XVI

XVI

Elise became aware that the night was very dark, and that she was miserably uncomfortable. Her side ached, and she realized that the pain was caused by the constant chaff of her body against the pommel of Bryan's saddle, and she felt a tenderness at the spot where his knuckles had caught her.

From the moment she opened her eyes, she had known exactly where she was. Beneath her she could see the massive hooves of the destrier, plodding along at a brisk walk. Because she saw those hooves, she shifted carefully. Twisting about only brought her nose in contact with Bryan's knee, so she turned to hang limply again, despair overriding the misery of her body.

Apparently he had felt her movement, for he reined the destrier to a halt, dismounted from the horse, and was there to steady her when she slid limply from its shoulders, her legs too cramped to hold her. Elise kept her face hidden against the stallion's neck and asked tonelessly, "How long have we been riding?"

"Three hours, perhaps four," he answered her, his tone equally bland. Elise stiffened against his supporting hold. "I can stand now," she told him coolly.

She felt his shrug, and he released her. She proceeded to slide to the road, unable to convince her tingling muscles that they must hold her up.

"You can stand!" Bryan muttered irritably, stooping to pluck her into his arms. She was too drained to protest his hold, and she allowed her head to lie against his shoulder. She still felt so tired, so very tired.

He set her down against the trunk of an old oak, then swung about immediately to return to the stallion. She heard him as he led the horses to the side of the road, but she was too drained to pay much attention to his actions. Everything seemed to ache. Her throat was dry and parched, her flesh felt bruised from head to toe. She didn't even have the energy to care that she had lost the final battle.

At last, when she heard his footsteps crackle on the nearby leaves, she looked up. He had unsaddled his destrier and her mare, and relieved the packhorse of its burden. And he had cleared the ground to form a hollow of earth over which he now bent low, kindling a small fire. A flash of red appeared, and then a strong glow of yellow and orange. He watched his fire, feeding it kindling until the larger logs scorched and caught the glow. Hunched back on his heels, he looked at her again.

"What are you doing?" she asked him nervously. She knew the countryside, and yet she didn't know where they were. There seemed to be nothing beyond them; they were completely alone with the fire.

"Building a fire," he replied with the obvious.

She swallowed painfully, aware then that he had decided to stop here for the night. Why was it so terrible? she wondered bleakly. Whether they rode all night or not, she was his wife—and his prisoner. Did it matter when she was finally forced to accept it?

"We're staying here . . . for the night?" she asked him, dismayed to note the weak flutter in her voice.

"Yes. The service is limited, but the bedding will be clean."

She could not appreciate the gentle humor in his voice. She closed her eyes and waited miserably for the inevitable.

But he didn't come near her. When tension and curiosity at last forced her to open her eyes again, she saw that he had taken blankets from the pack, plus a drinking gourd and a tanned skin of bread and cheese to set between them. He offered her the gourd, and she knew that her fingers continued to tremble as she accepted it. "It's water," he told her. "I'm sure you need it."

She did. The cool and clear water was delicious, if a bit too reviving. Bryan was stretched out upon the blanket drawn by the tree; his dark head was bent low as he cut hunks from the loaf of bread with his hunting knife. The firelight was playing upon the darkness of his hair, making it appear almost blue, then black again. She found herself noticing the individual strands, and studying the way a stray lock persistently fell over his forehead.

He glanced up suddenly, and she averted her eyes, turning her attention to the gourd in her hand, and offering it silently back to him.

"Bread?" he asked her.

She shook her head, not meeting his eyes, but staring past the spidery leaves of the tree above her to the stars in the heavens. They might have been at the ends of the earth. If he had wanted to find an absolute place of privacy in which to assert his rights, in case she screamed and fought like a lunatic, he had done well. There was none to witness them except the darkness of the night.

If she crawled away into a secret place within her heart, he could do anything and it wouldn't matter, because she wouldn't really be there. She must stay calm. Distant. And . . . immune.

