The Hunted Bride

“What can we do?” Ricard gestured to his fellow knights.

“Nothing. This is a private matter. I shall find them, don’t worry; Geoffrey leaves behind a trail of debris wherever he rides. He’s like a frisky fox in a hen house.”

“But, my lord—”

“You may be on your way, Sir Ricard. If Sir Geoffrey has eloped with my bride, then he will have to bargain hard to keep her, for I intend to win her back, and if necessary, force him to give her up.”

Gervais hunted alone, it was always his way, and it didn’t matter that his hunt was not pl

anned, the skills he used were the same. The head start was likely to be curtailed by the pair of them on one horse, Matilda’s resistance, he hoped, and Geoffrey’s tendency to lose his way in a forest. For the shortest route back to Geoffrey’s castle was through the densest woods, and Gervais had the home advantage.

He rode out, lightly armoured, carrying his bow, sword, dagger, and hunting horn. He instructed Lionel to listen for the blast when he would signal that he had found her. As he entered the forest, the darkness embraced him, and he felt the Zalim awaken. This was his domain, and Gervais relinquished control to him.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Matilda nearly reached her room when a hood shrouded her head, smothering her. She cried out, but the thick fabric muffled her scream. Drawn tight around her neck, she had no means to see or hear, and only invisible air sifted through the weave to reach her drowning lungs. She struggled, kicking out from under the night robe, and hitting nothing. For her assailant kept behind her, dragging her along, keeping her pinned under his strong arm.

He winced and staggered a few times, and yet still managed to propel her down some steps, and over hard flagstones toward an unknown destination somewhere without the castle walls.

Abruptly, he stilled. “Quiet.”

She thought she knew that voice well, but it couldn’t be his.

Breathless, he pushed her down onto the ground—wet grass. They were beyond the keep and courtyards. Somehow, he had taken her through a postern gate. There was much drunkenness, and apparently little watch on the various gates, for he had achieved his aim—an abduction.

Free of his grip, she reached up to loosen the strings of the hood. He grabbed her arm and yanked her up. “Wait. Just, let me,” he panted, fiddling with the knot.

The voice was so familiar.

He uncovered her head, and she shook her hair free, and under the dim light of the moon, she blinked at the unfamiliar beard, the dyed hair, the rough garb of a squire.

“Geoffrey,” she gasped his name and stepped back, but he kept hold of her arm. The sleeve of her robe, which was fur-lined and generous, nearly slipped off her shoulder. Beneath the heavy velvet, she was naked, and wearing the marks of her lord’s beast upon her, his finger impressions on her breasts and palm prints on her backside, which she tolerated because of her love for him. But Geoffrey would never understand that those marks were worn with pride.

The young knight pulled her along toward a low cottage, one of many dotted in the wide grounds of the castle. He limped heavily on one leg, and it accounted for the wincing. The break wasn’t fully healed, and he had come anyway, out of love for her.

She attempted to extract herself, and although he was not moving fluidly, he was strong enough to keep her prisoner; the lock on her wrist was unbreakable.

“Geoffrey, stop.”

“We must go quickly. My horse is hidden behind here.” He ignored her thumping fist.

“Stop. I can’t go. I can’t leave.” She had little choice. The tall knight, who once had her utmost admiration, was determined to whisk her away, and no amount of wriggling could free her from his grasp.

“You have to. You can’t stay here.” He spoke without fear of danger.

“Why?”

The horse was a prize stallion, and many hands high. Geoffrey pressed her back against its belly, turned her around, and lifted her up. Flung over the shoulders of the horse with her legs one side and arms on the other, the lack of dignity appalled her. What had become of her gentlemanly knight with his charming ways?

“Why? Because you are mine, not his.” He hopped on one leg and hauled himself over the saddle.

“You fool, he’ll not let me go.” She twisted but failed to raise herself up. Geoffrey had the reins drawn across her.

“He’ll have to, if we’re married.” He snickered childishly.

“Did you not get my letter?” She’d written, withdrawing her interest in marriage, and generously offered him friendship, and equal respect in honour of her boyhood companion.

“I read those sprawling letters, so obviously taken down in haste and forced out of your hand.” He kicked his heels and the stallion trotted forward, out of the shadow of the abandoned cottage and into the waking dawn.