The Conqueror

What she would have let him do.

She stuffed her fingers in the folds of her dress and stared at the ground. Churning belly or no, she wasn’t so far gone to misunderstand that being wrapped in his arms was more dangerous than encountering sword-wielding foes on deserted highways. All they could do was assail her body. Pagan was reaching in deeper than that, channeling straight into the recesses of her soul and tapping the Ache.

She need fear much more than ravishment.

She swallowed thickly. She must keep her distance from him. The night was more spirit-filled than she could have imagined, and they were impish, mischievous, meddling things. King’s feasts and mysterious knights, besieged castles and sword fights. And kisses. Searing, passionate kisses that stoked straight down into her soul.

Far, far away.

“What is what to be?” she snapped, sounding as irritated as he.

A slow smile spread across his features. It was dark and dangerous. “I’ve mentioned an inn.”

“And I’ve mentioned an Abbey.”

“And do you insist, we shall wander the forest towards the monks’ retreat, encountering more danger as the night progresses, growing stupider as each hour passes.”

She drew herself up and filled her lungs with air. “Speak for yourself, sirrah.”

He shot her a dark look. “I am.”

The air left, deflating her. “Oh.”

“But this is not the time for a wolf’s head to be roaming the forests. Nor is the middle of a tempest,” he added ominously. His words were snatched by winds that were lifting into occasional gusts around them. Cold-edged, powerful gusts that smelled of rain. “Or, we can go to the inn, wash your wounds, tend your head, get some food and rest, and awaken with fresher minds and smoother tempers.”

“Your temper has not been so rough,” she said meekly, twisting a bit of torn fabric in her hands.

“I was not speaking of me.”

“Oh.”

“So what shall it be?”

She looked at him skeptically. “I don’t know of any inns in these parts.”

He sighed, a defeated sound. “I do.”

She stood in damp indecision, hope and suspicion strangling each other. He would help her…he had just killed four men…she was not alone…in her defence…he was tunneling into a reservoir of dangerous emotions…his eyes…

She stared at a wet leaf pasted overtop her slipper. He was crouched on his heels beside the horse’s leg and brushed dried clumps of mud from the fetlock. Black boots rode up the length of his corded calves, and the tightly packed muscles of his thighs bunched beneath the chausses he wore. Against the purple-green forest, he was an outline of dark danger. And her only hope.

“We will go to your inn.”

Griffyn blew out a silent gust of relief, but looked askance when she strode to Noir and tried to mount without assistance. Her hand clasped over the horse’s withers, her foot fumbling for leverage on a downed tree. It was slippery with moss, but when he approached, she scowled so fiercely over her shoulder that he stepped back and crossed his arms to watch. The horse was almost seventeen hands high and towered above her like a small castle. He was also being remarkably patient.

Griffyn’s jaw tightened when she slipped. “Lady?”

“The world is not what I thought it to be,” she muttered, as if he’d asked a question to which that would be a fitting reply, and scrambled up Noir’s side.

Her head disappeared for a few moments in the trees and when she emerged, she had two or three sticks protruding at odd angles from her curls. Matted leaves lay flat on her shoulders, with one particularly wet clump lodged in the cleavage of her dress. She removed it with scornful dignity, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

He shook his head, took up the reins and clucked to Noir.

They walked in silence for a long time before either of them broke it. Not surprisingly, he noted crossly, ’twas she.

“Where are you taking me?”

He barely glanced over his shoulder. “I told you, Guinevere: an inn.”