To Tame A Warrior's Heart

He slipped the hood back to reveal a mass of dark, tousled hair. His touch gentle, he eased her face toward him.

Catrin.

Her pale, delicate features, devoid of her usual defiance, brought death to mind. Yet she still lived, her breath a faint mist against his fingers when he touched her lips.

So cold! Her lips had been hot—both to hear and to touch—when last they’d met. The memory of her mouth, so soft beneath his own, had come unbidden into his mind far too often these months past.

He pushed the image aside and smoothed her hair from her face, then turned his attention to the three feathered shafts jutting from her back. “Holy Mary save her,” he muttered. Crossbow bolts. Longbow arrows would have been bad enough, but these…

Too often he’d seen men suffer a lingering, painfilled death from such wounds. He rested his throbbing head on the ground beside her and scanned her face once more.

How could he tell Gillian of her dearest cousin’s death?

A moan, a mere wisp of sound, slipped from Catrin’s lips, and she opened her eyes. Gone were the flashing silver depths he remembered. In their stead shone painglazed pewter, dull and gray. Her gaze flitted about before settling upon his face, so near her own. A spark of recognition flickered to life.

“Nightmare,” she mumbled, her voice weak. Her mouth moved aimlessly before curling about the words. “Or death.” She swallowed, her tongue darting out to capture a bit of moisture from her lips, as her eyelids drifted closed.

Nicholas pushed himself upright. Shoving the wet hair off his face with a shaking hand, he dragged his attention from Catrin and surveyed the clearing. The fog lent an unnatural glow to the carnage. Nothing moved. All was silent save for the steady drip of water from the trees. Yet he still should examine the bodies, for despite the amount of blood spattered everywhere, someone else might have survived.

Catrin’s moan drew his attention once more. He dropped down beside her as she tried to roll to her side and, holding her steady, eased her onto her stomach. “Have a care, else you’ll harm yourself more.”

“This is real, isn’t it?” Even as he nodded, her eyes begged him to disagree. “Cursed knaves attacked us. Not enough guards.” She swallowed. “’Tis my fault—all my fault.” Moisture pooled in her eyes, but the tears did not fall. “They’ve gone for the horses—south, I think—but they’ll be back. I heard them say so.” Her fingers clenched into fists, she sought to push herself up off the ground.

Nicholas grasped her beneath the arms and held her still. “You’ve three arrows in your back—how do you expect to move?”

“We must go.” She sagged within his hold, hands clinging to him for a moment before she tried to shove free. “They’ll kill us when they return. Mayhap we can find a horse.”

“You’re in no condition to ride—”

She pushed against him with more strength. “Don’t you understand, you Norman coward? I’d rather die trying to escape than to chance certain death at their hands.”

His fingers tightened about her ribs. “No one calls me coward, milady. We’ll find a way to escape this place.”

Determination steadying him, he gathered Catrin into his arms and carried her to a nearby tree. Though she held her lower lip caught between her teeth until she drew blood, she didn’t make a sound.

“By Christ, I’ve never met a woman like you,” he muttered as he set her down. Whether he meant it as a compliment or a curse, even he did not know.

“’Tis your misfortune then, milord.” She wrapped her arms about the tree trunk and leaned against it.

Biting back a curse—did her baiting never cease?—he stepped back and eyed her pale face. She sounded more lively than she looked, but he doubted she’d fall into another swoon. “Will you be all right here? I want to see if anyone else survived. ’Twill take but a moment,” he added as she nodded.

He moved swiftly about the clearing despite the fact that his head felt no better. The pain did not matter. If he didn’t get them safely away soon, an aching head would be the least of his worries.

Only he, Catrin and Idris had survived the attack. Though it galled him to leave Catrin’s men where they lay, he could not spare the time—nor the strength—to bury them.

As for the dead outlaws, they deserved their fate.

Catrin’s packhorse must have bolted, for all he found were her guards’ few belongings scattered across the blood-spattered ground. His own possessions were gone with his stallion, lost to him now.

Feeling like a grave robber, Nicholas removed the threadbare cloaks from Catrin’s men. Further search yielded naught but their belts, a flint and a battered cup.

Something rustled in the bushes to his left. He reached for his dagger but came up empty. Before he had time to seek another weapon, a scrawny nag burst through the trees.

Ragged brown coat marred by narrow streaks of blood, nonetheless it appeared uninjured. A crude bridle drooped from its head, reins trailing, and a filthy sheepskin hung lopsided across its bony withers.

Nicholas made soothing noises and stretched his hand toward her. The mare halted before him, hooves shuffling upon the slick grass. After a moment the beast settled down, though her ears flicked back and forth as though she were uncertain whether to heed his entreaties.

Finally the mare heaved a ragged sigh and accepted his touch. Though naught but a rack of bones, she’d carry Catrin away from this abattoir.

