Her Battle-Scarred Knight

She placed her hand in his, allowing her smaller fingers to be swallowed up by his burly grip as she swung her leg over. His other hand came around her waist, and, unbalanced, she fell against him, her cheek brushing fleetingly against his. A rush of awareness pulsed through her at the scrape of day-old beard against the soft swell of her cheek, the potent smell of him.

‘Here.’ Giseux dug her veil and circlet out from the depths of his surcoat and handed them to her.

Fingers trembling from the unexpected contact, she jammed the circlet on her head, securing the veil. ‘Take me to Hugh, please.’

The gold band gleamed lopsidedly at him. His fingers propelled towards her head, rustling against the silk as he adjusted the circlet, setting it straight. Unprepared for his gesture, Brianna flinched backwards, eyes wild with alarm.

Giseux frowned. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Brianna’s reaction had been exactly as if he had been going to hit her. ‘You need not to be frightened of me.’

Oh, but I am, thought Brianna dully, as she dogged the substantial breadth of his back up the stone steps to the main doorway. I am afraid … afraid of all men, and the things of which they are capable. That’s why I hide myself away from them, shun all acts of kindness, recoil against any tenderness. What happened in the past could not, would not happen again.

Giseux led her to Hugh’s chamber, high in the north turret of the castle, up three steep flights of a spiral staircase. He pushed against a heavily planked wooden door, stepping aside to allow her to precede him. As she crossed the threshold, a solid wall of heat hit her in the face. At first, she could see nothing, only the glow of coals from a charcoal brazier in the corner, throwing their reddish light along the oak-panelled wall. She searched the gloom, saw the bed, found her brother.

His head was cushioned on an enormous linen pillow, his hair matted, stuck to his scalp. His face was chalk-white, apart from two spots of vivid colour on his cheekbones, the skin grown thin and gaunt. Blood-encrusted scabs flecked his dry, cracked lips; beads of shiny perspiration peppered his forehead. A linen nightshirt covered his frame, his forearms and wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves, stretched on the fur coverlet, palms facing upwards. Every now and again, a spate of shivering seemed to take hold of him, like some unknown presence shaking his body like one possessed.

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