Chapter 7

S HE HIT THE WATER with astounding force, and then it seemed that she did die. Perhaps she blacked out. Perhaps the darkness of the water was simply so deep that for blissful seconds, she was able to think that she had lost consciousness.

Not long enough.

The awful, biting cold wrapped around her even as the force of their descent brought her pitching deeper and deeper into the icy black water along with the lunatic knight-errant. It encompassed her. Cold, so cold, a suffocating blanket that crushed her lungs until they were seared, that set chilling fingers of dark death upon her. Yet even as she thought that she would sink downward into the frigid black hell forever, he managed to stop their descent. Something other than the cold touched her, reaching out to feather along her legs. They had neared the bottom of the moat. The mud and the muck and the green slime were just beneath her, tendrils of plants, snakes perhaps …

A scream formed in her throat. She almost opened her mouth to let it tear from her, but some instinct warned her just soon enough that she might well die in the effort.

And they did not touch bottom. Despite the weight of the fine mesh mail he wore, he gave a mighty kick, and Katherine became aware that they were heading back toward the surface once again.

Had they really come so far down? They broke the surface. She gasped, desperate now for air to fill her lungs. He still held her with one hand; with the other he was treading water, keeping them both afloat.

"There! There!" someone cried from above them. "I see them emerging! There!"

"Where the hell are the archers?" someone else shouted.

"Shoot! Shoot! There in the water."

"Nay! You'll strike the lady!"

"Shoot, and be damned!" came the last cry.

Her eyes widened. They would kill her in this blood lust and fury.

"Jesu, swim!" he commanded, and she was suddenly swirling in the awful cold, barely able to move her limbs, which were entangled in the tattered remnants of her nightdress. Her teeth were chattering and her limbs were refusing to obey any commands from her mind. "Are you daft, woman, they mean to kill you!"

"And so do you, it seems!" she lashed back at last.

"Mother of God!" he exclaimed. "Am I cursed this eve? You cannot swim!"

"What?" she countered swiftly, indignantly. She was freezing. The horrid, swirling black and frigid waters of the moat were all around her. And he was bemoaning her talents!

"Damnation!" He let out the sharp expletive. "So you cannot swim, is that it? I'll tow you."

He was trying to pull her more tightly against his body. She let out a sharp oath herself, wrenching free from him. "Oaf! I can swim! Take your hands off me, and I will manage very well!"

It was better to swim. Better to move. The cold was still with her; she could scarcely feel her fingers. But even as she strove with all her power to progress through the frigid water, she felt a spark of warmth and life returning to the center of her body, like a promise that her fingers would find sensation somewhere, sometime, again.

Anger, too, spurred her on. An anger not abated by the fact that her knight-errant kept an easy pace with her, watching for her to falter any second, even as the shouts continued all around them, fading now as they began to make good their escape.

She would not falter, she swore violently to herself. She would not give this madman a chance to touch her again.

But even as the vow came to her heart, a gasp left her lips, for she reached the shoreline of the moat and her toes floundered into the sticky mud and all the growth there. Men wanted to kidnap or kill her, she reminded herself fiercely. They wanted to hand her over to Raymond de la Ville, and this stranger could probably never realize just how dire a fate that might be.

And still …

She couldn't quite manage to make her feet find the bottom.

"Hurry!"

"I am hurrying!"

And she was, but not fast enough, apparently. He was standing, and despite her best resolves, he was reaching for her, sweeping her up like a wayward child, holding her first by the middle, then tossing her carelessly over his shoulder as he strode through the mud, taking them from the waters of the moat.

The cold night air seemed to hit her then like a blow. Tears stung her eyes as her sodden hair and clothing clung to her closely, adding to her chill. She wanted to escape the man, but she could barely balance against his shoulder as he strode swiftly through the night, carrying them from the open ground before the castle toward the trees of the forest.

"You can … let me … down!" she gasped desperately. The fine mail he wore was wet and frigid in the cold air, biting against her hands and the length of her body. She couldn't see. He was moving so swiftly. Her hair and the night breeze were blinding her, and she was aware only that they were covering a broad distance with startling speed and that she was being carried away from her home and toward a deep and chilling darkness.

And she was freezing. And half naked. Humiliated and near dead!

"Put me down!" she cried out again. Who was this man, and where was he taking her?

"As you wish it!"

She was suddenly, and none too gently, deposited upon the ground. He stood above her, panting, shrouded by the darkness of the night.

