The Knight's Fugitive Lady. Meriel Fuller

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      Chapter Three

      Fear, laced with anger, a volatile combination, spurred her on. The athleticism in her body would provide her only defence against this man; she prayed it would be enough. As she sprung to her left, a quicksilver movement, she acknowledged the snaking reflex of his arm in the corner of her vision. She flinched away, evading his outstretched fingers. She had two advantages: she was small and she was light; he was not. Within a moment, she had plunged into the undergrowth, reaching her hands up to grab, then pull herself up on to a low branch. With all her training, the task proved easy; the muscles in her arms and legs were strong, practised. A sense of bravado, of success, drove her on; that horrible, arrogant man would be too heavy to climb this tree, this spindly birch with its frail, waving branches, with its few silvery, elegant leaves still clinging.

      Below, a branch cracked beneath his weight. Scrambling upwards, Katerina smirked to herself. He would never catch her now. She stopped, scissoring her legs to secure her position on the thin branch, and peered down.

      He was climbing. Undeterred by the broken branch, he had tried another, more secure, and was heading her way, threatening the safety of her high perch. His glossy chestnut head moved inexorably closer.

      ‘Go away!’ she shouted down. ‘You have your horse back, take it, and be gone! I have done nothing wrong!’

      He reached up and, before she had time to draw her foot away, his hand grabbed the toe of her boot. She jerked her leg upwards, roughly, to dislodge his grip, but instead, the boot slid from her foot and came off in his hand. Cursing, he threw the leather to the ground, then seized her dangling ankle before she had time to whip it away, fingers digging into the fine bones. She wore no stockings; her skin was pearly-cold, icy beneath his touch.

      ‘Give up.’

      ‘Never. I’d rather die.’

      ‘Then remind me to kill you personally.’ His response was dry, sarcastic. ‘But first you need to come out of this tree.’

      Warmth flowed from his fingertips into the marble coldness of her ankle, her leg; her belly shivered. She tried to ignore the odd, fluttery sensation and concentrate instead on how to extricate herself from the situation. Her choices had been severely curtailed.

      ‘You need to come out of this tree,’ he said. ‘Now.’ Truly, he couldn’t remember meeting a maid quite as stubborn as this! And the way she had climbed the tree had been remarkable; he had watched the lithe body pull up and up the branches, bright hair glinting, every movement graceful and precise. Strong. More than anything else, he had noticed that. The strength held that small frame.

      But he was stronger.

      Lussac yanked on the fragile ankle, none too gently. He had dallied far too long in these woods, chasing this she-devil, this hostile, tree-climbing wood-sprite. He was wasting time on her—he should be searching for the other 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.

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