Summer Siege (7 page)

Tristan.

Sleep eluded her as
she tossed on the creaking mattress, her linen sheets snarling between her
legs. A light film of perspiration painted her skin and her chemise clung to
her. In a bid to find some relief, she threw off her sheets, giving up on the
notion of sleep. Her mind teased as she moved over to the window, words and
images besieging her, all of which comprised of one person and one person
alone.

Tristan.

She let out a
frustrated cry. A sound from the next room startled her and she clamped a hand
over her mouth. Tristan’s room adjoined hers – the top floor of the manor being
laid out so that each room opened into the next. Her room was the rearmost so
that her father could keep her sequestered away at his will.

Barely daring to
breathe, she listened intently. She was sure she had heard a thud but all was
quiet now. Stepping lightly across the cool floor, she grimaced as the rushes
rustled beneath her toes. Reaching the door separating them, she placed an ear
to the wood.

Naught.

Madeline moved her
head back, feeling foolish, but another noise drew her attention. Could she
hear him breathing?
Surely not.
Through the thick
stone walls and solid door it was unlikely. Flexing her hand against the rough
wood, she laid it flat, as if drawing the spirit of Tristan into it. There it
was - she was sure. It was as if she could feel his presence regardless of what
separated them.

The door swung open
abruptly and she bit back a squeal as she found herself confronted by the sight
of gilded flesh.

“Madeline? I head a
cry…”

He trailed off as
the air thickened around them, like the sultry heat before a storm.

Madeline openly
stared at him, heedless of the foolishness of her expression. Stood in naught
more than braies, the cold glow of nature’s illumination did little to hide
every glorious dip and curve of his muscular frame. His hair was tousled and
his eyes were hooded from sleep. Each little imperfection served only to
enhance his masculine beauty.

Of its own will,
her hand reached out hesitantly, shaking as it pressed against the smooth plane
of his chest. The blistering heat that leapt through her body shocked her and,
as he stiffened under her touch, she heard the sharp intake of his breath and
knew he had felt it too.

“Close your eyes,”
he murmured.

She did,
unquestioningly. Tristan’s hand grazed over the top of hers, holding it to his
chest. Stood for what seemed like eternity, and yet, not long enough, he
finally spoke.

“Do you feel it?”

She could feel the
heavy thud of his heart, echoing the aching thump that reverberated within
hers. Their breath came raggedly now and yet he did naught, simply held her
hand in place. His breath whispered over her hair and she trembled at his close
proximity.

“Why do you fight
this? Why do you fight us?”

Fight? Was she
fighting? She felt as weak as a lamb, her limbs as liquid as oil. She opened
her eyes and met his intense gaze. His eyes were dark in the shadows of the
doorway but she could see the intemperate hunger that lay within. Her chest
restricted painfully, her throat closing with a longing ache.

They remained in
separate rooms, only their hands connecting them across the threshold. But one
word and she knew he would step across and seal them as one.

One
word.

But it would not
come. Madeline’s eyes drifted shut again as the battle raged inside. The divide
between them seemed to magnify, opening up a chasm, as reason slowly pervaded
through her lust soaked mind. They were too different; no good would ever come
of this. He was a lord’s son, an heir to vast lands, and bound by duty. She was
bitter and broken, with naught to offer.

Tristan sensed her withdrawal,
even as her hand remained. Whatever demons drove her on, they were luring her
from him, stealing her away. He kept her hand captured, hoping somehow to break
through to her.
Sweet lord, if she
could see herself as he did now.
Her hair was tied in a loose braid,
trailing down one shoulder, tendrils of damp curls escaping around her smooth
cheeks. One velvety shoulder had slipped out of her chemise and he ached to
place a kiss to it. She was flawless.

She thought herself
so out of place, so damaged, but could she not see that her place was with him?
It mattered not that time had changed her; she was still the same soul. He
wished she would bare her scars to him so he could help her heal, but he sensed
that if he pressed forwards now he would but wreak more damage and he was
naught if not patient.

So he waited,
revelling in the feel of her tender fingers meeting his scorched flesh. Her
lids fluttered open once more, her eyes devoid of the tumultuous ardour, the
cool remoteness claiming her and casting his heart in ice along with it.

