Chapter 10

S HE HADN'T REALIZED IN the night what a beautiful place they had come to.

The land was completely carpeted in deep, rich green, with strong trees that reached high to the sky where the branches formed great arbors. Sweet, rich grasses grew beneath the trees and led the way down a nearby embankment to a delightful winding curve of water. It was a large brook, dancing its way over a multitude of rocks and boulders, creating tiny falls here and there and enchanting little pools by the embankment. To her further delight, the embankment became gravelly rather than muddy, and the water was exceptionally clear and clean-looking.

With his great cape about her shoulders, she had left him on the pathway, running ahead, gasping with delight. Then, as she turned around, she saw that her escort had disappeared. He had, indeed, intended to leave her in peace.

She stared after him for long moments, thinking. He was not so bad a man. His words were outrageous, but despite them, his actions were chivalrous. She was safe with him. Safe from de la Ville, or anyone else Prince John determined might be made to pay for her.

She looked from the trail into the beautiful green of the forest. Still, he had been well and good the night before. He had arrived in the nick of time. But he was right about Montjoy. She didn't want to marry the man, and didn't intend to do so. Not until she managed to see Richard herself and throw herself—tearfully, of course—at his feet. So even if she would be just a little bit sorry, it seemed that she needed to escape the Silver Sword.

She was on Montjoy's land. She had to get off it.

If ever she meant to escape, now was the time. She couldn't even see him anymore.

Carefully, she paused a moment longer. Then she turned northward along the water, getting her bearings from the sun that filtered green and dropped down upon her from the canopy of the branches. If she just walked to the northwest, she could come through Robin's territory. Or her own, she thought with a chill. Montjoy's lands actually bordered hers in the southeast corner here.

Still, she wasn't sure about going home. She must find Robin first. Then she could try to use the tunnel and pray that the door might be unjammed! So that she could go home secretly, until she knew what had happened at the castle.

She looked up the pathway one more time, then sprinted directly into the woods, holding the cape tightly to her body lest it snag on the branches. Within minutes it seemed that she was completely within the sanctuary of the trees. She was certain that she could no longer be seen. If she just kept her eyes on the sun …

It worked for what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes. The beautiful, gentle, shielding trees were filled with barbed branches. She stepped on tree limbs and on twigs. She swore. She paused, holding an injured foot and trying to blow on the pain where she had bruised it against a rock.

Weary, she sat. She'd come through enough forests.

But usually she wore shoes!

She started off again, finding her way through one of the narrow trails to the road. She discovered that things went much better. Still, her feet were very sore.

She had been gone long enough for the Silver Sword to realize that she had left him, she knew. And once she had reached that point, every little noise behind her made her ready to jump out of her skin.

Certain that she heard a rustle of branches, she plunged back into the trees, running too wildly. She tripped over a fallen branch and went sprawling, landing right in a mud pool. And even as she came to her feet, sputtering, it seemed that the forest had become dead silent once again.

She couldn't go on the way she was. She had to make her way deeper through the trees to the brook at this end of the forest and clean her face enough so that she could see. Struggling, tripping, swearing, grabbing at branches that threatened to slap her in the face, she slowly made her way to the water. On the embankment she fell to her knees, cupped some water, and washed the mud from her face. Then, as her eyes cleared, she stared into the brook and let out a startled scream. There, reflected in the rippling mirror image, was the Silver Sword. He was mounted on his ebony horse and seemed comfortable, completely at ease—and monstrously powerful so high above her.

"My lady, I have never seen anyone take so circuitous a route before in all my life!" he told her. "First that difficult walk directly through the foliage. Then that canter down the trail only to plunge into a mudhole."

She leaped up, hands clenched to her sides. "You followed me? All that way?"

"Well, of course." She could sense his eyes narrowing. "I am watching over you, remember? I could hardly claim to do so were I to let you out of my sight."

"You followed me! All the way. You could have stopped me at any minute?" Furious, she charged him suddenly, heedless of his size and his great horse. She slammed a fist against his thigh. "You let me wreck my feet! And plummet into that mud! When you had me all the while?" She slammed a fist against his side again, and then again, and then suddenly both of her fists were flailing wildly against the hard-muscled wall of his thigh.

