Beauchamp Besieged. Elaine Knighton

over her. It was not the same man who had attacked her. But…the accent of nobility, the hard expression. An Englishman. And no common one at that. She stiffened in renewed fear, and slowly, his features resolved into clarity.

      What a face to belong to an enemy, she thought, in spite of her alarm. His hair was hidden beneath his mail coif, but his eyebrows and lashes were thick and dark. The clean line of his jaw was shadowed with stubble. He was blessed with a straight, unbroken nose and smooth skin. His mouth was wide, with a small bunch of muscle at each corner. It was a mouth made for smiling, but remained set in a grim line.

      “Forgive me, ’demoiselle, for I have wounded thee.” His voice was deep, rich—and devoid of warmth.

      “What…wound? What do you mean?” Ceridwen looked down at herself in horrified disbelief. A dark stain seeped in an ever-widening circle from beneath the leather-gauntleted fingers upon her abdomen. “Oh! Oh, it hurts.”

      The knight took her hand and pushed it against the warm, sticky mess on her overgown as he slid his own away. She felt a hole in the fabric and another in herself. This could not be happening. Ceridwen watched in dread as he knelt beside her and unsheathed his dagger. But she refused to cry out at the wave of terror his act induced.

      “Nay, do not do it. Not yet,” she implored him in a hoarse whisper, her fingertips barely touching his knee. “I have not yet confessed.”

      “What? Speak French. Or English.” He frowned and brushed her hand away with an impatient flick of his fingers. He untied his belt, placed it to one side, then hitched a length of his surcoat up into his lap.

      Ceridwen had not realized she’d slipped into Welsh. She tried again, barely able to form intelligible words. “The coup-de-grace. Am I mortally wounded? Will I die slowly unless y-you finish me off?” Rising panic urged her to run, but her head spun and her muscles felt like jelly, as though she had been fevered for days. Each breath moved her abdomen and caused fresh shards of pain. Perhaps he was right to put her out of her misery.

      An odd look of sorrow flitted across the knight’s face. But it vanished almost before she caught it, to be replaced by a stony, unreadable expression. With exaggerated care, he held the dagger up for her to see, the blade balanced between his thumb and forefinger. He then proceeded to slice a large piece of linen from the lining of his surcoat.

      “You are not skewered nearly so completely as the knave. I misjudged his girth. From behind I thought him fatter than he was.” He folded the cloth neatly and bound it against her wound with the woven belt.

      Relief washed over Ceridwen as she realized the knight had not saved her only to kill her himself. “Mayhap the man was going to stab me anyway,” she said, and flinched as the Englishman gave the binding a final tightening twist. Her glance strayed to the body of her attacker, sprawled on the reddened ground, his mouth gaping. Even as she averted her eyes her stomach lurched.

      “He wished to run something into you, that is true.” The Englishman unfastened his mantle and draped the thick gray material about her shoulders.

      Ceridwen felt uneasy at these words, but their meaning escaped her reeling mind. She could not seem to stop shaking. Gratitude accompanied warmth as the knight enveloped her in the coarse garment. He scooped her up and, stepping around the dead man’s body, carried her towards his horse. Afraid to look, she hid her face in the hollow of the warrior’s sturdy shoulder.

      The mail rings bit into her cheek despite his surcoat, which still smelled like the damp wool of his mantle. She touched her throat as she swallowed. It felt raw inside and tender on the outside. Harness jingled, and she heard the restless stamping of several horses. She peeked out of the corner of one eye.

      At least five men waited. They did not appear pleased at the delay. She kept her forehead pressed against the Englishman. He was all that stood between her and the others. She hoped he could control his men. If he had wanted her for himself, she reasoned, he would be pawing her already.

      “Let me take the wench for you, my lord,” someone said.

      Ceridwen trembled involuntarily.

      “Nay.” The knight plucked her arm from his neck and made her stand. “Can you ride pillion and hold onto me from behind?”

      Clutching her middle, she looked up at him. At least his un-smiling expression did not belittle her weakness. But those eyes…dark blue, like the sea on a sunny day. Cold and glittering. She shivered. The very timbre of his voice increased the wobble of her knees. She didn’t think she could hold on to anything for much longer.

      “Right.” Without waiting for her reply, he deftly unsaddled his horse. She realized he meant her to sit before him, for the war saddle would have left no room. Then, to her acute dismay, he reached down between her ankles. Gathering up the bottom of her skirts, he pulled the back towards the front and on upwards. He thrust the wad of fabric into her hand and boosted her onto the sweaty back of the tall, black destrier.

      Astride the horse, Ceridwen wanted to double over in pain, but the snug binding the knight had fashioned for her wound prevented it. Her legs were not covered and she could not help but feel exposed before the foreign warriors. But she was in their lord’s debt.

      “I owe you thanks. I owe you my life,” she whispered, and huddled miserably, clutching the horse’s mane with both hands as the animal tossed its head.

      “You owe me nothing.” He swung up with ease to sit behind her. “Shift forward a bit. Do not expect me to keep you from falling. I may need both hands free, if we find more trouble.” Thankful for his matter-of-fact tone, Ceridwen obeyed. She stifled a moan as the horse lurched into a canter. The knight slowed the eager animal to a brisk walk.

      “Wace.” His words carried despite their low pitch.

      A young man’s voice replied, “My lord?”

      “Ride ahead. Send someone back for my saddle. And tell Alys to prepare for a belly wound.”

      The Englishman’s breath disturbed Ceridwen’s hair and warmed her neck. His resonant voice vibrated from his chest through her back, sending a ripple of sensation up her spine. But even as she felt it, he leaned away and broke the contact.

      “Aye, milord.” Wace galloped off, his master’s shield bouncing at his back.

      Ceridwen glimpsed the coat of arms. A white stag upon a split field of green, a black dragon coiling below. Her heart faltered and with her sudden intake of breath came a fresh stab of agony in her middle. She bit back a moan. God help her, she was already in the possession of men in the service of Alonso. A black dragon…she must know for certain the identity of the one who held her.

      “What do I call you?” Painfully, Ceridwen twisted her head around to look at him. At this range, his features were perfectly clear. Glacial eyes stared straight ahead. His compelling face held no expression. He tipped his head to the side and lifted his chin, avoiding touching her. She saw an old scar in the soft area under his jaw.

      Apparently he did not want to answer. Whatever his name, he was just another warring border-lord. But she was fooling herself. Deep inside, she knew exactly who he was.

      “Raymond.” He growled the name and still did not meet her gaze as he spoke.

      Ceridwen’s heart felt as though it curled into a tight, protective ball, and renewed embarrassment leaped to compete with her fright. She represented her people, and she looked like a ragged mendicant. It was shameful. Beauchamp had picked her up under the most undignified of circumstances. Her good intentions of carrying through with the marriage dwindled in the terrifying face of his physical reality.

      She was afraid to tell him who she was. No matter what reassurance her father had given, she had no reason to disbelieve the rumors. And she had heard them aplenty. Bards and wayfarers passing through her father’s lands told tales. Lord Raymond’s reputation was that of a ravening wolf, the worst of the pack headed by his elder brother, Alonso. A cursed, dark knight, folk said.

      She stole another glance at his face. Stiff and grim.