"How dare you—" she began. But she was quickly checked as his sodden-gloved hand appeared before her in a warning gesture.

"I am running in mail, lady, to begin with. And as delicate as you may appear, your added weight was no great boon to me."

"Well, indeed, sir, who ever asked you to carry me!"

"We hadn't the time to wait for you to decide to let your little toe touch the mud."

"Bravely and well spoken, for a man in leather boots!"

"Lady, you have just been rescued. Not that I was seeking laurels, but a simple thank-you—"

"Rescued! You near drowned me! And now you seek to freeze me—"

She broke off with no interruption from him, for suddenly they both heard a new voice shouting in the night.

"I bloody well know that they came into the forest! We must find her, else de la Ville will have our heads! And that wretched intruder must be stopped! He brought down near a full score of our number!"

Her eyes widened.

Truth, at last. He was not one of their number.

Aye, she was easily and quickly furious with this knight, but at the very least, he did not intend to hand her over to de la Ville. She started to rise, but before she could do so on her own, he had swept her up once again, and tossed her over his shoulder.

"If you would just—" she began in a soft hiss, trying to rise upon his shoulder.

"My lady—" he began politely enough. But then he continued, "Shut the bloody hell up!" He spoke like a commander on a battlefield. Then one of his long strides sent his shoulder jutting into her belly and her breath was stolen and she really had no other choice.

Branches and twigs tore at her hair as he hurried swiftly along the forest trail. Once again, it was all that she could do to manage to find her balance and hold tight to him as he moved. Then it seemed that they burst out into a small cove, and a soft, low whistle sounded from his lips. Katherine heard a movement in the brush, and her heart seemed to cease to beat for a moment. She struggled up on his shoulder, turning just in time to see a horse nearly as dark as the night prance as delicately as a kitten into the center of the small clearing.

She slid down the length of the knight, the fabric of her nightdress catching against the mail on his chest. She snatched it free, her cheeks reddening in the darkness. He didn't seem to notice, indeed, his attention was now concentrated on the horse that stood before them.

"Good boy," he crooned to the animal, his voice suddenly soft and tender. Katherine felt a shiver sweep along her spine. What would a woman feel, she wondered, if this dark and dangerous man were to speak so gently to her.

"Come on, my lady, here! We've still miles to travel this night!" Again, his voice grated. Katherine gritted her teeth. Had she really been rescued? Or had she escaped one nightmare to enter another?

"Wait!" He was not one of their number, she was certain of that at last. But who was he? And just where did he intend to take her? "If you'll just—"

But he wouldn't. Impatiently he lifted her again, tossing her up on the black horse, then leaping up behind her with a small clank of metal and steel. His arms wrapped around her as he reached for the reins, and she had to admit that, at the very least, the arrogance of his hold sheltered her somewhat from the cold of the night.

She felt the movement as his heels struck lightly against the horse's flanks, and the huge animal seemed to burst into flight.

"Jesu!" Katherine called out. They would be killed. This reckless knight was commanding his more reckless mount into the trees at a daredevil gait that would kill them all. "You fool!" she cried.

"I can leave you for de la Ville," he reminded her, his voice touching her ear as they raced into the blackness of the forest and beyond.

"At least he'd not have my head loped off by a branch!" she retorted.

"You'll live, my lady. Even if you discover that there is more to life than rich tapestries and fine foods—and your own way with all things!"

"What!"

"I said—"

"I heard you well enough, sir! And I am very aware of life, and how many unfortunates share it with me!" she cried out indignantly, but she wasn't at all sure that he had heard her, for she was speaking into the wind and her words were being thrown back against her own lips. The pounding of the horse's hooves was very loud, the breeze seemed to whistle loudly, and above it all, she was nearly deafened by the slamming of her own heart against her chest. It was a merciless ride. She didn't think she could have held her seat if it was not for his strong arms encircling her. And after a moment, she closed her eyes. She was really an excellent horsewoman herself, simply because she had spent so much time on horseback.

But she had never taken a ride like this one, and the wild and manic zigs and zags they made through the brush and trees was making her dizzy and nearly ill. She would not be sick. Come what may—death itself—she would not be sick. Not before this man. And yet, as they rode, she closed her eyes against the black landscape that threatened to crash into them at any moment.

He had to ride like this, some sense of reason cautioned her. There were men after them that night. If he were truly to bring them to safety, only a bold drive into the very depths of the forest would do.

And still, their force and speed was like nothing she had ever experienced.

