Innocent's Champion. Meriel Fuller

chausses. Luckily, he chose not to wear plate armour on his legs, which would have weighed him down. Beneath the surface he could see blue cloth shimmering, swirling in the current, and the pale gleam of skin rising up. A neat head bobbed up in the warm, summer air, coughing and gasping, water sluicing across a sweet, heart-shaped face that shone like alabaster. Small hands flayed out, trying to float, to swim, before she sank again beneath the glittering water.

      He propelled himself forwards, digging his arms down into the crystal-clear liquid, scooping his hands beneath the girl’s armpits and hauling up the spitting, screeching mass of femininity. The sound clashed in his ears, an ear-splitting caterwauling that made his brain ache. He winced as her screams crested over him, holding the maid’s lissom weight at arm’s length, wondering if she was ever going to stop. Coils of sable hair looped crazily on each side of her head, several silver pins threatening to dislodge; her dress and cloak clung to her like a second skin, emphasising the firm, delectable curve of her bosom, the narrow curve of her waist.

      ‘Let...go...of me!’ she spluttered, huge blue eyes scorched with fury. ‘You barbarian!’ She swung one bunched fist in his direction, her arm swinging woefully short of its intended destination. The gleam of his breastplate mocked her.

      ‘Stop this!’ he bellowed at her. The taut lines of his face were rigid, hard.

      Hampered by great swathes of wet, sticky material, her arms flailed towards him, struck out at the tanned, handsome features, the grey-coloured eyes, as she wriggled violently, arching back against his hold.

      ‘Stop right now!’ he warned again, eyes darkening to smouldering pewter. ‘Otherwise I will drop you.’

      Blood roared in her ears, blotting out his words. Oh, Lord, he’s going to kill me, Matilda thought, panic flooding her solar plexus. She had to get away from him! Thrashing about in his arms, churning her legs through the water as if she were running, she fought against the brute’s imprisoning grip. Who knew what this strong-armed bully had in store for her? Rape, or a knife in her side? She had no intention of finding out.

      She lunged forwards, fear giving her strength. Her sharp fingernails made contact with one hard cheekbone, slicing across his skin. A single line of blood appeared, oozing down the shadowed cleft of his cheek.

      ‘Why, you little...’ Stunned by the maid’s temerity, unprepared for her attack, Gilan loosened his grip on the floundering, squirming woman.

      He let her drop.

      Watched as she sank below the surface once more, her screeching outrage silenced. So be it. Let the little spitfire learn her lesson the difficult way, he thought, arms crossed smugly across his breastplate. He would wait here until she ran out of breath, until she was forced to take in air. And he would be ready for her.

      As the cool, limpid water closed over her head, Matilda held her breath, moving her arms in a wide arc in an attempt to swim away from him, underwater. But her extravagant gown, her cloak, with their yards and yards of fabric, dragged her down, the sodden material acting like lead weights on her legs, pulling at her feet, her hips, making any forward movement impossible. Her own clothes hobbled her. She wanted to weep at the sheer futility of her efforts.

      Defeated, she drifted down, knees resting on the river’s stony bottom, the tiny, brilliant pebbles poking sharply into her shins. How long would he wait? A peculiar heat burned the lining of her lungs, eroding her capacity to breathe; through the clear water she could see the man’s legs encased in well-fitting chausses, brawny muscle roping his thighs, boots planted sturdily astride. He would grow bored soon, surely, and go away. The water flowed across her face and neck, soothing her skin, and her mind began to dance, strange flickering lights pulsing across the darkness of her inner mind.

      ‘God’s teeth!’ Gilan cursed, swiftly realising that the maid had no intention of surfacing again. He reached for her, big thumbs gouging into the soft flesh of her armpits as he hauled her up from the depths. ‘Do you truly want to drown?’ he shouted at her, his strong fingers gripping beneath her shoulders. What was the maid playing at?

      Her body was limp, head hanging forwards so that it drooped towards his chest, her soaking hair dripping water across his breastplate. Her silver circlet tilted crazily, the net that secured the coils of her hair hanging down like limp lace, stuck to her ashen cheeks. ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake!’ he exclaimed, sweeping one hand beneath her knees so the length of her body was shoved up high against his chest. The faintest smell of lavender rose to his nostrils, the delicate scent of her wet skin. Her head lolled back crazily against his shoulder, loosened hair straggling down across the pleated fall of his cloak.

      Sloshing towards the bank, the generous arc of her hem sweeping through the shallows, he carried the maid easily. Despite the amount of water absorbed by her clothes, she weighed nothing, fragile in his arms. Kneeling down carefully, he tipped her onto the bank, where the grass grew long and lush. He bent his head to her mouth, catching the flimsy shift of air against his cheek. So the chit was alive, in spite of her best efforts to drown herself.

      Black lashes fanned down over pale cheeks, thick lashes spiked with delicate drops of water, diamonds clinging to velvet feathers. Her face was a delicate oval, devoid of any colour. A small sigh escaped her lips; she moved her head restlessly against the hot grass. Beside them, crickets clicked and whirred.

      ‘Come on,’ he ordered briskly, cupping his hand around one narrow shoulder, shaking her gently. Faced with the barely conscious maid, he felt awkward, at a loss as to how to treat her. He spent most of his time in the company of other soldiers, pitting his wits against the elements and the enemy. It was a harsh life, unforgiving, but infinitely preferable to lounging around at the royal courts, flirting with the ladies and eating sweetmeats.

      But now, one of those ladies lay prone at his feet, her small-boned frame pillowed in the lush, verdant grass. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with her. She was of noble stock; her hair was elaborately styled and her clothes were of silk, intricately embroidered; expensive gemstones studded her jewelled belt. A couple of pearl buttons at her neck had come adrift; the gaping fabric exposed a frantic pulse beating against her throat: white skin, translucent, fragile. His eyes tracked down to her mouth, the beautiful full curve of her bottom lip, stained with a delicate rose colour. His senses jolted, a warm feeling curling across his midriff. He frowned.

      ‘Wake up!’ he said, louder this time. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ How had he even managed to become caught up in this mess? He should have ignored the shouts, turned his back on the situation. Henry would be along in a moment to see what was keeping him. He swallowed the thought that the maid was fortunate not to have been killed; if she hadn’t fallen, he would have run her through with his sword, thinking her to be a man. She was lucky to be alive.

      Her eyelids fluttered open; she observed him hazily for a moment. Her eyes were blue, enormous in her oval face, the lilac-blue of forget-me-nots. Limpid eyes, stunning.

      Desire surged through him. Shocked, he sat back abruptly on his heels, tamping down the lurch of pleasure, annoyed with himself, annoyed at his body’s response. With her hair dishevelled and her gown askew, the maid was a mess, with a shrewish tongue as well, if her reaction to him in the river was anything to go by. And yet his body had responded to her like a callow youth in the first flush of romance. He was at a loss to explain it.

      Her gaze sharpened, turning to an expression of sheer terror, her pupils dilating in fright as she remembered where she was, who he was. She opened her mouth.

      ‘No!’ He held up his hands, palms flat. ‘No, please don’t scream. Not again. I told you I’m not going to hurt you!

      Spine pressed back into lumpy ground, Matilda focused on the stern lines of the man’s face, the forbidding slash of his mouth, his tousled hair. He looked like a Viking of old, a barbarian who had waded in from the longships, raiding and ransacking everything in their path. An expanse of grey metal plate covered his huge chest; his arms were covered in flexible chain mail. Impenetrable eyes, the colour of rain-washed granite, bore into her.

      Breath punched from her lungs in fear; she shook her head from side to side. ‘No, I...don’t...believe...you,’