snow. ‘Unless you want me to do it for you?’ He grinned unexpectedly, diamond eyes flashing in challenge.
Damn the man! His big knee was planted heavily in the spreading cloth of her skirts; she tugged at the material ineffectively, wanting to be free of him. Turning away, she lifted her skirts to release the ribbon that secured her stocking top to her thigh, fumbling awkwardly with the fragile ties. The icy air, the large feathery snowflakes, tickled her naked skin. For some reason, she seemed incapable of undoing the ribbon; her cheeks grew hot as she repeatedly failed to release the tight knot.
Strong, sinewy fingers pushed hers aside, tearing the pink ribbon in half and smoothing the stocking down her bare leg, his palm intrusive, shocking against her satiny skin. Eva squeaked in outrage, rocking back at the rough contact as he hauled off her boot and stocking; threw them into the snow. Never, ever, had a man touched her like that! His hand knocked against her toes and she curled them downwards, recoiling at the abrasiveness of his calloused palm. A strange heat staggered through her chest, flexing the muscles of her diaphragm. What on earth was the matter with her? Her mind felt besieged, wooden and loose, as if it were not functioning properly.
‘I can do it!’ Eva flared at him. ‘Stop manhandling me!’
Bruin raised his eyebrows. ‘This is hardly “manhandling”,’ he replied coolly. ‘I’m trying to help you.’ Ripping lumps of moss from a decaying piece of wood, he packed the wound on her leg. ‘And anyway, you’re too slow; we’ll be sitting in darkness if I let you do it.’ Winding the stocking around her leg, he bound it tightly, lifting her leg to wrap the limp wool behind her knee. His movements were deft, efficient, his careful touch minimising the spiralling pain. Tearing the end of the stocking in two to make a knot, he secured the makeshift bandage.
‘There,’ he said, sitting back on his heels. Snow fell around him, spangled flakes landing on his massive shoulders, dousing the bright flame of his hair, flecking his red surcoat. Seizing her leather boot, he cupped her foot, cradling her heel. ‘Shall I put this back on?’
‘I’m surprised you even ask me,’ Eva replied haughtily. Heat radiated across her exposed ankle. His deft fingers tightened fractionally around her fine bones; tiny darts of heat pulsated upwards from the point where he held her. ‘You seem to do most things without asking.’
Ignoring her, he eased the boot carefully around her ankle, securing the wooden toggles that held the pliable leather in place. Eva threw her skirts down over her feet. The damp from the ground had begun to seep through the thin layers of her gown; she shivered. High up in the trees an owl hooted, a lonely drawn-out cry, echoing through the stark, crooked branches. Picking up his gauntlets, Bruin sprang to his feet. He adjusted his belt over his lean hips, bringing his sword around to swing diagonally across his left leg. Semi-precious stones gleamed in the hilt; a strip of red leather, creased and worn, bound the sword handle, a gold circular disc decorated the top. Pulling the torch from the ground, Bruin held out his hand. ‘Do you think you can walk?’
‘I can try.’ Eva hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand, the ridged web of sinew. His nails were clean, clipped short. Since her imprisonment she had actively avoided the company of men, developing a hesitant wariness in their presence. It had become second nature to her, an added protective layer. She couldn’t allow what had happened to her once to happen again.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, take my hand!’ A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead; he shoved it back in frustration. What was the matter with her? Why did the maid resist every single offer of help? ‘Don’t you trust me?’
Her eyes darkened. ‘Why should I? I have no idea who you are! You look like a barbarian!’ Her gaze flickered over the blond-red stubble coating his jaw, the flick of messy, rumpled hair, the size of him.
‘No more than any other knight,’ he countered, rubbing his chin ruefully, noting her pointed stare. Maybe he should have taken time to shave before he had started the journey that morning. ‘And you seem to have enough of them at the castle.’
Not like you. The thought whipped through her, a streak of fire. This man was young, only a few years older than herself, with every muscle in his body honed, not an ounce of spare flesh on him. Katherine’s knights were older, grizzled, barely capable of running for more than a few yards. They had the experience, aye, but were no match for this man’s physical ability.
‘I’m right to be cautious.’
He sighed. ‘I agree, but you can be too cautious. You saw that I came with those other knights to the castle. You have to trust me.’
But I don’t trust them either, Eva thought. She sighed. She had little choice in the matter; this man was her only way out of the forest and it was growing late. A snowy twilight drew around them like a dark sparkling curtain. Katherine would be worried. Tentatively, she raised her hand and he pulled her upwards. Tottering for a moment, she placed her full weight gingerly on the damaged leg.
Bruin watched her face pale, her skin grow waxy. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it? Let me carry you.’
‘No, give me a moment. I’ll be fine.’
‘There’s no time,’ he responded gruffly. ‘Here, hold this.’ He shoved the brand towards her, closing her fingers decisively around it. ‘Take care not to burn any more of my hair; I have no wish to be completely bald by the time I reach my horse.’ Pulling on his gauntlets, he bent down, sweeping her feet from beneath her, one arm under her knees, the other around her back.
‘I don’t—’
‘I don’t care.’ Bruin cut off her speech, his tone low and forceful. ‘You’ve held me up long enough. We’re going back to the castle and we’re going like this, whether you like it or not.’
* * *
Hoisting her high against his chest, he carried her back through the trees, through the scurries of falling snow. His stride was purposeful and sure, never losing his footing across the lumpy, uneven ground, ignoring the over-arching brambles that clutched and snagged at his surcoat, at the flowing hem of the maid’s gown. Sensibly, she had fallen silent, quiet in his arms, but he wasn’t fooled by her chastised demeanour. Her shoulder muscles were tense, contracted against his upper arm; she kept her head positioned stubbornly away to avoid touching him, refusing to let it rest. He grinned suddenly; her neck must be hurting like hell with the strain of maintaining her distance from him. Her hip curved temptingly against his forearm, the faintest smell of lavender rising from her skin. His chest squeezed with unexpected delight.
Eva gripped on to the torch, holding the flame out before her like a ship’s figurehead, her knuckles white. The memory of this man’s over-familiar touch on her flesh was branded on her brain: a scorch mark, throbbing, vivid. The way he had plucked at her stocking. The way his fingers had rasped against her soft skin, leathery and calloused like those of a peasant, and yet he was obviously high-born, a count in his own right. The air shivered in her lungs. The wound on her leg was sore, making her unsettled, unsure of herself.
She gritted her teeth, hating her incapacity to walk on her own two feet, hating the fact that this man had to carry her. His confident domineering behaviour rattled her; his assumption that she would blithely follow his orders, no matter what. She had always been able to look after herself, even more so after what had happened to her; she resented his intrusion, this foisting of unwanted intimacy upon her. His chest pressed against her shoulder, flat plates of hard muscles rippling against the curve of her upper arm, but she was unable to shift away any further, his arms held her too securely. His horse waited on the outskirts of the forest, cropping the few wisps of spindly grass that poked up through the settling snow,
