Through a Dark Mist (5 page)

“No shy blanchflower, our Bawd,” the gnome agreed.

“And if anyone other than myself makes a target of her brass-tipped breasts”—the tall, copper-haired outlaw stepped quietly forward—“they will have me to answer to.”

Sparrow looked up and, although Servanne could not swear to it, she thought the bold little elf edged a cautious inch closer to the protective bulk of the Black Wolf. “I am not forgetting, Gil of the Golden Eyes. Not wanting to feel the sting of your arrows either. She’s yours, all yours, and welcome to her. God’s teeth, but we are touchy about it, are we not? Not enough Norman blood shed to wet your arrows? Ho! Still most a quiver full, I see. And a string as slack as Lack Jack’s back.”

Gil Golden smiled slowly, ominously. “Easily enough remedied. A daub of sparrow blood should turn the trick.”

“You would have to catch me first, you great lumbering hulk!”

Quick as a wink, the tiny man darted forward, planted a flying kick on Gil’s shin and vanished behind a solid wall of alder bushes. His tinkling laughter, first in the alders, then beside them, then far above in an arching tangle of hawthorns indicated with what unsettling swiftness he could move, and also why he bore the name Sparrow. Moreover, before the cursing outlaw could finish hopping a circle on his uninjured leg, an arrow no longer than a man’s palm zipped through the air and carried away Gil’s prized green felt hat.

“That cuts it!” Gil swore. “The wretched puck is going to pay dearly for it this time.”

“Are ye already forgetting what happened the
last
time?” roared Robert the Welshman. “It were not only yer hat what got a hole in it, but yer breeks and butt as well!”

Gil’s eyes narrowed. “My thanks for reminding me. When I catch him, I will pin both his ears back for the leather he owes me.”

The other foresters guffawed openly and began fishing in belts and sleeves for copper coins.

“A denier says Gil Golden wins this round,” the Welshman wagered, doffing his cap and dropping the coin into the crown. A score or more coins clinked good-naturedly into the pot, some with an “aye” attached, some with a “nay.” Even the two captive ladies found smiles wanting to come to their lips as they watched the agile huntsman stalk into the woods in pursuit of his diminutive quarry. Servanne caught hers just in time when she realized the icy-gray eyes of the outlaw leader were observing her.

“It appears, Biddy,” she murmured brusquely, “these
children
have no grasp of the seriousness of their crimes.”

The Wolf moved closer, his eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight. “You should be thankful, my lady, we are still able to see some humour in the world around us.”

“Humour, sirrah? In murder and kidnapping? Pray, you will forgive me if I do not share your amusement.”

“You say the word murder as if we were the only ones guilty of it.”

“I saw none of your men lying dead on the road, victims of a cold-blooded ambush.”

“Ambushes are rarely warm affairs, nor do they lend themselves to a fanfare of trumpets.”

“You mock me, sir,” she said coldly.

“I mock your ignorance, madam. I mock your inability to see past the tip of your nose … although it is held so high, I should not wonder at the difficulty.”

Servanne felt the redness creeping up to her brow. “I am not distressed. Your own nose, wolf’s head, has been sniffing up dung heaps so long it cannot distinguish fair from foul.”

Intrigued despite himself, the Wolf studied the square set to the young widow’s jaw and pondered how the pearly row of small, even teeth had remained intact all these years. His own hands tingled with the urge to curl about her throat and rattle a few loose.

“Methinks I have been away from England too long,” he mused, the slanted grin barely moving around the words. “Too long for such haughtiness and greed as I see in some to be the cause of such misery as I see in others … or are you blind as well to the starvation, the cruelty, the beatings, cripplings, and degradations to be found in every town and village throughout the kingdom?”

“If a man starves, it is because he is too lazy to work the fields. If he is punished, it is because he has committed some offense against the crown. As for the haughtiness and greed of which you speak, I suggest the worst offender is the cur of the forest who aspires to gain his wealth and recognition through thievery and murder … or do your own eyes suffer some difficulty in seeing the irony of your piousness?”

