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‘To be there before they leave.’ Benois’s lips curved up into a slight smile. ‘The King and his regent were discussing the plan right above me, as I was waiting to shoot.’ He shook his head, ‘You’d think they would be more careful.’
‘Do you think the plan will work?’
Benois angled his head on one side. ‘I’ll get the Princess, if that’s what you mean. But whether it will persuade Malcolm to hand over the lands…well, I’m not so sure.’
‘King Henry has ordered it…and the young Malcolm adores his older sister. I swear he would so anything for that maid.’ Langley picked up a pewter jug of honeyed mead.
‘That may be so…’ Benois watched the shiny liquid slide into Langley’s goblet, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. But I, for one, see no joy in looking after a weeping, pathetic princess for weeks on end.’
‘It won’t come to that.’ Langley hefted the jug in Benois’ direction. ‘Do you want some mead?’
‘Nay…thank you.’ Benois placed his extended palm over the top of his pewter goblet. ‘I have water to drink.’
Langley thrust a hand through his wayward blond hair. ‘You intrigue me, Benois. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you touch a drop of drink. Are you a monk, or something?’
Benois’s fingers stiffened imperceptibly around the stem of his engraved goblet. A muscle jumped in the tanned skin of his cheek. ‘It’s a long story,’ he replied at last, letting out his breath from his lungs slowly. He picked up the goblet and took a long, cool gulp. ‘There’s just one thing I need you to do for me, Langley.’
‘Name it.’
‘You need to come with me and my men to kidnap the princess. I have no idea what she looks like.’
Away to the east of Dunswick, the land rolled away as a mass of undulating hills topped with purple heather and smooth slopes, a much gentler contrast to the high, barren crags and windswept moorland to the north of the city. Fastflowing rivers, the water leaping and twisting around jagged rocks and stones, intersected the velvet green of the hills. Red deer roamed the countryside, seeking shelter in the forests of oak and birch, before fleeing as a herd across pastureland at the slightest scent of danger.
The day was warm, holding the promise of summer within the cloudless blue sky. Above Tavia’s head, sunlight shafted through the pale green canopy of the trees, highlighting the dark sentinels of trunks below. Gritting her teeth, Tavia balanced precariously atop the docile roan mare, clutching ineffectively at the bunch of reins at the horse’s neck, trying to concentrate on the soft, rhythmic plodding of the horses’ hooves in the spongy vegetation beneath. Her thigh muscles ached already, and they had only been travelling for a short time.
Ferchar had insisted that she rode. Princess Ada was well known for her excellent horsemanship, and it would look strange if she rode in an ox-cart, or was carried in a covered litter. Luckily, her horse seemed happy just to follow the horse in front. It seemed as if once she had agreed to Ferchar’s proposal, he had insisted on a great deal of things. In the past day, he had schooled her in the ways of being a Scottish princess, reeling off strings of facts and family members that he obviously expected her to remember.
Tavia sighed, taking in a deep breath of the pure forest air. At least she appeared as a princess, although she felt awkwardly formal in the Princess Ada’s clothes. Next to her skin, she had been allowed to wear her own threadbare linen chemise; apart from that, everything else had been replaced. Her stockings, spun from the finest silk thread, caressed her legs as she wiggled her toes in shoes of the softest, most pliable leather. She thought of the thick, unyielding leather of her old boots, boots that let in the cold and water when she plodded through the hillsides after her father, tending to the sheep or working in the garden. Her underdress was of wool, dyed a lichen green, and fitted her body like a second skin, the tight sleeves emphasising the fragility of her arms. The bliaut, laced tightly with leather strings on each side of her waist, was dyed a darker green with long, teardrop-shaped sleeves that hung to the ground. It was these sleeves that would be her undoing, Tavia decided. Unused to such trailing appendages, she continually tripped over them, much to the amusement of King Malcolm and his sister, and to the disgust of Ferchar.
