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Chapter 8

T HE SILVER SWORD, INDEED . Just a knight to rescue a damsel in distress.

"I daresay, sir, I am still in distress, so it seems! The Silver Sword, is it, sir? Boys will play at names, will they not? But I am not interested in games and play in the forest, sir. The Silver Sword! It is a silly name, no more. Who are you really? Or again, I dare wonder, just who is it that you think yourself to be?"

He laughed, a soft husky sound that seemed to touch her despite all her enmity—and dignity. He was not duly impressed. "Oh, my lady," he assured her, vastly amused, "I think myself exactly who I am."

"And that is—?"

"I've given you my answer. You don't need to know my given name."

"Or your face, so it seems," she commented dryly.

"Suffice it to say that I serve the King."

"Then beware, for I intend to report to the King exactly what happens this night."

"You can report so far that, despite the wretched problems you caused me—and the fact that I had to battle your sword as well as the blades of those men!—I rescued you this night."

"I believe that I became a damsel in deepest distress the moment you arrived!" she assured him. "I was doing quite well on my own."

"A child playing with steel," he said dismissively.

"Oh, you are impossible!" she cried out, truly affronted. "And what good were you? I could have plunged into the moat by myself, thank you very much!"

"Never," he replied lazily. "You hadn't the courage."

"I am well endowed with courage, knave!" she said indignantly. "I simply do not care for heights."

"Or mud," he added pleasantly.

"Well, it seems I shall grow fond of it then, for I am covered in it still. And I shall grow equally fond of icicles, for they will soon be forming over my nose and toes!"

She was startled when he at last seemed to be aware of her condition, his eyes seeming now much better than hers in the darkness as he focused on her. Then she was sorry that she had spoken, for he was striding across the short distance toward her, and sweeping her up in his arms. "Set me down!" she cried, struggling against the rock-hard muscle of his arm. "I can walk of my own accord—"

"Aye, you'll try to walk right out of the forest," he said wearily.

"And what will it matter?" she cried. "You'll have done your good deed! I am away from de la Ville's men—"

"But you are not yet turned over to the forces of your betrothed," he informed her.

She gasped, ceasing to struggle against him as he bent slightly to bring them both through the doorway of the thatched-roof structure in the forest.

"You mean to keep me a prisoner until we come across Damian Montjoy?"

"You aren't a prisoner, lady. You've been rescued."

"But I—" She broke off quickly. She still couldn't really see his eyes.

"You do serve Montjoy!" she accused him furiously.

He hesitated just a second. "I serve myself, my lady. But Montjoy is the King's baron, a count whose land neighbors your own, and a man to help hold this kingdom together while Richard fights on his bloody Crusades. Pray tell, my lady, what is your difficulty with a man who is the King's own choice?"

"Richard would not command this if I just had the chance to talk with him!" she said.

She suddenly found herself set down roughly on a small stool. He had lit a fire when he had entered the place the first time, and Katherine quickly discerned that they had come to the type of hunting lodge that was common among members of the nobility. She wasn't on her own land anymore, she was certain.

A chill swept through her.

This place probably belonged to Montjoy, Count Clifford.

"Stay here!" he suddenly commanded, then turned again, his black cloak sweeping behind him. The door slammed closed in his wake. Where had he gone now? she wondered.

She couldn't escape him on his horse.

But perhaps her idea about escaping on foot had not been such a bad one. She could eventually find her own way home. And de la Ville's men would be gone by now, and the neighboring barons would have heard of his attempt to kidnap her.

She needn't go home! She need only find Robin.

There might be all manner of places she might run, if she could only escape this knight who had rescued her.

She rose—just as he came back in through the doorway, carrying a leather bucket of water. She felt the sizzle of his gaze upon her as he approached her. A curious heat and a sudden discomfort assailed her. The breadth of his hand fell against her chest as he pressed her back to the stool. Flickers of lightning and unease coursed through her limbs.

"I told you to stay!"

She tossed back her hair. "And I have told you! I am a countess in my own right—oh!" she cried out, startled as he lifted her foot and gently bathed it with a cloth drenched in the clear cold water he had brought in.

The chill swept through her, and a startling pain as he washed the dirt from the myriad tiny cuts she had accrued on her soles. Without thinking, she braced herself against him, her hands upon his shoulders, her teeth biting into her lower lip. He finished with one foot and went on to the other in silence.

She was amazed at the competence and ability of his touch. His hand seemed nearly twice the size of her foot, that size perhaps enhanced by the tight-fitting leather gauntlets he continued to wear. Despite them, she felt a startling warmth to his touch, and a practiced gentleness that she had not expected.

She felt his gaze upon her when he was done, as he said sharply, "You haven't answered me. What is your difficulty with Count Clifford?"

