Read The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Online
Authors: Shelly Thacker
Tags: #Historical Romance, #medieval, #romance, #royalty, #suspense, #adventure, #medieval romance, #sexy, #romantic adventure, #erotic romance
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (45 page)
She felt longing, she felt tenderness, she
felt …
right
.
She wanted this. As if she had been
waiting her whole life.
And in her heart, she knew that she had.
She felt
alive
. More alive and
whole than she had for as many months as she could remember. She
nearly sobbed with the joy of it. She must have made some sound,
because he broke the kiss and lifted his head.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Neither
of them did. They just stood there, clinging to one another in the
dark, breathing hard. The heat between them was so tangible it felt
as if the furnace had been turned on, full blast.
After a second, the sensual fog that he had
spun around her cleared a bit. “Wait,” she whispered. “I—I can’t
… I mean, I don’t—I’m not—”
“Nay, do not pull away.” He lowered his
head, nibbled at her lower lip, then nudged at her chin, urging her
to tilt her head back. “You are all I could wish, little flower.
You are fire and softness and you taste of a sweetness beyond any I
have known. Stay with me,” he asked. “
Touch me
. Let me
touch you.”
“Please, I—I think I should tell you … I
mean, no matter what my sister told you, I’m not what she … I’m
not …”
“Not what?” he urged.
“I’m not …”
“Not
this
?” He kissed her again,
more powerfully this time.
A moan escaped from Celine’s throat at the
feel of that hot, deep joining of his mouth and hers, the rough
stubble of his beard abrading her sensitive skin. The feelings
radiating from deep within her, the pent-up yearnings, the wild
fever, all constricted into an ache, focused in the center of her
body. Her hands grasped his rock-hard arms and she grasped wildly
for reason as she felt herself tumbling over the edge.
I can’t
do this! It’s insane! I don’t know this man! I can’t even see
him!
But when he finally raised his head and
ended the sweet torment he was lavishing on her, she slumped
against him. He held her easily, gently.
“My God,” she whispered.
“Heaven,” he promised.
“But … I don’t even know your name.”
“Gaston.” His mouth claimed hers again,
demanding her response with a kiss that sent the last shreds of
sanity whirling away. His name barely registered, except for a
brief, fleeting thought that it was old-fashioned. Uncommon. A name
not heard much anymore.
His hand stroked upward, his fingers tracing
over her back, her shoulders, and the silk and lace and spaghetti
straps of her teddy. “Saints’ breath, but ‘tis strange, this
garment,” he murmured against her mouth. “This land of yours, this
‘Chicago,’ must be a far place to have such wonders as this that I
have never seen. You must tell me of your home.” He kissed her
again, laughing. “
Later
. For now, let us greet the new
year properly.”
Celine was surprised that he had never seen
a teddy before. She also meant to ask how it could be that he had
never heard of Chicago, but instead found herself sighing in
agreement. “The new year.”
He nipped a hot rain of little kisses down
her neck. “I can think of no better way to celebrate the dawn of
the first day of a new century.”
Celine’s mind was spinning, but not so much
that she missed what he had said. “New century?”
“Aye, the first day of the year of our Lord
1300.”
Celine stiffened.
Her heart pounded so hard she couldn’t
breathe.
The darkness, the cold, the strange
furnishings, the straw on the floor, his unusual speech, his
old-fashioned name
—
“What did you say?” she sputtered, pulling
out of his arms.
“
Chérie
, mayhap it is you who drank overmuch
last night, if you have forgotten already the reason for the feast.
This day is the first of January, 1300.”
Celine stumbled away from him, barely aware
of the pain in her ankle, gasping for breath as she felt her way to
the far wall, over to the left, to the window.
Or where the window was supposed to be.
She found a pair of wooden shutters.
“Are you unwell,
chérie
?” Gaston asked, a hint of
irritation creeping into his voice.
Celine tore open the shutters. The stained
glass was there. She yanked it inward on its hinges and a blast of
cold air poured into the room, along with a spill of silver light.