Then, so suddenly that she might have pitched over the horse's head if it were not for the man behind her, the great destrier came to a halt.

She dared to open her eyes, swallowing down hard against the bile that had risen in her throat.

"We're here," he said briefly, and dismounted behind her.

So they were here …

Where in God's name was here ?

All around her there was nothing but darkness. They had come to a halt in a copse of trees, and the pale light of the moon lit on nothing more than an occasional branch or leaf.

She was chilled to the bone. Her hair was an awful tangle about her, damp and matted. Her nightdress was nearly dry, but torn and ragged and dirty. Her feet were bare, as frigid as icicles, and surely torn and muddied, too. Her sense of misery was great.

"What is it?" he demanded irritably, swinging back around, his hands on his hips. She still knew so little of him. The mail covered his face except for his mouth and eyes, almost like a glove. The cape that surrounded his shoulders, now dry, added to his vast size. It seemed that he was accustomed to being wet and cold, and didn't seem to understand why she was wretched.

"What is it?" she said sweetly. "Oh, nothing at all. It's really a lovely night for a soaking and a race!" Who was he, anyway?

He was the man she had seen in the forest that very day. He was the miracle that had occurred. He was the rescuer who had thundered from the trees in time to snatch the pretty peasant girl from de la Ville.

He was a legend. A living legend, just like Robin.

The Silver Sword.

And he had come for her tonight, too.

But who was he, really? What manner of man to treat her so carelessly and recklessly. And rudely. Why, she was quite certain that he had dealt far more gently with that poor girl in the woods today.

It was time, perhaps, to remind him that she was the Countess of Ure, King Richard's own ward, and a power in her own right.

"I am cold and wet, sir!" she said sharply.

"Do excuse me, my lady!" he said, sweeping her an exaggerated and courtly bow. "There is more at stake here than your simple comfort for the night."

"I am the Countess of—"

"You are a spoiled child," he said flatly. "Seeking to twist a king around your fingers. You should have been married to some decent baron years ago, and not tempting men like de la Ville. Nonetheless—"

"I am no child, sir," she warned him, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "And don't ever delude yourself upon that fact!" she added icily. But what now? All the warnings in the world couldn't do her much good at this moment. Perhaps he had rescued her, but she was, at this moment, very much his prisoner. And he might well be a lunatic, she decided.

He had saved the girl this afternoon, but that didn't necessarily make him a sound man!

Perhaps he was insane. But maybe that didn't matter now. He was on the ground, and she was on the horse. She could be free from him. If he was sane—and simply rude—she could discover who he was at some later time, and thank him then.

He was the Silver Sword. The man, the legend in the flesh, she reminded herself.

And he had definitely not been with de la Ville's men.

Yet it seemed that he had just traveled blindly into the woods. He had brought her here … to keep her here.

She could be no man's prisoner, she determined. She couldn't afford to be a prisoner. Perhaps he was the Silver Sword. Still, he did not quite know with whom he dealt!

"Lady—"

"Sir, you must be well aware of my importance, else you wouldn't have arrived at the castle tonight. But since I can really trust you no more than I can the creatures who battled their way to my tower, I will bid you adieu for the evening!" She slammed her heels against the horse's flanks.

The great black animal dutifully began to trot through the trees.

Katherine was just congratulating herself upon her escape when a soft whistle sounded in the night.

And the horse came to such a sudden and abrupt halt that she was not in the least prepared.

This time, there was no muscled arm to restrain her. She went flying neatly over the animal's neck and head to land flat on her back before it. Solicitously, it seemed, a black nose came sniffing down at her.

"Damn you!" she whispered to the horse, so winded that it took her a second to try to rise, and then, when she tried, she discovered that she could not.

He had reached her. And when she would have stood, a booted foot landed upon the white and muddied linen of her hem.

She clenched her teeth, fighting the wave of fear that washed over her. She hadn't really realized his size until he towered over her so. He was at least as tall as the King, with arms as heavily muscled, with a physique as taut and corded. He was perhaps half crazy, and now he was very angry as well.

He leaned down low, resting his elbow on his knee as he addressed her. "You'd repay your rescuer by stealing his horse? Why, my lady, how rude!"

He reached out, snatching her hand and pulling her to her feet even as he moved off her clothing. She faced him there in the darkness of the forest, cold and miserable, and very aware of the ferocious heat of his body.

"If I am so rude, and so terrible a spoiled child, why in God's name did you rescue me!"

He released her suddenly, walking away, toward the horse. He spoke to her over his shoulder. "You are not to wed de la Ville. You are to wed another, my lady. So says the King."