"Whoa!" he called sharply. But she didn't listen. She vented her frustration against him recklessly until she could do so no longer because he had determined to reach for her.

Then suddenly she was rising. Her bruised feet no longer touched the ground. For a brief moment she was lifted high enough to see the sharpness of his eyes beneath the mail helmet, then she was being laid flat over the front of the saddle.

"Wait!" she cried breathlessly.

"Oh, I think not!"

He didn't intend to wait. She tried to struggle up, but the great ebony horse was in motion, splashing through the water and back up the brook. Kat pushed against the animal's taut shoulders and the man's thigh once again, just trying to see where they were going. It was difficult. She was encompassed in the cloak, draped over the horse's shoulder and the Silver Sword's thigh, and blinded by the tangle of her own hair.

"Let me down!" she demanded. He ignored her. "Let me down now!" Still, no word from him. "Oh, I hope you rust to pieces!" she cried out. "I hope that mail rusts right over your face. And over your chest. And every single little thing that protrudes from your body—"

"From what?" he said incredulously.

"From—nothing! Just let me down!" She pressed against him again, trying to see.

But even as she struggled up, she gasped suddenly.

She had tried so hard! She had cut and wounded her feet, plowed through foliage and branches!

And she had barely come a stone's throw from the hunter's cottage she had so recently left. Even now she could see the very path from which she had first taken flight.

"I am shocked," he told her, "simply shocked that such an exquisite, poised young noblewoman would be so very familiar with protrusions."

"I'm not! Really. I'm just very indignant. Let me down!"

"One would imagine that you might be contrite."

"I am contrite. Immensely contrite."

"You're sorry you've been caught, my lady, and nothing more."

"All right!" she flared. "I'm incredibly sorry that I've been caught!"

He was silent. And the longer he was silent, the more nervous she became.

"I am back! You can let me down now!" she cried out, trying to twist free.

The ebony horse came to a halt.

"If you'll just let me—"

"I thought you wanted a bath."

"I do. I'm dying for a bath."

"Then you shall have one."

She gasped again sharply as he gave her a little shove. It sent her flying from the back of the horse to land in the shockingly cold three feet of water directly before the horse's hooves. It closed over her head and she rose, sputtering, furious, and scarcely able to breathe.

And still she staggered to her feet. "Why you—" she began, seeking the energy to pummel his thigh once again. "Oaf! Bastard!" she cried. Then she went on with a number of more guttural and colorful oaths, slamming her palms against his thigh all the while. As she ranted, he stared at her. Then suddenly, he thundered out in reply. "Enough! Indeed, my lady, I have had quite enough!"

Quite suddenly, she found herself in retreat. Dragged down by the weight of the cape, she staggered backwards as he dismounted from the horse and came striding through the water, intent upon reaching her once again.

"Wait!" She cast out a hand as she walked away from him. "Get away from me. Don't you even think of coming any closer. I'm warning you, you had best get away! I mean every word that I'm saying, do you understand? I—" She broke off because he had reached her at last. Because his hands were on her shoulders and his hold was very fierce.

"Let go of me! Now!"

"I don't think so. Certainly not now."

"You can't hurt me—"

"I don't intend to hurt you."

"You can't have—"

"I can have whatever I've the power to take, lady!"

For the briefest of moments, she was mesmerized. Caught within his hold, staring into his eyes, fascinated by what might lie beneath the mesh and mail that masked his face from her.

Then he was pulling her inexorably to him. She felt the startling coolness of that fine mesh mail as it touched her face.

"No!"

"Yes!"

And against that coolness, she felt the sudden, shocking heat of his mouth as his lips touched hers.

Wild, but furious and frightened, she tried to twist from his grasp upon her. She struggled fiercely. His hands were hard upon her, and his body pressed closer to hers. She couldn't breathe. She tried to pummel him with her fists, amazed at the sense of heat that was pervading her, surely, swiftly. She was not giving in, she told herself. She was not.

But the heat was lulling. And along with the fury and the fear she was discovering that something new grew within her at his touch.

Excitement …

She didn't know when she ceased to struggle. She never meant to do so. She would have said that she would have fought him to the death, and she would have meant it.

But it was different when he touched her. Different when the sure heat seemed to build to an incredible fire. A blaze that coerced and seduced. A kiss that went on and on.