She tossed back her hair, quickly letting her hands slide to her lap.

She hesitated a moment, wondering again just who she spoke with.

Though French was the language of the court—and certainly the language of the King—they had been speaking English, the common language of the Saxon people.

"He is a Norman," she said suddenly, coolly, knowing she owed this man no explanation.

"As is the King," he reminded her.

"But Montjoy is not the King," she told him succinctly. Then she added in a sudden rush, "I met him once," and she did not refer to the day in the forest. "I know the man, you see. I met him years ago. He is brash and arrogant. When he was betrothed to Lady Albright, there was to be a feast and dance at his manor outside London. But there was some argument going on even then between Henry and Richard, and there she was, poor Lady Albright, all alone, while Damian Montjoy ran in and out, determined to mediate between the two. He walked through the hall spouting orders, paused quite indifferently before the woman who was to be his wife, and away he went. Clanging! He was armed to the teeth, so it seemed, with a long sword hanging on one side and a short sword hanging from the other. I tell you, he may think himself a courtly fellow with his great Norman lineage and his friendship with the King, but he is nothing short of rude and barbaric!"

"And you gained this all from the one meeting with the man?" he asked seeming to be amused once again. Yet there was an edge to his voice. Almost as if he accused her of lying. "He loved his betrothed, my lady."

Katherine shrugged uneasily, wondering how this man could sense that there might be more. The "more" was something she did not want to think about herself. She ran her fingers through the tangle of her hair, as dignified as she could be seated upon the stool in the very tattered remnants of her nightdress.

She didn't answer the question. Instead she cried, "It's quite out of the question. I cannot marry him either."

"Because he is a Norman barbarian?"

She shrugged. "For that—and many other reasons."

"He's known to be a great hero. They say that he saved Richard's life on the Crusade."

"Trust me. He is little more than a beast who walks upright."

"Yet you wanted nothing to do with Raymond de la Ville. Had he captured and wed you, you'd not have had to worry about any other marriage plans being made for you."

She sighed. "There is no man quite so horrid as de la Ville. I suppose even Montjoy would be preferable to him."

"I am sure that Montjoy would be flattered to hear your words."

"It doesn't matter in the least to me. I cannot marry Montjoy."

"But it is the King's command!" he snapped suddenly.

She glanced down, frowning. The once-gentle hands upon her foot had suddenly constricted. "You are hurting me, sir."

He dropped her foot as if it were a hot coal. "Do excuse me, my lady." He rose suddenly. "I've wine in a skein in the saddlebags. Whatever the future might bring, some rich red wine, warmed by the fire, should do us both good."

Katherine hesitated. At least she was growing warm at long last. Her feet did not sting so badly. But she was still clad in the sodden linen nightdress and she was certain that if she touched her cheek, she'd find dried mud from the moat bed upon it.

And he intended to give her over to Montjoy! He had rescued her from one man to give her to another.

She needed so desperately to escape. To reach Robin's realm in the forest. If she could just hide there awhile. She needed to reach her friends. She had helped them time and time again. They would willingly help her. Robin was her cousin. She could be safe, hiding, waiting for Richard to come home.

Richard cared little if he came home or not, she knew that well enough. But still …

If she could only speak with him, beg her cause!

Before she could be handed over to Montjoy.

She stared at the man, at the towering stranger in his mail cowl and black cape. She gritted her teeth, wondering if there was any way to escape him. His presence filled the room. His every movement spoke of life and vitality and keenness of perception and being. She had felt the force of his muscled form.

He would be so difficult to escape …

"Let me go," she said suddenly, watching him as he set the wine skein high above the fire to warm.

He turned to her, and she felt the force of his gaze once again.

"Let you go?"

She stood, approaching him. She set her hands upon his arms and gazed pleadingly into his eyes. "You say that you honor Richard. I … I have friends who honor him, too. They would look after me. Actually, I can look after myself very well. I am able with a sword. You know that—"

"I know that you have a certain talent. I also know that I bested you quickly."

"I was weary then. I had already been fighting. I am truly competent with a sword and with—" She broke off, suddenly unwilling to give him too much information. He spoke to her in English, in the old Saxon tongue, but still, there were many among her mother's people who were more than willing to be lap dogs to the Norman aristocracy if it filled their own pockets with Norman gold coins.

"I can take care of myself."

"Ah. I should let you go, half-naked, running through the forest. Oh, aye, lady! That would be a noble gesture, indeed!"

"I'm telling you, I can take care of myself. And I would see that you were well rewarded."

"And would it matter how well I was rewarded if Montjoy decided to take my head?"

"He wouldn't."

"You say he is such a wicked monster."