Katherine inhaled sharply. "The King?"

"Indeed, my lady. The King."

"Richard is in the Holy Lands—"

"Indeed he is. But he has chosen a husband for you, my lady."

Could it be true? she wondered with amazement. Perhaps it was. Perhaps Richard had decided that she had been humored long enough and he was determined that he would choose for her himself.

Nay. Most likely, Richard owed some knight who had done well for him on his Crusade. She would be the gift, the sacrifice!

"And who has the King decided I should marry?" she demanded, her chin high.

"Damian Montjoy, Count Clifford," he said flatly.

"What?" she whispered.

"Damian Montjoy, Count—"

Katherine hurried up behind him then, slamming a fist against his back. The mail hurt the side of her hand, but she had struck with some force, for he swung on her angrily.

"You're a liar!" she cried, amazed at the fear that had riddled through her body at the words. Montjoy! Suddenly, and all too fiercely, she could remember being within the man's hold. She could remember the feel of the flat of his hand against the curve of her backside, and worse, she could remember the feel of his body against hers.

He hadn't recognized her! Robin had assured her.

He was everything that she hated in the noblemen today; he was Norman; he was autocratic; he was awful!

No, she tried to tell herself. He might be awful, but he was not de la Ville!

Her teeth chattered, and she tried to clamp them tightly together. With a wife he would be like a field commander! Hard, intense. She could still feel the force of his hold upon her that day. Still see the taunting, sensual curve of his smile.

Feel the flat of his hand!

He would demand everything …

She didn't dare dwell on all the aspects of marriage, not now. What was important was the impact that it would have on her life. She would have no freedom. And the Lady Greensleeves had to be free.

Montjoy would never understand. He hadn't seen the lad in the forest. He hadn't heard the screams. He hadn't seen the blood.

She shook her head vehemently. Heedless of his mail, she slammed her fists against the arrogant knight's chest, this time with such a fury that he swore softly, catching her wrists, holding them tight. She ignored his grip, still accusing him.

"You! You are nothing more than a henchman for Montjoy, just as those animals tonight went about on the dirty business of Raymond de la Ville!"

"I honor the King, my lady, and myself, and no other man!" he declared angrily, thrusting her from him. He had undone the saddle girth and now lifted the heavy saddle from his obedient war-horse. He walked away with it, leaving her there to fume in the darkness. She didn't even know where he was going until she realized that there was some kind of thatched-roof structure there, hidden within the trees. By daylight it would be hard to see. By night it was almost impossible to discern.

But even as she stood outside shivering, he opened the door with his shoulder, and disappeared inside with his saddle. A moment later, there was a soft flare of light from within.

Still, stubbornly, Katherine remained outside, shivering.

Montjoy! This night was one nightmare after the other!

She should simply run into the forest. Not on the horse, but on her own feet!

She would not get far, an inner voice warned her.

He appeared again a moment later, striding toward his horse. He paid her scant heed, though, and Katherine realized that he had come back out with a leather bag of grain for his mount. He scratched the animal's ears, then poured grain on the ground. Then he turned and stared at her. As he did so, the clouds in the night sky parted somewhat. Pale moonlight flickered through.

The mail mask even hid much of his eyes, and yet she knew that he studied her keenly. She didn't so much see his gaze as she felt it, sweeping over the length of her. Perhaps it touched her mockingly. And perhaps it touched her …

…with some other emotion.

She was suddenly and keenly very much aware of her state of dress.

Or undress.

The linen of her nightdress had begun to dry, but it was sheer and near tatters now. The bodice was low, and the swell of her breasts rose above it. And as he watched her, she felt, to her great alarm, the hardening of her nipples beneath the fabric. She crossed her arms over her chest, but then realized that the golden triangle at the juncture of her thighs must be at least as apparent as the curves of her breasts. She might as well be naked.

But then he sniffed suddenly, and she felt a red flame rise to her cheeks.

She had assumed that she might be desirable.

He seemed to think that she looked about as desirable as a drowned and sodden rat.

This was ridiculous. She let her arms fall, raising her chin, standing defiantly before him. "Sir, just who in the King's name are you? Or better yet, sir, who is it that you think yourself to be?"

He bowed very deeply, and with a vast exaggeration. "Why, my lady, I thought you knew. I am he they call the Silver Sword."

"Who are you really?"

"No one, my lady. No one really. Just a knight to come in the darkness—and rescue a damsel in distress."