Instinctively she pressed against him. Her hands had no effect. His arms crushed her hard against his body. His fingers wound into the hair at her nape, holding her head still as his mouth covered hers. With amazement she felt the subtle play as his lips formed around hers. Felt the ruthless thrust as her lips were parted. Then all the warmth was inside her mouth, flooding her, as his tongue played a hungry havoc there, tasting, teasing, exploring, dueling intimately with her own.

She should have been fighting still. Fighting and struggling until the waters closed over her head, until death itself claimed her.

Nay, she could fight no longer …

For the searing warmth of his fire upon her lips seemed to spread. Despite the coolness of the brook, the ravaging movement of his lips and tongue brought flames and heat to leap throughout her body. Her breath was gone, her strength was stolen. She was locked within his hold, and captured, too, within a heady fascination. Again, his hands were moving. Caressing her nape. Stroking forward, sliding between their bodies. His fingers closing around her breast beneath the cape, over the thin film of linen there. She felt the roughness of his palm over the hardened peak of her nipple and a gasp formed in her throat, one that he silenced quickly with the intensity of his kiss. The fire then seemed to burst at an intimate point between her thighs, and then, more shocked at herself than at him, she let out a strangled sound, fighting him in earnest. Shaking, trembling, she tried to twist from his kiss, escape from his hold.

Yet she could not do so. Not unless he chose to let her go.

His head rose from hers, eyes blazing briefly into her own. He did not drop her this time but set her cleanly away from him, and she was almost certain that he trembled himself as he did so. The cape had fallen away and floated toward shore. She was shivering fiercely in the remnants of her linen nightgown as she stared at him across the few feet of water.

He pointed to her gown. She glanced down, coloring as she realized that in this dazzling green forest light the material had given completely, her breast was exposed, the mound full and ivory, her nipple a dusky dark hue, hardened by the cold, by his touch …

She cried out softly, reaching for the fallen material. She pulled it up, but it did no good, for she might as well have been naked, the way that the material clung to her body. Everything about her was visible. The rouge peaks of her breasts, the curve of her hip, the triangle at her thighs.

"Most enchanting, my lady!" The words were to mock her, she was certain. Yet he seemed in pain himself, anguished, tense.

He had caused it!

Blindly, both hurt and angry, she raised her hand, determined to strike him, and strike him hard. Her blow did not fall. He caught her wrist. She gritted her teeth against the pain.

"Take your bath!" he ordered.

"Go to hell!"

"Lady," he said softly, "Fear not—I am there!"

Then he turned from her and strode to the shore.

Kat felt her throat go dry, the rampant beating of her heart beginning to find a more normal pace. All her energy left her and she sank into the cold water, praying for its cleansing touch. But even as she rose to breathe, she found herself touching her lips, feeling the pressure of his there still. And she tried to tell herself that she was indignant and angry and that he'd had no right, certainly no right. She hated him, loathed him. Aye, she did!

Yet no matter what she claimed, what she felt was a startling sense of awe and wonder. Come cold! Come seep into me! she thought in silence, sinking into the water again. What was the matter with her? The rough stranger had swept into her life, a double-edged savior, entirely rude, and nearly barbaric. And still his touch had awakened sensations in her that she hadn't begun to dream might exist, all the while holding her here for another man. She should despise him.

She did. Surely she did.

How could she despise a man who had scaled castle walls to come for her? Who had entered into a den of danger, blood and death, on her behalf?

Ah, for mercenary reasons …

Nay, not that alone, for she had seen him in the forest. She had seen him race into another arena of danger to rescue the peasant girl, heedless of the fact that he thundered in against royalty. No matter what his manners, no matter how recklessly he liked to tease and taunt her, there were decent things about this man. There was a sense of justice about him. That very thing that their world seemed to be lacking since Henry had died and Richard had gone. Honor.

Still, the man was impossible! How dare he kiss her and touch her and torment her so boldly?

She groaned softly, remembering the hot sensations his kisses had evoked in her, and slipped into the water once again. It surged over her head and she threaded her fingers through the flow of her hair, shaking her head to loosen the tresses. Then she rubbed her hands along her arms and legs, trying to sluice away any of the dried mud that might have remained on her.