The soldier in front raised his arm, halting the entourage. He leaned forward, dismounting clumsily, as if he, too, were suffering from being in the saddle too long. Tavia frowned. Ferchar had obviously picked the most incompetent soldiers to accompany her on her journey to nowhere, to give the enemy more chance of kidnapping her. The situation would have been laughable if she hadn’t been so scared.
‘Let’s rest a while here,’ the soldier announced gruffly.
Tavia’s horse plodded gracefully to a halt, without her needing to do anything. She was about to slither down from the back of the animal, when another soldier appeared at her side to help her down. She had almost forgotten—she was a princess. Her legs nearly collapsed beneath her as her feet touched the ground, and she clutched on to the soldier for a moment, before sinking gleefully down on to a cloak that had been spread out over the damp earth.
‘How many?’ Langley whispered, his broad, affable features obscured by his steel helmet.
Supporting the rangy length of his body against the ribbed bark of a trunk, Benois flung himself back against the tree before answering, ‘Four, maybe five.’ He held a finger to his lips. Somewhere, high above them, the distinctive sound of a cuckoo resounded through the forest. Moving swiftly and decisively, Benois climbed back to where Langley and the rest of the English soldiers waited in the trees. The harsh lines of his face lightened into a smile.
‘I had no need of you after all, Langley. My apologies for dragging you out. The princess sits amongst those rough soldiers like a rose amongst the thorns. She should be easy to pluck.’
‘Then let me have the honour of escorting her,’ Langley requested. ‘You are not renowned for your chivalry around the fairer sex.’
Benois agreed without hesitation. ‘I grant you that, Langley. Though why you spend your days in courtly inanities is beyond me.’
‘Because it’s enjoyable, maybe?’ Langley raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re so caught up in your missions for Henry, that you don’t give yourself time to relax, indulge in banter with the ladies, or give yourself any time to think.’
‘That’s just the way I like it.’ Benois’s voice held a guarded quality.
Langley shook his head, uncomprehending. His friend was so different from him; the decisive mind, the quick restless energy that drove Benois to accept more and more assignments from the English King, sat in complete contrast to his own more relaxed behaviour.
‘You know me, Benois,’ he said, looping his fingers into the reins to steady his horse as the animal pawed the loose ground beneath its hooves, ‘much prefer the fireside to the saddle.’
‘Then let’s get this over with,’ Benois suggested, vaulting on to his horse, and beginning to urge his black stallion down the narrow path that led to the bottom of the valley, and the glade where the princess sat. ‘And remember, you take the princess and ride with her back to your castle. My men and I will hold off the soldiers, to give you time to flee with our prize.’
As the bloodcurdling shouts reverberated up and down the valley, Tavia threw the leather flagon to the ground and sprung to her feet. This was it! Her heart began to pound with anticipation, nerves, she knew not what. The distinctive red-and-gold surcoats of the English soldiers flashed in the sunlight as they careered haphazardly down the slopes, nostrils flaring on the horses as the animals snorted with excitement. Instinct told Tavia to run, but she stopped herself, remembering Ferchar’s words. Act like a princess, a lady, he had urged her. Act like a simpering fool, more like, she sputtered under her breath. What normal person wouldn’t want to bolt when faced with barbarians such as these?
‘Get behind us, my lady!’ begged the older soldier who led the party. Tavia moved back dutifully, amazed that the soldiers who escorted her had no idea that she was not the princess. She felt almost sorry for them as she watched them draw their swords, the metal blades winking as they braced themselves for the attack.
And then she saw him. Oh, mother of Mary. Not him.
Benois le Vallieres charged full tilt at their small group, his body lying flat against the back of his galloping horse as its hooves sent clods flicking up from the spongy grass. She would know him anywhere now: the defiant cleft on his chin, those high, slanted cheekbones, that burly frame that dwarfed all the men around him. Fear knotted her stomach and she clenched her hands together, her palms slick with sudden sweat. He would know her, she was certain of it. There was no doubting the man’s intelligence. He would see through her disguise, and return immediately to Dunswick in the hope of kidnapping the real princess. And Tavia knew that Ferchar needed at least a day to take Ada to safety. She would lose the coin that he had promised her. Unless…
Dragging the heavy encumbrance of her cloak from her shoulders, Tavia backed away slowly, before turning to sprint off into the darkness of the forest.