The moon above looked normal, clear, full—
But the city was missing
.
Celine stared, opened her mouth, couldn’t
utter a sound. Cold dread knotted her stomach.
The town of St.
Pol had vanished!
Where there had been buildings, paved
streets, people, motor scooters, neon, noise—there was now only
silent forest.
Her gaze fell on the courtyard below. The
Mercedes and Bugattis and Aston Martins were gone. The neatly
plowed circular drive was gone. The guest villas. The tennis
courts. The swimming pool. One entire wing of the chateau was
missing!
There was only the stone keep. A smooth
blanket of new-fallen snow. The moat. The wall—which didn’t look
crumbling and ancient, but solid and new.
The first day of January, 1300.
It couldn’t be!
Buy this book now:
Forever
His
: A Time-Travel Romance
Excerpt from TIMELESS: THE ASGARD WARRIORS
(Paranormal Romance, Stolen Brides Series, Book
3)
Breathtaking fantasy romance from the bestselling
author
Publishers Weekly
hails as “exciting” and
“innovative”
Lady Avril de Varennes, widowed at twenty,
has vowed never to love again. Then a mysterious warrior abducts
her from a trade fair and sweeps her away to Asgard Island, an
enchanted paradise kept secret from the world for centuries.
Against her will, Avril weds her arrogant captor, Hauk
Valbrand—even as she vows to escape and return to her young
daughter in France. Hauk believes himself beyond the reach of love,
until his fiery captive bride begins to melt his heart of ice. But
soon he must reveal the stunning truth about Asgard and its
people—and Hauk and Avril must choose between love and honor, duty
and desire, now and forever.
“Powerful. From the very first page you’re
whisked away to a world where anything is possible.”
The
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Entertaining. Exotic. Definitely a romance,
it’s also definitely fantasy … an unusually smooth blend of both
genres.”
Locus
Asgard Island, 1303
T
he glitter of steel
on the wall caught her attention. Along with hunting trophies and
strange sculptures and artifacts, the owner of this place had a
number of weapons on display.
How foolish of him, Avril thought with a
grim smile of satisfaction, to leave them within easy reach. She
walked over and selected a double-edged blade that was long enough
to use as a sword yet light enough to throw, if the need arose.
When her abductor returned, he would find
himself with more trouble than he had bargained for.
Gripping the weapon in one hand, she was
about to renew her search for an exit when a sound from the dark,
distant corner of the chamber startled her—the sound of a key
turning in a lock.
Her pulse racing, she retreated a few steps,
away from the hearth and the open window, trying to conceal herself
in the shadows. She raised the sword in front of her and peered
into the blackness.
A door creaked open. A massive, heavy portal
from the sound of it. It closed an instant later with the clatter
of an iron latch. Avril heard a footfall. Another. Then naught
more.
Naught but the pounding of her heart.
“Milady?” a deep male voice called after a
moment, speaking quietly in French. “There is no need to hide from
me. I mean you no harm.”
She did not reply, edging silently along the
wall. Now that she knew the general location of the door, if she
could tiptoe her way around him …
“You cannot hide forever.” He walked farther
into the room, his tone becoming impatient. “And there is nowhere
to run.”
Ha
, she thought, moving faster.
That was his opinion. Once she reached the door, he would discover
why she had always won footraces when she was a girl—
Her next step carried her straight into a
small table and sent both her and whatever had been on it crashing
to the floor.
She landed hard and yelped in pain as she
bruised her hip on the hard stone and cut her hand on a shard of
glass. Cups and platters and a shattered goblet littered the floor
around her.
Uttering what sounded like an oath, her
abductor closed in on her, a massive shadow looming out of the
darkness.
“Stay back!” she shouted, grabbing the sword
she had dropped. “I have a weapon. And I am skilled enough to use
it!”
The threat stopped him, at least for the
moment. “A blade will avail you naught more than shouting yourself
hoarse at the window did.” He sounded annoyed rather than concerned
about his safety. “You cannot harm me, milady.”