To do so, she couldn't watch him. And she couldn't allow her panic to rise with every passing moment. She had fought him; she had lost. She could barely sit straight, much less run, and even if she were to run, he would catch her. The only dignity left her was the pride with which she could accept defeat, and she meant to accept it well. But these moments. . . these moments in which she waited! They were cruelly wearing upon her nerves.

"You should eat something," he told her.

"I'm not hungry."

She sensed his shrug, then was stunned when he cast a second blanket toward her. "Get some sleep, then. I'd like to reach the Channel by tomorrow night."

Her heart seemed to spiral within her chest, and then unwind slowly. She clutched the blanket nervously for a minute, then hurriedly wrapped it around herself and tried to shift very silently until she was lying comfortably on the ground. But then she was afraid to breathe, afraid that the sound would be too loud and would bring attention to herself, and thus end this unexpected reprieve.

Eventually, she had to breathe. Half opening her eyes, she noted that Bryan was staring out into the night, not watching her at all, as he ate.

She closed her eyes again. In time she heard him wrap the remaining food, then lie down upon the earth himself. She waited, but he did not move. The fire burned lower and lower. She slept.

* * *

Birds were trilling when she next opened her eyes; the darkness was gone, and the morning was beautiful. The sun, brilliant as it rose high in the sky, was almost blinding.

Elise could not help but feel revitalized. As she lay quietly against the earth, she could feel the warmth of the sun seeping into her, giving her strength. She was not so foolish as to forget that she was with Bryan Stede, but the sparkle of the morning gave new leeway to daydreams. Morning meant promise.

"There's a stream down the slope. I'll take you."

A chill was cast over the radiance of the sun when she heard Bryan speak. She did not try to pretend that she still slept, and her eyes fell upon him. The morning was cool, but it appeared that a nip in the air had not kept him from stripping down and plunging into the stream himself. He was clad in his tight-fitting hose, but his hair was glistening with water, and his bare chest remained damp. Elise started inwardly, realizing she had never seen his naked chest before. The expanse of his shoulders was somewhat awesome, and she reflected ironically that it was not now so surprising that he had managed to shatter her door. Crisp, dark hair grew in abundance across his breast, slimming triangularly to his waist, and helping to hide the numerous scars that gave credence to his years upon the field of battle. His belly was lean and flat, yet even there she saw the taut ripple of muscle, and she closed her eyes once more, trying to still the tremor of fear that seized her. He was her husband; she did not ever want to find herself at his mercy again . . .

"Elise, we should be under way."

She rose silently and folded her blanket, then faced him. "I'd like to go to the stream alone."

"I'm sorry," he told her, his hands casually upon his hips. "I don't trust you."

"If I were going to run, I would have done so last night while you slept—"

"Would you have, now? It would have been difficult, lady, since you slept soundly long before I did. No, I don't think that you would have run last night. You were very tired; I would have caught you before you had taken the first step. Shall we go to the stream?"

"Bryan, I beg of you!" Elise pleaded. "Give me a moment's privacy!"

He hesitated a minute, then shrugged. He plucked his shirt from a branch of the tree. "Be back quickly, Elise," he warned her.

The urge to keep going when she reached the stream was so strong that she could barely subdue it. But she knew that he would be upon her like lightning drawn to metal, so she quickly enjoyed a refreshing wash in the cold water, then hurried back. Bryan was fully dressed when she returned, with his sword securely in its scabbard, and his mantle pinned about his shoulder. He had laid out the bread and cheese once more, and Elise silently knelt down to eat. He did not join her, and she assumed he had already eaten, for he was impatiently standing by the horses. She took as long as she could to eat, and knew it was time to stop goading him when he drawled out, "My horse, Duchess? Or your own?"

They rode in silence until well into the afternoon, at which time they came to a cluster of cottages that seemed to be a small village. Bryan came to a halt before one of the wattle-and-daub homes and dismounted from his horse, tossing the reins to Elise.

"I'll see who's about—and if we can't get something decently cooked to eat."

Elise nodded with all appearance of docility, but even as she did so, a fever of excitement swept through her. She watched him walk up the dirt pathway to the door, waging silent battle within her mind.

