To Tame A Warrior's Heart. Sharon Schulze

      She burrowed her face in the musty fabric and sought to focus her mind on something else.

      “Try not to cry out,” he taunted. “Shall I gag you?”

      Her attention captured—and her hackles raised—she drew a breath to speak, then gasped as molten fire shot through her back.

      She clamped her teeth into the coarse material, fighting back a scream. How had he remained silent?

      “Two more to go—” she heard before the darkness sucked her into its welcoming embrace once more.

      “Thank God,” Nicholas sighed, snapping the shafts. ’Twas nothing short of a miracle the damned woman had given in.

      He eased her away from the tree, shaking his head at the cloak gripped between her teeth. He tugged the material free, swung her into his arms and settled her behind Idris on the mare’s bony back.

      After a moment’s reflection he tied her on, as well. No doubt she’d scream at him once she realized what he’d done, but he’d rather face her wrath than risk her safety further.

      He murmured a swift prayer for the brave souls who had died to defend their mistress, then added one for the living for good measure. Scanning the copse once more, he got his bearings. Catrin said their attackers had gone south; he hoped to God she was right. Dagger in one hand, reins in the other, Nicholas headed north.

       Chapter Three

      Padrig raced through the forest, dodging trees and boulders, paying little heed to the wet branches whipping his head and torso. The cold, damp air tore through his aching throat before settling into his lungs like a cloying blanket, stifling his efforts to breathe.

      If only he’d caught the horse Lady Catrin sent him after! But the pain-crazed beast bolted and knocked him to the ground when he grabbed for the reins. Bruised and smeared with blood from the wounded animal, he had no choice but to continue on foot. Though it seemed as if he’d been running forever, he didn’t dare stop, not when Lady Catrin and the others needed his help.

      The invisible vise around his chest closed so tightly that he could ignore it no longer. Grabbing hold of a sturdy branch with both hands, he bent from the waist and sought to ease the spasms. His breath slipped through his lips in mewling squeaks, bringing tears of frustration to mingle with the rain and sweat streaming down his cheeks.

      If he could have spoken he would have cursed. How would he ever become a knight? His body failed him at every turn.

      His mind was little better. He should have known that Lady Catrin—clever as always—would find a way to turn his own words against him. And now his lady suffered grave peril and he could do naught to save her.

      He should have stayed with her, he knew it. Lord Ian would have found a way around his sister’s dictates; Llywelyn’s Dragon was the mightiest warrior in the land. Nor would he have allowed the Norman concept of chivalry to stand in his way, Padrig realized. The Dragon always knew what needed to be done and did it.

      Curse his honor—he should have stayed to help Lady Catrin. A wave of guilt swept over him. He could do nothing now except obey her orders, for in his headlong dash through the woods he’d become completely lost.

      After the paroxysm eased he filled his lungs, savoring his returning strength. He scanned the mist-shrouded forest to no avail. He’d lost sight of the narrow road almost immediately, and the sky, a solid gray, offered up no clue to direction. For all he knew, he could be near where he started.

      What would Lord Ian do?

      He might as well go on the same way he’d been headed. And mayhap if he eased his pace he wouldn’t have such trouble breathing. Squaring his shoulders, Padrig wiped his face on the edge of his tunic and set off toward civilization.

      He hoped.

      

      Nicholas plodded along the faint trail through the underbrush, the mare following along with little guidance. Despite the chill air, sweat beaded upon his face as his head throbbed in a nauseating cadence.

      His mail hauberk, usually no burden, seemed to have become heavier as the day wore on, adding to his discomfort. He should be thankful the bandits hadn’t taken the time to divest him of it, for if they had realized he still lived, his life would have been forfeit. Why they’d left Catrin alone, he did not know, but he thanked God for it.

      Not only had they spared her life, but they’d unwittingly left him the means to protect her, as well. He touched the dagger strapped to his waist—a fine piece, not the usual bauble a lady might wear. ’Twas their good fortune that Catrin was not a typical lady. Though why she felt the need to arm herself thus…

      It couldn’t replace his sword, or the other weapons his stallion carried, but mayhap it would suffice, should the thieving bastards catch up to them.

      His gaze was drawn yet again to Catrin. She lay cradled against Idris’s massive body—Nicholas could almost believe the dog held her nestled there apurpose—and though she moaned every so often, she did not move. While the fact that she’d remained in a swoon for so long could not be a good sign, nevertheless it allowed them to continue on their way uninterrupted.

      As the gray daylight began to fade, much of the thick underbrush gave way to rock covered by a thin layer of soil. Tall, slim trees grew from seams in the rocks, filling in the spaces between towering firs. The trail rose steeply, and he heard the sound of rushing water nearby.

      Catrin’s moans grew louder, and he drew the mare to a halt, pulling the hood back from her face. “Damnation!” A rosy flush covered her cheeks and spread down to disappear into the neck of her bliaut. He yanked off his heavy leather gauntlet and laid his palm against her forehead.

      Heat radiated from her skin. Though he knew next to nothing about sickness, he couldn’t mistake her condition. Catrin needed help.

      Tucking the cloak about her, he cast a swift glance at their surroundings. He had to find shelter, food and water before it got dark. God help them if their attackers were on their trail, for he could ignore Catrin’s injuries no longer.

      He led the mare toward the sound of running water. As soon as he found a defensible place to set up camp, he’d stop.

      The mare’s ears twitched forward as they crested the hill and found the stream. She picked up her pace and nudged Nicholas in the shoulder as if urging him to greater speed, not stopping until she bent to drink.

      Catrin slipped sideways, but Nicholas caught her before she fell. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked about in confusion before focusing upon Nicholas’s face. “Where are we?”

      He slid his hand beneath her head to support it. “I wish I knew. I tried to head north, though there’s not much to go by for direction.”

      “My back is afire.”

      Her back was not the only thing afire. Her fever raged—the flesh beneath his palm felt hot, and her lips were dry and cracked. “I’ll get you some water,” he said, easing her head onto Idris’s back.

      He knelt beside the stream to fill the cup, pausing to splash the icy water over his aching head. When he returned to Catrin, he found her scanning their surroundings with a surprising intensity, despite the pain that still clouded her eyes.

      She gulped the water as soon as he raised her head to drink, then drained the cup twice more before indicating she’d had enough.

      Idris lifted his massive head and whined, eliciting a faint smile from Catrin. “Don’t forget about him,” she whispered.

      As if he could, Nicholas thought as he tended the dog. So long as he and Catrin were in the same place and Idris yet lived, the beast would protect his mistress.

      Though the dog’s vigilance might