What arrogance! Shaking her head, Avril got
to her feet, careful of the broken glass. “Come any closer and you
will discover precisely how wrong you are.” She tried to judge the
distance to the door, took a cautious step.
And felt surprised when he moved away from
her, toward the window.
“I do not doubt your skill,” he said dryly.
“I saw you demonstrate it in the marketplace.”
He stepped into the pool of moonlight that
poured through the open shutters.
Avril gasped, staring at him in open-mouthed
astonishment. “
You
!” she choked out. “You are the trader
who ran into me at the street corner.”
Her pounding heart seemed to fill her throat
as she gaped at him. It was unmistakably the same tall, heavily
muscled rogue who had collided with her. The same fierce, rugged
face. The same bronzed skin and sun-colored hair, utterly at odds
with the moonlight all around him.
“As I recall,” he said sardonically, one
corner of his mouth curving, “it was you who ran into me.”
Avril felt a rush of dizziness, just as she
had in Antwerp—mayhap because he seemed
familiar
, in a way
she could not explain. There was something about his deep, quiet
voice. Something in his gaze.
He had eyes of the palest blue, like a
clear, cool lake reflecting a summer sky.
And as he regarded her silently, the
unnerving sensation she had felt upon first meeting him shimmered
through her once more—a dazzling heat, as if the sun had tumbled
from the heavens to fill every fiber of her being. The impact swept
over her so suddenly, so powerfully, it robbed her of breath,
voice, of her very senses.
Even as she struggled to give the feeling a
name, she sensed, somehow, that he felt it, too. Which only
mystified and unsettled her all the more.
Shaken, she managed to tear her gaze from
his, and realized that he no longer wore the homespun tunic and
cloak of a trader. He was garbed in naught but a pair of
close-fitting brown leggings, leather boots, and a gold armband
encircling one thick bicep. A sheathed sword and knife hung from
his belt.
Every hard plane and angle of his shoulders
and chest and powerful arms was exposed to view. From his
unyielding stance to the blunt tips of his fingers, he looked as
strong and solid as the rocks that sliced up the sea below his
keep.
He moved away from the window, and a moment
later the center of the room flared with the glow of fire, as he
used flint and steel to light the candles in an iron candle-stand.
The golden warmth flickered over his back and arms, casting every
muscle and sinew in sharp relief.
“Put the weapon down,” he said without
looking at her.
Avril shivered. It was not a suggestion but
a command. He spoke in the same way he moved—with an air of
authority. As if he owned not only this place, but everything in
it.
She felt renewed fear curl in her belly. But
she did not comply. She tightened her hand around the blade’s hilt,
ignoring the sting in her injured palm.
Carrying one of the candles, he moved even
closer to light a second candelabra. Avril held her ground—and, in
the growing brightness, felt surprised to see that she was not in a
bedchamber after all.
There were cook pots, copper utensils, and a
cauldron beside the hearth. A table for eating in one corner.
Shelves that held linens and soaps for washing, next to a rain
barrel. This odd dwelling seemed to be some sort of long, one-room
home.
Finished with his task, her abductor glanced
toward her, mouth open as if he meant to issue another command. But
then his gaze fastened on the revealing silk kirtle and skimmed
down her body, taking in every inch of skin illuminated by the
light.
Those pale azure eyes suddenly darkened in a
blaze of heat. Avril inhaled sharply, filled with feminine alarm at
the obvious direction of his thoughts. Every instinct urged her to
flee, yet she could not move. And could not understand the tingle
that coursed through her limbs, holding her fast.
“I left a tunic for you.” His voice sounded
even deeper than before. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw. “Did you
not see it?” He nodded toward the foot of the bed, where a garment
of black velvet lay draped over a trunk.
“I-I was more interested in finding a way
out!” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, looked at the
distant door. Wondered if she dared try to run past him. “Where am
I?” she demanded, deciding boldness was her only choice at the
moment. “Who the devil are you and what do you—”
“Put down the blade,” he repeated with
measured patience, “and we will discuss this”—he seemed to search
for the appropriate word— “situation calmly.”
