The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

He started working his hand more aggressively between her legs, trying to move it up, and fear made her bolder. She struck out with her bound hands. They were neatly caught and pulled over her head and the hand returned to her breast, dipping inside her outer dress and shift to pinch her nipple. She kicked at him. “No,” she snarled between clenched teeth. She tried to roll away but with her arms pinned, couldn't manage it. She caught sight of Edwin's frightened expression on the other side of her, which told her the raping of women was not a normal occurrence in the prince's tent. Little comfort that gave her, though.

She started thrashing about madly, wondering if she should scream. Her mind flitted to Ferrum—would he save her? The thought of him gave her renewed fight, and she craned her neck around, trying to bite the arm holding her.

The prince straddled her, pinned her wrists down to her chest and held her, staring down with a shrewd look. There was nothing amorous about his expression—no passion or even aggression. To her utter confusion, he smiled slowly. “I was just making sure,” his perfectly calm voice informed her. She kept wriggling to get out from under him. “Shh. You're all right—it's over. You're safe. I just had to find out for myself.”

“Find out what?” she gritted, as he climbed off her and used her wrists to roll her to her side, his other hand catching her knees and drawing them up to her chest, so she lay curled in a fetal position. He put one hand on the side of her head and pressed it down against the bedroll, pinning her there. She struggled to lift her head, and he didn't allow it, yet she felt he was comforting her.

“That you gave to Ferrum honestly. I thought as much, but I wanted to be absolutely certain.”

“You bastard! Go to hell!” She snarled, kicking at him.

“No kicking,” he said, grabbing her ankle to stop it. As usual, the absolute authority in his tone overrode any rebellion she'd been attempting. He continued to hold her down in the fetal position, one hand on her head, waiting as the fight drained out of her. “I'm sorry I frightened you,” he said.

Considering he was a prince and she was a nobody, she was more than a little surprised he had actually apologized. Her anger dwindled, leaving her empty and tired.

“I think it will be all right,” he said.

She tried to lift her head again, and this time he let her. She stared at him in the darkness, trying to discern his face. He was leaning on his elbow, considering her with the same dark glittering gaze with which he always regarded her. Did he mean things would be all right with Ferrum?

“Hearts mend,” he said simply.

* * *

Ferrum woke with a splitting headache the following day. He went out of his tent, snarling at everyone and everything in his sight. When Dani tried to sit beside him at breakfast, he stood immediately and walked away without a word. It was cowardly, he supposed, but he simply couldn't be near her. There was a tightness in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. The thought of her spending the night in Phillip's tent made it even worse, so he simply closed his mind to it all.

Phillip came over to him after breakfast, and Ferrum glowered at him, wanting to be left alone. “She loves you,” Phillip said matter-of-factly.

The tightness in his chest grew worse. He coughed, literally unable to breathe for a moment. He couldn't speak but merely shook his head at his foster brother.

“I know people, Ferrum. I know this.”

He blinked, still struggling to simply move his breath in and out. Something in the center core of him was screaming, was longing, to believe Phillip. But he just couldn't. He shook his head again and walked away without answering.

He spent the morning chopping a felled tree into smaller pieces for their fire. It was his preferred activity when he was in a foul mood—a constructive way to relieve his aggression. With each swing of the ax he imagined he was cutting down each man Dani had ever given herself to.

After several hours, she approached. He was swinging the ax harder than necessary, causing the wood to fly up in splinters. He knew she was standing there, but he neither looked at her nor acknowledged her in any way. He felt her anxiety at being ignored growing.

“Ferrum? Will you speak to me, please?” she demanded after a stretch.

He didn't stop chopping, but he did look at her, giving her a raised eyebrow.

She stalked over and stood right in front of him, so he had to swing wide to avoid spraying her with wood chips. He left the ax in the log and squared off to her.