He had been decent. She had deserted him; he had bested her, and reclaimed her, but he had been decent.

But only since he had slammed her senseless and dragged her out of her home. This could be her last opportunity —ever— to escape him. Her mare was spirited and fast, but could not outrun the destrier at any distance. Now might be the only chance she would ever have to change horses and run...

There wasn't time to think or reason further—or even to contemplate the small twinges of guilt that tugged at her conscience. Elise slipped quickly from her mare. She waited until Bryan's broad back disappeared behind the door of the cottage, and then she leaped onto the destrier, spurring him into a reckless bolt, without a single backward glance.

Earth and grass flew in her wake; the sky, gold and blue, swirled around her. She sped through the low valley they had just plodded across in a matter of seconds, and then the gold brilliance of the sun was dispersed between the dark, thick greenery of tall forest pines. She ducked, hanging low against the destrier's neck to avoid the heavy branches that snapped and broke at the onslaught of the stallion's power.

How far, she wondered, before she could safely slow the beast? Not yet, not yet. Nor should she simply retrace the route home that they had taken out. He could too easily come upon her. If she followed the sun, she couldn't get lost. All she had to do was to keep riding south, southeast.

Elise broke through the forest. Two paths awaited her: the one they had taken earlier, circling the mountains; and a second, one that followed the slope of the mountain.

She hesitated only a second, then followed the trail that led up the slope.

While the footing was good, Elise kept the destrier's pace at a gallop. But soon, the path became overgrown and strewn with hard rocks, and she slowed the massive horse, aware that she had run him cruelly. As well as the path being a dangerous one, the destrier was heaving with exertion; his black coat was slick with sweat.

She allowed the horse to cool at a trot, then brought him down to a walk, and at last twisted in the saddle to look back. There was nothing behind her except the forest. Exhaling a long breath, Elise looked forward. Again, a twinge of conscience that she didn't really understand tugged at her. She had at last eluded him. She had the more powerful mount. In another night, she could be home, and this time she could prepare against him. She owed him nothing, she told herself. Elise twisted uneasily in the saddle once again, but there was no sign of Bryan. She hoped he would not realize that she had chosen to take a different path. She had left a trail of broken branches as clear as day through the forest, but the mountain path had been sand and rock, and it was possible that the destrier had left no betraying hoofprints.

Still . . .

She urged the animal into a trot once again, and it was not until dusk fell that she stopped looking back.

When darkness, complete except for a sliver of moon-glow, surrounded her, Elise regretted her decision not to have found a place to camp for the night. She was desperately tired, hungry, and thirsty. Since the packhorse had carried their supplies, Elise had nothing. Guilt at how hard she had driven the destrier plagued her, and she began to worry that if she didn't find water soon, she would kill the animal.

"Can you smell out water, boy?" she asked the horse, patting his sleek flank now and watching the twitch of his ears as he heard her speak. Elise realized that with all she had done and intended to do, Bryan would surely despise her the worst for killing his horse. And why not? she wondered morosely. The horse was a beautiful creature that had served his master well; he did not deserve to die because of her quarrel with a man.

"Whoa, boy!" Elise called aloud softly to the horse. Water had to be her main concern at the moment; she couldn't allow her mind to drift.

Especially into such a region of envisioning Bryan with Gwyneth. Bryan, tender laughter in his eyes as he bent low to kiss the hand of his mistress . . .

I hate him, she reminded herself. But she didn't really, not anymore. She had stopped hating him the night of Richard's coronation, the night she had seen him ready to defend a man because his principles—and not popular belief—demanded that he do so.

"Water," she murmured aloud again, watching the black, twitching ears of the destrier. "There has to be a stream nearby, boy. I wonder if I give you your own lead if you could manage to find it . . ."

Her voice trailed away, and the sounds of the night flooded around her. Crickets chirping, the occasional screech of an owl. The foliage about her, which had appeared warm and green with the day's light, now seemed dark and foreboding, mysterious and dangerous. Elise promised herself that she would find water, and then find some kind of shelter until the dawn came. Bryan had seen to it that she was dressed roughly for hard travel, but there still might be highwaymen about. The horse she rode would be well worth stealing.

