The Warrior's Princess Bride. Meriel Fuller

that I should have to put up with any more of your infernal prattle…’

      ‘Go easy, Benois.’ Langley frowned. ‘You’re frightening the maid.’

      ‘Hah!’ Benois scoffed. ‘I doubt it very much.’ His eyes glittered silver, precious metal sewn through granite.

      ‘It’s for your own good,’ Langley explained, his modulated tones calm and composed in comparison to Benois’s husky cadence. ‘It has grown too dark for us to travel safely. We must make camp tonight and travel on the morrow.’

      A hollowness churned in her stomach. Tavia stared in dismay at the two men, half-shaking her head. ‘But I must return,’ she whispered, the memory of her mother lying ill and defenceless on her pallet bed clawing at her brain. ‘I must.’

      ‘You should have thought of that before you undertook this deception,’ Benois rounded on her callously. ‘I suppose it was Ferchar’s little scheme. He must have thought it was his lucky day when you walked into Dunswick Castle with your crossbow, and the double of Princess Ada.’

      ‘But you don’t need me any more,’ Tavia protested, ‘I’m not worth anything to you, now that you know who I am. Why not let me go? Just give me a horse and you’ll never see me again.’

      ‘If we let you go now, mistress, then no one will ever see you again,’ Benois commented starkly. ‘You really think you would arrive back in Dunswick in one piece?’

      ‘Of course,’ she stated boldly. ‘I have my crossbow; I can defend myself.’

      ‘Like you did with my soldiers,’ he reminded her.

      ‘That was different…’ She faltered as Benois began to shake his head.

      ‘No different, Tavia.’ He curled his fingers around the top of her arm. ‘Come on, we must make camp while we can still see.’

      Tavia had no choice but to accompany the men back to the clearing where the initial attack had taken place. Following Langley’s stocky frame, she struggled to walk in her sodden, ill-fitting slippers; her toes aching from scrunching to keep the leather attached to her feet. What could she do? Short of stealing a horse and pointing it roughly in the direction on Dunswick, she had no idea of which route to follow, or, indeed, if she could stay on the wretched animal. Langley had already announced that he had sent the soldiers who had accompanied her back to Dunswick, so she had no hope of securing their escort.

      Tavia stopped abruptly, whipping around. At her back, Benois cursed, ceasing his stride immediately, to avoid cannoning into her.

      ‘What now?’ he asked brusquely, aware that his hands had risen instinctively to steady her. He dropped them to his sides, his fingers curiously bereft. ‘Can’t we even take two steps without protest from you?’

      ‘It’s not a protest, more a request.’ Her wide eyes implored him. ‘Benois, I need you to take me back to Dunswick tonight. You must!’ she pleaded, tormented by the recurring images of her mother.

      ‘I must?’ he replied slowly, astounded that this impudent chit still found the capacity to give orders. Idly, he wondered at the anguish in her wide, light-blue eyes.

      ‘Lord Ferchar would reward you handsomely if you took me back.’

      Benois grabbed her chin roughly between thumb and forefinger, so close that an enticing smell of leather mixed with woodsmoke arose from him. ‘I wasn’t aware you were that important to him,’ he responded heartlessly. ‘I presumed you were a peasant.’

      His words rankled her; she straightened her spine, drawing herself up. ‘I’m a farmer’s daughter,’ she announced.

      ‘My mistake,’ he ground out unpleasantly, indicating by his tone that he still considered her to be ill bred, of the lowest stock.

      ‘I’ll reward you,’ she said desperately.

      His lips clamped into a thin line. ‘Be careful, mistress.’

      She gulped. ‘I said, I’ll reward you, if you take me back.’

      ‘How?’ He tipped his head to one side, considering her—nay, challenging her.

      Was it her imagination or had he stepped a little closer? ‘I’ll pay you,’ she stuttered, wondering how on earth she would achieve that.

      Benois laughed, the sound hollow and raw. ‘I have coin enough. Try again.’

      She squeezed her eyes together, wretched, anticipating his rejection before she even spoke the words. But she would do anything to save her mother’s life.

      ‘Not in coin,’ her voice fluttered. A cold, sick feeling rose in her stomach, humbling her. Glancing upwards, the rigid lines around his mouth portrayed his utter fury, his condemnation at her words. She had made a mistake.

      ‘You want to offer me your body?’ His voice mocked her, cruelly teasing, shredding her confidence. ‘You must really be desperate if you wish to prostitute yourself with me.’

      ‘’Tis all I have,’ she replied meekly, wanting to crawl away into the undergrowth and weep.

      The steel-grey of his eyes hardened, the stance of his body at once condemning and judgemental. Somewhere above them, an owl hooted, the unearthly note echoing hauntingly through the trees.

      ‘Then keep it. Keep it for someone more deserving than myself.’ He stuck his hand through his hair; the silky spikes fell down rakishly over his forehead. ‘Hear me, Mistress of Mowerby, and hear me well. I don’t care if you rip off all your clothes in front of me, and run about stark naked, you will not convince me to change my mind. We are not travelling until tomorrow, do you understand?’

      In reply, she nodded jerkily, misery gathering about her like a cloak.

      Sleep evaded her. The woodland glade, the ground of which had appeared so cushioned and inviting when she had first ridden into it with the Scottish soldiers, was riddled with sharp stones. Every way she turned, rocky corners jabbed her flesh, poking into the rounded curve of her hips, the small of her back. Despite retrieving her cloak, and wrapping herself securely in it, she was still cold, her feet like lumps of ice, her head aching each time the breeze lifted her hair.

      On one side, Langley snored comfortably. On her other side, mere inches from her, Benois had stretched himself out, and was now breathing evenly. His nearness made her feel awkward, uncomfortable. She held herself rigid, every muscle held in constant check, just in case she might touch him inadvertently. One of the horses pawed the ground behind her as she followed the alluring line of his profile, highlighted by the waning moon: the straight, proud line of his nose, the enticing curve of his full top lip, the jut of his chin.

      Benois turned his head swiftly, eyes twinkling in the soft light, catching her staring at him. Surprised, she gasped, clutching the sides of her cloak to her breast.

      ‘I thought you’d be fast asleep by now,’ he murmured. His breath emerged in misty white puffs of air into the cool night. The velvet rasp of his voice spiralled around her like silken thread, drawing her in. ‘Not still trying to plan your escape, are you?’

      Heat suffused her body, spreading traitorously along her limbs. ‘Nay,’ she whispered back. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

      He trapped her gaze, and smiled.

      Without thinking, she grinned back.

      ‘We both know that’s a lie,’ Benois replied mildly, a hint of admiration in his tone. Unexpectedly, his expression hardened, became alert, predatory. In a creak of leather, he had raised himself on one elbow, a finger to his lips. He tilted his head upwards, listening intently for a moment, before crouching over her, lips tickling her ear.

      ‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘We have visitors.’

      Her senses quickened at the closeness of his body. Powerful arms drew her upwards, one hand at her back as he pushed her towards the dark mass of the forest. ‘Stay out of sight,’