She rose again, now shivering fiercely from the coolness of the water. She looked to the shore, but she didn't see him anywhere. Continuing to search the surrounding forest, she saw him come near the water again. He was carrying a coarse wool blanket for her and stood at the water's edge, watching her, waiting to wrap her in it.

She rose, walking out of the water, meeting his eyes and lifting her chin as she strode toward him. The wet torn fabric of her nightdress clung to her like a second skin. She didn't bother to wrap her arms around herself in any way because her arms couldn't cover all that the gown displayed. She walked toward him and did not turn until she was just before him, feeling the shadowed but potent fire of his gaze.

She spun around then, and he wrapped the blanket about her shoulders. He left her on the shore, wading out to retrieve his cape, now drifting in the water. He threw it over a pile of rocks to dry.

"There's a new fire blazing inside. Go dry yourself before it," he said, not glancing her way.

She watched him curiously. "And where will you dry yourself, sir?"

"In the sun."

"There is not much of it."

"Then, as you wished, my lady, I will rust."

"I am not afraid of you, you know," she informed him. "You can cast aside that mail and come in, too."

He swore, spinning to her. "Damn you! Go inside!"

"Why are you so angry with me! You caused this situation, not I!"

"Nay, lady, I did not! I merely went out of my way to scale walls to rescue you. I battled strangers, and I drew their blood. I dived into a moat."

"You sought to drown me, I believe!"

"Which seemed preferable, drowning or de la Ville?"

Her cheeks pinkened, but she stood her ground. "De la Ville, Montjoy—you. What difference does it make when a man intends to have what he will?"

He moved toward her quickly and grabbed her shoulders. "What difference, lady? Oh, I pray that you never discover it!"

She started trembling, instinctively aware that he was very right. She had been goading him. She had wanted him to strip away the mask and reveal himself to her.

And she should stay away. And she should be grateful.

Her lower lip began to tremble, and she caught it with her teeth, looking up to him. "De la Ville is a monster," she whispered. "I know it, I've heard it, I've even felt it—"

"What?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "I've felt the evil in him, when he's touched my hand. When he's looked my way. But what of Montjoy? He is probably not much better, don't you see?"

His hands fell from her shoulders. "He would never hurt you," he told her simply.

"He is a Norman, just—"

"Your father was a Norman lord, just the same, my fine damsel," he reminded her with a grate to his voice.

"My father was different!" she whispered.

"Different, aye, your father was different, but a Norman lord! There are other men like him. Men who admired him for his mercy and his strength."

Kat frowned suddenly. Maybe the Silver Sword had given away something at last. He had spoken of her father very familiarly.

"You knew him," she said suddenly. "You knew my father!"

"I didn't say—"

"You did! You knew him. I heard it in your voice. Why are you lying to me?"

"All right, I knew your father."

"And you're a Saxon, a Silver Sword. The great sword of Saxon justice!" It would have been unthinkable for an outlaw like the Silver Sword to have known her father unless he had been the outlaw in the forest that day who had saved her father's life. She gasped, her eyes growing wide. "My God!" she whispered. "You were in the forest. It was spring. My father had just returned from a campaign. De la Ville was there. He was very young. He was with his father. And his father had ordered that a young villain's hand be severed for poaching and that the Saxon lad's father be hanged for the offense. My father interfered, and the de la Villes would have killed him—would have killed us all perhaps! But there was a bowsman in the forest. And a rain of arrows sent them flying. And it—it was you!"

"I am the Silver Sword, my lady. Robin Hood is the great archer."

"But it was you! You have been around for years and years! The legend, that is, but the legend was real."

"My lady, I am not all that ancient!"

"But shortly after that terrible incident in the forest people began to talk of the Silver Sword. From then on the legend came alive."

He waved a hand impatiently. He was silent for a moment, admitting nothing. Then he continued.

"My lady, you have confused all Normans with the perversions and greed of John Plantagenet. Not all barons in the land are so licentious or cruel or grasping. Perhaps you should give Montjoy a chance."

"You are trying to make me forget something that will never leave my mind. Tell me the truth."

"There is nothing to tell you."

"I will not say another word about anything else unless you admit to being the mysterious archer that day."

He sighed. "What difference does it make now?"

"Admit it."