The destrier stopped suddenly, flattening its ears back, snorting, and nervously pawing the ground. Elise was confused, until she narrowed her eyes, straining to see in the darkness. She had reached a plateau; she could hear the soft sound of running water, and more. There was a sound of voices, of children laughing, of a woman humming.

Cautiously, she edged the destrier forward.

There were perhaps ten houses built on the plateau; and the dim glow from ten hearth fires surrounded them. She could hear sheep bleating, and then the fervent barking of a dog. Elise hesitated, then noticed something glitter golden in the moonlight. It was a cross, a gold cross nailed to what could only be a chapel.

This would be a small village of Christian peasants, she told herself firmly. Richard, King of England, was also the duke of these provinces. She could ask for shelter here, in the name of Richard, Coeur de Lion.

Elise nudged the destrier forward, thinking rapidly. She would not identify herself as Elise, Duchess of Montoui. She would say only that she had been a pilgrim, journeying to pray at the holy shrines in England. Then she could come and go, with as little bother as possible.

The hound that had been barking was joined by several others. The door to the first house was thrown open suddenly, and a woman began to chastise the dogs, wringing her hands as she did so. She looked up and saw Elise, and ordered the dogs to be still.

She was a squat, sturdy woman with graying hair, an ample chest, and warm, sparkling brown eyes. "What have we here?" she called out to Elise. "It's not many travelers we see here upon the plateau!"

Elise slid from the destrier's back, wondering belatedly how she would explain such a magnificent beast as the destrier. "My name is Elise, good woman," she said softly. "I am homeward bound for Montoui after a pilgrimage to England. I need water for my mount, and for myself, and . . . I—"

"You are surely hungry, I daresay!" the woman finished for her. "Well, come, come, child!" she encouraged Elise. "I can hardly feed you if you insist upon standing in the dark! George! George! Come care for this girl's horse. I am Marie, wife of Renage. Come in, come in!"

Elise smiled as the woman slipped a friendly arm about her to escort her into the cottage. An awkward boy of about fifteen came running out of the house, ogling Elise, and then the horse. "Ma!" he called, whistling softly. "Will you look at this beast! I've never seen such horseflesh—no never!"

"He needs water," Elise said softly.

Young George stared at her again, sweeping her a long gaze from head to toe that judged her as surely as he had judged the horse. The boy couldn't have been more than sixteen, Elise decided, but his gaze made her very uncomfortable.

"See to the horse, George!" Marie said firmly. She began to lead Elise toward her house again.

"'Tis a lonely place where we live," Marie said, excusing her son with the words.

The cottage was small, but clean and very warm with its crackling fire. Marie directed Elise to a bench and hurried to the fire. "My stew is just done simmering," she told Elise, spooning some of the delicious-smelling preparation into a wooden bowl. "My man and boys come in late; they wait till dusk to bring the sheep down from the mountain slopes."

"Thank you," Elise said as Marie placed the stew down before her, smiled, and drew a cup of water from a cistern.

"Eat!" Marie encouraged. "Does my heart good to see food enjoyed."

Elise drank the water, then bit into the stew. It was as good as its aroma had promised. The food, the fire, and stout Marie all made her feel safe and content. And it was nice to hear her own language again, although the dialect here was the northern style, not the soft, melodic slur of Montoui. Bryan slipped easily from language to language—she assumed that he had been on the Continent with Henry so long that it was second nature to him. But he always spoke English to her, and now . . . now it was nice to hear a tongue closer to her own. She felt very close to home. She consumed the bowl of food without a word beneath Marie's benign eyes, but refused when Marie would have filled her bowl again.

"I've nothing to pay you with," she said softly. Bryan had dragged her away so quickly that she had worn no jewelry; she didn't even have a decent mantle pin to offer the woman. Then her eyes brightened. "My saddle is a fine one. Perhaps—"

"What I should like more than your saddle," Marie said cheerfully, sitting before Elise as she sliced huge chunks of fresh bread, "is news! Tell me, did you see His Grace Richard crowned King of England?"