Tristan released her
hand, unable to bear the thought of her wrenching hers away, and she withdrew
slowly, attempting to disguise her reluctance to end their tentative
connection. He could see the disappointment beneath the relief and it lent him
hope.

Madeline turned
silently and he understood her silence for what could she say? He too was at a
loss for words, the attraction between them growing more potent by the day, but
at least he understood and accepted it. For Madeline such an attraction would
be harder to reconcile in her confused state.

Still not willing
to let her go quite yet, he spoke, “Wait.” His voice grated out, roughened by
sleep and desire.

She paused,
straightening her shoulders and visibly fortifying herself, before facing him
once more.  “
‘Tis
late, Tristan, we should
sleep.”

“Madeline, pray let
me help you. Whatever this is, this burden that you carry, I can ease it.”

“Nay, Tristan, you
cannot.
‘Tis
mine to bear and bear alone. I do not
expect you to understand for ‘tis in your nature to believe that aught is
surmountable, but I must do this unaided. I will not hinder you with my
troubles.”

Did she realise
this was the first time that she had given voice to her demons? He understood
more than she realised. He saw the strength with which she conducted herself
and he knew she could vanquish her fears, but he was sure he could aid in her
redemption. Why was she so unwilling to see that?

“‘
Twould
be no hindrance but I will not force you on this
matter.”

Madeline nodded
gratefully and he snagged her arm before she could retreat from him again.

“Know this,
Madeline, I am here.
Always.
Should you choose to come
to me I will not forsake you. And eventually, you will come to me.”

She shook her head
sadly and Tristan wondered why his declarations should bring such sadness.

“Good night,
Tristan.”

While the skies
remained clear, Madeline determined to do some foraging. The stores were still
low and, though the fields were planted, they had little remaining from the
last harvest. There would be no berries yet but wild mushrooms grew in the
forests just beyond Woodchurch and a few medicinal herbs could be found if you
knew what you were looking for.

She invited Thomas
along, affording her an opportunity to get to know the young lad that was
living under her roof. Thomas had grown up in another village before being
fostered by the Dumont’s so she had not known him as a boy. Tristan complained
that he would be neglecting his duties, but it was said with mild amusement and
Madeline knew he did not really mind.

His quiet company
was surprisingly soothing. Thomas asked few questions, besides those about the
bounties of nature, and she welcomed the conversation, thankful to be free from
the conflict that raged within.

With a basket
hanging from one arm, they headed along the forest path before veering off into
a more dense part of the woods. Having spent many a day amongst the lush
greenery during her childhood, Madeline knew the woods well, leading them quickly
to the best locations for foraging. The summer heat was thick and cloying and
the leafy canopy offered a welcome respite from the increasing heat, though it
clung to the humidity, causing sweat to bead on her brow.

Calling to Thomas,
she pointed to a cluster of yellow horse mushrooms and they set about gathering
them. As they tossed their bounty into her basket, her ears detected a rustling
and quickly assessed someone was moving through the undergrowth towards them.
Madeline knew it could well be some of the villagers with the same idea, but
unease pricked at her so she stood to see if she could make out the source of
the sound.

Flashes of blue
broke through the dim colours of the woodland and light gleamed on conical
helms. As their accents reached her ears, she realised they were French
soldiers. Panic threatened to take hold of her. She had no weapon, and she
feared what would happen should they reach Woodchurch for they were ill
prepared for raiders. Tales of the French army’s brutality were rife and
Madeline doubted these men were likely any different.

Mind racing, she
turned to Thomas, who had also spied the heavily armed men and was wide-eyed
with fear. “Run, Thomas. Fetch help! I will lead them away from the village to
the clearing.”

He hesitated so she
gave him a push. “Run!” she shouted.

Thomas nodded and
turned, barrelling through the vegetation as fast as his young legs would carry
him.

Madeline took a
breath and summoned her courage. If she could delay them long enough, the
village could mount a defence. As they neared, she observed that there were
four of them – all larger than she and wielding swords. The village men
wouldn’t have any problem dealing with the four of them with prior warning, but
she recognised that she had little chance against them.

Waiting until they
were near enough to set their gaze upon her, she noted the predatory glint in
their eyes and turned, running in the opposite direction to Thomas. Her skirts
hindered her, snagging on every rock and branch, but she continued on, praying
help would reach her in time.

