Chapter Eight 

"Halt." James swore he heard a woman scream. The feminine sound of distress carried across the wood. He'd seen enough of the horror women faced during battle. He would allow no harm to come to those on his land.

James urged the horse onward and into the wood to render aid. A young boy—no, 'twas a girl—ran through the woods, a look of fear upon her face. Five men chased her. Bandits from lands to the south, trying to steal from him again. This winter was not as severe as the past few; the terrible famine was now over and food was more plentiful. However, some men, once turned thief, found the taste as filling as a cup of ale and would not turn back.

The witless female stopped and stood in the grass, gaping at him, mouth open, about to find her head separated from her shoulders.

He urged the horse to a gallop, metal screeching against metal as he unsheathed his sword, met the bandit's blade, and saved the wench. The clang of swords rent the air as his men dispatched the ruffians. 'Twas over before James began to sweat. He leaned negligently against a tree, longing for one good fight.

Where was the feebleminded lass? He heard the sound of a wounded animal coming from the trees. James tied the horse to a tree. He moved through the woods and found her on the ground, curled up into a small ball. As if she could disappear if she made herself small enough. She sat in the snow, head in her hands, muttering strange words.

He knelt down beside her, grunting at the ache in his leg. James raised a hand to pat her shoulder, then stopped. He did not know how to soothe her tender feelings, so he clapped her on the shoulder.

"How do you fare?"

He cast a baleful eye over her while she babbled. Something gleamed like burnished metal in the weak afternoon sun. James reached down and picked up a lock of hair. She'd almost lost her pretty head.

The hair was glorious. Shades of copper, the red of a sunset, and the dark wine color of dried blood, which, oddly enough, he found quite beautiful. The coil wrapped around his finger, and when he pulled it out, the curl sprang back, curling around his finger as if it did not want to let go. Without thinking, he tucked the lock into a pouch at his waist.

James leaned close, gentling his voice. "My lady, are you injured?"

She spread her fingers, peeking through them, but did not answer. He spoke to her again, the pain in his legs threatening to topple him over as he crouched beside her. James prayed he would be able to stand without falling over and making a fool of himself.

She removed her hands from her face. Brilliant green eyes stared up at him.

"I can't really understand you. Are you speaking French?"

She was speaking a form of English, though her speech sounded odd, the accent strange yet soothing. Soft. Caressing him like a lover.

"I inquired if you were injured, lady."

She held up her hands and he could see the ropes binding them. With one swipe of his blade, the rope fell to the ground. He took her hands in his, anger filling him upon noting the angry red marks encircling her slim wrists. She had beautiful skin. Unmarked and unblemished, as fine as ivory. Realizing he was stroking circles on her wrist, he dropped her hands as if they were on fire.

"I don't think…" She touched a hand to her cheek. "He nicked me, but it's only a scratch. My nose hurts like crazy."

James touched a finger to her cheek where the blade had left its mark. It was only a scratch, and she would heal. The nose was swollen but looked straight. He'd suffered many a broken nose, enough to know she was fine. There was dried blood above her lip. He wiped at it with his thumb, touching her lip. The skin was soft as a rose petal.

"'Tis fortunate you did not lose your head, lady."

"I am rather attached to it." She smiled at him. He felt strange inside, as if he'd been inside all winter locked in the dark and just stepped out into the light, blinking and marveling at the colors around him.

As he was wondering how he was going to manage to stand, his captain appeared by his side, sensing his distress. Renly helped them both up while making it look as if he wasn't holding James up.

"Thank you for rescuing me. They were going to… Well, it doesn't matter now that I'm safe." She wrapped her arms around herself and, realizing she was freezing, James unclasped his cloak and settled it around her shoulders.

She placed a hand on his forearm. Heat from her touch traveled up his arm straight to his battered heart.

"I was wondering, could you tell me what day it is?"

His captain answered, "'Tis the fourteenth of February, my lady."

"I hope you won't think it's weird, but could you also tell me the year?"

Renly gaped. James blinked. From her clothing, he surmised she was highborn, yet from her speech he wasn't sure, unless she hailed from a distant land. But to ask him the year—mayhap she'd hit her head during the encounter. He decided to humor her.

"'Tis the year of our Lord 1327."

"Oh. Um… Am I in France?"

How could she not know what country she was in? Was the girl witless? It would be his fate to meet such a fetching wench and have her be feeble. Perchance if she was, she might be the only wench in all the realm that would consider marrying a beast such as he. For she had not blubbered and run after looking upon his face. Certainly 'twas a good omen.

"Nay, lady. You are in England. On my lands. We are not far from Falconburg Castle."

She heaved a great sigh of relief.

"Oh good. I know Falconburg. I was there earlier today." Then she slapped a hand over her mouth, as if she shouldn't have said such a thing. And all manner of alarm swept through him. Had she been sent by one of his many enemies? Perchance sent to taunt and torture him.

She reached out a hand to touch his face, and he flinched.

"You're hurt. A cut." She touched a finger to his eyebrow and held it up. It came away red. He reached a hand up to his face.

"'Tis naught but a scratch. Nothing to worry yourself over, my lady." She would plague him. All women were afraid of him. He knew an enemy had sent her, for she showed no fear to get him to let down his guard. He must watch her and uncover whatever intrigue she was plotting.

"How did you come to be on my land, lady? Where is your escort?"

She was saved from answering when the falling snow turned to stinging sleet. The men were all mounted and ready to ride, except for his captain. Renly boosted the girl up onto James' horse. He cupped his hands. James nodded, grateful for aid. His leg burned from kneeling so long, his shoulder pained him, and his head ached.

He sat behind her with a groan. "You can tell me how you came to be on my lands unescorted and in the clutches of bandits when we reach Falconburg. You need a warm drink and a bath."

She was shivering. James wrapped his cloak around them both, pulling her against his chest to let his body warm her. She stiffened for a moment then relaxed.

James knew they were merely a short distance from the castle, yet it seemed to take a fortnight to reach home. She reached out to touch his face without recoiling in horror. Every other lady in the realm ran screaming. Did she truly not care what he looked like? James was suspicious of this woman who did not fear him. Was not affronted by his visage.

Truth be told, she vexed him. The fact she seemed to find him not pleasing but perchance acceptable made James wary.

What was she doing at his home? Had the men they encountered been a ruse? She needed to be careful, for he had encountered those men before. They would have assaulted her then left her for dead or killed her when they'd slaked their needs.

The lady traveled with no companions. James and his men saw no sign of anyone else. He expected to find a carriage or a horse, perhaps belongings. Yet they found nothing. 'Twas as if she'd sprung up from the grass fully formed and ready to cause him trouble.

The wench in question had fallen asleep against his chest. She breathed in noisily through her swollen nose, sounding like one of his dogs. Her hair was soft like silk against his chin. She was tall for a woman, and shapely. He felt her curves as she leaned against him. Found himself staring at her legs. What kind of woman went about wearing men's hose? And her tunic. He had never seen such fine garments. He shifted in the saddle, trying to ease the pain in his hip, and by moving he woke her.

"Holy cow! Is that Falconburg?"

James was perplexed. She'd told him she came from his home earlier in the day, and yet her reaction bespoke of never seeing the castle before.

"Aye, lady."

She craned her head up to look at him. "It's quite breathtaking, isn't it? My name is Melinda. Melinda Merriweather."

He was filled with pride that she found his home pleasing. "I am James Rivers. Lord Falconburg. You may call me James."

"I can't believe I'm really here."

She seemed filled with joy at seeing his home. Being with him. And James was intrigued. He vowed to find out everything he could about Melinda Merriweather.