“Who are you?” he whispered.
“I love you and I have waited always to meet you.”
Roger, lying on top of her, looked deeply into her dark eyes, eyes that seemed to be trying to pull his soul out of his body, and he was frightened. He moved off her. “We’d better get you back to your parents.”
“I have no parents,” she said, sitting up.
Roger looked away from her eyes that seemed to be accusing him of deserting her. Part of him wanted to run away from this strange woman and another part wanted to fight to the death to keep her near him.
“Let me see your ankle,” he said at last.
Obediently, she turned and held out her foot to him.
He frowned when he saw it, cut and bruised, blood running freely. “Why didn’t you show this to me?” he snapped. “Here”—he handed her back her knife—“cut off some of your underskirt. I can’t afford to lose more of my shirt. It’s the only one I have at the moment.”
She smiled at that and began slicing away at a fine lawn petticoat. “Why are you here in France and dressed like that? Where are your men?”
“You tell me,” he said nastily, taking the strips from her. “Perhaps tonight you’ll dream the rest of my life.”
As soon as he turned away toward the stream, he regretted his words, but damn! the woman gave him chills. He could still feel her kiss—an odd combination of a woman who wanted to jump into his bed and a witch who wanted his soul.
At that thought he smiled. He was getting fanciful. She was a young girl who needed his help, nothing more or less. The best thing he could do would be to dress her ankle and return her to her guardians.
When he returned to her with dampened cloths, he could see tears glistening on her lashes, and he was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, Chris,” he said as if he’d known her always. “Damn! Give me your ankle.”
A small smile came through her tears and he couldn’t help returning it, and she smiled broadly as she put her foot in his hand.
“Let me have your knife again and I’ll cut away your hose,” he said, after he’d gently removed her embroidered slipper.
Without a word, Christiana slowly raised her dress on one side to the top of her thigh and unfastened her hose. Her eyes on Roger, and his on her slim curvy leg, she inched the hose downward toward her bloody ankle. When she reached her calf she held up her leg. “You may remove the rest.”
Roger suddenly felt sweat breaking out on his body and a flame of desire so hot shot through him that his veins seemed to be on fire. With shaking hands, he removed her stocking, one hand on fabric, the other on the back of her bare knee.
The sight of blood on her ankle soothed him somewhat and he began to calm. “You are toying with things you don’t understand,” he said tightly, wetting her ankle to get the torn stocking off.
“I do not play children’s games,” she said softly.
Roger tried to concentrate on the task before him as he carefully cleaned her ankle, then bound it. “Now we must return you,” he said as if he were her father, but his left hand was still on her ankle and began to caress her leg as his hand moved upward. He replaced her dagger in the sheath at her side.
Her eyes locked with his. She didn’t move away but seemed to welcome him.
Roger came to his senses abruptly. No matter how appealing this urchin was, she wasn’t worth his life. Someone would be looking for her soon and if he, looking to be a peasant, were found making love to her, obviously a noblewoman, no one would ask questions before they put a sword through his heart. And besides, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of being intimate with this strange young woman. What if she were a witch and she did mean to take his soul?
“Why did you stop, my lord?” she whispered in a throaty voice.
Primly, he pulled her skirt down. “Because you’re a child and I’m—Do you always offer yourself to strangers?”
She didn’t respond to the question but the answer was in her eyes. “I have loved you always and will love you always. I am yours to command.”
Roger felt himself getting angry. “Now see here, young woman! I don’t know who you think I am nor who you are, but I think it’s best that you get back to your people and I to mine. And I hope you pray to God—if you believe in Him—for forgiveness for your actions.”
With that he bent, tossed her small body over his shoulder and began to climb the steep bank.
By the time he reached the top of the bank, both his anger and his passion had calmed. He was too old and too sensible to allow a romantic bit of a girl to bother him.
He stood her before him, holding her shoulders to steady her, and smiled. “Now where may I take you? Do you remember which way you came from?”
She looked confused for a moment. “Of course I remember the way. Why are you sending me away? Would you kiss me again? Would you kiss me as if you loved me in return?”