Amused shouts rang
out and heavy feet rumbled across the ground behind her. Her lungs ached from
the exertion but she managed to stay just ahead of them until she reached the
clearing. The undergrowth gave way and she stumbled forwards, landing heavily
on her hands. Scrabbling to her feet, she turned to face the Frenchmen bearing
down upon her.

Grins came across
their faces as they looked at each other, then to her. Their eyes reflected a
malice that chilled her to the core.

“Turn back; our
guards will be upon you soon,” she warned.

 Undeterred,
one of the men stalked towards her as she shrank back.

“Turn away I tell
you, or you shall be slain.”

He grabbed at her
arm and she batted his hand away as the others laughed.

A scowl was just
visible under his helm and the man grunted, “Come hither, girl.”

“Nay!”

“Come hither, I say
or I shall force you.”

Her heart drummed
in her throat as he made another grab for her. She twisted painfully out of his
grip and dashed across the clearing. Coming up quickly behind her, he snatched
a fistful of hair and dragged her backwards. She swung at him, hitting his
cheek but grazing her knuckles painfully on the nosepiece of his helm. He
released her hair with a yowl, but responded quickly using the pommel of his
sword to deliver a blow to her head.

It staggered her
but did not render her senseless, as was probably the intent. Driving her backwards
with his hands, he pushed her to the ground. Her head slammed roughly against
the ground and her vision swam. As the haziness cleared, forceful hands pawed
at her gown and she kicked out, only managing to score a light blow to his
shins.

Cursing, the guard
brought his sword up to her neck, the threat of the blade saying more than he
could. She froze as the steel danced dangerously close to the fragile skin of
her throat and, with a chuckle, the man continued to paw at her. Tugging at her
skirts, his clammy hand fondled her thighs and she bit back a whimper. Would
this be her end? Covered in dirt and the sweat of a Frenchman? Closing her
eyes, she prayed that someone would come before it was too late.

 She prayed
Tristan would come for her.

***

An odd sensation
stabbed at him, causing the hair on his arms to prickle. Squinting into the
sun, Tristan’s gaze was drawn to a figure dashing across the fields with great
haste. As the figure drew closer, he realised it was Thomas. A pang of fear
struck him; Thomas had been with Madeline this morning. He could feel the blood
drain from his face as a yell reached his ears and he realised Thomas was
shouting for him. Spurring on his destrier, he galloped towards the frantic
boy. As he pulled up beside him, his gut wrenched at the boys panic stricken
face.

“Milord…French…Lady
Madeline.” Thomas panted, clearly having sprinted to get help.

“Hell’s
teeth, Thomas, where?!”

“In
the clearing to the east of the forest path.”
Thomas struggled to catch his
breath.

“Go for help.”

Without waiting for
a response, he took off towards the forest, praying he would not be too late.
His mind raced, why had she not run also?
Foolish woman!
His heart
pounded in fear for her, terrifying thoughts consuming him. A woman alone in
the forest, it was unlikely they would have any mercy on her. At best she would
be ravished, at worst she would be ravished and killed.

Determination
filled him as he reached the forest edge, the shadows swallowing him as he
thundered through - as dark and as grim as his fears. The horse pounded easily
across the forest floor, making light work of the uneven terrain, kicking up
leaves and mud as he went. They quickly reached the thin path threading its way
through the woods and Tristan dismounted, knowing there was no way the large
destrier could make it through with ease. It would be quicker for him to go on
foot.

Snatching his
sword, he didn’t bother to mount it on his belt as he hastened along the narrow
path, snarling branches impeding his progress at it tore at his skin but he ran
on regardless, feeling naught but pure terror. Forging a path with his sword,
he swore he would not lose her again. A nearby scream sent a shudder of horror
through him and he steeled himself for what he might find as he neared the clearing.

Hurling himself
through the foliage, he tumbled out into the vicinity of the scream. Four
men-at-arms spun around at the sound of his emergence, their swords pointed
towards the disturbance. Madeline was pinned to the ground, a sword to her
throat, the soldier’s hand buried under her skirts. With a feral roar he
barrelled towards the soldier but his comrade stepped in front of him. The
Frenchman barely had time to raise his sword before Tristan took a brutal swipe
at him, his arming sword cutting him down effortlessly.