Elise answered carefully. "Yes . . . I was among thousands, of course, but I did see our Lord Richard crowned King of England."

Marie was hungry for gossip; Elise ate bread with fresh sweet butter and cheerfully told Marie about London and Richard's coronation, avoiding any mention of herself as she described the gowns of the ladies and the elaborate procession.

Elise was startled in mid-sentence when the door suddenly banged inward. She stared that way to see a heavy-jowled and barrel-chested man breeze in, followed by George and two older boys, all bearing a resemblance to their fleshy-faced peasant father.

"So this is our pilgrim!" the man muttered, eyeing Elise suspiciously. "Where did you get the horse, girl?"

"Renage!" Marie chastised swiftly.

"Out of my way, woman!" Renage demanded, striding toward Elise and the table. He straddled over the bench to stare at her more thoroughly. "That's a knight's horse, girl. I've seen such—oh, aye, I have. In the stables of Sir Bres-nay, our overlord. Did you steal the horse, girl?"

Elise finished swallowing a piece of the bread. It stuck in her throat, and she choked and coughed, watching Renage through watery eyes. She didn't like the look of him. His eyes were dark and too small in the fleshy folds of his face. And as much as she had liked Marie, she didn't much like the look of the boys, either. They were all staring at her as their father accused her, with that same look George had given her outside. A look that made her feel as if she wanted to squirm uncomfortably away.

They were good, Christian peasants, she told herself.

She would lie. Carefully.

"Aye, Renage," she said. She quickly added, "I was traveling with a party of sisters when I lost my way. A knight came upon me—an Englishman—and he . . . tried to steal my honor. I was desperate. I had a chance to escape him by stealing his horse, and so . . . aye!" She tilted her head proudly and conjured a mist of tears to her eyes. "I stole the horse." She held her breath. Most men of the Continent, peasants and beggars included, considered Englishmen to be little better than barbarians. Richard might be the duke of the territory, but the English King had been sired by Henry Plantagenet—an Angevin—and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

Renage let out a long breath. "Where do you go, girl?"

"To my home. Montoui. A day's ride to the south."

Renage scratched his head. The boys, still staring at Elise, scuffled with one another as they jostled to be the first to have their stew bowls filled by their mother.

"It's not safe these days for a good woman to travel alone," Renage said suspiciously.

"I was not alone. I was with a party of holy sisters—"

"A story I've heard before!" Renage said, laughing boisterously and slapping Elise upon the thigh. His laughter faded. "I want your horse."

Elise tried to keep smiling as she pushed his hand from her thigh. She decided quickly to give him the destrier—in exchange for another mount.

"He is yours—if you will but give me an animal in return that I may use to journey onward."

"Marie! My food."

Marie silently set a bowl of the stew before her husband. Renage kept his small eyes narrowed upon Elise.

"Have you no husband, girl?"

She hoped that a flush did not steal to her cheeks. "No," she lied.

"I've three sons," he said bluntly.

"And a handsome lot they are," she lied once again. "But I was betrothed at birth to marry Roger the Smith by . . . by the Duke of Montoui to wed another. Please, good Renage, see me safe on the road again by morning!"

Renage grunted and began sloppily spooning up his soup. The boys took seats upon the plank, too close to Elise for her comfort. Marie came to her rescue.

"Come now, girl. I'll take you up to the loft to sleep—with me," she added vehemently, turning around to offer her husband a harsh glare. Renage kept chewing, unmindful of his wife.

"Perhaps," Marie said loudly, "you can ride a ways with our priest, Father Thomas. He cares for several small villages in the mountains."

Elise bowed her head and smiled. She would be safe. Marie and Father Thomas would see to her well-being.

"What's that, now?" Renage said impatiently, lifting his chin and halting Marie before she could lead Elise up a rickety ladder.

Elise frowned, confused. She hadn't heard a thing. But then she did hear the noise—the dogs were beginning to howl and bay again.

