Sharon Schulze (11 page)

“I wasn’t ready, hadn’t paid attention,” she said, her breathing uneven. “That cursed beast would have eaten me for his supper if you hadn’t come back when you did.”

“Nay. You’d have taken care of him yourself if you had to.” This wasn’t like Catrin at all, he thought, concerned. Why didn’t she insult him for not being there when she needed him, or rage at him for taking advantage of her?

He knelt beside her and drew her back into his arms, surprised when she offered no protest, no resistance. Instead she seemed to welcome his embrace, for she slid her arms around him in turn.

Though he didn’t understand why she held him, nothing on earth could keep him from her now.

God only knew how long such peace would last.

T
hey sat huddled together until it was nearly full night The fire had dwindled to little more than a heap of coals, and Nicholas could scarcely see. It would be so easy to drift off to sleep, comfortable with Catrin held snug in his arms.

But a multitude of tasks awaited him. He fought the temptation of her embrace and tried to ease away, but she clung to him, her arms wound about him like a vine. “I have to get up,” he whispered into her hair. “Look, ’tis cold and dark—I need to build up the fire.”

Murmuring drowsily, she pressed closer to him. He slipped her arms from about his shoulders. “I brought you a surprise, if the wolves didn’t steal it. Come, milady, let me up. ’Twill take but a moment.”

Finally, a sleepy smile curving her lips, she released him. He carried her closer to the fire and eased her back to rest against the wall. She felt limp, and he knew she’d lost weight. She needed to eat.

At least now he had something substantial to feed her.

He stirred up the coals, watching with satisfaction as the flames licked at the wood. By the time he got rid of
the wolf and looked after the mare, the fire should be just right to roast a tender haunch of pig.

He lit a torch and stuck it in the wall, then turned to discover Catrin watching him, an unfamiliar expression in her eyes.

He pretended not to notice, for her scrutiny made him uncomfortable. There was a warmth in her gaze he’d never seen before.

’Twas truly surprising, considering his present state. Filthy, blood-smeared and rank, he could scarcely stand himself. Perhaps he should bathe in the stream—the cold water would be welcome to cool his blood.

He rubbed his fingers over the raspy beginning of a beard. The dagger would serve as a razor—no sense scraping Catrin’s delicate skin…

He had no sense at all.

Have I gone mad?

An icy flood of reason rushed through him, ebbing the still-warm glow of desire until nothing was left but selfdisgust. In the past he’d scoffed at any man who let his rod rule his brain. Now he seemed in danger of making the same mistake.

He needed a cold bath, all right. He only hoped ’twould jolt some sense into him.

He grabbed the wolf by the hind legs and dragged it from the cave.

“Don’t be long,” Catrin called after him.

Completely uncertain how to deal with her, Nicholas fled the cave.

Catrin awoke to the ambrosial smell of roast pork.

“Decided to join us?” Nicholas asked, his voice curiously flat.

“Is that real food I smell?” She untangled herself from
her cloak and shoved it aside. When she sat up, a groan escaped her lips before she could hold back the sound. Earlier she’d felt little pain; her attention had been on simply staying alive. Now she would pay. She felt as if she’d been beaten, and her wounds pulsed with a fiery throb.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she shifted until she could rest one shoulder against the wall.

Nicholas brought her water. “Do you want the powder mixed into this?”

She shuddered at the thought of enduring more of the potion-induced sleep. “Nay. Sometimes it gives me bad dreams.”

“This is no dream, I assure you.” He moved back to the fire and turned the meat. Fat crackled and snapped as it dripped into the flames, making her mouth water. “It’s nearly ready.”

He handed her a damp cloth to wipe her face and hands. “How do you feel—truly?”

She darted a look at his face. He didn’t meet her gaze, his expression one of studied indifference.

Good. Perhaps he was as ready as she to forget their earlier madness. “As well as you’d expect, after the past few days.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Why did he continue to press her? “I feel like something scraped from beneath the wheels of a baggage wain—after ten teams of oxen trod over me.” She scrubbed at her face with the rag. “And I smell worse than the bottom of a midden.” She flung the cloth at him. “Satisfied?”

He snatched the rag out of the air, a grin lighting his face. “Not quite…but getting closer.” His smile disappeared as swiftly as it came, his expression settling again
into the distant look his face had worn before. “I asked for a reason. I traveled far today, into an area that seemed familiar. I believe we’re not far from my keep at Ashby.”

