The Prince of Powys (17 page)

sure Cuthred would never even kiss her.

“Princess, wake up. We need to ride,”Blaise grumbled.

She lazily raised her head off the fur palet and propped her

head on her elbows. She smiled at his boyish pout. “It’s your

fault you kept me up al night talking.” His scent, clean yet

musky, filed her nostrils. Ripples of fire broke across her body,

recaling the long kiss last night.

He drew his brows together in a serious expression. “I meant

what I said. So, stay close to me, at al times. It wil be

dangerous.”

As if in deep thought, stil trying to figure out how he would

find a way to keep Branda from Cuthred, he dressed hastily,

unknowingly ignoring her.

She couldn’t help but smile as she gazed at his oval face and

that mass of deep-red hair and soft-blue eyes. Looking at him

filed her with sunshine, lifted her from the ground, and raised her to a state of rapt bliss. In the night, as they talked, he’d sworn to her he’d rather die than hand her over to Cuthred. He’d told her,

“You are mine; stay with me.”

She’d said, “Yes.” So began the happiest moment of her life,

but now she steeled her buoyant joy, for dawn had broken, and

Cuthred waited for her nearby. “Blaise, how wil we rid

ourselves of that Wessex cur?”

“I know not, but it wil come to me as we ride to rendezvous

with the demon. I wil find a way. I know it.”

She put her faith in him. She believed in their love. Her breath

caught in her throat as he belted the sheath holding Nuada’s

sword at his side.

“Yes, you wil find a way. It’s true.” She sighed with

anticipation of her future as Blaise’s wife.

He is so moody this morn,
she thought as he gently yet

silently led her out of the tent. She nibbled her bottom lip. They walked to the horse, and Blaise spread a smal tartan over the

steed, and then hefted the saddle on its back. He straddled the

mare and puled her up in front. With his arm wrapped around

mare and puled her up in front. With his arm wrapped around

her waist, he leaned his firm body into the smooth contours of

her back.

“Branda, Cuthred wil not give you up. He’s a man who does

not let anyone take what is his. I wil have to battle him. Of this I am sure.”

“He wil have an entire army and you but a few men.”

“I wil find a way, but you must do what I say so you can stay

safe at al times.” “Stay with me.”

His breath was hot against the whorls of her ear as she

pressed her back against the warmth of his muscular body. Their

time together at Dinas Bran had meant as much to him as to her.

Heat rose to her chest, her throat, and flushed her cheeks. He

cared. He would risk his life to keep her. He loved her.

“Do you think your sire wil be angry when he finds you

battled Cuthred alone and did not give me to him?”

“Yes, he wil rage and roar for half a day, but I care not. As

long as I can keep you safe from Cuthred I wil be pleased. I wil

deal with my father when we are safely back in Dinas Bran.”

“We could ride away now, head back to the hil fort.”

“No, I must take care of this. Branda, I know not how but I

mean to slay Cuthred.”

He clicked his heels against the horse’s flank, nudging it into a

lope. His men folowed. Blaise locked his arm around her waist

as the horse bounced into a light galop.

* * * *

the distance. She could only see a cluster of green treetops, but

as far away as it lay, it stil felt too close. She wished Blaise

would turn back, but then Powys and Wessex would battle and

the blood of those who died would be on her hands. She

couldn’t have that.

Blaise puled the horse to a quick stop. The mare jerked its

head and snorted as it turned around. He addressed his men.

“Ride off; then in smal numbers come back and filter unseen into

the woods aside this road. Post lookouts in the treetops. Wait

for my signal, then charge.”

As the warriors, clad in oiled, black leather and Celtic plaid

rode off an icy chil swept through Branda. She clinched her

rode off an icy chil swept through Branda. She clinched her

teeth, fighting the sheer fear rising in her. “What are we going to do?”

“Trick Cuthred. He expects me to ride in and hand you over

to him. Instead, I wil attack.”

“No, he wil kil you.” She clenched her fist as panic rioted in

her.