Benois’s sword clashed heavily against the sword of his Scottish opponent with an ugly ringing sound. He hefted the weapon into the air once more, thrusting forwards with the great blade, slashing with a diagonal motion, first left, then right, moving with the skill and grace of a man honed by years of fighting. In contrast to the cumbersome movements of the soldier he fought, every manoeuvre he made appeared precise, using the least amount of energy to produce the greatest effect. In a few moments, Benois had reduced his opponent to a sweating, frightened animal.
‘Langley! Leave him to me!’ he shouted, aware that his friend was embroiled in a swordfight on his right. ‘Fetch the princess!’ Benois’s sword snared his opponent’s weapon, whipping it away into the undergrowth. Breathing heavily, the soldier sank to his knees, raising his hands up limply. Poking him with the point of his sword, Benois indicated the soldier should join his fellow countrymen, who sat huddled miserably on the ground, heads bowed, defeated. In a few moments, Langley’s opponent also surrendered, scurrying away on his hands and knees to join the group.
Sheathing his sword, Benois pulled irritably at his leather chin-strap, which anchored his helmet to his head, before glancing about him. Suddenly, Langley burst out from the forest, an expression of complete bafflement on his face.
‘Where is she?’ Benois said slowly, his voice grim.
‘I swear she was here…just a moment ago.’ Langley panted heavily, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his face. ‘But I just can’t find her!’
Benois cursed. ‘Probably snivelling behind a tree somewhere. She can’t have gone far. Langley, you’d better sit down before you fall down.’ He unbuckled the strap of his helmet and threw it for his friend to catch, feeling the breeze sift through the strands of his hair. ‘I shan’t be needing this, thank God.’ He laughed, glad to be rid of the restrictive head gear. ‘I doubt one simpering princess will be much of a threat.’
Her whole frame shaking from exertion, Tavia willed her legs to work harder, to take longer strides over the uneven ground. With every step, the bouncy mess of earth and decomposing vegetation dragged at her pace, slowing her, pulling on the delicate leather slippers that afforded little protection against the pools of stagnant water that she splashed through, the hidden branches over which she tripped. Brambles tore into the fine wool of her bliaut, leaving angry scratches across her exposed face and hands, as she plunged through the almost impenetrable thickets. Low-hanging branches plucked at her veil, snagging and ripping into it. In frustration, she tore it off, almost crying out in pain as the gold securing pins ripped against her scalp. Why had he, of all people, been sent to kidnap the princess? Why did it have to be him? Tavia prayed that some bumbling soldier would be sent after her, someone who she could lead on a merry dance through the forest, and delay the English from discovering the truth of her identity.
Breaking through the thicket, tripping over one long unwieldy sleeve, Tavia’s feet teetered on the edge of a huge natural bowl cut into the forest floor, a pool slick with foul mud at its base. Clutching on to a branch, she fought for balance, listening to the shallow, irregular sound of her own breathing. And then she heard it. A tiny, infinitesimal sound. The crack of a twig. Someone was coming after her. Fear focused her mind with rapier-sharp precision. A bird chirruped in the canopy above and at once she knew her plan.
Setting her feet on the low branches of the pine tree, Tavia began to pull herself up, swiftly, higher and higher. They would never reach her up here, especially as she weighed considerably less than the average soldier. Up here, in the high branches of the tree, her true identity would be safe from detection, and she would be able to delay them a little longer.
‘Princess Ada?’
Her fingers stilled briefly at his voice. Refusing to drop her gaze, she pushed her chin defiantly upwards, willing the aching muscles in her arms to haul herself higher.