“Come to me, my beauty,” he coaxed as he grasped the reins. “There, my fine lady.” Heaving his own sigh of relief, he laid his head against the mare’s neck and stroked her wet, quivering hide. After a brief hesitation she followed him across the clearing to Idris’s side.

At Nicholas’s touch the hound tried without success to stand. He should have known the dog would share his mistress’s stubborn nature. He could almost wish the dog had succumbed to his injuries, for Catrin would never agree to leave her companion behind. Cursing, Nicholas stilled Idris’s struggles and hefted him up and onto the mare’s back.

Blood trickled down his left arm as the barbed arrow shifted deeper into his flesh. Looping the reins through his belt, he pressed his fingers hard against the mail surrounding the shaft to stop the bleeding and led the mare across the clearing.

Still cursing, he dropped down beside Catrin. Jaw clenched, he gripped the arrow and tried to snap the wooden shaft. The arrowhead ground further into his arm.

Nicholas groaned, the sound piercing Catrin’s painfilled lethargy. She forced her eyes open. “Are you mad?” she shrieked when she saw what he was about. She reached out to stop him but could scarcely lift her arm. “You’ll make it worse! You cannot pull—”

“Do you think I know so little?” He let go of the arrow and rose to his knees, shoving his fingers through the sweat-darkened blond curls plastered to his head. “I can’t get hold of the damned thing to break it off.”

“Lift my hand so I might help you,” she said, struggling to shift to a better position.

He shook his head. “You haven’t the strength for it.”

“Stop wasting time, Talbot, and do it! I’ll hold your arm while you snap off the shaft.” He didn’t appear convinced. “Come—I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

“No doubt you’ve the might of a warrior,” he snarled. “There’s little enough that’s womanly about you.”

“Is that why you kissed me when last we met?” She curled her lips into a shaky smirk. “I’ve heard that some nobles of the Norman court prefer a manly bedmate.”

“Once we’re away from here I’ll show you what I prefer.” Face flushed, he swept his gaze boldly over her. “It appears you have the necessary equipment.”

His eyes had darkened to a deep violet, the pupils wide. They reflected more than temper; she’d seen that in his eyes often enough.

Was it pain that shadowed his gaze? Mayhap he’d taken a blow to the head. She doubted the injury to his arm would much affect so powerful a warrior as Nicholas Talbot.

The warmth of his fingers as they closed about her wrist made Catrin realize how chilled she felt. Though the cold had permeated her entire body, it did little to blunt her pain. When Nicholas lifted her hand, agony streaked across her back. She sank her teeth into her lower lip to stifle a groan and forced her fingers to close about his arm.

“If they’d left my knife I could have notched the shaft to weaken it. I need something to break off the arrows in your back, as well.”

Catrin dragged her attention from the sinewy strength of Nicholas’s arm beneath the cool, rough mail. “My eating knife is on my belt.”

He slid the blade from its sheath. “This bauble?” Expression mocking, he examined the dainty, bejeweled dagger.

“Lift my skirts,” she told him, her mouth dry.

“Under other circumstances, milady, I’d be pleased to oblige.” His smile taunted her. “But now’s not the time.”

“Arrogant dolt!” Given a choice, she’d not permit him to so much as touch her hand.

But these were not normal times. Raising her chin, she cleared her throat and met his eyes. “Go ahead. I’ve a blade strapped to my thigh you’ll not sneer at.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes burning with a strange light. “I doubt there’s anything beneath your skirts I’d sneer at,” he murmured, his hand already on the hem of her gown. “Which leg?”

“The right.” She focused on a dripping branch as he pushed the wet fabric high enough to reveal the scabbard—and most of her leg. An icy weight settled into her stomach, threatening to break free when his knuckles brushed against her skin.

Startled by the warmth of his touch, she shifted her gaze to him. All she could see was the top of his head as he bent over her. “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

He slipped the blade from its worn leather casing, then eased her skirts into place before he glanced up. “’Tis indeed a knife,” he said, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb. The corner of his mouth quirked into an uneven smile. “It should serve well.”

Covering her hand with his, he tightened his fingers. “Hold fast,” he told her. She saw a measure of trust in his eyes, and something more—something she’d never dare acknowledge.

She nodded and gripped his arm. His movements swift, he notched the wood and snapped the thick shaft, tossing it aside. Then, seemingly unaffected, he stood and turned to the horse.

Catrin’s heart leapt with joy when she noticed Idris strapped onto the mare’s back. Nicholas murmured to the animals as he adjusted the bridle and shifted Idris forward on the sheepskin, binding him in place with a sword belt.

Blood continued to drip from Nicholas’s arm. “Shouldn’t you bandage that?” she asked as he turned toward her.