"Fine. I shall admit it, whether it is truth or not, so that we may get on with this. What is your difficulty with Montjoy? Why are you so against him?"

"You forget! I know him!"

"And he stands judged and damned?"

"Damned, truly."

Her sodden knight let out another irritated oath. "I tell you again—he would not hurt you."

She inhaled and exhaled on a soft sigh, disturbed to feel a rampant beating of her heart again, a breathlessness as she stared at him, feeling the warmth of his body emanating toward her, seeming to sweep around her with its vitality.

So they had been saved by the Silver Sword once before …

"Talk to me, my lady!"

"Perhaps he is not so vile a man as de la Ville. But Richard has offered me to him. He wants the castle. He wants the land. I come with them. And men—men do want heirs. Therefore, he will want a wife, and it will not matter if she is willing—or not. Deny that," she challenged him.

He threw up his hands. "Indeed, lady. He will want a wife. But not one to torture or abuse. Merely one to mold to a proper—"

"One to command and tame!" she retorted.

"I tell you, he is a just man. And where, my lady, did you ever learn that you would have a choice about marriage? Thank God that Richard lives, and that John's rise to the throne is not an assured thing, for he could demand that you marry de la Ville, and no man on this earth could change that command! You will marry Montjoy, and that is the way it is!"

He turned away from her abruptly. He walked back to the large rock where he had laid his cape and turned around, taking a seat upon it. "Lady Katherine, go inside. I beg of you. You wear us both down."

"I'm not worn in the least—in fact, sir, if you were not so impossible, I would be somewhat in awe. You see, I will never forget that day. Or cease to thank the man who saved my father's life."

"If you are not worn, I am, my lady. And I swear, I will make it hard for you if you choose to tire me even more!"

She sighed with exasperation, then turned and headed for the cottage.

Inside, a fire blazed warmly once again.

Something was laid over one of the chairs. Curiously, she walked to it and found a lady's robe. The material was some of the softest linen she had ever touched, and rimming the neckline and the whole hem was a fur as fine and pure a white as the material of the robe.

He had left it for her, obviously. But where had he found it?

She spun around the cottage then and felt a shiver seize her. She pulled back the hand she had been about to place upon the gown.

This was Montjoy's property. The gown belonged to some woman Montjoy brought here. A woman he brought deep into the woods for secret trysts.

Lady or whore? Kat wondered, stepping back. She didn't want to be Montjoy's wife, and she didn't want to touch the cast-off clothing of one of his mistresses.

Yet neither did she want to parade around naked. Still, she didn't touch the fabric. She sat before the fire, pulling the rough wool blanket around her shoulders. She had been so cold. Slowly, the fire warmed her.

The door opened, and she didn't turn around. The Silver Sword had come back, she knew.

He was silent for a moment. Then he said curiously, "I left you something to wear other than that blanket."

"So I saw."

"It was not to your liking?"

"I don't care for the cast-off clothing of Montjoy's whores," she said coolly.

At first, she was not surprised by his lack of response. Then she was stunned to realize that he was so silent because he was striding toward her furiously. He wrenched her back to her feet. The blanket fell away, and she met him clad in her nearly dry but well-frayed nightgown.

He had cast off his sheath of body mail, and wore only his shirt and chausses—and the mask and helmet of mail. Somehow the lack of that body mail made him all the more formidable and powerful. She could feel the length of him. His legs were solid, his hips and belly lean and taut. She felt the ripple of muscle beneath his tunic and the sword-wielding power of his arms.

Hot with fury and emotion, he pulled her too close, his fingers biting into her. "Just who, my lady, do you think yourself to be? Some ungodly prize?"

"Let go of me!" she cried, truly alarmed, fingers pressing furiously against his chest. How could he have been the mysterious man in the woods? How could he be so very decent one moment, and so hard and arrogant the next? "Who do you think you are! Some luckless, landless knight—pretending to do good! Seeking what reward—"

"This isn't about me! You are not worthy to kiss the little toe of the lady that wore that robe before!"

"His wh—"

He almost struck her. His hand raised and she cried out quickly. "Nay!"

She could hear the grating of his teeth as he fought his temper. His hand fell. She was silent, watching him. Had he struck her with such violence, she would surely have been cast across the room.

