The games continued, and she watched through a haze of confusion. Where was Sadler now? Deep in her heart, she knew she could never accept Millvale, and her attraction to the dark and daring Marvic was nothing compared to her connection to Sadler.
The crowd’s cries beat the air, and the hiss of airships waiting to take off was deafening. She followed the crowd toward the field to watch Marvic’s next challenge, but her mind was a thousand miles away. Sadler’s appearance in her life had caused much upheaval, yet she wouldn’t change it for anything—not even her freedom to choose a husband. The few stolen moments she’d experienced with Sadler would live forever in her heart.
And right now, she longed for him with every cell of her being.
Chapter Eleven
The sword ripped through the air, inches from Sadler’s abdomen. He flinched out of the way and lunged forward with his own blade. With a flick of the wrist, he turned a blow.
He spun and dropped to one knee to deliver a debilitating slice to his opponent’s leg. He didn’t want to kill him, just take him out of the game. Though his true name wasn’t on the line, Isolde’s view of him was. And dammit, Sadler wanted this for himself.
His opponent’s sword caught him in the tender part of the throat, nicking him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Isolde’s hands flutter to her mouth. He wished he could drop the sword, take five steps, and tug her into his arms. But not here. Not with the king and the entire countryside looking on.
He cursed himself for being distracted.
Sadler wondered how he could lure her away from her brother’s side long enough to steal off with her. And steal her he must—his cock was pulsing with hardness. If he didn’t get her up against a tree and sink his rod into her hot sheath before nightfall, he thought he’d go mad. But first and foremost, he had to keep her from Millvale’s clutches.
The name Marvic palpitated in the air. The frustration of his last fifteen years spent on the run built to colossal proportions. And lust-crazed for the soft, womanly curves on the sidelines, he let his sword arm fall down, down, slicing flesh, coppery scent of blood in his nose.
His opponent dropped, holding his forearm, blood oozing onto the dirt. For a moment Sadler watched, mesmerized by the dark droplets. The wound was superficial. He had stopped short, hating to sever the man’s wrist from his arm.
He speared the earth with the point of his sword, twisted on his heel, and walked away as Prince John declared him the winner. His assumed name became a chant, a thunder.
Sadler hated it. Feeling sick, he stumbled to a barrel filled with water and accepted a dipperful from a peasant lady.
Sadler lifted his gaze to find the frizzy-haired woman whose sword he had taken. The woman who had saved his life.
“Did yer horse return home?” he asked in a low voice.
She started, peering up at him hard, trying to place him. “Is it ye?”
“Aye.”
He nodded.
She twisted a curl around her finger. “Aye, sir, the horse returned. And I see ye’ve put the sword to good use.”
Sadler drained the dipper and returned it to her. He dug in his pocket, found the coin he’d won, and pressed it into her palm. Her eyes swelled. “Thank ye for the sword. Tell yer husband I’m sorry, but he has a good woman for helping a stranger in need.”
Her face blanched white and then filled with heat, growing darker by the second. “My husband is dead this past year, sir. But the coin will come in handy. I thank ye.”
Sadler spent a long minute looking into her eyes. He saw the creases, the hard lines bracketing her mouth, the work-worn fade of beauty. He pressed his lips into a tight seam, and he bowed over her fingers. When he straightened, he gave her a small nod.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Isolde watching from the platform, her face open and glowing. Her long blonde locks had loosened from the coronet of braids and tumbled onto her high cheekbones. Her lips were parted slightly, giving him a glimpse of her moist, pink tongue.
He tore his gaze away. Every muscle in his body urged him to climb that dais, yank her into his arms, and make off with her.
In time. Ye’ll get yer chance.
He looked at the king, and a hot burst of hatred exploded within his chest. If not for King Adlard and the Earl of Millvale, he would be a free man, free to ditch his disguise, free to earn a coin without jeopardizing his life.
He clamped his fist. If he had his sword, he could rush the king and run him through before anyone could stop him.
But that would alienate Isolde from him. Best to stick with his original plan to take the king out and let it be rendered an accident. Maybe he would catch King Adlard unawares during a boar hunt, or his airship would suddenly malfunction, and he would plummet to his death.