‘Princess Ada? I suggest that you come down now.’ Benois’s voice held the raw edge of formality, and something else—irritation.
She reached up for the next branch and pulled, levering up her full weight. The branch cracked off suddenly, sending shots of adrenalin lancing through her veins as her feet scrabbled for a foothold, and the branch, weak and rotten, fell to the ground. Sickness crawled through her belly, and she closed her eyes, wanting to cry, not yet willing to admit that she was a fool to climb any higher.
‘Princess Ada! May I suggest that you don’t climb any higher?’ Surprisingly, Benois’s voice held concern, but she supposed it wouldn’t be good for Anglo-English relations if they managed to kill a Scottish princess.
Her rigid fingers scrabbled at the bark of the trunk, trying to find a more secure hold, as she tip-toed in a circle over the flimsy branch on which she stood, so she could look down cautiously. Her head swam, dizzy with vertigo, as she peered down at the ground, far, far away. And there was that man, his face stern, implacable, his chestnut hair ruffled by the wind. Clamping her eyes shut, she struggled to stop the crazy whirling in her head. She couldn’t believe how far she had climbed!
‘Princess Ada.’ His tone had adopted a more patient, resigned air, as if he were dealing with a naughty child. ‘You have nothing to fear from us. Just come down.’
Tavia frowned, concentrating resolutely on the etched bark before her. ‘Er…I can’t,’ she wailed. Her limbs were frozen in fear; if she moved, she would certainly fall to her death.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Irritation changed to outright contempt.
‘I said, “I can’t climb down!”’ she shouted. The muscles in her throat strained under her panic.
She heard a grunt of annoyance, then a thrashing and cursing, as thin branches snapped under his weight. He was coming after her! In a moment, a warm, large hand curled over her foot. The urge to collapse with relief was overwhelming.
‘Don’t move,’ he warned, as if he sensed the sag, the release of tension in her body. ‘I don’t have a safe hold of you yet.’
Tavia sighed. This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to work. She wondered if she could stall for longer, but she wanted, more than anything, to escape from this stupid situation she had climbed into, even if it meant being rescued by the enemy.
‘You need to drop down, my lady, and I’ll catch you.’ Cool persuasion laced his voice.
‘Nay, I cannot,’ Tavia replied frantically. ‘I just can’t move.’ The wind whipped beneath the hem of her bliaut, blowing the wide hem outwards.
‘Then why did you climb so high, if you’re so frightened of heights?’ Benois rapped out, exasperated, trying to avert his eyes from the tantalising glimpses of her slim calves, her rounded thighs clad in the finest silk stockings, afforded by her billowing hemline. Why did women also have to make every situation so infernally complicated? No wonder he preferred a life in the field of battle to a life of castles and chivalry.
‘I didn’t know I was,’ she admitted ruefully.
‘I can’t climb any higher, my lady. The branches will not support my weight.’ Benois still held tightly on to the princess’s slender ankle. From where he had braced himself against the main trunk, the maid’s position appeared extremely precarious. Mud smeared over his hand from her slippers; the fine leather had been scratched and her stockings were torn over her slim calves, affording him delectable glimpses of the lady’s smooth white skin where the silk had ripped. The temptation to place his fingertip over the holes, to test the alluring softness of her flesh, took him by surprise. Benois couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted to do such a thing. Women meant nothing to him, other than for physical release; they represented a constant source of annoyance, of inconvenience. Curling his scarred hand slowly, a vague sense of unease coiled stealthily in his mind.
Through the lacy fretwork of criss-crossing branches, the sun began to descend. Early sunsets still marked these first days of spring; the warmth leaching from the air as the skies darkened. Benois’s stomach growled with hunger. He and his men had forgone their mid-day meal in order to kidnap the princess and now he was starving.