“I can best Cuthred.” He tilted his firm chin in the air softened

his gaze. “Branda, it’s the only way.”

She grabbed hold of his arm and looked into his eyes. “He

has his war band with him.”

“Princess, you found the treasure.” He grinned. “With

Nuada’s sword I am invincible.”

She sighed with exasperation. “Neilyn told me about Celtic

mythology and Nuada was kiled.”

“You are ready for a good fight, aren’t you?” He winked at

her.

“Yes, but don’t you dare die on me.” Every muscle in her

body tensed and she bit her lip.

She felt Blaise tighten his hold on her waist as he stared at the

grove, a hawk eyeing its prey. In a reverberating tone he yeled

out the battle cry of Powys, “Truth Against the World!”

With a jab of his knee to the horse’s flanks, he drove his

mount in a dirt-kicking galop. Before entering the copse, he

yanked sharply on the reins and puled the neighing horse to a

halt. Blaise set his face in a fierce battle scowl.

Upon spotting Cuthred, he drew the long blade from its sheath

and brandished the magic sword above his head. “Bring the

ransom,” Blaise ordered in a menacing tone through gritted teeth.

The tal, balding man sauntered forward with a smirk on his

face. “I wil pay you when I have the Princess.” Cuthred stared

at Branda, his eyes ablaze with both lust and rage.

Blaise whispered in Branda’s ear. “Dismount but no matter

what happens, stay here.”

She swung her leg over and leapt down from the horse, then

stepped back and waited for Blaise to charge the Wessex King.

Her heart hammered. It felt like her breath turned solid in her

throat. She gasped for air.

Cuthred stepped forward as did his men behind him.

“Princess, you are saved. I have freed you from the Welsh. You

must be overcome with joy. Come to your betrothed.”

must be overcome with joy. Come to your betrothed.”

He knew she’d betrayed him. His tone revealed it. Every

movement of his body marked her for a traitor he needed to

punish.

She fought for control over her quivering body, trying to steel

her composure. “I am the daughter of Ethelbald, the King of al

Mercia—a woman of honor. I wil come to you after you turn

over the ransom.” She froze, knowing the attack would come at

any moment.

The roan horse reared on its powerful hind legs and let out a

great neigh. Blaise’s limestone washed hair stood on end and he

bared his teeth in a fierce look. He brandished the silver blade

and yeled once more, “Truth Against the World!”

Cuthred’s men surrounded him but they were on foot. Saxons

didn’t fight mounted and that was the advantage Blaise looked

for. He was outnumbered, one to fifty, but he knew the war cry

had been carried on the wind to his men hidden in the nearby

forest.

He charged and swung his sword, slicing off a Saxon’s arm.

Another rammed a long spear into the roan’s chest. As the steed

went down, five Saxons grabbed Blaise and yanked him off the

dying horse. They threw him to the ground and kicked him.

“Leave him for me!” Cuthred belowed.

Panic like she’d never known rioted in Branda as the mob

cleared away and Cuthred swaggered forward to stand over the

prone body of Blaise. He puled his sword from his Saxon hilt to

slaughter the Powys Prince.

Panting in terror, she rushed forward. Her heart pounded! She

threw herself down on Blaise’s body, slamming into him the

moment Cuthred swung his sword downward. The blade sliced

into her shoulder instead of Blaise’s neck, and she screamed as a

sharp pain tore through her. A puddle of her crimson blood

spiled on Blaise.

While Cuthred stood frozen, Blaise rose and pushed Branda

aside as gently as he could. He picked up Nuada’s sword, which

had falen nearby, and lunged at Cuthred. The Saxon parried

then thrust forward. Blaise sidestepped. The blades clashed.

Swords sparked as steel struck steel.

As Branda shook uncontrolably, she managed to tear off a

scrap of her dress and bound her wounded shoulder. In pain and

scrap of her dress and bound her wounded shoulder. In pain and

weakness, she fought her body’s instinct to lie there and rest.