He stalked to the sideline. There he leaned against the wooden support and watched Sir Lionel and Millvale thrashing it out with their swords. The scream of steel on steel silenced the crowd. He lost himself in the primal dance between the men, studying their every twist and parry.
Suddenly the scent of summer roses filled his nostrils. He looked down upon the crown of Isolde’s head. The part of her hair revealed a pale pink scalp. Protective feelings rose within him. He longed to kiss that vulnerable bit of flesh that he’d never thought to kiss before.
Her skirts brushed his thigh, sending an automatic surge of need to his cock. His bollocks clenched up tight with the memory of her skirts falling over his face, of his mouth meeting her hot core as the dark fabric fell around him, so he was cut off from the world, aware of only taste and her female scent.
Before he could think to grab her and dodge through the crowd, Colin was at her back, gripping her elbows and glaring at Sadler. Sadler squared his shoulders and held her brother’s stare, refusing to relent, refusing to give up either his anger or Isolde.
Colin nudged her gently into the crowd, and Isolde gave Sadler her profile, now red and angry. As she was bundled away from him, her voice floated back, telling Colin off. Sadler watched her hips swaying away from him and thought of getting her into the open fields and consummating their relationship, laying her upon the heather and stretching atop her. The quickest way to her soul was through her body, and while he knew it was insanity, he had to secure her.
* * *
The first leg of the airship race was about to begin, and Sadler stood watching the most inexperienced of the pilots dive eagerly into the hulls of their ships. The air filled with cries of excitement and well wishes. A hot cloud of steam settled over the castle yard. After the amateur race, three more tiers would perform. Sadler had talked his way into the highest tier with the professionals. Against Millvale.
Thinking of Millvale, he scanned the grounds until he glimpsed his gold-threaded suit near the drawbridge. He was deep in conversation with Isolde. She placed her hand on Millvale’s forearm and leaned near. Sadler imagined the brush of her soft breasts against his arm.
His stomach clenched. His jaw locked, and he slammed his palm into the hilt of his sword. The
zing
of it being drawn jerked him back to reality. Not here, not now, he thought with blood in his eyes. Millvale would have his moment beneath the light, razor-sharp blade, but not while the kingdom looked on.
Isolde turned Millvale to face her fully, and then she did something that sent Sadler into a crazed fury. She reached up and brushed a lock of Millvale’s dark hair from his brow.
In moments Sadler found himself feet from the pair, close enough to make out Millvale’s cocky tone, but Isolde’s was a raspy murmur.
That she was up to no good was obvious. She was playing with fire. The Earl of Millvale would not be toyed with, and Sadler feared the next unit of zeppelgongers would be after Isolde.
The thought of his precious woman on the run with him turned his bowels to water. Yet what did he think would happen once he swept her into the heather and made love to her? They’d both be fugitives—he from the guillotine and she banished for her association with him. King Adlard would not forgive her and would possibly send her to her death, in her mother’s footsteps.
Sadler’s gaze bore into Millvale’s head, mentally urging Isolde to turn, to catch his warning. But she continued to fawn over the earl, smoothing and tucking the blue handkerchief into his armor.
Millvale had won the sword battle against Sir Lionel, and after the fliers returned from the air, the final duel would commence between Millvale and Sadler. His chest burned to end it now.
“Any man as powerful as the earl would wish to have her hand.” A voice interrupted Sadler’s thoughts.
He swayed his head toward the knot of men standing on the edge of the field.
“A pretty pair they make, but will the king let him have her? He protects her because of”—the voice lowered a few notches—“the incident with her mother.”
He turned to see Millvale bowing over her hand, kissing her slender, ringed fingers.
Sadler’s face felt hot and tight. His chest filled with boiling fury. With a roar, he unsheathed his sword and attacked Millvale.
“Get her out of here,” Sadler yelled to Colin as Millvale whirled.
And then they were at it, strike, leap, blow, stab. Steel screeching against steel. Sweat burning his eyes.
He caught the scrap of blue fabric in Millvale’s armor with the tip of his sword and tore it free. It fluttered to the ground, and he jammed a boot heel atop it.
Mine. My woman.