“Ashby is yours?” She hadn’t realized that. But then, she knew little about Nicholas Talbot—save how he made her feel.

He glanced away. “Aye.”

“You could be right. Is that where you were headed when we were set upon?” She had wondered what he was doing, wandering the Welsh countryside on his own.

“No. King John sent me to see Llywelyn. Otherwise I would have stayed at l’Eau Clair until after my godchild’s birth. I’ve not been to Ashby in a long time.” He looked grim. “I’d rather not go there now, either, but we need better food and shelter than we have here. And your wounds should be examined by someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“Could we try for l’Eau Clair? I promised Gillian I would be there to deliver the babe. That’s where I was going.”

“Nay, Ashby is closer. And we aren’t as likely to run into our attackers. I’d rather not face them now, unprepared. I’ll deal with them later,” he vowed.

Catrin stared down at her fingers, knotted together in her lap. “Ian said he’d escort me to l’Eau Clair, but I refused to wait. All those lives lost—their deaths are my fault.”

“Did you know you’d be attacked on the journey?”

Her head jerked up. “Of course not!”

“Then how is it your fault?” he asked impatiently. “People are beset by robbers everywhere. ’Twas just your misfortune that they were an overeager lot. Mayhap they panicked when your guards fought back.”

A huge lump settled into Catrin’s throat; she could scarcely speak. “Nay. ’Twas me they wanted.”

“What?”

“Someone hired them to kill me, or take me captive.” The doubt in his eyes acted as salt upon her lacerated emotions; her only outlet was anger. “Do you doubt me?
I heard them say it.”
She dashed away an errant tear. “Just before they debated whether to use my body to appease their appetites before they left.”

“Foul knaves.” The lean planes of his face settled into a warrior’s mask. “Who would want you dead?”

“Any number of people, I’m sure,” she said bitterly. “You’re not the only person I irritate.”

His smile surprised her. “I wouldn’t call it irritation, exactly.” His expression became serious once more. “Besides, that’s no reason to kill someone. At least the bandits were unsuccessful, thank God.”

“Whether they killed me or not is unimportant. But the others who were killed—their deaths matter. There was a boy, Padrig. He was a good lad. Rannulf said he’d train him, let him be his squire.”

“I didn’t see a boy’s body among the dead.”

“Before they got to us I sent him for help, but I doubt he knew where to go. I hope someone finds him before he comes to harm. He didn’t deserve this, any more than the guards did. They were good men, with wives and families.” Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. She swiped them away. “I failed them by my selfishness. They were doing their duty, obeying my orders. I failed in my duty to them.”

Nicholas came closer and tried to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away. “Nay, don’t comfort me. This pain is no more than I deserve.”

“At least allow me to look at your injuries,” he said
quietly. “Will you let me do that? You needn’t refuse to care for yourself in punishment for what happened.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not.” His hand settled on her shoulder, offered comfort. Catrin shrugged it away. “I honor your concern for your people.”

His sympathy was unbearable, reminding her of her folly. “Let me be,” she snarled, striking out at him with her fist. She connected hard with his face.

Pressing her throbbing hand against her lips, Catrin watched in horror as the area around Nicholas’s left eye began to swell.

“I’m sorry, Nicholas.” Never had she meant an apology more. The area where she hit him had already begun to discolor, a dark purple bruise rising to mar the flesh beneath his left eye.

Ignoring the injury, he glared at her. “Why, Catrin? I meant you no harm. I only wished to comfort you.”

Flames flared up around the roasting pork, and he snatched it from the fire and set it aside. “Sometimes when I’m around you I feel like this piece of meat If I come too close to you, you scorch me with your anger, an anger I don’t understand.”

Leaving the fire, he sat near her, forcing her to face him—and his words. “What is it about me that provokes you?” he asked, his eyes intent “You judged me and found me lacking the first moment we met. Nothing you’ve said or done since has shown that your opinion has changed, unless ’twas for the worse.” His gaze shifted from hers and he toyed with the lacings of his shirt.

He lowered his hands to rest upon his thighs. “Likely there’s little that’s good in me. But why do I anger you?” She felt his question—and his confusion—to her very soul.

But Catrin didn’t want to lay bare her darkest secrets, her deepest shame.