"A man can't have a decent dinner," Renage complained, rising, and shooting Elise a hostile gaze, as if she were responsible for this new interruption. He threw open the door. "Stop—you curs!" he bellowed at the dogs, leaving the doorway behind as he walked out into the night.

With her heart rising to her throat, Elise swept past Marie to the door.

She was responsible for the new interruption. In the glow from the cottage light she could see him. Stede. Leading the mare along, towering over Renage as he walked beside him.

Elise felt the blood drain from her face; it was over. Always the hope; always the despair. Always . . . he won.

She felt the color return to her cheeks as she cried out determinedly, "Dear Lord! It's him! Oh, please! Let me run to the church. Where is this Father Thomas? Help me!"

She swirled around and dropped to her knees at Marie's feet.

"Poor child!" Marie swore softly just as Renage came into the doorway and Bryan ducked beneath the frame to follow him.

Elise risked a glance at Bryan. His brows were knit with confusion as he stared at her upon the floor, but his eyes darkened quickly to a merciless blue fire as he ascertained her game.

"Mistress, your ‘poor child' is my wife."

"Your wife!" Elise cried out. "These English lords think we are nothing but their playthings! No female is safe—and they swear to fight for Christendom!"

Renage looked from Bryan, with his deadly stare, to Elise, with her pleading eyes. He cleared his throat.

"I've no wish to make an enemy of such a worthy knight, milord, but the girl claims you've done nothing but try to steal her honor."

"Her honor?" Bryan inquired with an insulting snort. He threw a gold coin upon the table, and Elise felt dismay clutch at her stomach as she watched Renage's small eyes widen and brighten.

She started to rise, then paused, stunned, as Bryan started to speak casually.

"If she chooses not to come to me, that is her concern. She is, I feel, my responsibility, and so I will pay you for her care. But don't be deceived, my friend. She is no sweet innocent."

Bryan gazed at Elise once more; she could not tell if his indigo eyes glittered with anger, or with amusement. Then he spun about, exiting the chamber and slamming the door behind him.

Renage burst into laughter. Elise stopped staring after Bryan to turn her eyes to Renage.

"Ah, wife! What a night. We lost the destrier; the knight claimed the animal to be his. But he left us a fine young mare with fancy trappings in its place and"—Renage turned his eyes upon Elise—"I think we've acquired another fine piece of flesh! The girl is in good health and she's quite a beauty. She may not come untarnished to her marriage bed, but I've never been one to think a bit of experience ruined a woman. She'll do quite well for one of our boys, Marie. Where else would we find such a girl? She'll breed us fine grandchildren. Now, as to which son . . ."

"I saw her first—" George began.

"I'm the oldest." He was interrupted by the son most resembling his rodent-eyed father.

The second one laughed. "If she's been used already, Pa, shouldn't we all get something?"

"We're Christians!" Marie snapped out.

"Christian duty is to beget sons!" Renage told his wife gleefully. He took a step toward Elise and drew her to her feet, lifting her chin. "Maybe we'll let the girl pick her own mate, eh, Marie?"

Elise found herself shoved into the middle of the room. George grabbed her and pulled her to him, smacking her lips with a slobbering and repulsive kiss. She clawed at him, but he laughed along with a howl of pain as he pushed her to another brother. The older, pockmarked boy made a licentious grab for her breast, laughing merrily along with his brother and father.

Fear was rushing up to engulf Elise even as she desperately fended them off. Damn Bryan! Damn him to a fiery hell! How could he have left her to this—

She heard her bodice rip, and furiously brought her knee hard against the peasant's groin. He yelped with real pain, buckling over. Elise gave him a shove, then raced wildly for the door, throwing it open and tearing out into the night.

She stopped short suddenly, seeing Bryan leaning against his destrier. "You son-of-a-bitch!" she railed.

He lifted a brow politely. "You told me once that you would rather have ten toothless peasants than me. There are only four in there—and they all seem to have their teeth . . ."

He broke off as Renage came running out with his sons, all armed with pitchforks.

