An innocent.
The word and its meaning finally sank into his passion-riddled mind, as did the lesson he’d wanted to teach her about being caught alone. Instead she’d taught him about his own weakness when it came to her. A weakness that could be deadly in the danger that was coming.
He stilled then and lifted his head, releasing her lovely breast. She panted, breathing shallow and fast, under him. Her eyes were closed and her head tossed back in pleasure. A sight he would never forget. William waited a moment to catch his own breath before speaking the words that would drive her away from him and hopefully keep her safe. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, he nodded.
“And that is how fast a man could have you beneath him, taking your favors and your honor, if you get caught alone.”
He knelt and then stood, grasping her hands and pulling her with him. She swayed on her feet, the rosiness of her breasts now hidden by the garments she tugged back into place. The blush on her cheeks faded, replaced by the paleness of shock. Brienne turned her back on him to finish tying her laces and then ran her fingers through the length of her now-loosened and tangled hair.
Facing him, she began to speak several times and ended up saying nothing. Then, damn him, those amber eyes filled with tears. His heart tore apart at the sight of her distress and humiliation. All he wanted to do was hold her. Tell her that he reacted this way because she was driving him mad with worry and the need to protect her and keep her safe . . . and that he knew he could not.
“Brienne, I . . .” He paused, for what could he say now that he’d turned his honest desire for her and her naïve, new desire for him into something tawdry? She shook her head and began to leave. “Wait, I pray you,” he said. She hesitated, and he took the chance it gave him.
“Something strange and dangerous is going on. The king has asked me to seek the reasons. Everything points to your lord. Now more strangers are arriving each day, and I . . . worry that you will not be safe as you make your way through your errands and chores. Not as safe as you might think you are. Have a care and stay close to your father.” Her eyes widened the tiniest amount, but he still noticed it. “He can protect you best.” She crossed her arms over her body and rubbed her arms as she nodded. He stepped back to allow her to pass and added the final warning: “Even from me.”
Without another word and whether she heard his last warning or not, Brienne she ran off, back toward the village and—he hoped—safety.
Now she might think before wandering off and putting herself in danger. And mayhap his rude behavior would keep her from him and break the hold, the draw, the connection they had with each other. She must go back to her life and he to his. Pacing himself to stay far enough behind her not to be seen, he wondered if he would wake up on the morrow and discover that this strange journey on behalf of the king had just been some kind of nightmarish dream.
Ignoring the painful protest of how much his body disagreed with his honor’s actions, William strode back to his men, intent on finishing their plan and on riding into Yester Village and Castle and meeting with Lord Hugh. Those good intentions, like so many that lined another path, evaporated when he was about fifty yards from the camp.
For Brienne screamed out his name in terror.
ChapterNine
Turning around and around, he could neither see nor hear her. But . . . hehadheard her. Roger must have been watching, for he and Gautier came running to his side.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, holding his hand to his brow to shade his eyes. “Did you hear her?”
“I heard nothing but you,” Roger answered.
“You speak of the girl?” Gautier asked. “Is she nearby?” Drawing his sword, he closed his eyes and saw her being half dragged and half carried through the forest by three men. A gag in her mouth, her hands bound now, she seemed unaware of herself and her surroundings. Worse, the image in his thoughts went completely and utterly black then, as though she’d lost consciousness.
“Aye, she is,” he said. “Or was. I can sense nothing of her now.”
William saw them staring at him as though he had three heads instead of the one and realized he needed to tell them more about . . . more about . . .
“I warned her not to be alone outside the village,” he tried to explain, but the dark feeling of her loss tore at him.
“You warned her, Will?” Gautier asked. “You saw her again.”
“She is in danger now.” It was becoming hard to speak. The muscles in his neck and shoulders and back tightened, and his vision began to glow red like the coals left in a fire. “Come.”
His body trembled and shook with each step, and then his legs lengthened, and his trews, tunic, and gown felt tight, too small for his body. Tremors moved along his arms until his grip around the hilt of his sword changed, his flesh becoming one with the metal and leather.
She was in danger.
He ran, faster and farther than the others, down into the valley, across the stream, and up into the hillside. He paused only to gain her scent in the air, noticing the signs of a struggle in the broken plants and furrows in the moist earth, and then he followed.
She was in danger.
The red washed over everything in his sight and colored the world in a different way; the sky, the trees, everything bore a scarlet tint to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the others trailing behind.
His . . . friends . . . no danger there.
He gained the top of the hill and saw the small gathering of tents and people and smelled her there. Rushing toward her scent, he watched as they scattered out of his way. He did not find her among the tents, but knew she was beyond them.
He broke through the trees and saw her. The gag was off and her hands had been freed of their bounds. She faced him, staring at his face and shaking her head. He would tear them apart for touching her, for scaring her. No one did that and lived. He reached for the one closest to her, the one holding her arm, and grabbed for him, but she stepped in front of him, placing herself between him and the one he would kill . . . first.