“Calmly?” she sputtered. “I have been
attacked by brigands, kidnapped, carried off to sweet Mary knows
where, locked in a room, and now—”
“Milady,” he said in soft warning. Without
another word, he advanced toward her, his patience apparently at an
end. She retreated only a step.
Then she retreated three more.
As he kept coming, she decided that
discretion might be better than valor at the moment. She dashed
toward the bed, snatching up the black velvet tunic on the way and
clutching it in front of her. She tossed the weapon into the center
of the rumpled sheets.
“There. There, are you satisfied?” She kept
moving, maneuvering around until the huge bed was between them. The
sword was still within reach if she chose to lunge for it.
But he seemed placated for now. He kept his
distance, reaching out to close his fingers around one of the
dragon-headed posts.
“If I had meant you any harm,” he grated
out, pronouncing each word distinctly, as if she were a slow-witted
child, “if I had intended to kill you, or do aught else”—his gaze
flicked over her body again—”I already had ample opportunity. You
will have to trust me.”
Trust him? Trust him!
Avril
choked back a biting retort and quickly pulled the tunic over her
head. It was obviously one of his, the sleeves much too long, the
hem falling to her ankles. But at least she no longer felt as
exposed as she did wearing only the ridiculous scrap of silk.
“Where am I?” she repeated more calmly once
she was dressed, trying not to provoke him again. “How far are we
from Antwerp? How long was I asleep?”
“You were asleep …” He paused, clearly
choosing his words carefully. “A short time. I brought you here
early this morn. That gown was the only female garment I had at the
time. I have brought you some others, along with some additional
female trappings you might require.” He nodded toward a pair of
sacks he had left on the far side of the room. “As for where you
are, this is Asgard Island. I bid you…” He paused again, sighing
tiredly. “Welcome.”
Despite the greeting, his attitude was
hardly hospitable. Naught that he was saying made any sense. The
man had kidnapped her, yet he did not seem to want her here.
“Asgard Island?” she echoed, searching her
memory for all the names of places she had read about, all the
places Gerard used to describe when he spoke of his travels. “I
have never heard of it.”
Those blue eyes met hers again. “I
know.”
Somehow that simple comment was more
terrifying than aught else he could have said. “Who are you?” she
whispered. “And what do you want with me?”
Buy this book now
:
Timeless
:
The Asgard Warriors
Sneak Preview Excerpt from the upcoming revised
edition of FALCON ON THE WIND
(Historical Romance, a prequel to the Stolen Brides
Series)
Dear Reader,
I’m currently working on an all-new edition
of my first novel, revising it from first page to last. The
upcoming second edition of
Falcon on the Wind
will feature
special bonus content, including deleted scenes never before
published.
Set in 1295, five years before
Forever
His
takes place,
Falcon on the Wind
introduces us to
a charming scoundrel named Gaston de Varennes for the first time,
when he offers refuge to a friend who’s on a dangerous secret
mission.
Enjoy this exclusive, advanced sneak peek of
the novel-in-progress, as our hero and heroine, Connor and Laurien,
meet for the first time.
******
Kidnapped from her royal wedding – by
her groom’s most dangerous enemy
Betrayed by a treacherous French ally, Sir
Connor of Glenshiel kidnaps the knave’s betrothed, heiress Laurien
d’Amboise, from the steps of Chartres Cathedral on her wedding day.
She is a hostage to be bartered for the freedom of Connor’s beloved
Scotland—but the clever, defiant lady has plans of her own. From a
besieged French castle to the Scottish Highlands, they’re swept up
in dangerous secrets, wild adventure, and a love to last a
lifetime.
“A compelling, memorable romance. Shelly
Thacker’s
Falcon on the Wind
joins the ranks of the finest
medieval captive/captor stories along with those by Elizabeth
Stuart and Johanna Lindsey. A new star of medieval romance is on
the rise. 4 I/2 stars (highest rating).”
