The Conqueror

She could feel the tears coming, poking hotly at her nose. “That is unfortunate, because that is what and where I am. And it comforts me. Being alone is a common state. Whereas sitting in the mud is not.”

He shifted on the horse and when he spoke this time, it was softer. “So come with me.”

“I don’t know where you’re going.”

He laughed, a low, pleasing sound that smoothed the edges of her fear. “You don’t know where I am going, mistress? I am going to warmth and a bed. Whereas you are going into certain danger, if you continue on alone.”

“I am well used to being alone. What I am not used to is my feet hurting as they do, or my dress sticking to me as it does, and…Perditi

on!”

She stared glumly across the highway. Wind rustled the reeds and grasses along the side, making a soft hissing sound. Dark clouds were rolling in, blotting out the stars. She glanced up to find him, of all things, smiling. She frowned darkly “Think you ’tis amusing?”

“Nay.” He shook his head back and forth, a swipe of enigmatic darkness against the blackening skies. “I just…did not expect such…candor from a maiden.”

“Oh, that. Well, I’ve had much exposure to many of the things men do so well.”

He arched a brow.

“Poor governing and rich cursing,” she responded to the silent enquiry with an airy nonchalance. Mud pressed against her buttocks.

“Rich cursing,” he mused, his gaze travelling over her hunched figure. “And poor governance. What else, I wonder?”

“Being witless when it comes to direction and a distinct desire to not ask for help,” she said in a warning tone.

It did not seem to deter him. His slate-grey eyes were warmer now, almost blue, and fairly danced with mirth. “But I am not lost, mistress.”

“I am.”

“Thank heavens you are with me, then.”

She snorted in a very unladylike way. It was sinful really, Gwyn decided glumly, getting to her feet. Such handsome amusement in the face of her plight.

She glanced back down the road and caught sight of a hand peeking out of the bushes. Small and white, it could have been anything at this distance. But she knew it was a hand. A dead man’s hand.

It was too much. She squeezed her eyes shut as her belly rolled over. Her head lolled to the side and she stumbled sideways a step.

He slid off his horse and was at her side, steadying her.

“I am sure I can make my way if I could but find my horse,” she said weakly. His hand rested on her back, his hip pressed up against hers. He pursed his lips as if about to speak, but said nothing.

She started disentangling herself; the heat from his body was too unsettling. As she pulled away, her hair tugged as it caught on the innumerable and exposed metal rings of his mail hauberk. They stared at one another through the webbed strands of dark hair, then, with a faint sigh, he bent to disentangle her. She waited patiently while he unlaced each curl and set it free.

“You could lash goods on a ship with this kind of netting,” he muttered at one particularly stubborn knot.

A trickle of soothing heat ran around the edges of her heart again and she sighed. Startlingly long-lashed eyes lifted and peered through her hair. “You are fine, mistress?”

The pain in the back of her skull started travelling forward. “Absolutely fine.”

He loosed the last curl and arranged it around her face in soft, knotted waves. “You might have just flown away.” His breath floated past her ear as he spoke.

“W-what?”

“You could have simply flown away to escape. Your hair is as soft as a bird’s feather and as black as a raven’s.”

She blinked vapidly. “Raven?”

“The bird?”