The Knight's Fugitive Lady. Meriel Fuller

The bulk of him. The smell of him. She backed away, hands fluttering up to her mask self-consciously, checking her disguise was still in place. Why, oh why, did it have to be him? The full, creamy-coloured orb of the moon washed his face with a pearly gleam, striking the high, rigid slash of his cheekbones, the strong upward curve of his dark brows. He stared down at her, his expression incisive, predatory, silver embroidery sparkling around the collar of his cloak, like clusters of stars.

      ‘I need to go,’ she muttered, attempting to slip around his substantial frame, head turned stubbornly away, ignoring him, trying to clamp down on the rivulets of fear that coursed her body, the heightened bump of her heart. She could not allow his presence to deflect her escape and beyond him, around the back of the keep, the shadows were dark, intense. She would hide there, until the soldiers became bored of searching for her.

      ‘Nay.’ One lean hand snaked out, whipped around her forearm as she passed him. Her heart squeezed with trepidation; she stared in panic at the muscular fingers wrapped around her beaded sleeve, the cold causing her eyes to blur, shimmer.

      ‘Let go of me!’ Katerina hissed, jerking her arm downwards, to break his hold. Her feeble movement had no effect, merely ripping at the muscle in her shoulder.

      ‘That was quite a performance you gave in there.’ His voice, low and sensual, curled around her. Beneath the flimsy, slippery material, her soft flesh yielded beneath his strong grip.

      ‘I need to hide!’ She jogged her elbow angrily. She had to move out of view! Her costume gleamed out like a beacon of light, an iridescent bird pressed back against the dark towering walls.

      ‘Then you’re wearing the wrong clothes,’ he said. Before she could stop him, before she even had time to think, steady, decisive fingers pushed at the mask, peeling the leather back to reveal the full delicate beauty of her heart-shaped face, her alabaster skin, silky, exquisite. In the same movement, he plucked back the beaded hood of her tunic, dragging it from her neat, golden-spun hair.

      ‘So,’ Lussac breathed out slowly, ‘not just a serving girl after all. Is this your other job?’

      She brought her hands upwards, slim fingers clutching around his with anguish, hot tears of frustration welling in her eyes. The warm muscle of his hands pressed into the sensitive curve of her palm; she dropped her hands immediately, stung by the intensity of his touch. A lick of heat curled oddly in the pit of her stomach.

      ‘I don’t have time for this!’ She glanced frantically behind her.

      ‘What are you running from?’ His tone was underscored with steel.

      She heard the soldiers’ clustered shouts from around the corner, gathering momentum. Her heart sank. ‘It’s too late,’ she murmured, chewing nervously on the fullness of her bottom lip. ‘There’s no point in running now.’ Her body wilted, strength leaching from her limbs, but she raised her chin up, tilting her head proudly. ‘No matter. I’m sure I’ll manage to extricate myself from this situation. I usually do.’ Doubt clouded her tone, as if she couldn’t quite convince herself of that certainty.

      A lock of hair, silvered in moonlight, had escaped from the mound of braids pinned tight against her scalp, falling across her cheek. Without thinking, Lussac smoothed the velvet coil back behind her ear, savouring the fine softness, a silken thread between the rough pads of his fingertips. Desire punched him, deep in his gut—powerful, swift.

      ‘Come here,’ he said roughly. He spun her around, swiftly, so her back was against the wall.

      ‘What are you doing?’ she squeaked, keenly aware that he had moved much, much closer. The heft of his shoulders blotted out the vast expanse of star-studded sky. The wall pressed into her spine, the lightweight fabric of her outfit rustling against the rough-hewn stone. Her arms dropped, hands flailing by her sides.

      ‘Saving your skin,’ Lussac murmured.

      ‘I can look after myself,’ Katerina shot back hurriedly, senses scrabbling as his head dipped. ‘Nay,’ she stuttered out, ‘this is not the way...’ Her breath emerged in truncated gasps, floundering; her heart fluttered...with fear?

      ‘It is the only way,’ Lussac muttered.

      He told himself her expression alone had motivated him, for the maid possessed the appearance of someone who was utterly alone in the world, an overwhelming sadness tingeing her exquisite features. He had recognised that fleeting, haunted look, identified with it, the look of someone compelled to rely completely on their own resources, their own resilience. The maid was exhausted; even he could recognise the blue shadows beneath her eyes. Pity, not lust, propelled him to kiss her; in all honesty, she was the last person he would desire: a raging spitfire with a temper to match, scant flesh on her bones. He wanted to help her, he told himself, that was all. But since when had he wanted to help anyone?

      At the implacable press of his lips, her hands whirled upwards, shocked, trying to push against his chest, to gain some distance between them. Her body squirmed. His big hands cradled her face, stilling her, thumbs pulsing warmly against her flaming cheeks. Heat surged through her chest, her stomach, her loins. As his lips played against hers, dancing along the delicate seam of her tightly closed mouth, she heard the soldiers call out to him and her cheeks flamed once more at the indecency of their shouts. This was outrageous! He’d reduced her to the level of a common whore!

      The soldiers moved away from them, their bawdy teasing drifting on the breeze, but Lussac barely noticed. The faint awareness that he should end the kiss now, that the ruse had worked, tickled at his conscious mind. The thought was an unnecessary irritant; he dismissed it, flicking it away like a fly on the window-pane. The maid tasted of roses, this silver girl who could swing through the air with ease, a sweet powerful nectar that twisted around his senses, winching him in, stronger, closer. Bracing his sturdy frame against her, he curved his big arms around her back, lifting the lithe fragility of her body against him. At the intimate, shuddering impact of his body, Katerina gasped, hands clutching at his bulky shoulders for support. Her feet swung inches from the ground. Against her lips, he smiled, his tongue delving into the warm recesses of her open, unsuspecting mouth. Exhilaration, boiling, spiking, swept through her, a thrill of pleasure as his tongue entwined with hers; and for one single precious moment, she forgot who she was, and where she was, surrendering to the astonishing sensations coursing through her body.

      And then it was over.

      Wrenching his mouth from hers, Lussac stepped back, his breathing hoarse, ragged. Unsupported, her limbs strangely weak, fluid, Katerina flopped back against the solid stone, bracing herself against the wall with flat palms. Like a piece of linen cloth forced through the mangle, a strange, wrung-out sensation gripped her body. Her lips burned.

      ‘How dare you kiss me like that!’ she flung at him, across the tense, icy silence. But her accusation sounded feeble, pathetic, like a mewl of a half-drowned kitten.