man wrenched them up between her shoulder blades. Sheer arrogance had led her into this situation—an errant, idiotic belief that she could outwit, and outrun, any man. What a fool she had been! The oaf astride her, the man whose brawny thighs pressed hard against her buttocks, her hips, was nearly twice the size of her and clearly, unfortunately, not stupid.
‘Who are you?’ he was shouting at her now. ‘What do you want with us?’ With her mouth jammed into the ground, she was unable to answer, merely shaking her head in futile desperation. Deftly, he flipped her on to her back, a movement so swift that she barely registered the slight release of his weight before it descended heavily on her once more. Dismay blotted her senses as she recognised him…Nay, not him! That rude arrogant knucklehead she had encountered in the forest, the man who had kissed her! God forbid that he should recognise her; admittedly, he had let her go once, but now the House of Lancaster and York were fighting, she doubted such luck would come her way again. His massive chest and shoulders towered over her, forming a dark, intimidating shape against the periwinkle blue of the sky.
‘Who are you?’ he asked again, gauntleted fingers digging painfully into the small bones of her shoulders, lifting her upper body off the ground and thumping it down once more, hard. The rock-hard muscles of his thighs flexed against the outer softness of her hips with the movement, and she flushed painfully at the intimate contact. Never before had she come into such close proximity to a man! A prickling of unwanted sensation peppered along her veins, a sense of…what was it? Excitement? Her eyes squeezed shut in shame as the touch of his mouth broke into her memory.
‘My name is Duncan of Abbeslaw,’ she responded at last, deliberately keeping her voice low, gruff. ‘I was out hunting, when you attacked me—’
‘When you stole my horse,’ Bastien broke in, correcting her, his voice grim. One big palm still held her pinned to the ground by one shoulder. Amazingly, her large hat had stayed on throughout the whole encounter, the double knot in the leather lace tied under her chin firmly in place.
‘Aye, I’m sorry about that, my lord,’ her words stumbled out, breathily. ‘I was thrown from my own horse, and when I saw your horse standing—’
‘Stop it!’ He cut her short harshly, his tone abrasive, blunt. ‘You’ve been following us for miles—did you really think we wouldn’t notice?’ He ran a derogatory eye over the bright blue of her cote-hardie, as if to indicate the stupidity of her choice in clothing. ‘Who are you spying for? Who’s paying you?’ Her blood froze as she heard the slither of a knife, and suddenly he was up against her, the ice-cold blade at her throat, his left forearm pressed painfully along her chest. His breath was warm against her cheek. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, his voice stern, forceful.
Panic danced in her brain, rattling her senses—did he really intend to kill her? The prick of the knife against her windpipe certainly indicated his intentions. Tears slid from beneath her lashes; now, she was truly frightened. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she stuttered out. ‘Take my hat off…you’ll see who I am.’
Frowning, still keeping his blade at the boy’s throat, Bastien wrenched at the large hat, the leather strings straining, cutting into the soft white skin of the boy’s throat. Frustrated at the tight lacing, he used his knife to slice roughly through the leather strips, pulling the head covering away. As the strings released under the swift movement of his blade, Alice fainted dead away, truly believing he would cut her throat.
He stared at her in astonishment. A maid! Sweet Jesu! How had he never guessed at the lad’s true sex? It all made sense: the lad’s pathetic attempts to fight back with puny arms and legs, and the lack of a weapon, and aye, he knew it now, the supple contours of the body beneath him. He had merely intended to frighten the boy into speaking, but now, gazing at the pale white oval of the girl’s unconscious face, he felt oddly guilty.
He recognised her with a jolt. The same maid who had confronted his soldiers in the forest a few days back. The same maid he had kissed, to stop her endless scolding. Her name? Her name was Alice; he remembered the plaintive call through the trees. On that occasion, her shiny, honey-coloured hair had been bundled back into an expensive golden net and veil, but now it was coiled, pinned rigidly to her scalp, emphasising the fine, sculptured bone structure of her face, the high cheekbones, the wide, rosebud mouth. Baggy clothes disguised her slender shape, clothes more befitting to a yeoman farmer. The last time he had seen her, she had been dressed as a member of the nobility, her garments rich and fine. She had been bossy, argumentative but now, her face as white as milk, she was utterly vulnerable. What game did she play? Leaning over her, his hands cupped her shoulders, he shook her brusquely.
Her eyes opened.
The fierce blue of her eyes punched him hard in the solar plexus. Deep azure blue, like the sea on a calm, hot summer’s day. His gloved hands dropped from her shoulders, fell to his sides. Sweet Jesu! Framed by thick, spidery lashes, those burning, fathomless pools threatened to drag him under, sucking at the very core of his body, visceral, greedy. She squirmed beneath him, trying to release his weight upon her, slender curves against his own hardened muscles, and his body responded, flooded with unexpected desire. What was the matter with him, damn it!
He sprung to his feet, his only thought to create some distance between their two bodies. He had been too long without the pleasure of a woman, that was the problem. Under normal circumstances there was no way such a maid would be attractive to him, little thing that she was, but with a mouth to command a whole army if he remembered correctly.
Her pupils dilated, widened, as she surfaced back to consciousness, struggling to focus on his face. He saw the fear in them, the fleeting panic as she recognised him, remembering once more the situation she was in, and some odd little whisper hinted that it might be kind to tell her not to fear him, that she was safe with him. But nay, he wouldn’t do that; kindness was not part of his nature.
‘I thought you were going to kill me,’ Alice breathed out in a whisper, her mind lurching back into searing consciousness. She lifted one hand tentatively to the back of her head; the long pins securing her hair dug painfully into her scalp, her head pillowed by the arching grass.
‘There’s still time,’ Bastien growled out. ‘What, in Heaven’s name, do you think you are doing? Shouldn’t you be tucked up in a woman’s solar somewhere, working on a delicate piece of embroidery?’
Head swimming, Alice forced herself to sit up. A clamminess coated her palms. ‘I told you,’ she stared mutinously at the ground. ‘I was out riding, and my horse threw me.’
Fern-green eyes raked down over her, over her faded, overlarge clothes, critical, assessing. ‘The last time I saw you, you informed my men that you were under the protection of the King himself, a lady of the royal court, no less.’ The wind ruffled his gilded hair, loose strands sifting like fine gold thread.
‘I am,’ she replied simply. ‘I am Lady Alice Matravers, under the protection of the King.’ Now she realised he was not about to kill her, some of her old confidence returned. ‘And you would do well to remember that.’
‘Oh, I would, would I?’ he drawled. Had women changed this much since he’d been away? He’d never met any lady quite as outspoken as this one. ‘Well, Lady Alice Matravers,’ he rolled her name out with sarcastic emphasis, ‘mayhap you could deign to tell me why you are out riding dressed as a boy?’
‘Dressed like this I can ride out on my own; I prefer it that way…it’s safer.’
He angled his head to one side, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated disbelief. ‘Not quite safe enough today, methinks.’
Nay, not safe at all, Alice thought, her exhausted brain
