To Tame A Warrior's Heart

If only he’d caught the horse Lady Catrin sent him after! But the pain-crazed beast bolted and knocked him to the ground when he grabbed for the reins. Bruised and smeared with blood from the wounded animal, he had no choice but to continue on foot. Though it seemed as if he’d been running forever, he didn’t dare stop, not when Lady Catrin and the others needed his help.

The invisible vise around his chest closed so tightly that he could ignore it no longer. Grabbing hold of a sturdy branch with both hands, he bent from the waist and sought to ease the spasms. His breath slipped through his lips in mewling squeaks, bringing tears of frustration to mingle with the rain and sweat streaming down his cheeks.

If he could have spoken he would have cursed. How would he ever become a knight? His body failed him at every turn.

His mind was little better. He should have known that Lady Catrin—clever as always—would find a way to turn his own words against him. And now his lady suffered grave peril and he could do naught to save her.

He should have stayed with her, he knew it. Lord Ian would have found a way around his sister’s dictates; Llywelyn’s Dragon was the mightiest warrior in the land. Nor would he have allowed the Norman concept of chivalry to stand in his way, Padrig realized. The Dragon always knew what needed to be done and did it.

Curse his honor—he should have stayed to help Lady Catrin. A wave of guilt swept over him. He could do nothing now except obey her orders, for in his headlong dash through the woods he’d become completely lost.

After the paroxysm eased he filled his lungs, savoring his returning strength. He scanned the mist-shrouded forest to no avail. He’d lost sight of the narrow road almost immediately, and the sky, a solid gray, offered up no clue to direction. For all he knew, he could be near where he started.

What would Lord Ian do?

He might as well go on the same way he’d been headed. And mayhap if he eased his pace he wouldn’t have such trouble breathing. Squaring his shoulders, Padrig wiped his face on the edge of his tunic and set off toward civilization.

He hoped.

Nicholas plodded along the faint trail through the underbrush, the mare following along with little guidance. Despite the chill air, sweat beaded upon his face as his head throbbed in a nauseating cadence.

His mail hauberk, usually no burden, seemed to have become heavier as the day wore on, adding to his discomfort. He should be thankful the bandits hadn’t taken the time to divest him of it, for if they had realized he still lived, his life would have been forfeit. Why they’d left Catrin alone, he did not know, but he thanked God for it.

Not only had they spared her life, but they’d unwittingly left him the means to protect her, as well. He touched the dagger strapped to his waist—a fine piece, not the usual bauble a lady might wear. ’Twas their good fortune that Catrin was not a typical lady. Though why she felt the need to arm herself thus…

It couldn’t replace his sword, or the other weapons his stallion carried, but mayhap it would suffice, should the thieving bastards catch up to them.

His gaze was drawn yet again to Catrin. She lay cradled against Idris’s massive body—Nicholas could almost believe the dog held her nestled there apurpose—and though she moaned every so often, she did not move. While the fact that she’d remained in a swoon for so long could not be a good sign, nevertheless it allowed them to continue on their way uninterrupted.

As the gray daylight began to fade, much of the thick underbrush gave way to rock covered by a thin layer of soil. Tall, slim trees grew from seams in the rocks, filling in the spaces between towering firs. The trail rose steeply, and he heard the sound of rushing water nearby.

Catrin’s moans grew louder, and he drew the mare to a halt, pulling the hood back from her face. “Damnation!” A rosy flush covered her cheeks and spread down to disappear into the neck of her bliaut. He yanked off his heavy leather gauntlet and laid his palm against her forehead.

Heat radiated from her skin. Though he knew next to nothing about sickness, he couldn’t mistake her condition. Catrin needed help.

Tucking the cloak about her, he cast a swift glance at their surroundings. He had to find shelter, food and water before it got dark. God help them if their attackers were on their trail, for he could ignore Catrin’s injuries no longer.

He led the mare toward the sound of running water. As soon as he found a defensible place to set up camp, he’d stop.

The mare’s ears twitched forward as they crested the hill and found the stream. She picked up her pace and nudged Nicholas in the shoulder as if urging him to greater speed, not stopping until she bent to drink.

