She felt Arneth shift behind her, and then heard his exclamation of surprise. Loud thrashing, heavy breathing, shouts and the unmistakable sound of steel being slid from within steel filled her environment…and then suddenly, it was over.
A howl reverberated in her ears as she felt a jerk behind her, then the loss of Arneth’s weight in the saddle as he tumbled to the ground. She clutched at the horse, a cry escaping her lips as she began to slip, and then suddenly, she was lifted—plucked easily from her seat—and slammed onto the front of another saddle.
She did not even need to look behind her to know that it was Gavin whose powerful arm held her steady in the seat in front of him, and whose brawny thighs enclosed her. Her heart still thundered in her chest even as they slowed to a canter, and then a trot, and finally to a standstill in the middle of the forest.
If there had been others in the chase, they had left them far behind, and the stillness of the wood caught up with them as they stopped in a small clearing. The only sound was his rough breathing mingling with her own.
Gavin said naught, and she, too, had remained silent, trying to catch her breath and slow her heart. He slid from the saddle, his feet landing on the ground in two rhythmic thumps. When he turned his face to look up at her, raising his arms to lift her from the saddle, Madelyne nearly recoiled in shock.
It was Gavin Mal Verne, and yet it was not.
If she had thought him to have a mask of stone for a face before, she had not a clear idea of how that truly should look—for now his countenance was still, angry, and hard, and his gray eyes blazed with intensity and ferocity as his chest heaved with exertion. His wide brown hands slipped under her bound arms and lifted her down with a gentleness she had not expected.
“I cannot plead your forgiveness enough, my lady,” he said stiffly, his flat gaze inscrutable. “My foolish actions and lack of attention to your person were disgraceful and inexcusable.” He looked down at her hands, which were beginning to gray due to the tightness of her bonds. His mouth pinched and she saw his face darken. In a trice, he had sliced the hemp at her wrists and began to chafe them gently.
The pinpricks of circulation returning to her fingers caused her to pull away and shake her hands. “Lord Gavin, I am in your debt for your protection of me—”
“Do not be a fool, my lady,” he snapped, spinning away to stalk toward Rule. “’Tis I who am indebted to you, and ’twas my folly that caused you to be in this state.”
He gathered up the trailing reins of the well-trained destrier and, with a quick pat on his nose, led the horse toward Madelyne. Mal Verne’s thick dark hair sprung wildly about his face, brushing the heavy black brows that drew together in angry points while curling softly about his ears and throat. The cord of his neck throbbed and thrummed with his furious pulse, and his sensual mouth leveled into a thin, hard line. “Come now, I will get you back to the others where you will be safe.”
He stepped toward her, and the energy that surrounded him engulfed Madelyne even as he reached to touch her. Pushing aside her earlier bargain with God to cease her deviant thoughts of Gavin Mal Verne, she looked up at him and replied, “I cannot be any safer than when I am with you, my lord.”
Her heart swelled in her throat and her stomach turned a little flip when he paused, his hands resting on her shoulders. The harshness in his features eased into derision and weariness clouded his eyes. “If you imagine that, Lady Madelyne, then you are even more of a fool than I believed.” He made ready to lift her, but she stopped him, reaching out to place a light hand on his chest. It felt solid and warm beneath the shifting, chinking of his mail.
“I am no fool, my lord,” she replied, suddenly annoyed at his persistence on that track. “An’ if that is all you think of me, then—”
“Nay, Madelyne, that is not all that I think of you,” he whispered, and suddenly he pulled her to him, his mouth slamming down onto hers.
Those lips that had moments before been hard and unyielding became soft and coaxing as they closed over her mouth that parted in surprise. They molded to hers, hot and smooth and slick, tasting of mint and sweat and man…Gavin. Gathered up against his solid chest, Madelyne felt the bumps of the mail and the bands of his arms holding her close, his hands cupping her head from behind. She fitted against his tall length, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, mouth to mouth. Her hand moved up to touch his thick, damp hair, and her fingers brushed the heat and moistness of his neck.
Her world spinning, Madelyne kissed him back, tasting him, tentatively caressing his mouth while his lips devoured hers—demanding from them, from her—leaving her breathless and her eyelids weighted closed. A fiery heat built within her, surging into her middle and down, lower, to pool there where they fitted, hip to hip.
One of his arms slid to the base of her back, crushing her close, lifting her up against him as his mouth continued to coax and caress hers. She felt a thrill of surprise when his tongue slipped inside her, bringing all the heat and sleekness of his desire. He sighed into her, giving a short shudder, and dragged his lips away with a soft, deep-throated moan.
Gavin stared down at her, breathing heavily, his fingers sliding from the back of her neck to rest on her upper arms. He gazed at her for a long moment with hazy eyes, a myriad of emotions playing across his face before the harshness settled there again.
“As I said, Lady Madelyne, a fool is not all that I think of you.” His words were rough and hard. He continued to look at her with eyes that had cleared and flattened to match his tone as he gathered up Rule’s reins. “I’ll not apologize for that—nay—but I’ll see that it does not happen again. Now, you will put your misguided self into my passable care until we reach Prentiss Keep, and then we shall start off for the king’s court with a rested band of men and no more of my transgressions.”
Eleven
Fantin’s howl of rage ricocheted off the walls of the small room, followed by the clatter of tin goblets, eating knives, and metal platters as they tumbled to the floor. “Imbeciles!” he shouted, eyes bulging as he stalked fore and aft amongst his men. “Each of you! All imbeciles!”
He could not even take pleasure in the way they cowered before him, for pure rage empurpled his vision. Madelyne had been within his grasp…the Stone so close he could taste its power…and now he sat empty-handed in some bloody, primitive tavern with naught but godless cretins to serve him. Unblessed, they were, and he, foolish as he was, had brought them into his employ, thinking to share with them some benefit of the Gift once it was his. But now, nay. Nay.
“Out of my sight! All of you!” he ordered, heedless of the proprietor’s worried face peaking around the doorway.
The men fled—those who were left of the thirteen—and Fantin slumped in his chair, fighting to regain clarity over the haze of fury that fogged his faculties. These rages that befell him at moments such as this, and with more frequency now that he came closer to the fruits of his labor, affrighted him with their vehemence and strength. Rufus had cautioned him to work to control them, else he might become too impatient and suffer God’s displeasure. Thus, Fantin raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for a moment, allowing the comfort of this familiarity to wash over him.
He barely finished his words of supplication when his mind wandered back to the moment…the moment when he had seen her, seen the girl and recognized her—before slipping away from the small battle to allow his men to finish. In an attempt to maintain anonymity, he’d left the actual seizure of Madelyne to his trusted man Arneth, choosing to keep for himself the pleasure of killing Mal Verne—of putting an end to the man who stood always betwixt Fantin and his work. But to his surprise and fury, the bloody coward had not been present when the ambush took place.
God’s bloody teeth! The fury threatened to rise within Fantin again, rattling his nerves and stringing his muscles tightly. How could he have come so close, only to have her swept away? Never again.
His fist closed around a knife and he stabbed it into the scarred wooden table, burying it as deep as the first digit of his finger. His shuddering breathing rasped in the sudden silence, and his fingers opened and closed, opened and closed around the hilt of the knife.
His breathing slowed again, and at last he was able to reach for his goblet of wine—he disdained ale, for it was the drink of mean serfs—and drink heavily, draining it with several gulps.