Madeline struggled
under the grip of her imprisoner as he pressed his weapon menacingly to her
throat. At the sound of Tristan’s shout, pure elation surged through her and,
as the soldier turned with a start at the commotion, the press of steel against
her neck slackened, affording her a short window of opportunity.

Throwing all her
strength into it, she kicked between her captors legs. He promptly fell back
with a moan and she snatched his sword from his hand. As he clutched at his crotch,
she jumped to her feet before slicing the blade mercilessly across his throat.
With a sigh, he slumped to the ground and Madeline turned her attention the
other men.

As quickly as
Tristan had dispatched the first man, he moved onto the next. Forewarned, his
enemy was ready with a parry as he thrust forwards, the clash of metal upon
metal forcing both men back. Madeline angled her sword at the fourth man, who
was torn between assisting his comrade and fighting a woman. He brought up his
sword and she edged forwards as she flicked a look to the battle ensuing to the
side of her.

The Frenchman
plunged towards Tristan and he jumped aside, the blade hissing past him. In a
quick response, he thrust his sword down towards the soldier’s neck, plunging
it between his armour and his helmet, killing him instantly.

As he swung around,
Madeline lunged at the final man, the weight of his re-joining blow knocking
her back. Undeterred and lighter on her feet, she deflected his assault,
forcing his blade past her as she stabbed her steel into his side. He collapsed
slowly, clutching at his side as he stared at her in disbelief.

Tristan shared his
expression as he regarded the woman in front of him, her fine rose coloured
dress marred with mud and blood splatters and the heavy sword held confidently
in her hand. She stared back at him, her eyes wide, though he noted not with
fear. As her chest heaved, he realised it was the same exhilaration coursing
through her as it was him.

Dropping his sword,
he strode towards her, as she did the same, their bodies clashing as they met.
Tristan’s hands came around her waist, pulling her forcefully onto him.
Madeline’s fingers tangled around his neck, pulling him down towards her until
their lips met. As one hand snaked up to cup her head, tangling in her waves,
she gasped at the intensity of the contact. He thrust his hips into hers as she
countered with fevered desperation.

Uttering
a grateful prayer, Tristan responded in kind, biting at her succulent lips
before thrusting his tongue into the luscious warmth. She softened, her
delectable curves moulding against him, and he growled at the feel of her soft
breasts pressed against him.

Oblivious to their
morbid surroundings, they tangled together in a dance of passion, the euphoria
of survival powering them on. Madeline was aware of little else other than feel
of his scalding lips upon hers, his hands pressing her ruthlessly into his
unyielding body. Gratitude that he was alive…that she was alive, initially
overpowered any sense of judgement, but as soon as he laid his lips on hers, it
was no longer gratitude that drove her on.

A hunger seeped
into every crevice of her body and it could only be sated by Tristan.

The rustle of
leaves sprang them apart guiltily and they both grabbed for the swords they had
flung on the ground. With a sigh of relief, Madeline realised it was men from
the village, led by Thomas.

Thomas dashed
forwards, looking at the fallen men with a mixture of curiosity and horror.
“Lady Madeline, are you well?” He gaped at the blood soaked sword in her hand.

“I am, thank you,
Thomas.
‘Tis
thanks to you that I am unharmed.”

Noticing his glance
she threw down the sword, glad to no longer have need of it.

He blushed.
“’Twas not me that felled these men.”

Tristan gave the
lad a pat on the shoulder. “You have done well today, Thomas.” He turned to
Madeline with a wry smile and an inquisitive glint.
“As did
you, Madeline.”

Giving him a wary
look she wondered how she would explain away her skill with a sword. Almost
certainly, he would press for an explanation but a part of her wanted it to
remain in the past. She was not ashamed of the things she had done, but she
wondered how he would feel about her if he knew. But then why did she care?

His kiss had rocked
her to the core, no doubt imprinted in her mind forever, but naught had
changed. She would not concede her independence to any man, no matter how much
his kisses affected her.

As the villagers
rummaged through the dead men’s pockets, seizing aught of value, Tristan began
to lead her away from the scene, a gentle hand on her elbow. Madeline was
tempted to pull her arm away from his grasp but she became aware of her vision
blurring slightly. Realising it was probably from the blow to the head she had
taken, she gripped onto his strong arm, reluctant to let anyone see her falter.