera returned from the bushes to find Lillith glaring scarlet-faced, at the one called Gasquar. When she demanded to know what was wrong, Lillith jerked as if startled, lurched back a step, and stammered from behind a hand over her mouth.

  “I have just . . . instructed la dame in the difference between a barbarian and a soldier for hire,” Gasquar explained with a brazen look of satisfaction.

  “Oh?” Thera said icily. “There is one?”

  “But of course, demoiselle,” he said, his smile dimming.

  “And which are you?”

  The burly Frenchman shrugged, refusing to be goaded. “Saxxe and me . . . we are soldiers, of course. We have fought at each other’s backs in every corner of the world. In causes holy and causes worldly . . . in the service of churches and kings, jealous husbands and rightful heirs, noble houses and merchant guilds . . . for whoever would pay to keep our blades well oiled and our bellies full.” He thrust his wide shoulders back and tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Now we have come home. My old father died and I came to see to my inheritance. I am of Gascony . . . Bayonne. And Saxxe . . . he is of that mongrel race of Viking and bad French, called Norman. His family is of Rouen and—”

  “So this is why there is no fire yet.” Saxxe’s deep tones sliced through the closing darkness. They turned and found him standing at the far edge of the dim light cast by the struggling fire, holding a bow and a brace of hares in his hands. “You have put it out with your hard blowing, Gasquar.”

  Gasquar grinned ruefully at what was apparently an old jest between them, then gestured to Saxxe’s kill. “By the time those rabbits have lost their skins, my fire will be ready to taste them,” he said, kneeling to tend the weak flame.

  Thera held her breath as Saxxe turned his gaze on her. The whites of his eyes and the metal boss on his chest glowed as he materialized fully from the shadows. And as he knelt and drew one of his daggers to clean their supper, there was yet another flash of something bright. Teeth, she realized. He was grinning . . . watching the way she watched him.

  Furious, she dragged Lillith to a seat on one of the large boulders nearby and wrapped her arms about her waist. But even without filling her sight, he found a way to occupy her mind.

  Rouen. Saxxe Rouen. She heard again the way Gasquar LeBruit had said his name. It began to drum in her head, becoming counterpoint to her very heartbeat. Having a name somehow worked the miracle of making him seem more human. He was no longer just a huge, insolent, malodorous barbarian; he was a huge, insolent, malodorous soldier who bore the name of a town in Normandy. He now had a place of origin, a place where his family . . . Her eyes crept back to him and widened. He actually had a family . . . perhaps a mother . . . brothers and sisters.

  Her gaze slid over his dark hair and onto his bare shoulder, which glowed like living bronze in the firelight. Last night he had felt hard and warm to the touch. For some reason, she had difficulty swallowing just now. Her lashes fluttered down to hide the way her eyes slid to the bulging mounds at the tops of his arms . . . which swelled and flexed with each movement. She followed them down corded forearms to a pair of large, powerful hands with fingers that—

  That were covered with blood. The sight caused her to recoil in horror. She knew what was involved in butchering . . . had observed it, despite that such things were usually kept well out of her royal sight. But there was something disturbingly animallike about him bent over his prey, cutting and skinning it so efficiently, so matter-of-factly . . . something that reminded her of his dangerous nature. Soldier for hire or whatever else he called himself, he fought and killed to make his way in the world. She shuddered and turned away.

  It wasn’t long before the meat was spitted and turning above a bed of glowing coals. Gasquar produced a pouch of oats and poured each of them a handful, which they washed down with watered wine from a skin . . . in taut, deepening silence. It was a vast relief when Gasquar finally prodded a piece of the meat and declared it done to perfection. He used a dagger to cut portions, and handed Thera a haunch . . . which she promptly dropped because it burned her fingers.

  It landed on one of the firestones and she stooped to pick it up with the edge of her surcoat. She halted, motionless, at the sight of a dagger lying on the ground between her feet. She glanced up to find Saxxe Rouen checking the horses’ tethers and Gasquar LeBruit hacking off another bit of the meat, then picked up the blade, drawing it within her surcoat. When she realized she hadn’t been seen, her heart raced and her knees wobbled as she returned to her seat on a nearby rock. She made a show of nibbling the meat, but her thoughts were consumed by the cold blue steel lying between her gown and surcoat, against her thigh.

  Moments later she looked up to find Saxxe Rouen lifting the wineskin and pouring wine into his mouth. Could she use that blade against him? He licked his lips and she found herself staring at his mouth, those broad dusky lips, that pink tongue. Suddenly she remembered the taste of honey . . . the rough, velvety feel of his tongue against her lips . . . the sweetness of his mouth. It shocked her even more now than it had then. How could such a brute taste like honey? Had she just imagined it? What would his mouth taste like just now? Wine and honey blended?