Catrin slipped sideways, but Nicholas caught her before she fell. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked about in confusion before focusing upon Nicholas’s face. “Where are we?”

He slid his hand beneath her head to support it. “I wish I knew. I tried to head north, though there’s not much to go by for direction.”

“My back is afire.”

Her back was not the only thing afire. Her fever raged—the flesh beneath his palm felt hot, and her lips were dry and cracked. “I’ll get you some water,” he said, easing her head onto Idris’s back.

He knelt beside the stream to fill the cup, pausing to splash the icy water over his aching head. When he returned to Catrin, he found her scanning their surroundings with a surprising intensity, despite the pain that still clouded her eyes.

She gulped the water as soon as he raised her head to drink, then drained the cup twice more before indicating she’d had enough.

Idris lifted his massive head and whined, eliciting a faint smile from Catrin. “Don’t forget about him,” she whispered.

As if he could, Nicholas thought as he tended the dog. So long as he and Catrin were in the same place and Idris yet lived, the beast would protect his mistress.

Though the dog’s vigilance might stand them in good stead.

Nicholas cast another glance at the darkening sky. He could delay no longer. He drew Catrin’s hood about her face and bound her more tightly to the mare, then took up the reins and headed upstream.

If they couldn’t find shelter somewhere along the stream, he could build a lean-to. He began to gather branches and sticks from beneath the trees along the path—’twould do for a fire, at the least.

Awake now, and refreshed by the water Talbot had given her, Catrin peered out from beneath her hood, concentrating upon their surroundings. What she saw made her heart beat faster.

“Talbot,” she called. He didn’t answer—no surprise, since her voice had come out so weak she’d scarce heard it herself. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Damn you, Talbot We must stop.”

He dropped an armload of wood onto the ground and spun to face her. “Must we indeed, milady? There is much we must do, aye—find food and shelter, tend your wounds—but I doubt that stopping here will accomplish anything. Lest it escape your attention, ’tis nigh dark, and I’ve no place to—”

“I think I know where we are.”

Talbot stalked toward her, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. “You know where we are.” He slid his hands—so cool against her heated skin—over her cheeks and sank his fingers into her hair. “When did you intend to tell me?” Leaning close, he stared into her eyes. “Or do you enjoy wandering through the forest with arrows in your back?”

Catrin moistened her lips. His expression frightened her nearly as much as the feel of his flesh against hers. But she held his gaze. His violet eyes took their intensity from the lengthening shadows, she told herself. And ’twas the chill air that sent a shiver sweeping over her, nothing more.

She swallowed, her fear a choking lump slipping down her throat to weigh heavy in her stomach and gnaw at her mettle.

But she’d not permit Nicholas Talbot to see her fear.

Never would a man make her cringe and cower again.

His mouth was so close to hers, she felt every breath he took. Her own breath shuddered in her chest. She wet her lips once more. “I may know this place, but I cannot be sure. Pray lift me up so I might see.”

Talbot released her with an alacrity she might have found amusing if she hadn’t been so relieved. His movements jerky, he went to tie the reins to a tree, then returned to her side.

He pushed aside her enveloping cloak and slipped his hands about her waist. “I know how you hate to depend upon anyone,” he taunted as he lifted her. Thankfully his voice masked the whimper she couldn’t suppress. “But you’ll have to lean on me. It seems you have no choice.”

How she hurt! Catrin caught her breath as Talbot settled her against the rough mail covering his chest, one arm beneath her breasts holding her upright. “There’s always a choice,” she mumbled. “Unless you’re dead.”

Though his arm tightened about her, he made no reply.

The trees spun before her for a moment, then righted themselves as the dizziness passed. “Was there a cleft rock to the right of the stream, with a rowan tree growing out of the crack?”

“I saw such a stone. I don’t know what kind of tree grew from it,” he said, “but how many such could there be?”

“You don’t know the rowan?” she asked, unable to resist taunting him. “’Tis said to protect against demons—I’m surprised you’re not more familiar with it.”

“If you don’t cease your prattle, woman, you’ll soon wish you were in a tree. Mouthy wench!” He drew his hand through his hair, smoothing back the damp blond waves. “What would it take to quiet you?”