Page 9 of Warrior’s Lady

"Violet, I need you to lie on the floorboards." Rhiannon didn't give the girl a chance to respond. She thrust the softly sobbing child out of view beneath the simple seat.

The cart careened from one side of the steep path to the other. The horses tossed their heads, their terrified cries mirroring Rhiannon's panic.

She forced her thoughts to clear and her nerves to steady. She had to stop the cart. She pushed out of the rear seat and tried to make herself as small a target as possible as she made her way to the driver's perch.

The cart slammed into the dirt wall on the left, knocking her back. Rhiannon's heart plunged and she began muttering frantic prayers beneath her breath as she once again began making her way to the front of the cart.

Wood creaked and splintered, no longer able to support the frantic pace. The horses, further panicked by the sound, pulled hard to the right. The right rear wheel slipped over the edge of the trail. The cart dipped crazily to the side.

As Rhiannon glanced over her shoulder to assess the damage, she saw a man on horseback racing down the path after them. His dark hair whipped around his face, a face set with determination.

Would he help them or finish the archer's job?

As Rhiannon was torn between stopping their wild ride and protecting Violet, the horseman maneuvered between the cart and the dirt wall. He grasped the harness of the horse on the left, and brought the cart to a jerky stop.

The horses whimpered and their sides heaved as they pranced in place. "Well done, my beauties," the man said to the beasts. As the horses quieted, he gently stroked the long, sleek neck of the mare beside him before he released first one horse, then the other from their harness.

That task complete, his gaze shifted. Ice-blue eyes commanded her attention. "Are you well?"

Jolted by the unexpected concern in his eyes, Rhiannon sat absolutely still. The man did not have the sinister look of a murderer, nor did he have the rugged, hungry look of a thief. Instead, he carried himself like a nobleman.

Rhiannon stared at the stranger for what seemed like half an eternity. Dark hair framed his face and fell to his shoulders — shoulders that were broad and sculpted beneath a finely tailored linen shirt.

A whistle followed by a sharp thwack ripped Rhiannon's attention from the stranger to the arrow imbedded in the seat beside her.

"Get down," the stranger commanded as he leapt from his horse and was at her side in a heartbeat. He grasped her hand.

"Nay," Rhiannon cried, pulling out of his grasp.

"You careless fool," he thundered, gripping her by the shoulders this time.

She wrestled free. Then scooping Violet into her arms, she thrust the little girl at the man. "Take her."

He accepted the bundle of arms and legs, then crouched to place her safely on the ground behind the cart.

While he did, Rhiannon stood and jumped down before the archer could get another shot at her.

Why would anyone be after her? Even as the thought formed, she already knew the reason. She was a Ruthven. A bad seed. One of which her countrymen had no doubt finally decided to rid themselves.

An arrow whizzed past her head. Rhiannon shrieked and ducked.

"Back here," the stranger commanded. Before she could take a step, he was beside her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, then guided her to the back of the cart.

Rhiannon could only follow his lead, so overwhelmed was she by the feeling of safety that his arms around her brought. Was that how Violet had felt earlier?

"Stay down," he commanded, as he cradled her in his arms. Rhiannon could see the archer from between the wheels of the cart. The dark rider drew another bow.

"There is nowhere for us to go." Rhiannon's breath hitched in her chest, from the stranger's nearness or from fear she did not stop to examine.

"Don't give up so easily, my sweet," he whispered beside her ear. She felt the warm caress of his breath against her skin. He smelled of musk and mint. He tucked the top of her head beneath his chin, and she felt small but safe cradled in his arms.

The archer aimed to strike, then lowered his weapon at the sound of a dozen or more horses racing toward them.

"My warriors," the stranger explained as he turned her in his arms. He smiled.

The archer put his heels to his horse's flanks and vanished over the lip of the ridge, the stranger's men in pursuit. "'Tis not every day one finds a maiden in distress." His smile deepened the roguish cleft that divided his chin.

And even though he smiled, a glance into his light eyes warned her that he was not a man who followed any rules other than those of his own making. There was something raw and primitive about him. Something reckless and sinful that made her heart pound and sent her blood singing through her veins.