Chapter 9

S HE WAS A RESTLESS sleeper, this betrothed of his!

He should have slept much more himself. The journey to England had been long, and the journey here to the north had seemed even longer. Then Sir James Courtney, the knight he had named castellan for his home in his absence, had been quick to tell him that Prince John was in the neighborhood with his loutish sycophants and that Raymond de la Ville was assuredly up to no good. And just as James had glumly assumed, the Prince and de la Ville had been in the forest, seeking amusement with the peasantry. He'd been grateful to arrive in time to save the girl.

And even gladder to discover that he had returned home in time to save his own intended.

Even if she wasn't quite so grateful for the saving!

She tossed and turned in the night as if she still fought demons straight from hell. At first she cried out softly, flinging one of the furs from her. That left her nearly naked. Certainly her hair had dried with the muck of the moat still upon it. Splashes of that same drying muck marred her limbs and gown.

But they did nothing to mar the girl's beauty.

He felt his desire for her growing stronger as he watched her, fascinated, as the firelight played over her.

The white linen bedgown was tattered and torn, enhancing far more than it concealed. It had dried conforming to her every curve. As she flung upon her back, her breasts rose full and high, the dark, dusky nipples pressing against the fabric and the very sheerness of the white linen emphasizing the fullness and firmness of her flesh. Then, as his breath grew rapid and shallow, she struck out at some enemy in her sleep and twisted about, and the white linen cradled her derriere, hugged the rounded form of her hip, draped with a strange elegance over the wickedly long beauty of her legs.

He grated his teeth and swore an oath, realized that he did so in his Norman French, and remembered that the Silver Sword was a Saxon savior, and that as such he must remember to swear at the wretched wench in the proper language.

For a moment he played with the idea of honesty. Complete honesty.

No. She despised the Norman Lord Montjoy. He dare not let her know that he was one and the same as the husband she would soon have. He didn't dare let on about his connections to Robin, or to the forest. If she chose to betray him in any way …

He dared not think of the consequences. He might have a noble head, but noble heads too easily came upon the block. And he knew that he risked his head—or his throat—each time he rode, but he'd be damned if he'd die just because of the whims of his very wayward betrothed. Perhaps Richard knew just what he was up to. Perhaps Richard was very glad of his protecting the royal crown while Richard was away.

But John was here.

Give John the slightest knowledge that he was in any way an outlaw …

And he would die. Quite simply. Nay—he'd be stripped of his possessions.

Then he'd die.

He shook his head slightly. It didn't bear pondering any longer. He could not let the girl know his identity. And that meant sitting around in the wretchedly uncomfortable mail while he watched her sleep.

She was so careful herself. She knew that he was the Silver Sword, but she wasn't ready with any confessions about the fact that she was the Lady Greensleeves. She was so passionate in her cause!

That was to her credit, he had to admit. But she was far too headstrong, and reckless. He tried to understand her commitment—heaven knew, he had his own.

It had begun before the day when Raymond de la Ville's father had hunted down the Saxons in the wood. When Damian's own father had still lived. They had ridden across property belonging to de la Ville, and they had come across a man who had been hanged, and left there, swinging from the branch of a tree. He'd worn a collar about his throat. A brass collar. And French words had proclaimed him to be Cuthbert, thrall to some lesser nobleman.

Damian had seen many such collars before, though his father would not allow them on their people. "No man is an animal," his father had insisted. "And men do not wear collars. You can beat a man into submission, but you can never beat him into giving his love or his loyalty. Men will serve a fair master, and a fair master has no need to collar and chain his servants."

Whoever his master had been, it seemed apparent that Cuthbert had tried to escape him. And he had tried to find sustenance from the land.

He had died in the trying. A placard hung about his neck. "So shall die all who would poach in this forest!"

Cuthbert seemed so tragic there, swinging in the breeze. Birds lit down atop his head, to peck at the corpse. And as he watched the corpse, he had heard the laughter of the richer thanes who rode in the forest.

Those men had found it so amusing to hang this poor fellow here. There were laws in this land, aye, that there were.

But there were no laws to protect the weak when men of wealth and power were around.

He had never really intended to become any kind of outlaw. He'd been raised and trained to become a knight, to stand by the King, to do battle against other knights.

But then he had happened to be home, to be hunting, when Lord de Montrain had come through the forest with Kat and Robin. He had heard Lord de Montrain's shouts, and stumbled upon the scene there. And he had let fly those arrows against de la Ville because he had hated the man, and all that he did, with such a great passion.