Bryan reached out and grasped Elise, throwing her atop the mare, leaping upon the destrier himself. "Go!" he warned her. "They're an awkward lot and I've my sword, but I'd hate to take their poor lives for the paltry fact that they were dragged into our quarrel."

A grunt of pain escaped him as he finished speaking; Elise saw him clenching down on his jaw as his features paled.

"Go!" he screamed, clawing at his back. Elise was frightened and confused; her heart thundered in her chest, but she dared not disobey him.

She nudged her heels against the mare's flanks. A second later Bryan was rushing past her, leading her through the darkness. The night, the moon, the stars whipped by. The glow from the cottages faded. Again, it was like that first night; they might have been alone in the world, racing the wind.

At last he slowed the destrier, sliding off the horse rather than leaping, as he was accustomed.

"Bryan?" Elise queried hesitantly, her voice seeming to echo in the darkness about them.

He didn't answer her; she saw that he was leading the destrier through a narrow, overgrown path amid the trees. Silently, she followed him, again feeling danger in the night, in the black that surrounded them in the forest. "Bryan!" she called softly, unable to see him. But she could follow the destrier, and she did. The path led to a copse by a stream.

The moon played upon the water here; Elise saw that he had torn off his red mantle, and his tunic. She picked them up. Both were stained with blood. She hadn't seen the blood before because the mantle was the same shade.

"Bryan!" she called out, alarm rising in her voice. And then she heard him, at the water's edge. She saw his broad back, the bronzed flesh gleaming in the moonlight . . .

And the blood. "Bryan!"

Elise raced to his side; he spun about, raising a hand to her. She swallowed. "Bryan . . . I want to help you—"

"Why?" he demanded with dry bitterness. "Just get away from me."

"But you're wounded—"

"Not badly. I'm not going to die."

Tears stung her eyes. "I don't want you to die. I just wanted you to leave me alone, Bryan. Please . . . let me help you."

He stared at her a moment, eyes raking over her, their emotion shadowed by the night.

"No," he said bluntly.

He turned back to his task, wetting a torn strip of his mantle, then cleansing the wound in his back. "Damn!" he muttered, grimacing as he rose.

"Bryan, I never meant for something like this—"

"Then what did you mean!" he shouted with sudden fury, stalking to her in two swift steps that took a painful toll upon him, evident as the strain riddled his eyes. He wrenched her arm and she gasped, but his words thundered out, bleak and weary, before she could speak. "What do you mean to happen? Do you intend to go to war against me—against Richard? Will it satisfy your sense of honor to see men battle and die? You claim you hate me because I raped you. I'm a brutal man. Duchess, you don't begin to understand what violence is—what rape is! I should have left you. I should have left you to those double-chinned brothers and then you could have learned—"

"Bryan!" Her teeth were chattering as he shook her, tears were springing to her eyes, and she was sorry, very sorry, but also terrified and about to scream with the pain of his tense fingers biting into her arm. "Bryan . . . let . . . go . . . of . . . me . . ."

He did, pushing her from himself so vehemently that she fell against the pine-softened bed of the forest.

And he was quickly on top of her, straddling over her, pinning her wrists to the ground. His voice was still swift, harsh thunder in the night. "Let you go? Never, Duchess! Don't you understand that yet? Be gentle! Marshal tells me. Have patience! And for my pains, I take a dagger in the back. Milady, perhaps it's time for me to be guilty of all that I am accused!"

His face was so tensed and strained; his eyes were so cold and hard and laced with pain. She felt the ripple of his muscles as he leaned closer to her, the terrible, shuddering power of his enraged body.

His hands, moving, releasing her only to touch her once more; his thumb was rough as it grazed over her cheek; his palm was shaking. He was so angry.

Her tears started sliding down her cheeks. "Bryan," she whispered, "please . . ." She couldn't find the words to tell him that she knew her attempts to escape him were at an end—that she was resigned to being his wife. That she was just begging he not take her in such awful anger.

