Captured by the Warrior. Meriel Fuller

now it was coiled, pinned rigidly to her scalp, emphasising the fine, sculptured bone structure of her face, the high cheekbones, the wide, rosebud mouth. Baggy clothes disguised her slender shape, clothes more befitting to a yeoman farmer. The last time he had seen her, she had been dressed as a member of the nobility, her garments rich and fine. She had been bossy, argumentative but now, her face as white as milk, she was utterly vulnerable. What game did she play? Leaning over her, his hands cupped her shoulders, he shook her brusquely.

      Her eyes opened.

      The fierce blue of her eyes punched him hard in the solar plexus. Deep azure blue, like the sea on a calm, hot summer’s day. His gloved hands dropped from her shoulders, fell to his sides. Sweet Jesu! Framed by thick, spidery lashes, those burning, fathomless pools threatened to drag him under, sucking at the very core of his body, visceral, greedy. She squirmed beneath him, trying to release his weight upon her, slender curves against his own hardened muscles, and his body responded, flooded with unexpected desire. What was the matter with him, damn it!

      He sprung to his feet, his only thought to create some distance between their two bodies. He had been too long without the pleasure of a woman, that was the problem. Under normal circumstances there was no way such a maid would be attractive to him, little thing that she was, but with a mouth to command a whole army if he remembered correctly.

      Her pupils dilated, widened, as she surfaced back to consciousness, struggling to focus on his face. He saw the fear in them, the fleeting panic as she recognised him, remembering once more the situation she was in, and some odd little whisper hinted that it might be kind to tell her not to fear him, that she was safe with him. But nay, he wouldn’t do that; kindness was not part of his nature.

      ‘I thought you were going to kill me,’ Alice breathed out in a whisper, her mind lurching back into searing consciousness. She lifted one hand tentatively to the back of her head; the long pins securing her hair dug painfully into her scalp, her head pillowed by the arching grass.

      ‘There’s still time,’ Bastien growled out. ‘What, in Heaven’s name, do you think you are doing? Shouldn’t you be tucked up in a woman’s solar somewhere, working on a delicate piece of embroidery?’

      Head swimming, Alice forced herself to sit up. A clamminess coated her palms. ‘I told you,’ she stared mutinously at the ground. ‘I was out riding, and my horse threw me.’

      Fern-green eyes raked down over her, over her faded, overlarge clothes, critical, assessing. ‘The last time I saw you, you informed my men that you were under the protection of the King himself, a lady of the royal court, no less.’ The wind ruffled his gilded hair, loose strands sifting like fine gold thread.

      ‘I am,’ she replied simply. ‘I am Lady Alice Matravers, under the protection of the King.’ Now she realised he was not about to kill her, some of her old confidence returned. ‘And you would do well to remember that.’

      ‘Oh, I would, would I?’ he drawled. Had women changed this much since he’d been away? He’d never met any lady quite as outspoken as this one. ‘Well, Lady Alice Matravers,’ he rolled her name out with sarcastic emphasis, ‘mayhap you could deign to tell me why you are out riding dressed as a boy?’

      ‘Dressed like this I can ride out on my own; I prefer it that way…it’s safer.’

      He angled his head to one side, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated disbelief. ‘Not quite safe enough today, methinks.’

      Nay, not safe at all, Alice thought, her exhausted brain skittering in all directions, searching for a way out of this mess, all the time thinking of her father, marching in line, moving further and further away. Mustering all her energy, she scrambled inelegantly to her feet, painfully aware of the difference in height between them, the top of her head teetering on a level with his shoulder.

      The deep laurel of his eyes glimmered in the sunlight, edgy, unpredictable. His face held the sculptured contours of stone, and was just as unyielding. She was uncertain how to deal with men like this, men associated with weapons, with battle and the harsher realities of life. His very masculinity unbalanced her, made her doubt her own courage, her own determination. Every pore of him oozed power, and a dangerous arrogance that made her angry and fearful at the same time.

      ‘And now I’ll take my leave of you,’ she stuttered out formally, her words tinged with faint hope. If only he would let her walk away, then she could double back and follow her father, with more care this time.

      ‘I think not.’ He grinned back at her congenially, arms folded high across his chest. In one swift glance he absorbed the peculiar details of her attire: the oversized cote-hardie engulfing her small frame, its countless pleats falling from the shoulder-line failing to disguise the narrowness of her shoulders. Her fustian leggings fell in loose gathers about her knees; both they and her leather boots were obviously too big for her. A leather bag sat on her right hip, the strap crossing diagonally across her chest. The woman was a puzzle; she was up to something, but with the battalion heading over the hill, he had no time at the moment to find out what it was.

      ‘I’m nothing to you,’ she whispered, her large turquoise eyes observing him warily. ‘Just let me go.’

      ‘You’re coming with me.’ He reached out and grabbed her delicate hand, crushing the soft fingers within his leather glove.

      ‘I will not!’ she protested vehemently, as he angled down to scoop up her fallen hat, wedging it tightly back over her head. The split side of his mail coat fell open beneath his white surcoat, revealing one long muscled leg encased in close-fitting linen braies. His strong thigh muscle strained against the thin gauziness of the material.

      ‘Keep that on, otherwise I cannot vouch for the consequences,’ he warned, ignoring her objections. ‘My soldiers are hungry men, in more ways than one, and there’s no telling what they would do at the sight of an available woman, albeit a scrawny one.’

      Her temper ignited, hot, fuming; she twisted her fingers in his grasp, throwing her body weight back to try to escape. The ligaments in her shoulder wrenched painfully, but his fingers held firm. ‘How dare you, you big oaf!’ she railed at him. ‘You can’t frighten me!’ She dug her heels into the ground as he started to pull her across to the place where his horse nibbled the grass. ‘I’m not coming with you, I’m not…oof!’

      Her head spun crazily as, without warning, Bastien ducked, tucking his shoulder into her soft midriff, to sling her easily over one shoulder. Flailing wildly, her hands scrabbled for a hold against his broad back, fingers sliding over his surcoat to lodge, finally, in his leather sword belt.

      ‘You can’t…!’ she squeaked, outraged, as he tossed her up to lie face down over the neck of his horse.

      ‘Save your breath, my lady…I don’t have time for this now.’ He cut across her protestation, his tone bored, laconic. A heavy hand squeezing down in the middle of her back prevented her from slipping forwards as he mounted up behind her. Alice squirmed violently, wriggling under his grasp, blood rushing to her head, as she reached out to clutch on to the leather strap that held the saddle in place.

      ‘You’ll pay for this,’ she screeched up at him, her throat constricted, raw. ‘You’ve no right to treat me like this!’ Her head bounced against the sleek flank of the horse as Bastien kicked the animal into a trot.

      She was rewarded with a short, emotionless bark of laughter. ‘I’ll treat you exactly as I like, my lady. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.’ He spurred his animal on into a full gallop, with no intention of making the ride back up to the line of prisoners any easier on his own captive. Alice held on grimly, her fingers knotted into the girth strap, her whole body jolting uncomfortably, awkwardly. Yet there was no risk of her falling; in his fist, Bastien held on firmly to the back of her tunic, the fine blue wool bunched into his leather gauntlet.

      The marching prisoners had reached the brow of the hill, approaching a knot of pine trees, their dense green forming a strong silhouette against the cerulean sky. The sun was high now, and beat down hotly on the soldiers’ heads, captor and captive alike. Alfric, bringing