Then he'd seen the treacherous bastard come back to kill de Montrain, and he'd been forced to show himself.

But he knew that de Montrain had never given him away. Rather, the man had suggested the disguise that had led to the nickname of the Silver Sword.

He had always admired de Montrain. And there was that peculiar relationship between them, for de Montrain had married Rob's father's sister, while Montjoy's mother had been cousin to Rob's mother. Robin had used the relationship, of course, demanding that Damian take him under his wing to teach him. He'd really had no choice. Robin would be called upon to fight again and again. Damian had determined he had best know how to do it well.

Beside him, Kat tossed and turned.

Oh, Jesu. The mud-spattered gown fell away completely from one lush breast. She was bared except for the wild tumble of hair that swirled and cascaded around her form, hair with a magnificence that no dunking in a moat could begin to dim. In the firelight each strand seemed to pick up highlights of shimmering red and gleaming gold as it curled against the pure ivory of her flesh.

The warmth in the room suddenly seemed explosive. He felt his cheeks growing hot beneath the helmet and a swift and painful constriction of muscle and body from his groin to his throat.

He swore softly, rose, and started to draw a large pelt back over the length of her body. Yet once above her, the fur in his hand, he froze.

She was going to be his wife. Soon. And all this would be his. For the taking. Their marriage was going to be a tempest.

But, oh … what a storm! he determined. None of it mattered. Wrapped in the golden glory of her hair, she seemed the most delectable, tempting flower. They needn't talk politics together. They needn't plan and dream. She need only await him in the darkness and the shadows, and he need only lose himself in the physical pleasures of their marriage. She was bringing him all that might be required. Land, wealth. And she was a stunning beauty as well.

If only Richard had seen fit to hand her over well-muzzled!

His muscles were tightening again. Arms growing rigid, a pulse at his cheek ticking, a sure drumbeat to go along with that forming within his loins again. He swore softly and dropped the fur abruptly upon the tantalizing display of body spread before him. He turned away, heading out into the night.

Before the stars, he stripped the helmet with its concealing mask of mail from his face. He breathed in deeply, then rubbed his cheeks.

He should ride away now. Then Lord Montjoy could ride by and pick up his betrothed in the morning. He could be rid of this wretched costume.

But underneath the stars he smiled slowly—and not without a certain wickedness.

Nay …

The Silver Sword would spend another day with the lady. It was so very intriguing to learn what he could when she assumed him to be a Saxon.

It could be a very entertaining day. Aye!

Either that, or … torture.

He gritted his teeth, feeling the awful strength of the longing that ripped and tore through him. And suddenly he was remembering Ari's words in the desert.

Ari, foretelling that she would betray him.

"No!" he swore furiously. Ari's prophecy would not come true. He would not let it. He glanced down. His fists were clenched. He raised them, looking at them. They had tightened just as they might around that fragile neck of hers.

Nay, he wished no violence!

He needed only to watch this wayward damsel, to learn more about the working of her mind. Knowing one's enemy was besting that enemy.

Enemy? She was to be his wife.

And what enemy could be more dangerous?

None, he assured himself.

He inhaled the night air deeply and turned and walked back to the hunter's lodge, pushing open the door. The fire had burned down. The room was nearly in darkness.

He closed the door. He couldn't even see the girl in the shadows. He might dare to take off the helmet and mask of chain mail.

He walked to the bed. She was sleeping peacefully for the moment.

Sprawled out, the furs thrown off. Long legs. Tempting full breasts.

Breasts. Damn.

He turned away and set the mask down, thanking God for the darkness. His mail beneath the tunic was heavy and cumbersome, and he was weary now, more weary than he had imagined possible. Impatiently he stripped away his cloak and tunic, and took down the heavy dress of mail. Muscles bulged tightly within his arms and shoulders as he lifted its eighty pounds of weight from his body. Then he stood only in his shirt and chausses, and wished he might shed them too for a greater feeling of the wonderful lightness and freedom that had come to him now.

Mail had not been fashioned for comfortable sleep, though he had, on occasion, been called upon to rest in various degrees of armor.

He started to stretch, but as he did so, he was startled and taken off guard by a sudden, high-pitched, anguished screech. He spun around, expecting some danger, only to see in the darkened shadows that she was sitting up in the bed. Even as he rushed to her side, he realized that she was not looking at him. He could barely discern her features in the darkness, but he knew that she was not looking at him at all, but rather staring straight ahead at some unknown demon. Some demon that plagued her dreams. She was shaking, trembling. The linen shimmered over her body. "No!" she screeched again, a hand flying out. "Nay, nay, never!"