Her quickness of wit and tongue was beginning to make an impression on his men and the Wolf could sense that part of their amusement was a result of his inability to bring her under his thumb. She possessed far more spirit than was healthy or wise. Spirit bred contempt and contempt fostered rebellion—something he had neither the time nor the inclination to tolerate.

Conversely, fear bred caution, and both were qualities he would sorely prefer to see shading the vibrant blue of the widow’s eyes.

“Robert … take the men on ahead and see that everything has been made ready for our guests.”

“Aye. Shall I take this un for ye as well?” A thumb the size of a small anvil crooked in Servanne’s direction.

“No,” said the Wolf, his grin a misty suggestion about the lips. “I will bring her along myself.”

He took up Undine’s reins again and murmured a comforting “whoa” to the mare as the foresters and their burdened rouncies filed past. Servanne held Biddy’s worried gaze until the last glimpse of her luffing wimple had disappeared behind the wall of green, then she had no choice but to look down at the outlaw … which she did with the vaguest stirrings of unease.

The Wolf was bareheaded under the blazing glare of the sun and his hair shone with red and gold threads tangled among the chestnut waves. He looked somehow bigger and broader, more powerful and far more dangerous on his own than he had surrounded by his men. And, as Servanne found herself earning the full brunt of his stare, she could not help but feel the heat of a threat behind it, a promise which coiled down her spine in a fiery ribbon and pooled hotly in her loins.

“I believe I gave you a promise that no harm would befall either you or your waiting-woman,” he said in a calm, detached monotone. “But madam, as you are undoubtedly already aware, you present a worthy—nay, almost an impossible test for a man’s patience.”

Servanne moistened her lips and fought to keep her voice equally cool and steady. “On the contrary, sirrah. When I am treated with respect and courtesy, most men claim they enjoy my company immensely.”

“I am not most men. And you are not here to fulfill my desire for … company. You are my hostage, madam. A piece of valuable property to be bartered for and released when and if a suitable price is agreed upon by both parties. If at all possible, I should like to honour my pledge to return the property to its rightful owner in an … ah,
undamaged
condition. However, if some damage does occur—through negligence or sheer stupidity, as the case may be—I will hardly be driven to don the horsehair shirt and whip myself raw in repentance of a broken vow. In other words, Lady Servanne, you will behave yourself … or I will not.”

“I doubt your behaviour could sink to any lower depths, rogue,” she fumed unwisely. “And I doubt you could cause me any further discomfort than you have already.”

The outlaw sighed and turned his head away for a moment. Before Servanne could react, he reached up and clamped his broad hands around her waist, lifting her unceremoniously out of the saddle. Her legs, long ago gone numb from the hours on horseback, would have crumpled the instant her feet were set to the ground if not for his support. One of his arms snaked around her waist, forcing her to press against the iron-hard length of his body. His free hand cradled her chin and tilted her face upward at an uncomfortable angle that emphasized both his height—which was as immense and imposing as one of the towering pines that surrounded them—and her sudden vulnerability.

At once, a mindless drumming caused the blood to surge through her veins and her heart to trip over several rapid beats. Her lips trembled apart and her fists curled into tight little knots as if the fingers could not bear the even more debilitating sensation of contact with a body that offered no apology for its granite hardness. Straining with virility, he crowded against Servanne so that there was no part of her left unaware of the intimacy of heated male flesh.

“The challenge, I believe, was to cause you … discomfort?” he asked.

Servanne had to catch at her breath before answering. “Better than you …
worse
than you have tried and failed!”

“Is that so? And I suppose you are hardened and worldly-wise enough to know what a man’s best and worst might be?”

Servanne’s stare threatened to turn liquid. She knew, without a doubt, the man holding her with the possessiveness of a barbarian king was nothing so trifling as a man or a king.

“Let me go,” she gasped, squirming to break out of his embrace. Her fists scraped against his chest, displacing the carelessly open V of his shirt so that her knuckles skidded into the curling mass of crisp, dark hairs. The flesh beneath was all muscle and steamy hot skin. There was no give, no indication she could have won a response with anything less than the business end of a quarterstaff.

“Let … go!” she cried. “How dare you touch me!”

