Black Knight
Who was this brigand who spoke both her languages? Trembling uncontrollably, Blythe averted her eyes, squealing involuntarily when he pulled her effortlessly on to the horse and sat her in his lap. On a clipped command in German, the horse cantered away. She had no choice but to cling to him as he held her fast, his arm tight around her waist. She heard the steady beating of his heart. Hers was probably deafening him. She closed her eyes in an effort to overcome the dizziness. Her frenzied mind filled with memories of family stories of the devastating attack by marauding Scots that had taken the lives of her grandparents and uncles. Now, she fully understood the paralyzing terror her mother must have experienced that day long ago.
Her throat constricted when she thought of her parents. She wanted to cry out, to weep and wail, but was determined to be brave. This bandit must not know she was afraid. After all, she was a descendant of Vikings. She conjured an image of the ceremonial dagger that hung on the wall of her Northumbrian home in Kirkthwaite Hall and of the Danish ancestor who had carved its hilt. She called on his aid, just as her mother had done when her father left to join the crusade.
Her abductor shifted his weight in the saddle, jolting her out of her trance. He moved her arms to around his neck—no choice but to rest her head against his chest. Except for loving hugs exchanged with close relatives, she had never been so close to a male body. His legs were like iron and a strange hardness pressed against her thigh. She had often seen her brothers’ man-parts when they were all children, but did not recall anything so—big. She still tasted the leather of his gloves on her tongue. He smelled of leather too, and something else—sweat, fear? Was he afraid? She risked a glance but his masked face gave away nothing.
After what seemed like an eternity, they galloped through the Porta Nigra and eventually arrived at a small shrine. It looked deserted but, as they approached, a young man emerged to grasp the horse’s reins. Her captor said something in German, then released her and she slid into the arms of the youth. Her knees buckled as her numbed feet hit the ground.
The boy seemed flustered as he helped her regain her balance. “Kaiserin Matilda?” he asked.
The kidnapper dismounted, shook his head, took his prize from the boy and carried her into the chapel of the ancient shrine. Her heart did a peculiar flip when he set her upright and eyed her from head to toe. “Do you promise not to scream if I remove the gag, my lady?”
His deep voice held no threat. She nodded mutely, her eyes wide, feeling completely disheveled, alone and defeated.
He untied the gag. “If you scream, no one will hear you—only the ghosts.”
Fear and indignation kept her silent. What was she doing here? Why had he taken her? Perhaps he thought she was someone else. Summoning up her courage, hoping her voice would not betray her terror, she declared, “I am Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam. My father is half Norman, half Saxon. My mother is of Saxon and Danish descent.”
He nodded, a strange half smile tugging at his lips. “I know who you are, liebling.”
Blythe clenched her fists nervously, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. How could he know her?
“Quite a mixture,” he quipped. “So, you’re from the northern part of England?”
It seemed incongruous to be standing in the shadows of this ancient chapel having a conversation as if they were recently introduced acquaintances at some courtly function. She took another deep breath. “No, but my mother was born there. I was born in the Welsh Marches. I have a twin brother, Aidan. We live for part of the year in the north, at my mother’s ancestral home of Kirkthwaite Hall.”
Why was she telling him these personal details? Why had he kidnapped her? She kept the questions to herself, fearful of the answers. Her heart was still beating too fast, but was it because of her predicament or his overwhelming maleness?
“That’s the most I’ve heard you say,” he remarked with a smile.
She stared, not sure what to make of his cryptic remark.
But then he frowned. “You came to our land with Heinrich’s child bride.”
It was not a question and she could not fail to hear the sarcasm in his voice. She averted her eyes from his steadfast gaze. It was on the tip of her tongue to explain she had been brought against her will, but that would be disloyal to her mistress. “Yes, I’m one of her ladies-in-waiting.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What is it you’re waiting for, Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam?”
The question took her by surprise and she wondered if he perhaps didn’t understand the term lady-in-waiting. He was too refined for that, too much a man of the world. What did he see when those blue eyes pierced her? The truth? She almost blurted out the secret longings of her heart.
I’m waiting for a worthy knight to sweep me off my feet, carry me away and make me his wife in every way possible.
What was she thinking? Heat rushed into her face, and he smiled again. Suddenly, she swayed, overwhelmed by the heat and distress. He caught her before she fell and carried her over to a stone bench.
“My lady, I’m a terrible host. I should offer you a beverage. You’ve had an ordeal. Ale, perhaps? I can summon the boy.”
She had regained some of her equilibrium now she was seated. She used her hand as a fan. “No, thank you. I’m just so hot.”
He raked his gaze over her attire. “Forgive me, Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam, but your garments aren’t suited to our summer climate.”
She smiled ruefully. “You’re absolutely right. It would be good to be wearing less.”
His blue eyes lit up with suggestive delight—had she no control over her words?
Think before you speak. Be on your guard.
“Your hair is too tightly braided. My apologies if it appears rude to say so, but it is fashioned in a style that doesn’t suit your beautiful face.”