"My lady—"

She heard his voice and turned to it, wildly flailing. Her small, elegant hands came flying hard against his chest. He caught her wrist, shaking her slightly. "Lady, cease! Wake up! You are dreaming. There is no danger."

She shook her head wildly. "He's coming. He's coming. It's he. And he's a monster. He's sent men. So many men. But he's behind them, I know that he is. You don't know him. You haven't seen his face when he—"

She was in his arms. Despite their dunking in the moat, her hair still smelled of rose petals, her flesh was like lavender. Soft to his touch. She was a burst of fire against him.

And at this particular moment, she was all vulnerability. Near naked in arms. Beautiful, hot, twisting. He could feel far too much of her body—and her nakedness. He felt a burst within himself. A startling explosion of raw and lusty desire. She was his. He could cease to make believe at this very moment, shake her from her fear of de la Ville—and rush the nuptials. She would be his when they were wed, for he would not allow himself to be wed and governed by her whims. She would understand. She would be his wife. In every sense of the word. He could just do the inevitable this evening.

Ah!

He gritted his teeth, trying to still the harsh and brazen fires that had seized hold of him. Take her … aye. When she shook so. When he would be no better than the man he had swept her away from. Ah, nay! She might have a tongue like a rapier and a will of the same steel. She might accuse him and accost him at every turn.

But when she shook so, trembled like this in his arms …

He sighed, pulling her closer, breathing in the sweet aroma of her hair. "It's over!" Within his hold and startlingly tender arms, he shook her slightly. "It's over. De la Ville will not have you. We are gone from them. You are safe. You are dreaming."

"Dreaming!" She went limp in his arms. Then he felt her stiffen. She tried to see his face in the darkness, but the candles had gone out. The night was all around them now. He felt her distress, and he had to soothe it.

"It's all right. I am not going to hurt you. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid. Of you."

He was still holding her. And oddly enough, the stiffness was easing from her.

"Put your head down," he advised softly.

And she did so. Now his arms were around her, hands entangled in her hair. Her head rested on his chest. His chin rested on the top of her head. She trembled convulsively. He smoothed his hand over her hair. "Sleep. It's all right. You're safe."

She inhaled on a great shudder. Exhaled.

He continued to stroke her hair. It teased his nose. Her cheek moved against his chest. Her shuddering ceased.

A minute later, to his amazement, he realized that she was sleeping again.

He lifted his hand as she snuggled more closely against him. Oh, that hair! It was wound around him. Drifting softly over his torso, over his face.

He let his hand fall gently upon her shoulder. She breathed so easily.

And he …

He groaned in the night.

Indeed, this was going to be very interesting.

Intriguing …

Torture!

Even before she fully awoke, Kat could feel the discomfort of the mud she wore. There was a certain scent of moat slime about her, and she hated it.

Then there was more.

Her eyes hadn't begun to open, but she could suddenly feel a great discomfort. The night all came rushing back in on her and she knew—she knew without opening her eyes—that he was there. Before her. Watching her.

Memories of the previous night came rushing in on her, the truth blending with the nightmare, for there had been little difference at times. Perhaps the nightmares had been worse, for while the castle and she had been under attack, she had been moving too swiftly and too desperately to feel the complete onslaught of her fears.

And in truth, de la Ville had not come after her himself. He had been in the nightmares, taunting her as he had taunted the girl in the forest.

But then, the nightmares had ended. Because she had suddenly felt so safe and secure.

Because he had been there! A rock in the darkness. No longer a mystery clad in metal, but a man, a friend, warm flesh and blood, holding her.

And she'd let him do it. Let him put his arms around her. Hold her. Sleep beside her. She, with all her supposed courage. Nightmares had claimed her, and she had fallen into a stranger's arms for simple solace.

Aye, and he was watching her now. That same stranger. She could feel him watching her!

She opened her eyes. And indeed, he was there. If he had really shed his mail armor in the night, he was clad in it once again this morning. His mail helmet shadowed his face, his great black cape covered his shoulders. He was seated at a chair not five feet from her, one great booted foot resting upon his knee.

And his eyes, as she had expected, were hard and fierce upon her.

It was then that she realized that she had kicked away every fur. Her gown had dried hard to her flesh in certain places, and then had fallen completely away in others. The linen was bunched to her thighs. Her legs were bare. Half her breast was bare.