Kathe Robin, Romantic
Times
Chartres, France, 1295
C
onnor nodded toward
the wedding party assembled in the courtyard. “I wonder what causes
the delay.”
From their vantage point near the gate’s
barbican tower, he and Malcolm had a clear view of the proceedings.
De Villiers had appeared and mounted his white horse. Then, when
there had been no sign of his bride, he had gone back inside the
chateau. A short time later the comte reappeared, and now stood
talking quietly to his guards.
“Mayhap the lady has reconsidered,” Malcolm
ventured.
“Reconsidered? A lofty position as wife to
the king’s own cousin? Jewels? A life of comfort and ease? Any
female would give her front teeth for…Wait.” Connor tensed. “There
she is.”
Clad in a fitted blue-and-white gown and
ermine-lined mantle, de Villiers’s bride stepped into the
courtyard, walking unescorted toward the waiting horses. As Connor
watched her move, a low whistle of appreciation escaped him.
‘Twould have been a sin to keep curves like that locked away in a
musty convent, hidden under a nun’s habit.
Gliding through the crowd, a wisp of
softness and silk, she stood out among the glittering nobles like a
graceful angel among gaudy statues.
Connor frowned, wondering where that poetic
thought had come from. Verse did not number among his talents.
The lady’s throat and cheeks were hidden
beneath a tightly wrapped wimple, her hair draped in a veil, and he
caught only a glimpse of delicate features. She stopped when a
quartet of burly guardsmen surrounded her, but met their gazes
squarely. She did not demurely lower her eyes, did not curtsy to
anyone—even to her betrothed. When one guard offered to lift her
onto her tall bay mare, she refused his extended hand, took the
reins herself and mounted in a single fluid motion.
“Pray correct me if this is a mistaken
impression,” Malcolm said, “but she does not seem like the timid,
docile sort.”
“I may have been wrong on that score,”
Connor agreed warily. “But how much trouble could one woman
be?”
De Villiers stood staring at his bride for a
long moment, and she returned the look. From where Connor watched,
he could not make out her expression. Finally, the comte mounted
his horse and motioned to his guards. The party moved toward the
street and the impatient throngs.
Connor turned to Malcolm. “‘Tis time. Away,
quickly. And remember, if I dinna arrive within the hour—”
“I am off to Calais, aye.
Alba gu
brath
!” Malcolm maneuvered his dun-colored nag toward a side
street.
“
Alba gu brath
! For Scotland!”
Connor’s jaw hardened. “And for Galen.”
He turned his black stallion and headed into
the crowd.
***
A breeze cooled Laurien’s face, chilling the
sweat that trickled down her back and under her arms as the wedding
party rode through the chateau gates. The air was cold, but she
felt as though she were suffocating, her fur-lined cloak an
unbearable weight on her shoulders. Guards positioned along the
route held back the cheering crowds as she passed into the street.
She heard naught but the
clop, clop, clop
of her horse’s
hooves on the dirt, felt naught but the slow thud of her own
heart.
The autumn sun glinted on gold and jewels as
the long line of horses moved through the crowd, a stream of
silk-clad ladies in purple and green and red, and knights in
clinking chain mail. Laurien rode in the middle of the procession,
boxed in by guards on either side, one in front, and one behind.
Her numbed mind wondered why they rode in this unusual arrangement,
rather than two before and two behind. She watched her betrothed at
the head of the line.
De Villiers had that false smile in place as
he regarded the crowds, waving occasionally, glancing over his
shoulder now and then to fasten those black eyes on her. Laurien
stared blankly at him, at the scene about her, feeling as if she
had become only a player in someone else’s strange dream.
They passed tiny buildings, clustered about
the edge of the chateau like children clinging to their mother’s
skirt. She looked across a sea of haggard faces, open mouths with
missing teeth forming a soundless, gaping O as the spectacle moved
past. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared, filled with … What was
that look? Jealousy? Envy?
They would not envy her so, Laurien thought,
if ever they chanced to spend a few moments alone with the comte in
his chambers.
