To Tame A Warrior's Heart

Prys trembled, but made no reply.

Ralph shoved the blade harder, until blood seeped from the shallow cut. “Answer me.”

“Huw said to follow you,” Prys replied quickly. “See where you went. Lord Steff—” The word ended in a croak. Ralph eased up on the blade and Prys tried again. “Wants to know where the woman is.”

Ralph moved the knife and sat back on his heels, allowing Prys to wriggle away from him. “I know nothing else, I swear! I only came because Huw made me. Let me join you,” he pleaded. “I can’t go back now. They’ll kill me.”

Will stepped closer. “’Tis a good idea, Ralph. We need more men.”

“Aye, Ralph,” Diccon piped up. “Lord Steffan’d never know. ‘Sides, he owes us—since he won’t give us our money, we’ll take his servant.”

Hope brightened Prys’s wan face, but Ralph refused to be swayed. Leaning forward, he grasped the youth by the shoulder. “Sorry, lad,” he said as he plunged the dagger to the hilt

“Ralph,” Will gasped, mouth flapping. “What did you do that for?”

“Are you mad?” Ralph asked. He wiped the blade against Prys’s tunic, then stood and dragged the body into the bushes. “What if he went back to Bryn Du once he knew what really happened to the woman? Could be that Lord Steffan ordered him to find a way to join our band. ’Tisn’t a risk I wanted to take.”

He’d had enough of this, and these fools. “Come on—time to go. We’ve lingered here too long.” His movements jerky, he untied his horse and swung into the saddle, then snatched the reins of Prys’s mount from Will’s grasp. “This has been nothin’ but trouble from the start,” he said with disgust. “Least we’ve got the loot from the ambush. Should be worth somethin’.”

Not bothering to wait until Diccon and Will mounted up, Ralph urged the horses along. “On to Chester. I never want to see this benighted place again.”

Chapter Seven (#ulink_24c8adee-bd16-531f-809b-31c166bd0b71)

Saint Winifred save her—vermin had nested in her mouth. Catrin tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat felt dry as dust, and it seemed her tongue had swollen to at least twice its usual size.

Fiery heat scorched her side and imps stabbed at her with tiny pitchforks.

Had she passed on to hell?

Her wrists were bound. When had that happened? The last she recalled she’d been draped over a bony nag, arguing with someone. Stormy violet eyes, smooth, deep voice with a sardonic edge…’Twas Nicholas Talbot.

Why did it have to be him?

And how did he dare tie her up?

She needed water so badly she’d beg if she had to, though it galled her to ask Talbot for anything. Mentally elbowing her pride out of her way, she forced out the words.

“Talbot.” Her voice sounded little more than a hiss. “Talbot,” she repeated. Why didn’t he answer?

Her back screaming agony, she turned her face toward the fire. All she could see of him was a boot-clad foot protruding from a filthy cloak. “Damn you, Talbot. Wake up.”

She shifted her legs until she connected with something soft, eliciting a moan. Must have been his head. Despite her pain, she smiled.

“Wake up, you Norman idiot.” Her voice grew stronger with every word. She nudged him again. “Lazy fool.” A bead of sweat ran down her nose and plopped onto her sleeve. Though she tried, she couldn’t raise her bound hands enough to wipe her face.

“Talbot!”

A stream of curses, interspersed with moans and grunts, told of her success.

“Unless you’d like me to stuff that glove down your throat again, be silent.” Talbot sat up and faced her. Pale and whisker-stubbled, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, he still looked far better to her than any man had a right to.

Obviously her brain had been affected, too.

He squatted beside the fire pit and stirred up the coals. “Are you mad?” she asked as he piled on more wood. “It’s hotter than hell itself in here.”

“It only seems that way to you—you have a fever.” He held his hands out to the growing flames. “I’m so cold I doubt I’ll ever feel warm again.” His gaze rested upon her face. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Not since we stopped by the stream.” His earlier words came back to her. “What did you mean, stuff a glove in my mouth again?”

“You screeched something fierce last night. Yon beast—” he pointed to Idris “—didn’t care for it. Nor did I.” He held up his glove, teeth marks still visible in the battered leather. His smile, so fleeting she almost missed it, sent a strange feeling to lodge in the pit of her stomach. “’Twas the only way to quiet you—other than kissing you. But it wasn’t the right time for that, alas,” he added, amusement lighting his eyes in contrast to his solemn tone.

“Norman swine!” Her blood nigh boiled. “How I wish I could give you what you deserve.” She held up her wrists. “And what is your reason for this?”

“’Twas necessary.” He busied himself with something beside the fire. “You moved so much when I cut the arrows from your back, I feared you’d do yourself further harm.”

Now she knew why she hurt so much! But other than sore muscles from journeying slung over a horse like a sack of meal, only her back pained her. She’d suffered worse in the past—and survived.

However, that knowledge did nothing to ease her pain. Fire raged through her blood, radiating out from the wounds.

She hoped Talbot didn’t intend to go on today.

But the least he could do was free her. “You do intend to untie me, I trust.” A strange hissing distracted her from haranguing him further. She looked up and bit back a cry.

Stripped to the waist, Talbot tended to his own injury. His upper arm looked swollen, and blood seeped from around the hacked-off arrow.

“Why didn’t you care for your own wound?” She focused her curious gaze upon his broad shoulders and wellmuscled chest. Clearly Nicholas Talbot was no stranger to pain. Several scars marred the smooth, tanned flesh of his torso. The two on his left shoulder looked to have been severe.

Mayhap he considered his present injury a mere trifle.

He watched her while he prodded at his arm. “After I finished wrestling with you, I wanted nothing more than to rest. It feels no worse now than it did then,” he added with a shrug. “Compared to your back, ’tis naught.”

Unwilling to bear the weight of his scrutiny, Catrin glanced away. She did not believe him, for she’d seen how his lips tightened when he poked at the shaft protruding from his arm.

Her heart sank further within her chest. How much suffering had she caused through yesterday’s foolhardiness?

He shouldn’t have ignored his own needs to tend to hers.

She rested her cheek on her folded arms and settled her gaze on his face once more. “What are you going to do?”

Talbot wasted no time with words; breathing deep, he pushed the shaft through his arm.

Now she understood why she’d left teeth marks in the glove—and why her throat felt so raw. Sweat beaded on the taut planes of his face, but he made no sound. She bit at her lip to stifle her own cry when the arrowhead broke through his flesh in a gush of blood.

He flung the arrow aside and mopped at the blood dripping from his arm. His lips twisted into a rueful grin. “That’s a relief,” he said, wiping his brow against his good arm.

The urge to smile in return died a swift death as she considered her own lack of control. “You didn’t even need a glove,” she muttered. Though he could not know it, the loathing in her voice was directed at herself, not him.

He tied a scrap of cloth about his arm, then slid closer. “This is but a trifle compared to your wound.” He reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm.