To Tame A Warrior's Heart. Sharon Schulze

didn’t make a sound.

      “By Christ, I’ve never met a woman like you,” he muttered as he set her down. Whether he meant it as a compliment or a curse, even he did not know.

      “’Tis your misfortune then, milord.” She wrapped her arms about the tree trunk and leaned against it.

      Biting back a curse—did her baiting never cease?—he stepped back and eyed her pale face. She sounded more lively than she looked, but he doubted she’d fall into another swoon. “Will you be all right here? I want to see if anyone else survived. ’Twill take but a moment,” he added as she nodded.

      He moved swiftly about the clearing despite the fact that his head felt no better. The pain did not matter. If he didn’t get them safely away soon, an aching head would be the least of his worries.

      Only he, Catrin and Idris had survived the attack. Though it galled him to leave Catrin’s men where they lay, he could not spare the time—nor the strength—to bury them.

      As for the dead outlaws, they deserved their fate.

      Catrin’s packhorse must have bolted, for all he found were her guards’ few belongings scattered across the blood-spattered ground. His own possessions were gone with his stallion, lost to him now.

      Feeling like a grave robber, Nicholas removed the threadbare cloaks from Catrin’s men. Further search yielded naught but their belts, a flint and a battered cup.

      Something rustled in the bushes to his left. He reached for his dagger but came up empty. Before he had time to seek another weapon, a scrawny nag burst through the trees.

      Ragged brown coat marred by narrow streaks of blood, nonetheless it appeared uninjured. A crude bridle drooped from its head, reins trailing, and a filthy sheepskin hung lopsided across its bony withers.

      Nicholas made soothing noises and stretched his hand toward her. The mare halted before him, hooves shuffling upon the slick grass. After a moment the beast settled down, though her ears flicked back and forth as though she were uncertain whether to heed his entreaties.

      Finally the mare heaved a ragged sigh and accepted his touch. Though naught but a rack of bones, she’d carry Catrin away from this abattoir.

      “Come to me, my beauty,” he coaxed as he grasped the reins. “There, my fine lady.” Heaving his own sigh of relief, he laid his head against the mare’s neck and stroked her wet, quivering hide. After a brief hesitation she followed him across the clearing to Idris’s side.

      At Nicholas’s touch the hound tried without success to stand. He should have known the dog would share his mistress’s stubborn nature. He could almost wish the dog had succumbed to his injuries, for Catrin would never agree to leave her companion behind. Cursing, Nicholas stilled Idris’s struggles and hefted him up and onto the mare’s back.

      Blood trickled down his left arm as the barbed arrow shifted deeper into his flesh. Looping the reins through his belt, he pressed his fingers hard against the mail surrounding the shaft to stop the bleeding and led the mare across the clearing.

      Still cursing, he dropped down beside Catrin. Jaw clenched, he gripped the arrow and tried to snap the wooden shaft. The arrowhead ground further into his arm.

      Nicholas groaned, the sound piercing Catrin’s painfilled lethargy. She forced her eyes open. “Are you mad?” she shrieked when she saw what he was about. She reached out to stop him but could scarcely lift her arm. “You’ll make it worse! You cannot pull—”

      “Do you think I know so little?” He let go of the arrow and rose to his knees, shoving his fingers through the sweat-darkened blond curls plastered to his head. “I can’t get hold of the damned thing to break it off.”

      “Lift my hand so I might help you,” she said, struggling to shift to a better position.

      He shook his head. “You haven’t the strength for it.”

      “Stop wasting time, Talbot, and do it! I’ll hold your arm while you snap off the shaft.” He didn’t appear convinced. “Come—I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

      “No doubt you’ve the might of a warrior,” he snarled. “There’s little enough that’s womanly about you.”

      “Is that why you kissed me when last we met?” She curled her lips into a shaky smirk. “I’ve heard that some nobles of the Norman court prefer a manly bedmate.”

      “Once we’re away from here I’ll show you what I prefer.” Face flushed, he swept his gaze boldly over her. “It appears you have the necessary equipment.”

      His eyes had darkened to a deep violet, the pupils wide. They reflected more than temper; she’d seen that in his eyes often enough.

      Was it pain that shadowed his gaze? Mayhap he’d taken a blow to the head. She doubted the injury to his arm would much affect so powerful a warrior as Nicholas Talbot.

      The warmth of his fingers as they closed about her wrist made Catrin realize how chilled she felt. Though the cold had permeated her entire body, it did little to blunt her pain. When Nicholas lifted her hand, agony streaked across her back. She sank her teeth into her lower lip to stifle a groan and forced her fingers to close about his arm.

      “If they’d left my knife I could have notched the shaft to weaken it. I need something to break off the arrows in your back, as well.”

      Catrin dragged her attention from the sinewy strength of Nicholas’s arm beneath the cool, rough mail. “My eating knife is on my belt.”

      He slid the blade from its sheath. “This bauble?” Expression mocking, he examined the dainty, bejeweled dagger.

      “Lift my skirts,” she told him, her mouth dry.

      “Under other circumstances, milady, I’d be pleased to oblige.” His smile taunted her. “But now’s not the time.”

      “Arrogant dolt!” Given a choice, she’d not permit him to so much as touch her hand.

      But these were not normal times. Raising her chin, she cleared her throat and met his eyes. “Go ahead. I’ve a blade strapped to my thigh you’ll not sneer at.”

      He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes burning with a strange light. “I doubt there’s anything beneath your skirts I’d sneer at,” he murmured, his hand already on the hem of her gown. “Which leg?”

      “The right.” She focused on a dripping branch as he pushed the wet fabric high enough to reveal the scabbard—and most of her leg. An icy weight settled into her stomach, threatening to break free when his knuckles brushed against her skin.

      Startled by the warmth of his touch, she shifted her gaze to him. All she could see was the top of his head as he bent over her. “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

      He slipped the blade from its worn leather casing, then eased her skirts into place before he glanced up. “’Tis indeed a knife,” he said, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb. The corner of his mouth quirked into an uneven smile. “It should serve well.”

      Covering her hand with his, he tightened his fingers. “Hold fast,” he told her. She saw a measure of trust in his eyes, and something more—something she’d never dare acknowledge.

      She nodded and gripped his arm. His movements swift, he notched the wood and snapped the thick shaft, tossing it aside. Then, seemingly unaffected, he stood and turned to the horse.

      Catrin’s heart leapt with joy when she noticed Idris strapped onto the mare’s back. Nicholas murmured to the animals as he adjusted the bridle and shifted Idris forward on the sheepskin, binding him in place with a sword belt.

      Blood continued to drip from Nicholas’s arm. “Shouldn’t you bandage that?” she asked as he turned toward her.

      “Nay, the bleeding has slowed.” He wadded up a cloak and slipped it between her cheek and the tree. “And we must