To Tame A Warrior's Heart. Sharon Schulze

stripped back his mail hood and they continued to buffet him about the head and body.

      As his vision dimmed around the edges, his lips curled in a smile.

      No one would ever believe Nicholas Talbot died doing a heroic deed.

       Chapter Two

      Catrin drifted in a cold, black void of confusion, meaningless words echoing in her head. She sucked in a breath, the inrush of air bringing with it the taste of fresh-churned soil and wet grass.

      How did she come to be lying on the ground?

      Raucous laughter sounded nearby, summoning up memories of the ambush. Fear held her motionless, lest her attackers notice her again.

      Icy moisture dripped onto her face. As her senses sharpened, a wave of nausea swept over her, followed by fiery shards of pain radiating from her back. Gritting her teeth, she focused upon her surroundings.

      The earth trembled beneath her cheek, and her ears picked out the muffled sound of retreating hoofbeats, but the voices remained—nay, they grew louder. She risked opening her eyes.

      A small group of men, four or five, she thought, stood near a mail-clad body, their speech and gestures agitated. One man stepped away from the others and motioned them to silence. “I say we go after the horses,” he said sharply. “That stallion alone’d fetch a handsome price, and the other mounts’re finer than any of ours. With our pay for this—” his arm swept out to encompass the slaughter “—we can all live like kings.” He moved out of Catrin’s sight, then returned leading a horse. “Come on,” he urged as he climbed into the saddle. “His lordship said we could have all the pickings from this job. That means the horses, too.”

      “Aye, Ralph’s right,” another agreed. “We can come back for the rest later. They ain’t goin’ nowheres.” He laughed and poked the body at his feet with a fine sword. “Best get what we can. We been cheated already—I had a powerful ache to ride a noble lady, not a damned horse.”

      “Ye still could. She won’t fight you any.” They all laughed. Catrin tensed, the motion intensifying the ache spreading from her back.

      “She’s dead, you idiot. I’m not stickin’ my rod in a dead woman! Christ, what fun is that?” He gave a gusty sigh. “Come on, let’s get the horses ‘fore they’re gone for good.”

      To Catrin’s relief, they mounted up and rode off, but she feared ’twas a temporary victory. She had to get away before they returned, else she’d be dead in truth.

      Or wish she were, she reflected as darkness claimed her once more.

      

      Nicholas lay flat on his back, grateful for the steady drip of cold water onto his face. It soothed his battered flesh and carried him away from the deadly black cloud muddling his mind. Groaning, he rolled onto his side.

      A warm, foul breeze wafted across his face. He opened his eyes just as something hot, wet and raspy swept over his cheek.

      Was he dead already, and Satan beginning his torment? Only in the devil’s pit would he find himself face-to-face—again—with Lady Catrin’s hellhound.

      Nicholas recognized Idris immediately, especially from this angle. At least this time the dog’s teeth weren’t sunk into his throat, and Catrin standing over him, laughing. He blinked in a vain attempt to clear his vision, then propped his head on his hand to stare at the beast. Idris lay sprawled beside him, maw agape and fangs glistening.

      ’Twas a wonder the dog could move. An arrow protruded from the hound’s back, and numerous cuts marred his dark hide. Yet he’d managed to drag himself to Nicholas’s side.

      Could Nicholas do any less than to search for other survivors?

      He shifted and raised his uninjured arm, surprised at how unsteady he felt, and reached over to rub Idris’s head. “Why are you here, eh, fellow? Where is your mistress?”

      Stomach churning, Nicholas sat up, blinking as his sight alternately blurred and sharpened. By God, he’d felt better after a night of hard drinking! But lying in the drizzle wouldn’t cure his ills, nor protect him from the next knave to wander down the road. Cursing the weather, the king and the Welsh with equal venom, he rolled to his knees and pushed himself to his feet.

      He had a bad feeling about this situation. If Idris was here, Catrin had to be nearby. Nicholas lurched across the uneven ground toward the fighter he’d seen fall. His balance shifted and he pitched the last few feet, to land hard on his side next to the cloak-covered body sprawled near the underbrush.

      He slipped the hood back to reveal a mass of dark, tousled hair. His touch gentle, he eased her face toward him.

      Catrin.

      Her pale, delicate features, devoid of her usual defiance, brought death to mind. Yet she still lived, her breath a faint mist against his fingers when he touched her lips.

      So cold! Her lips had been hot—both to hear and to touch—when last they’d met. The memory of her mouth, so soft beneath his own, had come unbidden into his mind far too often these months past.

      He pushed the image aside and smoothed her hair from her face, then turned his attention to the three feathered shafts jutting from her back. “Holy Mary save her,” he muttered. Crossbow bolts. Longbow arrows would have been bad enough, but these…

      Too often he’d seen men suffer a lingering, painfilled death from such wounds. He rested his throbbing head on the ground beside her and scanned her face once more.

      How could he tell Gillian of her dearest cousin’s death?

      A moan, a mere wisp of sound, slipped from Catrin’s lips, and she opened her eyes. Gone were the flashing silver depths he remembered. In their stead shone painglazed pewter, dull and gray. Her gaze flitted about before settling upon his face, so near her own. A spark of recognition flickered to life.

      “Nightmare,” she mumbled, her voice weak. Her mouth moved aimlessly before curling about the words. “Or death.” She swallowed, her tongue darting out to capture a bit of moisture from her lips, as her eyelids drifted closed.

      Nicholas pushed himself upright. Shoving the wet hair off his face with a shaking hand, he dragged his attention from Catrin and surveyed the clearing. The fog lent an unnatural glow to the carnage. Nothing moved. All was silent save for the steady drip of water from the trees. Yet he still should examine the bodies, for despite the amount of blood spattered everywhere, someone else might have survived.

      Catrin’s moan drew his attention once more. He dropped down beside her as she tried to roll to her side and, holding her steady, eased her onto her stomach. “Have a care, else you’ll harm yourself more.”

      “This is real, isn’t it?” Even as he nodded, her eyes begged him to disagree. “Cursed knaves attacked us. Not enough guards.” She swallowed. “’Tis my fault—all my fault.” Moisture pooled in her eyes, but the tears did not fall. “They’ve gone for the horses—south, I think—but they’ll be back. I heard them say so.” Her fingers clenched into fists, she sought to push herself up off the ground.

      Nicholas grasped her beneath the arms and held her still. “You’ve three arrows in your back—how do you expect to move?”

      “We must go.” She sagged within his hold, hands clinging to him for a moment before she tried to shove free. “They’ll kill us when they return. Mayhap we can find a horse.”

      “You’re in no condition to ride—”

      She pushed against him with more strength. “Don’t you understand, you Norman coward? I’d rather die trying to escape than to chance certain death at their hands.”

      His fingers tightened about her ribs. “No one calls me coward, milady. We’ll