The procession passed into the marketplace
at the town’s center, and the sea of peasants went on, all clothed
in gray fustian or sackcloth colored with yellow and green
vegetable dyes. Pilgrims dotted the crowd in their hooded brown
cloaks and wooden cross necklaces. She knew Chartres and its
cathedral was a popular destination—many did not want the risk and
expense of a trip to the Holy Land. But she had never seen so many
pilgrims in one place.
And there were children everywhere. Some
stood on upturned carts, others sat on their parents’ shoulders for
a better view. One little girl, wailing, caught Laurien’s
attention. She had apparently hurt her knee, but her father quickly
scooped her up and cuddled her, kissing away her tears. Then he
kissed her knee, as if to take away the pain.
Laurien swallowed hard and dropped her gaze,
wondering what it was like to have such a loving father. To know
that feeling, even for a moment, she would gladly trade places with
a peasant girl.
The passage narrowed on the way out of the
market and the wedding party squeezed through a street of
timber-framed hovels, where more onlookers leaned out of windows.
The air seemed to grow thick with the smells of roast meat, spilled
ale, and the refuse that lined the streets. She tugged at the gold
chain fastening her mantle, wanting to throw it off, trying to
breathe. The movement only made her painfully aware of the bruises
around her throat.
The cathedral loomed before her.
They approached from a hill to the east, and
the midday sun shone through the huge windows, making the luminous
reds and blues and violets seem to dance. She had read much about
what many said was France’s most beautiful cathedral—but at the
moment, she could not recall a single fact from her history texts.
Inside that church her fate would be sealed.
They were close enough now that she could
see the outlines of the statues above the doors.
A sudden commotion made her glance to her
right. A lone rider mounted on a tall black stallion was jostling
for position on a side street, his broad shoulders nearly filling
the space between buildings. He wore the brown cloak and wooden
cross of a pilgrim, but something made the milling throng give way
around him.
He quieted his horse, looked up—and Laurien
immediately understood why the crowd had given him a wide
berth.
He looked like some kind of brigand.
Dangerous. The sort of man who should be brawling in an alehouse
somewhere or doing violence in a dark alley. From his muscular
frame to the scar that slashed along his left cheekbone, white
against his tanned skin, he was almost alarmingly … male. And
menacing. A thatch of blond hair tangled over his forehead, and he
had a slightly darker beard, but neither softened the hard angles
of his face. Despite his garb, he did not look at all like a
penitent worshipper on a holy quest.
He looked like an outlaw intent on stealing
something.
And he must be the boldest of thieves, she
thought, if he meant to steal jewels from any of the nobles in the
wedding procession.
But then, he was not watching the
procession, she realized suddenly.
He was watching her.
Every instinct urged her to glance away, her
heart beating harder, but his gaze held hers fast. He studied her,
his eyes the most vibrant blue she had ever seen, blue like the
sheer glass of the cathedral windows, eyes held a look of …
unyielding determination
.
And somehow, though she wore no
gems of any kind, she sensed that all of his fierce determination
was directed at her. An unfamiliar and unsettling sensation flashed
through her body, searing her as if she had stepped too close to a
fire.
One of the guards noticed her stare and
broke out of line to question the man. But when Laurien craned her
neck to watch what happened, she saw that the rider had melted away
into the crowd.
The odd encounter with the outlaw shattered
her grim mood. Clearly, de Villiers did not dominate everyone in
this city. The thought made her sit taller in the saddle, the anger
and fear she had felt earlier flooding back. She would
not
give her betrothed the opportunity to subject her to any further
abuse.
As long as she had a horse under her and her
wits about her, she had a chance.
The comte stood in front of the cathedral
doors, already greeting the priest. She would have to be quick. If
she could break out of the procession and push her way through the
crowd, she could be away before any would have a chance to react.
She would ride to Tours, to Sister Emeline. Betrothals could be
broken. They would find a way. She had to get away from here, from
him.