  Shivering again, she refocused her eyes . . . on the sight of him stuffing most of a rabbit haunch into his mouth at once. She winced as he chewed doggedly for a moment, then put two fingers in his mouth to fish about and draw out a large bone, tossing it over his shoulder. A piece of gristle appeared next, thrust out onto his lips and spit forcefully to the side. Then he stuffed his mouth with oats and meat so that his cheeks bulged, and he tilted his head back to pour more wine on the mass of fo
od, to help wash it down.

  As he lowered the wineskin, still chewing hard, his gaze settled into hers. He stopped mid-grind, reading the disgust in her expression. His eyes narrowed.

  “Something wrong with your food?” he demanded, without bothering to swallow first.

  “I seem to have lost my appetite,” she said pointedly, letting the meat droop contemptuously in her hand and averting her eyes from the one responsible for ruining her meager meal.

  “A shame,” he said, shoving to his feet and moving around the fire to her. She shrank back against Lillith with her heart in her throat—feeling the dagger branding itself into her thigh. “But it would be more of a shame to waste good food,” he said, snatching the piece of rabbit from her hand and carrying it back to his seat. He sank his teeth into it, tearing the meat from the bone with vengeful enthusiasm.

  She gave a genteel shiver of distaste. He let loose a resounding belch. She started and cast him a scalding look, which he met with a foody grin, produced amidst a beard glistening with grease. Undeterred by her disgust he gnawed the rest of the meat from the bone, swallowed it without chewing, then gave another monstrous belch. When he flung the bone aside, he smacked his lips, burping a bit more quietly, and settled back to wipe his beard and lick his fingers with exaggerated leisure. When she jerked her face away, refusing to witness any more of his swinish behavior, she heard soft, taunting laughter and her face reddened in spite of her.

  The air seemed to thicken, making it harder to breathe and her heart began to labor under the double weight of anxiety and anticipation. She glanced at Lillith, who was huddling closer, and saw the way she glared at Gasquar LeBruit.

  “Perhaps you are cold, eh? Come share the heat.” Gasquar’s voice boomed out. “Les chattes . . . they always love a good fire.”

  “And someone to rub against,” Saxxe added suggestively.

  Thera turned a withering look on him and found him sprawled back on one elbow, watching her with a knowing expression.

  “Cats are low, treacherous creatures . . . fit only for witches, villains, and thieves,” she declared.

  “Then how fitting that we should fall in together, eh, ma chatte?” he retorted, drawing a chuckle from Gasquar. “Do you know, demoiselle, in some places they worship cats.” He watched her with a hungry eye. “And in some places they eat them.”

  Unnerved by both the undisguised appetite in his face and the suggestion in his tone, she stood up—taking care to hold the dagger in place beneath her surcoat—and started for her horse. He was on his feet in a flash and spread across her path.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For my cloak. I am cold,” she said with a shiver, taking a half step back. She was indeed chilled, but her shivers had more to do with anxiety than lack of warmth. “That’s what most people do when they’re cold . . . put on clothes.” She raked the exposed skin of his broad shoulders with a scathing glare. “You might try it sometime.” She held her breath as his eyes narrowed, searching her, and his huge hands curled into fists. But after a moment, he leaned back on one leg and produced a knowing smile.

  “I do not usually need a cloak . . . nor will you this night. There is always plenty of heat in my blankets, and I believe it is time we sought them. You have a debt to pay.”

  Saxxe caught the flicker of strong emotion in her eyes and braced for a deluge of tears, an attack of flailing fists, or at the very least a searing tongue-lashing. More than once, in his mind, he had seen himself having to carry her kicking and screaming from the campfire.

  “I have a bargain to keep,” she corrected stubbornly, “as do·you. And how do I know you have been leading us toward the road to Brittany? I have seen no sign of it . . . neither a farm nor a village.”

  “It lies just over those hills,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “An easy hour’s ride. You will have no trouble finding it. A village marks the trading road.”

  “LeBeau?” she uttered on a breath. Pray God—it had to be the village of LeBeau!

  “I do not recall its name.” He shrugged. “It is a small village that welcomes traders and travelers.” His mention of the village’s hospitality lent credence to his words and bolstered her hope that it was the place she sought.

  “And now your part of the bargain, demoiselle,” he reminded her, watching the tumult in her light eyes and bracing himself for a pitched battle. She stood for a moment, gathering her defenses.

  “Then bring out your flea-ridden blankets,” she said tightly, fleeing once more from the loss of control that threatened her more than anything he might do to her. “Just do me the courtesy of remaining downwind.”