“Nay, the bleeding has slowed.” He wadded up a cloak and slipped it between her cheek and the tree. “And we must go.” He reached behind her and grasped an arrow. “’Tis your turn now, milady. I dare not move you without first cutting back your plumage.”

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 stand them in good stead.

Nicholas cast another glance at the darkening sky. He could delay no longer. He drew Catrin’s hood about her face and bound her more tightly to the mare, then took up the reins and headed upstream.

If they couldn’t find shelter somewhere along the stream, he could build a lean-to. He began to gather branches and sticks from beneath the trees along the path—’twould do for a fire, at the least.

Awake now, and refreshed by the water Talbot had given her, Catrin peered out from beneath her hood, concentrating upon their surroundings. What she saw made her heart beat faster.

“Talbot,” she called. He didn’t answer—no surprise, since her voice had come out so weak she’d scarce heard it herself. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Damn you, Talbot We must stop.”

He dropped an armload of wood onto the ground and spun to face her. “Must we indeed, milady? There is much we must do, aye—find food and shelter, tend your wounds—but I doubt that stopping here will accomplish anything. Lest it escape your attention, ’tis nigh dark, and I’ve no place to—”

“I think I know where we are.”

Talbot stalked toward her, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. “You know where we are.” He slid his hands—so cool against her heated skin—over her cheeks and sank his fingers into her hair. “When did you intend to tell me?” Leaning close, he stared into her eyes. “Or do you enjoy wandering through the forest with arrows in your back?”

Catrin moistened her lips. His expression frightened her nearly as much as the feel of his flesh against hers. But she held his gaze. His violet eyes took their intensity from the lengthening shadows, she told herself. And ’twas the chill air that sent a shiver sweeping over her, nothing more.

She swallowed, her fear a choking lump slipping down her throat to weigh heavy in her stomach and gnaw at her mettle.

But she’d not permit Nicholas Talbot to see her fear.

Never would a man make her cringe and cower again.

His mouth was so close to hers, she felt every breath he took. Her own breath shuddered in her chest. She wet her lips once more. “I may know this place, but I cannot be sure. Pray lift me up so I might see.”

Talbot released her with an alacrity she might have found amusing if she hadn’t been so relieved. His movements jerky, he went to tie the reins to a tree, then returned to her side.

He pushed aside her enveloping cloak and slipped his hands about her waist. “I know how you hate to depend upon anyone,” he taunted as he lifted her. Thankfully his voice masked the whimper she couldn’t suppress. “But you’ll have to lean on me. It seems you have no choice.”

How she hurt! Catrin caught her breath as Talbot settled her against the rough mail covering his chest, one arm beneath her breasts holding her upright. “There’s always a choice,” she mumbled. “Unless you’re dead.”

Though his arm tightened about her, he made no reply.

The trees spun before her for a moment, then righted themselves as the dizziness passed. “Was there a cleft rock to the right of the stream, with a rowan tree growing out of the crack?”

“I saw such a stone. I don’t know what kind of tree grew from it,” he said, “but how many such could there be?”

“You don’t know the rowan?” she asked, unable to resist taunting him. “’Tis said to protect against demons—I’m surprised you’re not more familiar with it.”

“If you don’t cease your prattle, woman, you’ll soon wish you were in a tree. Mouthy wench!” He drew his hand through his hair, smoothing back the damp blond waves. “What would it take to quiet you?”

She smiled at the question she’d heard countless times before. “Short of death, nothing.”

“Your brother should take you into battle with him—he could use your tongue as a weapon. I’d wager ’twould serve as well as a sword.” Talbot shook his head. “You could cleave a man in two. ’Tis no wonder you’re not wed.”

Catrin seethed with frustration. “If I had my knife—”

“’Twould serve you naught. You cannot even hold a knife, let alone use it. Besides, you couldn’t harm me—” he cast a look of distrust at Idris “—even if you weren’t wounded.”

“I’ll show you what I can do once I’m well,” she growled. He’d be surprised if he knew just what she was capable of. A wave of cold passed through her, making her shudder. Not that she’d ever tell…

“That will give you reason to recover, I’ve no doubt.” His smile faded. “Enough of this. Do you recognize this place or not?”

She glanced around once more. The area looked familiar. It reminded her of a place where she and Ian had waited out a violent summer storm years before. “I believe there’s a rock cairn up ahead, at the top of this rise. The cave in the hillside should do for shelter. ’Twas a shrine long ago, a place sacred to the Old Ones. No harm will come to us there.”

She regretted her last comment when she caught Talbot’s piercing look, but he said nothing as he eased her back down onto the mare and took up the reins. After one last, lingering glance at the sky, he gathered up his meager pile of sticks and continued along the trail.

Once more Catrin cursed her impetuous tongue. Talbot had told her without words that they’d lingered to bicker too long. She still couldn’t be sure she knew where they were, but, please God, let her be right!