She looked again at the four guards
surrounding her. Realized now why they were there: not to protect
her, but to keep her in. She could kick one, grab his reins. Nay,
these men-at-arms would be more than able to fend off her attack.
She would need to think of something…
Her
aumônière
.
Laurien wore an embroidered bag at her waist
to carry alms for the poor, as was the custom among nuns and noble
ladies alike. But her purse held more than coins. It also held a
small silver blade, with a glimmering emerald in the hilt and an
inscription in ancient lettering. The knife had once belonged to
her father – her real father.
‘Twas all she had of him, and she kept it
close, always.
Her hand moved to the bag hanging from the
silken rope that girdled her waist. She felt the outline of sharp
metal.
Stabbing the guard would not work, but she
could nick his horse. She did not want to hurt the animal, but if
she could just make it rear, mayhap toss its rider, she would have
an open path to freedom. It was her only chance.
She started to open the bag and slip her
hand inside when she heard a surprised shout on her right that
rippled through the crowd. She turned, and what she saw stopped her
breath.
She froze in shock as the blond outlaw on
the huge black stallion came charging straight toward her.
The guards at her side spun their mounts to
face the thief a moment too late. He plunged out of the crowd,
caught her around the waist with one muscular arm.
And plucked her right out of the saddle.
Laurien screamed as she felt herself
snatched into the air and pulled in tight against the brigand’s
side. The crowd scattered with cries of terror. From the direction
of the cathedral she heard a roar like that of an animal pierced by
a huntsman’s blade.
The blond madman shifted her to an awkward
position over his lap, and she could see stunned faces watching as
the stallion bolted toward a side street. One of the guards managed
to wheel his mount and block their path, his weapon ready. She
heard the metallic ring of a sword being pulled free of its
scabbard.
The horse reared, and she screamed again as
she heard the clash of steel on steel just above her head. After
only four thrusts, the guard was gripping a bloody wound and they
were racing down the street. Behind them she heard another bellow
that could only be de Villiers, then the sound of many hooves
pounding after them. Terrified peasants flattened themselves
against buildings as the horse thundered past.
They rounded a corner, the stallion’s
muscles bunching and straining, and she could see two guards
pushing a haycart into their path. She screamed again as the
lunatic spurred his neighing mount onward. She felt the horse’s
hooves leave the ground—and was suddenly looking down into the
guards’ startled faces, then at the street rushing up to meet
her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the
inevitable impact, but instead had the wind knocked out of her by
the outlaw’s knees as they landed. He urged the horse on and they
raced through the streets, scattering chickens and pigs from their
path. They quickly reached the edge of town and sped across the
open fields, a half dozen guards only an arrow’s flight behind.
She heard the airy whoosh of a crossbow
bolt, then another. The rider hunched down over the horse’s neck,
covering her. Despite the protection of her mantle, she was all too
aware of the heavy wall of his chest pressed against her back, the
feeling of her breasts flattened against the muscles of his thigh.
She gasped short, terrified breaths, watching flying hooves and
meadow grass rush by several feet below. Lather from the horse’s
shoulder flecked her gown.
The arrows soon stopped. Laurien knew the
guards were falling behind as the outlaw headed into the forest. He
straightened as they left the path, charging through the trees. She
could hear the guards crashing into the underbrush far away.
She struggled to sit up. “Wait! Stop—”
He stopped just long enough to right her so
that she was sitting astride in front of him—then brought out a
piece of cloth from his tunic and whipped it around her mouth as a
gag. She had no chance to ask who on earth he was or demand that he
release her. Helpless and mute, she could only hold on for sweet
life as he spurred the stallion onward.
They galloped faster through the woods.
Branches whipped past, tearing at her veil and dress. The brigand
wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, shielding
her. He was so much bigger than her, the top of her head fit
beneath his bearded chin. Surrounded by hard muscle and his male
scent, she grew more frightened as they rode deeper into the wood.
The gloom thickened around them, the sun only occasionally breaking
through the branches overhead. What plans did this mad outlaw have
for her?