“How dare I?” he repeated, his breath warm and promisory against her cheek. “You should pray I dare no more, my lady, than just touch you. Although”—the hand at the small of her back shifted lower, caressing the curved roundness of her buttocks—“the notion is fast becoming less of a trial than first imagined.”

Servanne’s mouth dropped wide with shock. He was pulling her forward, holding her in such a way as to boldly forge the shape and contour of his thewed limbs upon hers. Heat met heat and pressed deep, scorching her through the layers of samite and silk as if the garments were made of air. A moist shudder convulsed deep within her, a reaction to his animal maleness that was beyond her control, and his arms tightened further, as if he had felt it and was offering more.

“No!” she cried, beginning to fight like a wildcat to free herself, her arms flailing, her nails seeking to let loose rivers of blood. With a snarled curse, he merely squeezed her into the wall of his chest, pinioning her there until she discovered she could not breathe. Her struggles weakened, then ceased altogether. The simple act of clawing her fingers into the wolf pelts drained her and she sagged limply in his arms, drooping into the encroaching blackness of a faint.

The Wolf eased his grip slowly, letting the air back into her lungs, and, as the blood flooded back into her limbs, he looked down at her, his face as impassive as marble. She was quiet enough now. Subdued. Drawing her breath in soft, broken gasps. He watched the colour flow back into her cheeks, the sparks of blue fire rekindle in eyes that would soon begin to fight back in silent, guarded hatred. He admired what he saw. The lush, provocative temptation of her lips drew his gaze and for a moment, he felt an arousal so intense, so completely unexpected and unwarranted, he almost drew her forward again to kiss her.

Instead, he pushed her out to arm’s length and sprang away as if she had suddenly burst into flame. The rebuke permitted Servanne to stumble haltingly well out of reach. Her fingers flew up to cover the pulsing heat of her lips and while she could swear he had not kissed her, her mouth felt scalded as if he had.

“Do you still have doubts that my behaviour could worsen?” he asked quietly.

Servanne’s blood continued to roar through her temples, making it difficult for her to think, let alone speak. Her skin had seemed to shrink everywhere on her body, most urgently so wherever it had been branded with the contact of his own. Her eyes stung with unshed tears of indignation—tears he watched form and swell along the thick, honey-coloured wings of her lashes.

“Well, my lady?”

She looked up, the back of her hand still pressed against her lips, the fingers curled and trembling.

“Will your stay with us be an easy one, or will I be forced to use harsh measures to win your cooperation?”

“How … long do you intend to keep me prisoner?” she asked in a shaky whisper.

“The shortest time possible, I promise you.” Aware of the tension that had caused his own body to tauten like a bowstring, the Wolf felt it break now, and the fire in his gaze burned down to smoky gray ash. “It will seem shorter still if we have no more need of these verbal jousting matches. Especially ones where the outcome is a foregone conclusion.”

Servanne’s lashes were still damp, but the brightness sparkled with frost. He was laughing at her; mocking her futile efforts to defy him. Smug, arrogant bastard! He had insulted her, had dared to lay his hands upon her, and now, to make the degradation complete, was addressing her with the flippancy one used to pacify a simpleton!

A hot welter of resentment rushed to fill the void so recently drained by panic and in a moment of sheer and utter desperation, she whirled around and started running toward the same wall of trees that had swallowed Sparrow and Gil Golden so efficiently. She heard an angry curse explode behind her, but ignored it. She heard Undine nicker and whinny loudly, and guessed the outlaw had tried to push her aside to pass, but the horse had taken umbrage and valiantly stood her ground. It was enough. The extra seconds it took the Black Wolf to skirt the rearing hooves, combined with every last scrap of energy Servanne could will into her pumping legs, carried her past the barricade of saplings and well into a dense weaving of juniper and alder.

Running with no thought other than escape, Servanne dashed under broken limbs and plunged through barriers of fern that closed into a solid wall behind her. Her skirts hampered her and the branches snatched at the flying wings of her wimple as she ducked and darted her way deeper into the forest, but she neither stopped nor slowed to remove any hindrances. She was aware of angry, pounding footbeats thrashing through the undergrowth behind her, but they took a wrong turn, then another, and for a time she could not hear them at all over the loud slamming of her own heartbeat.