How dare he ask for the weapons to destroy her?

As was her habit when threatened, she kindled the anger burning within, summoned her temper to a fiery conflagration. But as she gazed at the intensity in Nicholas’s expression, all his attention centered on her, an icy douche of self-reproach doused her anger, leaving in its wake the bitter ashes of shame.

She lowered her gaze, stripped naked without the cloak of anger to protect her. Once she pushed the haze of ill temper aside, the meaning of his words finally seeped through. “How can you say there’s little good in you? You’ve the patience of a saint, to suffer my provocation without strangling me. And you saved my life, at the risk of your own—for which I thank you. These are the actions of a decent man.”

Nicholas’s gaze shifted to hers, then slid away. The arrogant Lord Nicholas Talbot, uncomfortable with praise? Catrin reached out and touched his cheek, turning him toward her. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Don’t.” He jerked away from her hand when she would have held his face still.

“Nicholas?” She reached out and stroked her palm across his cheek, noticing for the first time that the skin beneath her hand was now smooth shaven. Along with everything else he’d accomplished while she slept, he must have shaved, as well.

But he still refused to meet her gaze. It seemed he had troubles of his own.

Perhaps she shouldn’t burden him with her secrets, too. “The fault is with me.” She strove for a light tone. “You know that I possess a sour disposition. Don’t blame yourself
for my bad temper,” she said, trying for a careless laugh.

He brought his hand up to cover hers, holding it against his face. “Don’t think to put me off with falsehoods, Catrin. There has been something wrong between us from the beginning. Do you remember how it was at l’Eau Clair? By the time you left we were at each other’s throats like wild dogs.”

His eyes glowed like amethyst in the flickering firelight. Catrin stared into their smoky depths, mulling over how much she dared reveal. Her stomach knotted, as if to hold all her vile secrets deep inside.

The fault lay not with him, but within her. She was a coward, hiding behind arrogance and ill temper to avoid the demons who tormented her. Awake or asleep, she couldn’t escape them.

Perhaps the time had come to face those demons.

Stiffening her spine—both mentally and physically—Catrin closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“What are you doing?”

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. Catrin stared at him, enjoying the harmony of his features, avoiding the bruise she’d given him. A feeling of security settled over her. The shadows enclosed them in a soothing cocoon, the sensation heightened by the warm glow of the fire.

She’d never have a better opportunity than this. He’d already seen her at her worst. She doubted she could shock him, no matter what she said.

Inhaling deeply, she said, “I’m preparing myself to meet my enemy.”

He took her hand in both of his and lowered it to rest on his thigh. “I’m not your enemy.”

Her lips curled into a trembling smile. “I know you’re
not.” Now that the time had arrived to finally speak of it, she didn’t know if the words would come. “My enemy has no form, no substance. I cannot face it with knife and sword, to battle it into submission.”

“You speak in riddles,” Nicholas said, weaving their fingers together. “If you’d rather not tell me—”

“Nay,” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she raised her voice. “Nay, I must The past is my foe. I cannot fight it, or alter it, yet it shapes my life—my very being.”

“Everyone has things in their past they’d rather forget. But those same things shape the person you are now.”

She tried to pull her fingers free, but he wouldn’t allow it “Exactly. My temper, the way I react to you, has nothing to do with you personally. ’Tis a result of something in my past.”

Perhaps he’d be satisfied with her vague reply.

Nicholas slanted her a knowing look. How could she imagine he’d be appeased with so little? “What you said doesn’t explain a thing.” He grasped her chin with his free hand, staring into her eyes. “I deserve more than that, don’t you think?” He stroked a finger over her cheekbone, noting the way her gray eyes darkened at his touch. “You cannot convince me you react the same to everyone. I know you do not. Your response to me is stronger—in every way.”

A flush mantled her cheeks. Nicholas knew she understood his meaning. “Tell me,” he added mockingly, raising his fingers to lightly touch his swollen cheekbone, “how many men have you punched in the eye?”

Again, she tried to wrench her hand away. “Let me go!”

“So we’re back to that.” He tugged her closer, until she squirmed against his chest “What will you do if I don’t release you? Hit me again?”

Catrin ceased her struggles, though the look she gave him might have slain a weaker man. But they’d gone too far for Nicholas to be satisfied. He didn’t want her compliance. He wanted—no, he needed—an explanation.