And he was watching her. Just watching. Beneath the mail she thought that she could see the amused curve of his lip, and she was suddenly furious. So she'd had a few dreams. And perhaps she had been a bit of a clinging vine in the night. That was his fault! He had brought her here, and forced her to stay here. But the fact that he had comforted her certainly gave him no right to watch her so now, with such vast knowledge and amusement! She let out a soft oath, springing upward to gather a brace of fur around her to her chest, and staring back at him with her own eyes snapping fire, her chin raised. "What do you think you are doing!" she cried out.

"Why, my lady! I am watching over you," he said, his tone injured, as if she had done him some grave injustice. "You did not mind it so in the night."

The words were smug. As if they'd shared something great.

"You did not stare at me like this in the night!"

"Nay, my lady. I touched you, a touch so infinitely sweet—"

"Oh, cease! You did not touch me in any such manner. If anything, sir, I touched you—"

"I cherished each and every caress," he exclaimed.

She realized the mistake of her words and swore in aggravation. "You know exactly what I mean!"

"Oh, aye. I do."

She was not going to win. The taunting amusement was there within his voice, and it was going to stay there. She let out a long sigh, and spoke then with the edge of command to her voice, a countess reminding him that the world, their world, was run by class distinction.

"My dear sir, you've no manners, no morals, no chivalry—"

"Lady! I've risked my life for you."

"You've risked your life for gain," she returned swiftly. "You intend to serve Montjoy."

He lifted his hands. "Truly, I am hurt. How many men would have scaled castle walls to combat de la Ville?"

"To rescue a lady—only to turn her over to another?" she said. "After amusing yourself vastly at her expense?"

"The dreams, lady, were yours. I sought only to comfort you."

There was some strange tone to his voice. Some deep note of warning. She was too upset to heed it well.

"All because you expect some return from Montjoy. I'm sure he'll pay you well."

"I'm sure it will depend upon what he determines as your worth, my lady."

"And what have you determined it to be? Surely, you've had time to assess it well!" she told him sharply.

She felt the very slow curl of his smile, and to her dismay, she knew that bloodred rush of color was flying to her cheeks. How he could madden her!

"Well, now, let me see …" he murmured. "Ah, of course, I did not touch you. But those pieces of you that did touch me, hm …"

"Oh!" she cried out, her temper flaring hotly. "Some fine knight you are, sir! I say one might call you the Silver Swine rather that the Silver Sword! Speak, as you seem so adept with words. Tell me! Shall your reward be great?"

To her dismay, he rose. He was an imposing figure, perhaps made even more so by the mystery of the mail. "Montjoy, my lady, is a warrior nobleman, as you are well aware."

"Hungry for power," she replied, disturbed that her words should be so breathless. She was not going to shrink away. Just because the vast bulk of his body towered over hers. Just because she could feel the dangerous vitality and energy of the man. Feel his eyes. Aye, even feel beneath the air in the room the very pounding of his heart, a pulse that went on and on.

Maybe she would shrink away.

She curled her feet beneath her, holding tight to her cover of fur, and shimmying into the corner of the pallet. She kept her head high, despite the fact that she must look absurd, her flesh muddied, her hair tangled, and her form decked in torn clothing—and using a wolf pelt as if it were a protective shield!

"Um," he murmured darkly, and still too close. "I think that the Lord Montjoy will find himself a prize. With such delectable …" He paused, his hand reaching out as if he would touch her cheek. Again, the mail nearly covered his mouth, yet she could sense the depths of his smile. "Very delectable lands," he finished.

She didn't know that she had been holding her breath until she released it in a rush. "You are horrible!"

"For admiring your lands?" he queried, as if hurt.

"You were not admiring my lands!"

"Then?" He lifted his hands. "Ah, lady! You are far too accustomed to adoration. The men in your life have too swiftly fallen to your bidding. You do flatter yourself indeed!"

"Do I? Well, I am sorry that it seems you were forced to stare at me all night when what you were required to witness was so displeasing."

"Displeasing! Why, I derived the greatest pleasure. I watched every twist and turn with deepest fascination! I felt every twist and turn—"

"You just said—"

"Oh, aye! Lord Montjoy is a nobleman who must always look to his back and guard what is his. While I, lady, Silver Swine that I may be, have no need to worry about material gain. And I, lady, found the night to be entirely engaging!"

She cried out in frustration, swearing softly. "Will you please get away! I swear, if you do not take care, I shall see to it that Montjoy hangs you!"

"But you don't even wish to wed the man!"

"I abhor the thought. And I will not marry him."

"But you won't mind asking the man to hang me?"

"Not in the least."

"If you don't marry him, how will you get him to honor such a gruesome request?"

