Malcolm's Honor. Jillian Hart

was very close.

      He turned and saw only silent forest. Trees reached tall, with shadowed trunks and knobby limbs, toward the starless sky. Bushes covered the ground.

      She had hoped her palfrey would keep wandering, leading him away from her. But she hadn’t bargained on his tracking skills. As the king’s favored knight, he was expected to hunt down any manner of men—to search out where they hid, and where they believed they could hide from the power of the king. Or from Malcolm le Farouche.

      The soft imprint, barely discernible, was buried in shadow and decaying leaves.

      He laid his hand upon the cold steel hilt and drew his sword. “I’ve not been that ill since my last trip across the Channel.”

      He heard the slightest whisper of movement, and knew her intent.

      “Drop that upon my head and pay, traitor’s daughter. My temper has been tested beyond endurance. Climb down, else I will come up after you. Believe me, you’ll not like the sting of my fury.”

      The limbs above shivered in answer. He heard the creak of wood upon wood and the scrape of branches against moss. She was descending, but what plot did she have now? He would not endure humiliation by a woman a second time.

      “What? Are you going to slay an unarmed woman, Sir Cowardly Knight?”

      “I warned you, maid, tempt me no further.” He spotted her hanging halfway down the tree trunk and wrapped his left hand around her upper arm. She was so small that his fingers easily encircled her. He hauled her, not roughly, to the ground. “Surrender your dagger.”

      “I have no—”

      “Give it to me.” Cold anger iced those words.

      She heard his threat and the fierce control that even now kept him from violence, and knew she’d pushed him too far. Still, ’twas not easy to surrender. “’Tis in my packs. Check my palfrey.”

      “You lie, little manipulator.” He drew himself taller, fiercer, then lifted his sword and swung.

      She stumbled back, hitting her spine against the tree. Rough bark bit her flesh. Sweet Mary, his blade cut the air soundlessly. In the space of a breath, her fingers curled around the cold hilt of the dagger at her waist and she drew it out. Steel sparked upon steel.

      “Unhand the weapon.” He tore the knife from her grip with an inhuman strength, spurred by rage. “Do not think to lie to me again, or you will regret it.”

      She believed him. By the rood, she believed him. For the first time in her short life, she’d met an enemy she could not conquer, could not outsmart and could not fight. He stood like stone in the night, living stone that could not be chipped or beaten or destroyed.

      She trembled. “You’ll take me to Caradoc and the king.”

      “Aye, but ’twill be a gentler fate after enduring my wrath.” He drove the tip of his sword into the soft mossy earth, impaling it there.

      Elin watched, horror spearing through her chest and into her heart, as he pulled the length of rope from his saddle and dragged her hard against him. He held her with bruising force to the span of his steeled chest.

      “Lady Elinore of Evenbough, daughter to Philip of Evenbough, suspected traitor to King Edward, you are my prisoner. You have attempted to kill the king’s knights—”

      “I meant only to sicken—”

      “Silence.” His roar echoed through the forest. “Another word and I shall gag you as I did your father. I will do my duty to my king and bring you to him alive, but how I bring you and in what condition, the good sovereign cares not.”

      He felt her every tremble, for she was tucked beneath his chin and caught in the shelter of his arms. She was slight and delicate—easily crushed. Now she seemed aware of that fact as she leaned against him, rigid with fear, unable to stand on her own.

      Good, ’tis as it should be. She ought to be afraid.

      He bound her wrists tightly, so she could not escape. The small noise in her throat, the one that said he’d bruised her, made him wince. He hated treating a woman thus, but ’twas not his choice. ’Twas Edward’s. And Malcolm’s oath to serve his king drove him now.

      “But my father’s mare—”

      “Will follow us or nay. ’Tis not my concern.” He swung her up onto his saddle.

      She clutched the stallion’s mane with her delicate fingers. “But my herbs—”

      “Not another word.” He caught her ankle before she could level him with a kick. He bound her well, wise to her tricks of defense, and mounted behind her.

      “But my satchel is in the tree—”

      “Where you are headed, worldly possessions are of no concern. Now, you’ve disobeyed my order to stay quiet. Open your mouth.”

      “Prithee, do not force a gag on me.”

      He could see her clearly. The deep pools of her eyes gleamed with honest terror. She was daughter to a brutal man, and at the thought Malcolm’s chest tightened. No doubt she expected all manner of brutality from the land’s fiercest knight.

      But he did not harm women, regardless of how they treated him. He relented on the gag, certain now that she would obey him and remain silent. He sheathed his sword and gathered the reins. Imprisoned in the strength of his arms, the warrior woman was subdued enough.

      For now.

      He spurred his warhorse into a well-disciplined lope and protected her the best he could from the slap of stinging limbs. She still trembled. As she sat in the cradle of his thighs, he was not unaware of her soft, womanly curves. Even through his armor, he could feel her heat and her temptation.

      If his shaft hardened and his blood thickened, ’twas a weakness a man who lived and died by the sword could ill afford.

      Where once he had vowed to help her, he was now bound by duty to his king to condemn her.