The Warrior's Princess Bride. Meriel Fuller

wearing a coarse woollen tunic of dull grey over a pair of well-worn braies, stood well over six foot; an impressive figure despite his tattered garments. Handsome, too, Tavia decided, studying his side profile covertly. As the man raised his bow, pulling back the arrow with ease, the hood of his tunic fell back slightly, revealing chestnut hair as sleek as sable. Angular cheekbones highlighted the raw beauty of his face, the proud, straight ridge of his nose, the up-tilted corner of his mouth.

      A rose tint of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, and she ducked her head guiltily, ashamed at her overt perusal of the man. She needed to remember why she was here, not become entranced by another contestant! Besides, she usually showed no interest in the opposite sex, or, rather, they showed no interest in her. Despite her father’s obvious attempts to marry her off to some rich suitor, the initial attraction of her physical beauty was quickly overshadowed by her wilful, determined manner. Inwardly, she cared not one jot. It bemused her completely that anyone should be enamoured of her, let alone want to marry her; men oft regarded her flagrant red hair as a curse, or even the sign of a harlot, and her scrawny frame was just too lean for most men’s tastes.

      The man released his arrow, letting it fly towards the target, where it landed, a few inches wide of the bull’s-eye. Hah! He might appear to be a masterful shot, she thought, but I would best him any day. She watched as he pulled his hood sharply over his head once more, striding over to pull his arrow out of the target. Tavia frowned. Was there something familiar about the man? Surely she would remember meeting someone who was quite so huge? A debilitating weakness swept through her knees as the man turned back, heading straight for her. His massive frame drew alongside, and, in a hazy bubble of disbelief, she studied the slippery cobbles intently, willing him to pass by, to ignore her.

      ‘Good fortune, young man.’ The giant grabbed her hand to shake it. ‘I hope you have better luck than me.’

      In that fleeting, terrifying moment as he had turned back from the target she had known who he was. His grip had served only to confirm his identity. The noise that surrounded her receded, as his hand curled around hers, the furrowed scarring on his palm scorching her own. Tipping her chin, she sought his face within the woollen shadows of his hood, the glint of those feral slate eyes, the forbidding mouth.

      ‘Nay,’ she whispered. ‘Not you.’

      The hold on her fingers tensed at the sound of her voice, then tightened like a vice.

      ‘Come on, lad! There’s plenty more waiting to shoot. Get a move on!’ The soldier behind her shoved her forward.

      She yanked her hand sharply downwards, releasing his grip. What in Heaven’s name was he doing here? He, the enemy, showing his face at the royal Scottish court? She wanted to shout and scream, declare his identity to the whole castle, but if she did that, her own true identity as a woman would be discovered, and her chance to enter the contest would be lost.

      His right hand shot out, wrenching at the material of her sleeve, pulling her back, whipping her around to face him. His voice, low and melodious, reverberated around her—a threat. ‘I know you.’

      Chapter Three

      His words, clipped and toneless, sent a freezing chill of terror through Tavia’s veins. Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest as she jolted round to face the blunt features of the soldier who had urged her on. ‘Guard!’ Her voice emerged as a pathetic squeak as she squirmed uselessly against the man’s fierce grip. The wavering tone of her speech did little to attract the soldier’s attention, especially as the crowd had become restless, bored with waiting for the next contestant. Clearing her throat, she tried once more. ‘Guard! Arrest this man! He is an enemy of…oomph!’

      A muscled arm squeezed the end of her sentence away, as it swept around her midriff and lugged her backwards, crushing her into a solid length of body. Before she had time to even consider fighting back, the man had spun her around so violently that she almost lost her balance, her head crushed into the massive wall of his chest.

      ‘I think my little friend is jesting with you!’ The calm, measured tones floated over her, sending a flicker of anger propelling through her veins.

      ‘Ugh…!’ she growled into the coarse fabric of his tunic. A heady scent of earth mingled with horse rose from his torso, the heat from his skin penetrating the loose weave easily, warming the skin on her face.

      ‘Can’t take any sort of competition, I’m afraid,’ the man was explaining. ‘I’ll take him home.’

      The brazen insolence of the man! Her fear began to drop away, to be replaced with a wild, boiling rage. She swivelled her shoulders ineffectually within the powerful hold of his arms, first left, then right, desperate to break the imprisonment, but to no avail. Lifting one foot, she stamped down hard, feeling a small sense of gratification as she made contact with a set of toes.

      ‘Enough!’ he ordered, releasing the clamp of his hand on the back of her head.

      ‘Let me go!’ she stuttered out against his chest. ‘I can’t breathe!’

      In reply, he swung her off her feet, throwing her over his shoulder carelessly, like a sack of grain. One hand crushed into the back of her knees, preventing any movement of her lower body while her head bumped painfully against the breadth of his shoulders. The blood rushed to her head, prickling uncomfortably behind her eyes, as she heard the crowd laugh and chortle, thinking they were witnessing some long-standing argument between friends. How could she convince them that he was not who he seemed? That he would probably slay them all in their beds if given the chance! The rapid pace of his stride prevented her from even lifting her head to scream out, her head bouncing against his spine like a wooden puppet.

      At his back, the man carried three arrows stuck into his wide leather belt, the feather ends of which threatened to tickle her nose. In a moment, she realised her opportunity. As the man ducked slightly, as if avoiding a low lintel, she tugged on one of the arrows, very, very slowly.

      ‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘who in God’s name are you?’ He bent down, sliding her slender frame back over his shoulder to set Tavia on her feet, as she tucked the arrow that she had pulled from his belt behind her back. The scent of hay filled the air, a fragrant aroma of summer grass mingling with the more acrid, earthier smell of horse manure. He had brought her into the castle stables! In the half-light, the shadowed angles of his face appeared dangerous, menacing, his rapier-like gaze shining like chips of ice as he studied her. Though her legs trembled, a volatile mixture of fear and anger bubbled inside her, driving her on.

      ‘How could you forget?’ she shrieked at him like a banshee, bringing the arrow around from her back to drive it into his shoulder.

      The iron point, glinting dully in the sepulchral gloom, never touched his flesh. With astonishing speed honed from years of fighting, he wrenched the weapon from her hand, casting it away into a heap of straw. She felt herself gripped, twisted violently, her right arm pushed up into the small of her back.

      ‘You’re hurting me!’

      ‘Tell me who you are!’

      ‘My name is Tavia of Mowerby—now will you let me go?’

      The hands dropped immediately, his gruff voice genuinely surprised at the high, lilting tones. ‘You’re a maid?’

      He shoved the hood from her face, his lean fingers grazing the soft red sheen of her hair. The pale marble of her skin gleamed with an angelic luminosity, the ethereal nature of her features emphasised by the low-grade wool of the hood that now gathered in heavy folds about her neck. Her eyes, huge orbs of sapphire, threatened to drown him in those deep pools of blue. He sucked in his breath, feeling the weight of guilt descend on his chest. It was she. The maid from the church. The maid who had haunted his dreams for the past sennight, the image of that slender wraith sprawled before the altar pricking his hardened conscience with spirals of concern. More than once he had caught himself wondering what had happened to her.

      ‘Do you know me now?’ Her voice held a low challenge, but he could tell from her rigid stance that she was afraid of him. Why did she want to goad him so much? It made him