As he dropped to his knees, Brianna cried out—a long wavering wail of panic, the bundled-up fear bursting from her chest, fear that she had fought to keep under control throughout Fulke’s mauling. And now he’d sent someone else to deal with her. Her vision hazed with fright as the huge soldier hulked over her, silver eyes sparkling with a predatory gleam; he would surely kill her! Broad shoulders blocked out the light, cast her in shadow, as her knuckles scraped desperately against the rough wooden trough, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of stability as she screamed and screamed. Would no one come for her, would no one help her? Her shrieking rent the still air, piercing, pitching up a notch as firm hands curled about her shoulders, steadied her.
‘Stop!’ a low voice ordered, a rippling burr of sound close to her ear. ‘Do you want to bring them back?’ The warmth of the man’s breath fanned her cheek, before he lowered his hands.
Her mouth shut abruptly. Pain in the left side of her jaw chewed into her, relentless, an ache beginning to spread up the side of her cheek. Blood tasted like rust against her tongue. Tears sprung from her eyes, her body trembling, as she hoisted herself up awkwardly, flinging her arms out to push the stranger away. Her fingers flailed outwards, skittering over the black wool across his immense chest; her pathetic attempts failed to shift him. Exhausted by unravelling fear, she let her arms fall limply to her sides.
‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Brianna stuttered out, her voice a weak thread; her lips were dry, bruised. Energy seeped from her body, her small frame slumping back against the trough, her breathing rapid, truncated, puffing clouds of white in the cold air. The leather lace securing her braid had loosened; now the curling end was beginning to unravel, the magnificent amber hair shining against the sagging weave of her brown bodice. ‘But I’d rather be locked up, or dead, than do what you want me to do.’ The man’s intimidating grey eyes glittered over her, incisive, piercing, as if they drilled down into her very soul. Another wave of panic lurched up, pushing out the sides of her chest, and she dug her heels into the mud, intending to scrabble backwards if he came for her.
Sitting back on his heels, Giseux watched the trails of sparkling liquid track down her puffy, mottled cheek, heard the great, gasping sobs seize at her chest. The girl obviously believed him to be in league with the thugs who had just roughed her up. A tiny pulse beat frantically at her neck, beneath the white, fragile skin in the hollow of her throat; her fear of him was palpable, radiating from her body in waves of tension. The sight of her tears bit into him, tugged cruelly at his memory, but he clamped down firmly on the encroaching vision. He had no wish to remember.
‘Easy, maid,’ he said in his deep, rumbling voice. The words of comfort felt untested, awkward, like dusty rocks in his mouth. The battle for Jerusalem had been long and relentless; there had been little opportunity or time to offer solace to others—had he forgotten how? Or had the ugliness, the cruelty of fighting driven it from his soul? The hard frozen earth jagged into his knees; as he shifted, trying to ease his cramped calf muscles, she reared backwards, abruptly, like a wild, cornered animal. A rueful smile twisted his mouth as he shook his head, shook out the gold-tipped fronds of his hair: a lion’s mane, the blunt ends like spun gold around the rugged angles of his face. ‘Nay, nay, I will not hurt you.’
Brianna eyed him blankly, disbelieving, driving the flats of her hands and feet into the hard mud to hitch away from him. Where was her knife? She had to protect herself! As she raised herself up from the ground, every muscle in her body aching, protesting, the voluminous gown that she wore pressed against her body, revealing her high, rounded bosom, the golden-red weave of her hair falling like spun net across her chest. She managed to make a small space between them, heart racing beneath his steely perusal before the heel of her boot snared in the trailing hem of her gown, preventing any further escape.
‘Let me help you up. Can you stand?’ Impatient not to prolong the episode, Giseux stretched out one hand, tanned and sinewy, to help her up.
She slapped at his fingers, catching the side of his palm. The sharp smack reverberated in the confined corner of the field, bouncing between the thorny hedgerows, studded with bright berries. ‘Get away from me! Go! Leave me alone!’ The shrillness of her voice screeched into his ear, scraping at the limits of his patience. ‘You need to go away!’
‘And you need to mind your manners!’ Deep within him, the short rope of his temper began to fray; the girl’s behaviour was ridiculous, unnecessary. It wasn’t the physical blow—that had been nothing, a mere moth’s touch from her slim fingers—but the girl’s complete failure to comprehend that he was not her enemy. His initial intention to offer her comfort, to help her in some way, as any passing stranger would do, had gone seriously awry. He didn’t have the time to squander on such foolish conduct, and at this rate, his act of mercy was threatening to take all day. It would be so much easier to walk away. But he couldn’t leave her here, hunched, pathetic, like a half-drowned kitten that spat and snarled at him whenever he approached. It went against every code he had been brought up to believe.
‘I am not going to leave you here, sitting on the frozen ground. I am not going to hurt you.’
‘How do I know?’ she threw back at him, her body rigid and hostile, cerulean eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘How do I know that this isn’t another trick? The words emerged in jerky fashion, her voice wobbling with the cold. She wrapped her arms firmly about her chest, trying to stop the violent shudders that racked her body.
He set his lips in a firm forbidding line, a ripple of irritation lacing his big frame. ‘I’m not one of them. You have to trust me.’
‘Trust?’ Laughter burst from her lips, a spray of jangled sound couched with a bubble of hysteria. ‘Surely you jest? It’s obvious you are one of Count John’s men, sent to pick up the pieces.’ Brianna wriggled her feet, attempting to move her frozen toes. She needed to find the strength, the determination, to stand up, to walk away. A cloying weakness dragged at her legs; this last attack had surely been the worst. And it appeared that it wasn’t over yet.
Gathering the last scraps of courage from her body, she tipped her head defiantly, meeting his pewter gaze. ‘I’ll not go back with you. I’ll not go back to Merleberge.’
‘I have no intention of making you go anywhere,’ he replied, his tone brimming with contempt. Sunburn dusted his high cheekbones, a reddish-brown colour that spoke of distant lands. His mouth was generous, top lip narrow, well defined, in stark, shocking comparison to the sensual fullness of his bottom lip. Brown hair, gilded, fell forwards in thick strands over his brow, ruffled by the breeze. ‘But it would help if I could take you somewhere, to a place of safety. Sooner, rather than
later.’
He propelled himself up in one sinuous, graceful movement; she instinctively raised her hands, as if to ward off further attack, but to her surprise he ignored her, heading towards his horse. Her heart eased as she watched him, noting that he limped—the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a pause, as his right foot moved forwards. His chainmail, glinting like fish scales, fitted his tall frame like a second skin, revealing the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the powerful strength of his long legs. The fine cloth of his surcoat held a dull sheen in the fragile sunshine, secured to his slim hips with a wide leather sword belt.
‘Here, have this, you’re freezing.’
She cast a cursory glance at the bundle of cloth between his hands: a cloak, of midnight blue, the collar edged in fur.
‘I’ve told you, leave me. I want nothing from you.’ She tried to inject some strength into her voice. Clutching valiantly at the trough with clenched, icy fingers, she pushed her body weight upwards. A raft of dizziness swept through her head as she stood up straight and she swayed, nausea boiling in her stomach. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘For the love of God, go away.’