She smiled, as beautifully, as beguilingly, as she could manage. "Perhaps he is not so bad. He is really only a monster to women. Please, sir, let me go."

"Hm," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Please?" she repeated softly, rising on her toes, her eyes brilliant, her whisper feminine and seductive. Robin had told her once that she was truly beautiful, and that she needed to take great care because of it.

He had also told her that she could probably seduce an angel into visiting hell on her behalf.

Was any of it true? Had she that kind of power?

"Please …?" she repeated, just as softly, as seductively, as she could manage.

The man before her touched her chin with his thumb and forefinger. His leather-clad knuckle moved lightly over her cheek.

She lowered her lashes quickly over her eyes. Her heart was suddenly beating too swiftly. A flush of warmth was growing within her.

"Sir, I beg you, have pity on me!" she whispered softly. Yes, the voice was good. There was a quivering in it that she hadn't intended. The quivering came because he was too close. Because he was touching her.

I am seducing him! she reminded herself furiously. But the warmth remained with her, and the trembling sensation very deep within. "Be merciful. Let me go." She caught hold of his gloved hand. Her fingers moved over it gently. She kept her head lowered.

"I know that you have it within you to be merciful. I would give …" Her voice trailed away.

He freed his hand from her touch, lifting her chin so that he could stare into her eyes. She made them wide and luminous.

"What would you give?" he whispered. The husky sound of his voice seemed to dance along her spine.

"My undying gratitude!" she promised.

"What if I wanted more?"

She moistened her lips, trying to hold on to a sense of control and seduce him at the same time.

It was not an easy task.

"You are the Silver Sword. Valiant. Honorable."

"I am flesh and blood. A man. Tell me, my lady, what more would you give for your freedom. A kiss?"

Amazed at the bolts of heat racing through her body, she replied, "Perhaps, once I was upon the path of freedom …"

"A kiss? Really?"

She murmured an assent, her lashes and head lowering.

"I should betray a man and perhaps die for the honor of a kiss?" he queried softly.

Her head rose, her eyes flew open. There was a mocking curl to his lip now. "Just a kiss? You wouldn't even want to bed me when I might well die for your freedom?"

"Oh! You let me go—" she began.

But he was still laughing. His fingers tightened momentarily upon her chin, then she was free from his touch at last. "Release you, lady?" he queried very softly. "Not on your life!"

"Oaf!" She spat out. He would have turned away, but she was on him in a fury, slamming her fists against his mail-clad chest, in such a whirr of motion that she didn't even realize the power of the enemy she fought.

Not until he caught hold of her, his arms coming strongly around her. Suddenly, she could scarcely move. She gasped, trying to breathe, her eyes rising to his with a passionate vengeance. Slowly he eased his hold, then wound his fingers around her wrists and forced her back down to the stool.

"Lady, you do test me sorely! Now sit!" It was a command she was forced to obey.

"I hope you rot in hell," she said sweetly.

He laughed huskily, and again, the sound of it swept through her. "That I may, my lady. That I may," he assured her. He lifted the skein from above the fire then, drank deeply, and offered it to her.

"But if I do so tonight, Kat de Montrain, then we shall rot in hell together, and so be it."

She pushed the skein away and swirled on her stool, offering her back to him. He laughed again. "Dear Lord, but I pray this be the last time I'm called upon to rescue a damsel in distress!"

"Scarcely rescued!"

"As you like it," he said softly. "There's something of a bed in the corner there, my lady—the furs upon it are clean and warm." He came closer to her, and she felt his whisper as his lip lowered to her ear. "If this be your hell, my lady, we are consigned to it together here this night. Make the most of it."

She sat very still.

"Well, if you cannot find the bed in the darkness yourself, perhaps I can help you find it in my ever delicate and courteous way—"

She was up before he could finish the sentence, seething as she walked across the room to the pallet of furs on the floor.

"Pray, give me no more aid in your delicate and courteous way!" she cried, finding comfort in the warmth of a fur. "I fear I would not survive it!"

The soft, husky sound of his laughter followed her. "Ah, but you will survive, my lady. You will survive."

She turned her back on him, curled up in surprising comfort.

More surprisingly, in time, she slept.

And as the fire snapped and crackled and later burned low, he walked over to the pallet to stand above her, looking down upon her.

No mud could mar the beauty of her countenance. The furs could not hide the memories of her perfection in his mind's eye.

Nor could the sweetness of her sleep allow him to forget the sharpness of her tongue, and emotions churned deeply within him, emotions that warred.

"Indeed, lady, you will survive. And survive more of me. Oh, aye! You will survive much, much more of me!"

Yet as he stood there, a curious feeling swept through him. He longed to touch …

To possess …

Aye, and to protect her.

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