Impatience made him tug irritably at the chit’s ankle; he had no intention of spending any longer in this tree! Langley’s advice on how to treat a royal princess was beginning to grate on his nerves; this current situation just proved that courtly manners simply did not work on some occasions!
Resisting the pull on her foot, Tavia wrapped both her arms even more firmly around the branch conveniently located near her chest. She had worked out that the longer she stayed up here, out of Benois’s reach, then the less chance he would have of recognising her, of leaving to kidnap the real princess. ‘If you go down,’ she suggested lightly, ‘then I’ll follow.’
‘I thought you said you couldn’t!’ His gaze swept over her fragile figure, clinging like a wisp of lace to the tree. Really, this royal maid seemed to contradict herself with every sentence! Did she not know her own mind?
‘I feel better now,’ she replied. ‘I think I’ll be able to come down on my own.’
‘No chance!’ he countered bluntly. ‘I, for one, have had enough of being stuck up a tree. I can’t wait all day, and all night for that matter, for you to make up your mind. You’re coming down now!’
Stretching his big body upwards, he thrust one hand over her calf, fastened his fingers around the crook of her knee, and pulled, hard. Her feet teetered precariously.
‘Nay! What are you doing?’ she protested, as he began to haul her body downwards. Her fingers scrabbled violently at the branch that had become her security, trying to cling on, but his grip was too powerful. Slithering downwards, she became acutely aware of the touch of his hands over her hips, her backside and, finally, the sensitive curve of her waist. He held her wrapped against him, her feet flailing uselessly in the air.
‘It’s almost as if you don’t want to come down.’ His warm breath skimmed her ear intimately. ‘Now, why would that be?’
‘Because I don’t want to go with you!’ she shouted into the soft wool of the tunic that covered his chainmail, furious at his rough manhandling. Steel-clad arms braced her waist, making any escape attempt impossible. ‘Let me go!’ she ordered, imperiously.
‘If I let you go, then you will fall straight out of the tree,’ he advised her quietly. ‘I am the only thing holding you at the moment.’ The mellow timbre of his words had a curious effect on her, generating a weird fluttering sensation in her belly.
‘Youpushtheboundariesofcommon decency,’ she threw back waspishly. ‘This is no way to treat a princess! Even captured knights are treated better than this. Just wait until I tell King Malcolm about you!’
Laughter rumbled deep in his chest; the vibrations pushing the muscled breadth of his torso against her own softer curves. Holding her with one arm, he yanked the curling end of her braid sharply, bringing tears to her eyes as he forced her to lift her chin, to look at him.
‘You’re no more a princess than I am,’ he announced, the smoke-grey of his eyes grimly assessing.
Tavia licked her lips nervously, a dryness scouring her throat. Her heart hammered in her chest. Was he going to kill her?
‘Are you?’ he said again, jerking the end of her braid once more.
‘Of course I am,’ she replied. Her voice echoed lamely.
The breeze ruffled through the sable smoothness of his hair, hair that gleamed like the polished skin of a hazelnut. A few strands fell across his forehead, softening the rawboned angularity of his features.
‘So I’ve never met you before.’
‘Correct.’
‘Liar.’
He would know the maid anywhere: the proud, defiant tilt of her chin, the huge eyes of cobalt blue and that hair, her beautiful wine-dark hair that proclaimed her identity like a flag.
‘How did you ever think you would pass as a princess?’ His tone mocked her.
To admit her true identity would be to fail. And she was not about to do that! This man had to believe her! For the sake of her mother, for this whole plan to work, she had to convince him! Sticking her chin imperiously in the air, Tavia addressed him in prim tones, trying to ignore the proximity of his big body pressed up against her own soft curves.
‘Because I am a princess, you fool!’
His eyes narrowed, sparkling chips of granite. ‘Oh, so it’s usual practice for a princess to run around her own city dressed in peasant clothes; it’s usual practice for a princess to shoot a crossbow with unerring accuracy?’ He lifted one dark eyebrow. ‘Credit me with some intelligence, my lady!’