She moistened her lips, amazed at his fury. How well did he know Montjoy?

Or this woman of Montjoy's who he so idolized?

"My lady, go naked then!" he said angrily. And once again she saw the movement of his hand. It fell against the tattered bodice of her nightgown and tore hard at the fabric. Already worn and ripped, the gown gave with a little flutter of sound, and lay at her feet.

She gasped and swallowed hard, this time allowing her arms to wind around her as she backed away.

But he wasn't even glancing at her body. His eyes held hers. Then he turned away again, walking back to the door.

She hated him at that moment. She wanted to throw something at him. No, she wanted to rush after him, to beat him furiously with her fists.

She didn't dare. She didn't dare come so close in her naked state.

She watched as he stood at the door, his shoulders squaring. Then he turned again, his gaze flickering over her as she reached down for the blanket to wrap around herself once again.

He bowed very deeply. "My apologies, my lady. My temper is very quick to peak with you, so it seems." He was silent for a moment, and to Kat's annoyance, she felt her own fury slipping away. Maybe it was the feel of his eyes now. The way they moved over her. He said things to her that …

That he didn't mean.

He cared for her in some way. Even if it was only desire.

And even if she wasn't worthy to kiss the toe of the woman who had owned the white robe before.

Perhaps he cared for her in his way because he had known and honored her father.

And perhaps she needed to bend just a little.

With the blanket hugged about her, she inclined her head slightly, a regal gesture. "My apologies, sir, if I offended you. I am being forced—by everyone, so it seems!—to marry this man. You will understand if I do not care for the belongings of his women."

"It did not belong to his ‘women,' as you say, Katherine. It belonged to his first betrothed. The Lady Alyssa Albright."

Katherine gasped. "And he came here with Alyssa? And they—" she broke off, her cheeks flooding red again. They had been lovers? When Montjoy had always appeared to be cast of steel and stone, impatient to do battle, to ride with the King, as seemed their Norman way. What could Alyssa have seen in him?

"Cast aspersions upon the memory of Alyssa Albright, my lady, and you will truly risk my temper."

She was quiet for a moment, watching him. "You do serve Montjoy in some way," she said. It wasn't an accusation, it was a statement of certainty. "And it seems to me, sir, that you were in love with his betrothed yourself."

He shifted his stance, and she almost felt the rush of heat and violence that seemed to exude from him. She raised a hand. "Nay, don't take offense from me on this matter, sir! I admired Alyssa greatly myself. And if the robe was hers, sir, then gladly will I clad myself in it."

He bowed deeply to her. His temper seemed to have come under control after he heard her last softly spoken words.

She wished so desperately that she could see the shape and contours of his face, and read the emotions upon it. But the helmet and mask of mail had been well designed for the purpose of subterfuge. His eyes were always shadowed by the steel of the helmet. The intricate mail mesh fell just above his mouth, and hung so that not, even the shape of his lips could be clearly discerned.

Yet she could remember so vividly the feel of them!

Had Alyssa known that this knight was in love with her? Had she returned those emotions? Poor, beautiful Alyssa! So stunning and sweet a woman, taken from life and beauty by the same fever that had taken Kat's parents. It was a frightening life, even without the likes of a de la Ville at one's heels.

But Alyssa had been loved. Really loved. By this man. The Silver Sword. Kat had seldom heard such passion in the words of a man.

"Well, I am glad that you are determined to cover up at last, my lady," he said softly. "For I do swear, lady, whatever your heart and mind, there are other things within a man, above and beyond his temper, that you do manage to bring to a peak!"

She didn't know whether to smile or to take offense.

Or to allow the strange feeling of heat to come through her again, as it threatened with just the touch of his eyes, and the intimate implication of his words.

It didn't matter. He was leaving her.

"I shall see to procuring something to eat," he said briefly. "I will be back."

The door closed behind him. She stood there, feeling the warmth of the blaze from the fire.

And that other strange warmth.

Then she suddenly ran across the room, dropping the blanket, sweeping up Lady Alyssa's robe and slipping it swiftly over her head.

He would be back.

A man far more dangerous than de la Ville, though he couldn't possibly know it. De la Ville could threaten her person. Never her soul. While this man …

She trembled slightly.

This man might well steal a section of her heart.