Her anger won out. She cared not for her appearance, and really, what did it matter? They'd spent the long night together. With all her might, she threw the fur at him.

Despite the sayings, fur did not fly well at all. He lifted a hand, laughing, and the fur fell to the pallet before her, and she was left with nothing.

Suddenly, his laughter faded. She was near naked again. Slim yet delectably curved. Beautiful, bewitching. He stepped back. "Lady, take my cloak." He swept it from his shoulders and gave it to her. He walked back to the fire, using a piece of wood to stoke the dying embers. "If you wish to rise, do so. I'll show you where you can bathe."

"Bathe?" Delighted, she leaped to her feet, the heavy cloak about her exceptionally comforting. Silver Swine. He liked to tease and taunt. He was no great rich Norman baron, and perhaps, in his way, coveted those things that could not be his.

He had saved her from de la Ville. And he had given her comfort in the night. Despite her anger with him and the fact that he could so easily bring her temper rushing to the fore, she was suddenly a bit more grateful. His words were one thing. He was still a man of a certain honor. He was intriguing.

He had held her through the night, but he had done so honorably, despite his words.

Maybe he was expecting some great reward from Montjoy. He couldn't have expected much reward when he had saved the peasant girl in the forest, and he had risked death then, too.

None of his virtues—or lack of them—really mattered right now. Not when he was offering her what she wanted more than anything in the world at the moment. A bath.

"Lady, you are easily pleased," he said, studying her.

"I feel that I am wearing half a moat, sir."

"I shared your bed. And I am the Silver Swine, remember? Perhaps I might try to share your bath."

"I do not dream, sir, while I bathe. You'll have no need to comfort me."

"Ah, but you forget. I am wearing the other half of the moat."

"If you don't intend to allow me this simple and easy pleasure—" She broke off suddenly, then, with his heavy cloak wrapped around her, she took a step toward him. He was so covered by the mail and his tunic that she wasn't at all sure how she knew, but suddenly she was certain that she did. He was not wearing half of the moat any longer.

"You've been bathing!" she accused him. She didn't know why she was so outraged. Except that he was already free from the muck and the slime that still clung to her.

"I wished to ask you to join me, but by morning, you were sleeping like one dead," he told her. "Then I wondered if you might be one of those poor souls convinced that the devil would take your body if you were to immerse it all at once. I can't offer you a tub, my lady. Or scented soap from the provinces of France. But just beyond our doorway there does lie an exceptional brook. The water is cold, but the sun is peeking through—"

"I care not what the water is, or if you wish to torment me to tears," she informed him with her nose high but a slight curl to her lips. "Lead onward!"

"Aren't you afraid that I shall find you irresistible and seek to join you?"

She paused for a moment, her hands on her hips, and studied him as if with great care.

"I think not."

"And why is that?"

"Because Montjoy is known to be aggressive in the extreme. I wouldn't need to ask him to hang you."

"You seem to know him very well."

She shrugged uneasily. "We've met. And I assure you, sir, I was unimpressed with his manner. He is rough and ruthless, with no more finesse than those ancestors of his who first invaded this place. You would take your life in your own hands were you to come too close!"

"But I've already scaled great walls for you! Taken my sword against a multitude on your behalf! Why should I fear any other man?"

"But you saved me specifically for Montjoy, or so you told me," she pointed out.

"Perhaps I did it for Robin."

She inhaled sharply, watching him. What could one gain from studying the face of a man in a mask of mail?

"Did you?" she asked him softly.

His answer seemed long in coming, and when it did, it was curt. "Nay. I saved you for Montjoy."

He turned from her. "If you will follow me, my lady, I will show you to the brook. As you have ascertained, I have already bathed. I will be near—"

"To watch over me?" she suggested softly.

"To watch over you. But most certainly, you may enjoy your bath in peace." He swirled about again, offering her a deep and mocking bow. "That is, of course, unless Montjoy should arrive."

"What?"

Soft laughter curled around her. "After all, my lady, we are on Montjoy's lands even now. So you are quite safe from any unwanted attentions. Except, of course, for his attentions, that is. Should he be so rude as to appear."

Once again, he turned abruptly to lead the way out. With her heart racing, Kat followed.

She had suspected that they were on Montjoy's land.

"Wait! Is he going to appear?"

The Silver Sword had no answer. He was walking onward.

"He had best not appear!" she muttered fiercely. But her fingers were trembling, and she clenched them together tightly, and she added a silent prayer. Please, dear God! Don't let him appear!

Please …!