One finger picked nervously at the nail on her thumb squashed into her side by his big arm. This wasn’t going to be easy. ‘I admit that my behaviour is unusual for a lady of rank,’ she ventured, refusing to let his mocking stare intimidate her, ‘but Malcolm taught me to shoot from an early age, and sitting in the woman’s solar all day is boring! It’s fun going around the town dressed in peasant clothes.’
‘Not so fun when you’re nearly raped by English soldiers, I suspect.’ A stinging wryness entered his tone.
She shuddered slightly at the memory, heart thrilling at the note of doubt creeping into his voice. Benois sighed, momentarily allowing himself to enjoy the maid’s soft curves against his own hard frame. He stared at her intently, drinking in the lush, perfect oval of her face, trying to read her mind. What if the maid spoke the truth?
Tavia schooled her features into an expression of stern chastisement. ‘Mayhap we could discuss this further on the ground?’ She tilted her head in question. ‘I don’t feel entirely safe up here.’ Without thinking, she flicked her blue, long-lashed eyes up to his, trying to impress on him the need to descend, willing herself to ignore the strange, flickering excitement that jolted upwards through her belly and chest at the alluring proximity of his body.
Benois’s arms tightened imperceptibly around her; it was a long time since he had held a woman thus. With lurching awareness, he realised his own body’s physical response to the maid’s nearness: fierce, hungry, demanding. The peach-like lustre of her flushed skin drew him, the pretty curve of her mouth drew him in…she lured him, like a siren singing far out to sea. A predatory glow moderated his flinty gaze; Tavia saw it, and knew at once his intention. ‘Stop! I command you to stop!’ she cried, pushing futilely at the punishing lock of his arms. ‘You mustn’t do this! I am the princess!’
‘I don’t care!’ he growled, his voice husky with desire.
As his lips descended, he told himself he had earned this kiss. The maid had teased and taunted him, caused him to miss his lunch and no doubt his supper as well. There was nothing in the least that attracted him to her; the maid was slender and short, her arms thin and wiry, completely opposite to the type of women he sought for physical solace. Henry’s camp women, who accompanied the royal court and its entourage of soldiers in the hope of making ready coin, were normally tall and buxom, their beauty often spoiled by the tawdry nature of their business.
The sweetness of her lips stunned him; in that first, fleeting touch, all conscious thought, all logic, fled, to be replaced by a raging thirst to discover more, to plunder further, deeper. The brace of his arms shifted slightly, hauling her closer to him, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. At the intimate contact, she gasped against his mouth. He groaned, bringing one hand up to cup the back of her head, to tangle his fingers in the silk of her hair, to bring her lips closer to him.
Tavia began to struggle against him, ramming her toes into his shins, pushing her small hands against his chest.
‘Nay…’ He lifted his head, his grey irises lit with silvered threads, passion unbalancing him. ‘My lady…for God’s sake…don’t struggle!’ The innate strength in that waif-like body caught him unawares, and, with horrible realisation, he felt her sliding towards the ground. In a moment he had reached down to grab a fistful of cloth at her waist, catching her, but the fierce movement threw him off balance, and they crashed down through the branches together to land in a tangle of limbs below.
The fall winded him slightly, but luckily the branches had broken much of the impact. Although he had managed to twist slightly as he landed, he feared the maid had caught at least half his weight on impact. He lifted himself up on his arms, assessing her, searching her pale face for some sign of life.
Langley burst into the clearing, closely followed by his own soldiers. ‘Good God, man, what have you done to her?’
Chapter Five
Pushing himself off the maid, and on to his knees beside her, Benois sat back on his heels, baffled by her unconsciousness. From their position on the tree, the drop had not been above the height of two men, and the dense carpet of rotting woodland vegetation had softened their landing. But, touching a finger to his throbbing temple, Benois realised that their heads had knocked together on impact. A huge purplish bruise had begun to develop above the maid’s left eye, marring the polished marble of her skin.
