Мериел Фуллер – Her Battle-Scarred Knight (страница 4)
Sitting back on his heels, Giseux watched the trails of sparkling liquid track down her puffy, mottled cheek, heard the great, gasping sobs seize at her chest. The girl obviously believed him to be in league with the thugs who had just roughed her up. A tiny pulse beat frantically at her neck, beneath the white, fragile skin in the hollow of her throat; her fear of him was palpable, radiating from her body in waves of tension. The sight of her tears bit into him, tugged cruelly at his memory, but he clamped down firmly on the encroaching vision. He had no wish to remember.
‘Easy, maid,’ he said in his deep, rumbling voice. The words of comfort felt untested, awkward, like dusty rocks in his mouth. The battle for Jerusalem had been long and relentless; there had been little opportunity or time to offer solace to others—had he forgotten how? Or had the ugliness, the cruelty of fighting driven it from his soul? The hard frozen earth jagged into his knees; as he shifted, trying to ease his cramped calf muscles, she reared backwards, abruptly, like a wild, cornered animal. A rueful smile twisted his mouth as he shook his head, shook out the gold-tipped fronds of his hair: a lion’s mane, the blunt ends like spun gold around the rugged angles of his face. ‘Nay, nay, I will not hurt you.’
Brianna eyed him blankly, disbelieving, driving the flats of her hands and feet into the hard mud to hitch away from him. Where was her knife? She had to protect herself! As she raised herself up from the ground, every muscle in her body aching, protesting, the voluminous gown that she wore pressed against her body, revealing her high, rounded bosom, the golden-red weave of her hair falling like spun net across her chest. She managed to make a small space between them, heart racing beneath his steely perusal before the heel of her boot snared in the trailing hem of her gown, preventing any further escape.
‘Let me help you up. Can you stand?’ Impatient not to prolong the episode, Giseux stretched out one hand, tanned and sinewy, to help her up.
She slapped at his fingers, catching the side of his palm. The sharp smack reverberated in the confined corner of the field, bouncing between the thorny hedgerows, studded with bright berries. ‘Get away from me! Go! Leave me alone!’ The shrillness of her voice screeched into his ear, scraping at the limits of his patience. ‘You need to go away!’
‘And you need to mind your manners!’ Deep within him, the short rope of his temper began to fray; the girl’s behaviour was ridiculous, unnecessary. It wasn’t the physical blow—that had been nothing, a mere moth’s touch from her slim fingers—but the girl’s complete failure to comprehend that he was not her enemy. His initial intention to offer her comfort, to help her in some way, as any passing stranger would do, had gone seriously awry. He didn’t have the time to squander on such foolish conduct, and at this rate, his act of mercy was threatening to take all day. It would be so much easier to walk away. But he couldn’t leave her here, hunched, pathetic, like a half-drowned kitten that spat and snarled at him whenever he approached. It went against every code he had been brought up to believe.
‘I am not going to leave you here, sitting on the frozen ground. I am not going to hurt you.’
‘How do I know?’ she threw back at him, her body rigid and hostile, cerulean eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘How do I know that this isn’t another trick? The words emerged in jerky fashion, her voice wobbling with the cold. She wrapped her arms firmly about her chest, trying to stop the violent shudders that racked her body.
He set his lips in a firm forbidding line, a ripple of irritation lacing his big frame. ‘I’m not one of them. You have to trust me.’
‘Trust?’ Laughter burst from her lips, a spray of jangled sound couched with a bubble of hysteria. ‘Surely you jest? It’s obvious you are one of Count John’s men, sent to pick up the pieces.’ Brianna wriggled her feet, attempting to move her frozen toes. She needed to find the strength, the determination, to stand up, to walk away. A cloying weakness dragged at her legs; this last attack had surely been the worst. And it appeared that it wasn’t over yet.
Gathering the last scraps of courage from her body, she tipped her head defiantly, meeting his pewter gaze. ‘I’ll not go back with you. I’ll not go back to Merleberge.’
‘I have no intention of
later.’
He propelled himself up in one sinuous, graceful movement; she instinctively raised her hands, as if to ward off further attack, but to her surprise he ignored her, heading towards his horse. Her heart eased as she watched him, noting that he limped—the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a pause, as his right foot moved forwards. His chainmail, glinting like fish scales, fitted his tall frame like a second skin, revealing the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the powerful strength of his long legs. The fine cloth of his surcoat held a dull sheen in the fragile sunshine, secured to his slim hips with a wide leather sword belt.
‘Here, have this, you’re freezing.’
She cast a cursory glance at the bundle of cloth between his hands: a cloak, of midnight blue, the collar edged in fur.
‘I’ve told you, leave me. I want nothing from you.’ She tried to inject some strength into her voice. Clutching valiantly at the trough with clenched, icy fingers, she pushed her body weight upwards. A raft of dizziness swept through her head as she stood up straight and she swayed, nausea boiling in her stomach. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘For the love of God, go away.’ Her lids, blue-veined and pale, fluttered down, spiky black lashes fanning her cheeks. She wanted to recover from her humiliating ordeal in her own time, at her own pace, without this man, this stranger, witnessing her every move.
He assessed her wilting figure critically, the hint of a mocking smile playing across his lips; a large bear-like hand curled around her shoulder. ‘Mayhap you should stay sitting for a while?’
Brianna wrested her shoulder furiously from his grasp, from the unwanted contact, eyes caged, fiery breath caught in the trap of her throat. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she lashed at him, ‘don’t you dare touch me!’ She turned, stumbling a little over the tussocky grass, spotting the gleam of her knife in the rough vegetation. Her head swam as she crouched to pick it up, to secure the blade once more in its scabbard at her waist. Then, without a backward glance, the blurry horizon line teetering before her, she took one step tentatively back towards the farm. Somehow, the thought of returning to her own cold, empty home failed to fill her with confidence.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ The stranger’s voice boomed out over her, a snare of exasperation.
Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away. Brianna focused on the gateway, forcing her wooden, unwilling legs to move forwards, aware that her gait was unbalanced, wobbling even. If she could just stretch her fingers out to reach the gatepost …
A hand grasped her upraised forearm, strong tapered fingers snaring the point where the wide cuff of her rough sleeve had fallen back, exposing the limpid marble of her skin. Beneath the loose hold of his fingers, her pulse scurried along, too fast. Legs buckling, Brianna staggered against the oak gatepost, the wood split and grey, speckled with a frothing mat of sage-green lichen.
He was at her back, the rounded bulk of his shoulder curving into hers, the heat from his body burning her spine. The silken strands of her hair stirred with his breath … no, too close! Vexed, she squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away the hot threat of tears at his continued, unwanted presence.
‘I swear you are the rudest, most ungrateful chit I have ever met.’ His voice curled into her, hardened by iron-clad threads of irritation. ‘Now, tell me where you live and I will take you there.’ From his lofty vantage point, he traced the elegant arch of her dark copper brow, the creamy curve of her cheek. Her skin was fine, polished: the rich, sleek lustre of a pearl. Up close, the purpling bruise on her jawline looked savage; it must hurt like hell, he thought, suddenly.
‘Nay,’ she responded quickly. Her frozen skin tingled beneath the pads of his fingers. She tried to jerk away, to take one more tottering step, but he held firm. ‘I don’t want your help.’
‘Oh, but I think you do,’ Giseux responded calmly. He hadn’t realised how small she was; if he leaned forward a notch, the top of her head would brush his chin. ‘You can scarce take a step without nearly falling down. However near your home might be, it would take you all day to reach it.’