The darkest midnight blue square tucked into his tunic seemed to sear his skin, and he fought for it, for the right to have the princess. For love.
Millvale was an accomplished swordsman, but Sadler had spent hours learning his inconsistencies, his weaknesses. When the earl revealed the vulnerable spot beneath his sword arm, Sadler stabbed it. The point sank deep, drawing first blood.
The earl’s mouth twisted in a grim smile. “We’ll see how ye fare without armor, lad.”
“Better than a man with it.” Sadler drove him against the fence. On the other side of it, Isolde’s eyes were bright with fear. Her white hands were plastered to her mouth, and her hair had tumbled down.
Sadler’s mental defenses sharpened. He could take out Millvale now and be thrown into a cell, his disguise dismantled, and an ax blade at his throat within minutes. Or he could back off and proceed cautiously. He hadn’t survived this long as a fugitive by being rash.
As he glimpsed Isolde’s pale face from the corner of his eye, he suddenly realized nothing was as important to him as her happiness.
And ye think she’ll be thrilled when her father dies in a tragic airship explosion?
All at once, his need to kill King Adlard had lessened, replaced by the need for Isolde’s happiness.
He reflexively deflected the blows of the earl’s sword while his mind worked out an escape. Not just any escape, but an escape with the princess.
Five feet away the water barrel stood, with the frizzy-haired woman manning the dipper. Her horse was tethered in her yard, he guessed. A short sprint to acquire it would take twenty seconds, no more. With the android horseflesh beneath him, he could race back to Isolde and scoop her into his arms before the army could be roused. His only obstacle was Millvale.
Time seemed to begin again, and Sadler slashed at the man barring him from his latest plan. His sword tip drew a fine line down Millvale’s cheek. Blood welled instantly and trickled into the corner of his mouth. When the earl grinned, blood stained his teeth as he bared them and lunged.
Sadler glanced toward the place where Isolde stood bouncing on her toes and wringing her hands. He started to turn away from the fight.
Millvale’s blade met his thigh muscle.
“Nay!” Isolde screamed.
The steam in his system hissed away, leaving him deflated, powerless. The pain struck him like a blow from a zeppelgonger.
He stumbled. Two small, work-worn hands gripped his shoulders. As he fell against the woman who had saved him once before, her red curls brushed his cheek. She was leading him away from the fight, his sword arm weak and the blade dragging a trail in the dust. Her voice was in his ear.
“Can ye make it to my cot? I’ll dress yer wound and care for ye.”
“Will ye give me yer horse?”
“Aye, if needed. But ye’re not leaving with that wound. It will turn putrid and kill ye in two days.”
Sadler looked down at his right thigh. A dark stain of blood soaked his leather breeches and pooled in his boot. The slash was numb, but a bone-deep shiver had taken hold of him. He gritted his teeth against the tremors.
Across the dirt yard she dragged him, during which time she revealed her name to be Marian. At the door of her cot, she paused to shove her shoulder into it and popped it inward. She drew a limping and weak Sadler to the makeshift bed of straw covered in sacking cloth against one wall. His knees buckled without warning, but just as swiftly, he was on his feet, fighting to leave.
Marian pressed him onto the straw mattress and slapped a wet cloth to his heated forehead.
“Ma’am, I need yer horse. Please. I have a plan to execute.”
“Is that plan to die today? If so, rise, sir, and limp off to yer death. If that woman wants ye bad enough, she’ll wait.”
Her words brought him from the edge of a swoon. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard, trying to focus. “How did ye know?”
“The princess Isolde is smitten with ye. She had her eye upon yer every movement. But perhaps no soul noticed but me. A lonely woman spots love all around her.”
“She’s expecting me.”
Marian set a kettle of water to boil. “She’ll wait for ye. She’s not going anywhere.”
He thought of the Earl of Millvale with fire in his heart. Isolde would accept his hand in marriage over Sadler’s rotting corpse.
He sat up straight but swayed. He gripped his head to hold it on; it felt so light. Marian’s form blinked in and out of his vision as she bustled from hearth to sewing basket to a container of herbs. She pinched off a sprig, dropped it into a mortar, and began to grind it. The sharp tang reached his nose and made him focus.