  His firm-set jaw loosened a bit, but he turned sharply on his heel and retrieved a roll of stitched pelts and woven blankets from his mount. As he carried them beyond the small circle of firelight, she trailed a few steps after him, then stopped.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “This is one night I do not intend to share with anyone, demoiselle”—his voice curled around her in the dimness—“except you.”

  “Nay, I will give you this night, if I must . . . but here, by the fire,” she said testily, pointing to the spot by her feet and praying he couldn’t see her hand tremble. “Bring your blankets here.”

  He stared at her, too surprised to be angry at first. Never in his life had he heard of or even imagined a demoiselle who insisted upon managing and directing her own ravishment! Stay downwind . . . bring the blankets here.... Then the full, outrageous impact of her audacity struck him. By God, he was the barbarian here, and the ravishing was going to be done on his terms or else! He scoured the dimness furiously, choosing a spot well away from the firelight behind some small boulders. There he dropped the bundle, jerked the strap that bound it, and kicked it with his foot to unroll it.

  “Here. We’ll sleep here!” he insisted, jabbing a finger at the ground, then bracing his fists on his hips.

  “Nay.” Her eyes flicked wide and she stalked back a step, then made herself halt and dug in her heels. “I say we sleep here,”

  He loomed toward her out of the darkness, looking huge and dangerous and utterly determined. But it was his molten gold eyes that were her undoing. She backed up another step, batting aside Lillith’s hands and frantic whispers.

  “Do you walk, demoiselle, or do I carry you?” he thundered. It took every scrap of her self-control to meet his threatening gaze for that brief moment.

  “It all comes down to brute force with you barbarians, doesn’t it?” she said, disdain providing a thin disguise for the quiver in her voice. “If you don’t get your way, you bellow and bash and bully . . .” Holding her head high, she squeezed the handle of the dagger through her surcoat and turned to grasp Lillith’s hand with a last, tumultuous look. The sum of her own fears was reflected in Lillith’s huge brown eyes.

  “This night does not count, do you hear?” she whispered desperately. Then, with a toss of her head, she strode out of the main circle of light.

  “I fear that is not for you to say, Princess,” Lillith muttered. under her breath. “In the matter of my counting, I answer to an authority higher than yours.”

  Rounding the low boulders, Thera walked across the unrolled blankets and sat down smack in the middle of them. But once there, in the shadowy darkness, feeling his intensely male presence closing in, her self-possession began to desert her. She glanced up to find him outlined in firelight as he removed his two daggers, then unstrapped and removed the wide armored braces that crossed his chest. By the time he lowered himself to the blankets, the sight of his naked chest was branded in her mind . . . huge, hard mounds of muscle, a sleek channel down his breastbone, ridges along his ribs on each side, and those shocking patches of crinkled flesh which were so like the tips of her own breasts.

  Suddenly she was praying . . . Pater Nosters . . . psalms . . . the intercessories of the saints . . . begging anybody and everybody in Heaven for help!

  He paused,
kneeling above her, staring down into her eyes. Then he bent and swept her knees to the side, to pull the blankets down and bid her enter them. And suddenly he was beside her, all around her, bearing her back onto the pallet . . . invading her senses as he pulled her into his arms.

  “Now, demoiselle,” he said in tones that seeped through her every pore. “I’ll have what I want of you.”

  She held her breath and her blood stilled in her veins. As his eyes fastened on hers and he lowered his mouth, she managed to thrust back a few inches and slid the dagger, blade first, between them.

  He felt the press of cold steel against his stomach and froze with his mouth only a breath away from hers. In the dimness he sought her eyes and found them filled with determination. He didn’t have to look; he knew too well the feel of a dagger against his gut.

  “I agreed to a night . . . not a pawing,” she said thickly.

  “Don’t be daft. You agreed to a night in my blankets . . . in my arms!”

  “And so I am . . . in your blankets and in your arms,” she said, measuring her life one breath at a time as he went taut against her. “And here I shall stay . . . all night . . . as agreed.”

  “With a dagger between us?” he ground out with a furious laugh. “I think not, my treacherous little cat. I’ll not be cheated out of my due.” Testing her resolve, he leaned closer and aimed for her mouth. The unyielding blade point pricked more than just his skin . . . it skewered his male pride as well. She meant it.

  For one fleeting moment he was tempted to wrench that damnable blade from her and—And what? Pin her to the ground and hold her captive all night long? She already lay within his arms . . . reluctantly, but at least of her own will. Anything more, he would have to take. And what he truly wanted from her . . . a taste of the luxury and pleasure he craved . . . he knew he could never have by force.