Mustering al her strength, she stood and clutched the bandaged

wound, swaggering toward Cuthred’s men. The Saxons stood in

a mob, gawking at the fight as if they didn’t know what they

should do.

She took a deep breath and recaled watching Blaise when he

was held captive at Mercia. Like him, she would show no pain,

no fear.

She clenched both her fists, lifted her head and raised her

voice to Cuthred’s war band. “While the great King of Wessex

is detained in battle with a Welshman, I, Branda, Princess of

Mercia, daughter of Ethelbald, soon to be Queen of Wessex,

command you to stay your arms until the fight has ended.” With

a tilt of her chin, she flashed them a look of regal supremacy she mastered at age four.

The mob of tal, thick-muscled men stared at her, obviously

puzzled by her command and shocked she meant to take charge

of them.

She maintained a hard stare upon the war band and gritted her

teeth to fight the sharp pain in her arm. She only had to hold their attention until Blaise’s men arrived.

“You there, I saw you move.” Branda pointed out a tal man

with a bulging bely. “Did you hear me not? Stil your weapon

until the fight has ended.” She liked giving orders. It was what

she did best. “Your King wants the pleasure of kiling the Welsh

Prince. The Powys Prince is Cuthred’s. I wil not have a one of

you going against your King’s command nor mine.”

The men gathered around her like a mob as the ground shook

with the thundering hooves of Blaise’s mounted troops charging.

Cuthred’s men turned toward the sound. Branda ducked down

and stealthily crawled clear of the mob as she fought to ignore

the acute, throbbing pain in her shoulder. Gasping from the

stabbing sensation of her injury, she moved as swiftly as she

could toward Blaise and Cuthred, stil locked in a battle to the

death.

She clung tightly to her wounded shoulder as the piercing

agony grew almost unbearable. Her make-shift bandage was

scarlet and blood seeped through. The world spun around her.

Everything looked blurry. Fighting her weakened state with al

her might, she focused her eyes and her mind on Blaise as he

her might, she focused her eyes and her mind on Blaise as he

slashed the legendary sword into Cuthred’s neck. The Saxon let

out a deep gurgling sound, a death rasp. His eyes set into a

strange, fixed glare, Cuthred fel hard to the dirt. Blaise dropped his sword arm to his side and leaned against the hilt as he caught his breath. He’d won. A rapt warmth filed Branda before she

crumpled to the dirt. As she opened her mouth to scream,

everything went black.

* * * *

fingers and hit the ground hard as Branda fel. Every muscle of

his body quivered, and a hard knot in the base of his throat cut

off his breath. Everything he’d seen a moment ago—his men, the

copse, the horses—blurred into one as the only thing he focused

on was Branda, lying motionless in the dirt. He rushed forward,

the ground seeming to carry his body to Branda, and fel to his

knees. His hand trembled as he reached for her pale face, his

palm flat and molded to the contours of her cheek and chin. He

couldn’t let go. Not now. A lifetime of happiness was ahead of

them. She could not leave him.
Gods, no.

He leaned the right side of his face down to her lips but a

breath span away. The lightest tingle of air would mean she stil

lived. Her faint breath, the difference between life and death, hit his cheek. His skin prickled.

Stil cupping the left side of her face with his hand he leaned

his head back and shouted to the sky above, “She lives. Branda

yet lives.” In that instant he remembered he was not alone.

“Bring a plaid to wrap the Princess in,” he shouted to his men.

“Hasten!”

One of his warriors Kip handed him a red, black and white

plaid cloak. Carefuly, he lifted Branda and wrapped the warm

wool cloth around her. Cradling her in his arms, he moved with

leaden steps toward the horses. He came to a standstil before

his mount and peered at Branda. Her eyes were shut. Her long

gold lashes and the palor of her face made her seem so ethereal

and fragile. The world around him ceased. He could think of

nothing, do nothing, but gaze at her.

“My Prince! Prince Blaise, do you hear me?” Kip caled to