He paused. His eyes closed briefly, then opened. He took a deep breath, then jerked away from her, standing quickly over her, then walking away. It took her a moment to realize that he was gone.

She was suddenly very, very cold, and she didn't think she had ever felt so empty, so totally void, in her life.

Slowly, she roused herself. He was standing by the stream again, winding strips of his mantle around his torso. Elise stood, shivering for a minute, then finding that she was compelled to walk to his side again. She spoke to the breadth of his back, swallowing hard at the silent dignity of his stance.

"Bryan . . . I swear, I had no wish for you to be harmed. I . . . behaved recklessly and foolishly and I brought on your injury—and I am truly, truly sorry."

He didn't reply to her. Not for a long while. She stood tensely, miserably behind him. Then she saw his dark head lower as he stared into the water of the stream; he issued a soft sigh.

"Elise, you are my wife. You have to come with me." He paused. "I, too, have been guilty—of condemning you unjustly at times. I know now that you didn't poison my wine." He lifted his head again but still did not turn to face her. "Jeanne put the poison in my wine. She admitted the deed to me."

"Jeanne!" Horror swept through Elise, and a new fear. Fear for Jeanne. "Please, Bryan!" she whispered with soft vehemence. "Jeanne is aging—her real crime was her love for me. The fault was mine, if she sought to injure you. You must not deal harshly with her. I . . . I beg you."

"She will not be punished."

Elise stood still, dizzy with relief. He might have done many things. Jeanne was a villein of Montoui; Bryan could even have ordered her executed for such a crime. Or flogged so cruelly that a woman of her age could not survive the ordeal. And yet, he was stating that Jeanne would not be punished. She owed him for that mercy.

"Bryan, I . . ." she began softly, but her throat tightened, and she had to begin again. "I swear by the blessed Virgin that I will not try to escape you again."

He turned to her then, curiosity touching his eyes, along with a cool skepticism. "You needn't be so frightened or humble, Elise. My decision about Jeanne has nothing to do with promises from you. Whether you tried to run a thousand times, I could never bring vengeance against an old woman who had risked her own life for love of her mistress. Don't make a vow you don't intend to keep."

"I . . . intend to keep it," Elise said softly.

He did not reply. Elise winced as she saw blood escaping the bandage of fabric strips he had wound about it.

"Bryan, your wound—I wish to help you."

"Bind it more tightly," he said with a sigh. "The lout could not throw his dagger hard or with a decent aim, but it is a scratch that bleeds like rain."

Elise picked up the remnants of his mantle and ripped it into broader, wider strips. With her eyes lowered, she approached him. She tore away his efforts at a bandage, and carefully wound the strips about him again, putting padding upon the wound. She noticed the tense, sporadic ripple of his taut abdomen as she touched his torn flesh, but he didn't emit a word, a sigh, or even a grunt.

She could not look at his face when she finished. He stepped away, and she heard him with the horses. A moment later, he was back beside her, carrying his saddle and blanket. "This is all we have for the night," he said curtly. "I left the packhorse with the old woman at the cottage we came to this morning. I could travel more swiftly without it. Let's get some sleep."

Elise nodded numbly. She was shivering again. Not with cold; not with fear.

Moments before, she had pushed him to his limit of endurance. She had felt his touch; the sinewed heat of his body pulsing against hers. She had cried out, and found reprieve . . .

Yet had been stunned by the cold when he left her.

How long, she wondered, feeling dizzy, how long before he did insist . . . ?

"We've only one blanket. Come here; if you don't sleep beside me, you could have a chill by morning."

Nervously, she tucked at the ripped material of her bodice, but he wasn't paying any attention to her. He was laying the blanket upon the ground, positioning the saddlebags as cushions for their heads.

He lay down, staring up at the night sky.

Elise walked over silently and lay down beside him. He pulled the blanket around her, but the warmth that she felt came from him.

She would never sleep so, she thought. Feeling the even keel of his breathing, the movement of muscle, the heat . . .

She closed her eyes. He made no move to touch her, and she wondered in misted confusion if she were relieved . . .

Or bereft.