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Split-Second Decision
Indisposed with an ague for a few days, Blythe looked forward to once again accompanying the empress to morning mass. The excursion was at least a relief from the daily routine and afforded a chance to walk in the historic town. It was humbling to realize she was following in the footsteps of ancient Romans who established the original settlement.
She enjoyed the lessons taught by the monks. The empress was bored and spent most of her day changing from one outfit to another, a process for which Blythe was responsible. She supposed she should be flattered to be Matilda’s ‘favorite’, but she had never taken a liking to the child who had grown more arrogant and demanding as time went on. Now summer was upon them again, Her Highness had done nothing to provide her ladies with a more suitable wardrobe. She sulked at learning German and complained constantly about the bad manners of the German courtiers who surrounded her.
Blythe wondered how Matilda and Heinrich were going to communicate if he ever returned.
Perhaps he doesn’t care about communicating, only getting her with child.
Blythe’s attention wandered as the mass got underway. Increasingly homesick for England, she missed her family. On her knees for the Invocation of the Holy Spirit, the droning voice of the priest lulled her to sleep. She stifled a yawn, but was abruptly jarred awake by a gloved hand pressed firmly over her mouth. She struggled and tried to scream, but choked on leather. Heart racing, she was dragged over the back of the bench by a strong arm clamped around her ribcage. Her attacker kept his other hand over her mouth. Screams rent the air. Blythe squeezed her eyes shut, hoping this nightmare was just a dream.
But when she reopened them, the horror was only too real. Lady Dorothea lay in a crumpled heap a few feet from the altar. Five imperial guards formed a shield in front of their empress and were fighting off a group of masked men. Booted feet echoed off the stone floor, running, coming closer. Male voices shouted in anger and alarm. Matilda cowered behind her guards with the priest, pressing herself up against the altar, a terrified little girl. “I should be with her,” Blythe thought wildly. “I could have protected her.”
Breathing became difficult. Her eyes watered. Her feet touched the floor for an instant, then she was hoisted over a broad male shoulder, forcing the air out of her lungs with an oomph. Moving quickly, her abductor carried her towards the door of the cathedral. The patterned tile floor made her dizzy. His shoulder jarred her belly as he loped along. She pounded his back with her fists. It was like hitting a wall. She braced her hands against him, trying to get air into her lungs.
Even through the leather of his hauberk he was rigid, hard-bodied, all muscle. She shivered with fear and boiled with indignation. Now, free to scream, she did so—loudly. Without warning, she was jerked back to her feet. The ice blue eyes of a swarthy masked man bore into her. There was something familiar about those eyes, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it when he said, “You will deafen me if you scream in my ear, milady.”
She gulped air—the deep voice, speaking her language, penetrated to her very core. She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Her mind whirled but, before she could utter a word, he had gagged her and she was back over his shoulder, his right arm wrapped around her thighs, his left fending off another imperial guard with his sword.
A lunge wounded the guard and the man ran on, sword in hand. He paused for a moment behind a pillar and held his breath, listening. Blythe forced down the bile rising in her throat.
She tried to steady her breathing, but then he was moving again, with greater stealth. Blood rushed to her throbbing head and fleeting images swirled. He reached a small door, opened it slowly, and bent to clear the lintel. Her skirts rustled against the wood as he eased her through. She made the mistake of raising her head, banging it hard on the wooden frame.
Still clinging desperately to his hauberk with one hand, she touched the other to her head, half expecting to feel blood oozing. The gag prevented anything more than a grunt.
“My fault,” he rasped.
A gentleman bandit! But where had she heard the voice before?
He stepped outside and reached to untie the reins of a big black horse. He set her on her feet and mounted. For one blessed moment, she hoped he would ride away without her, but he leaned down and held out his hand. He must have seen the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “Don’t run,” he said softly.
* * *
Out of breath, Dieter could scarcely believe he’d given in to the impulse to carry away Blythe FitzRam. Her unexpected presence in the cathedral ignited strong male urges that stole his wits and overwhelmed his common sense.
He’d concentrated all his attention on her, to the extent he had no idea what had become of Matilda.
If the mission failed, he’d shoulder the blame. He should have abandoned Blythe and assisted his comrades in fighting off the imperial guards. Instead, he’d fended off an attack as if the lady-in-waiting was the prize he must protect at all costs.
Had she recognized his voice? He harbored a fleeting hope she might not but the notion didn’t sit well. He wanted her to know who he was, thirsted for her to remember him.
Revealing his identity was a lunatic idea, but he knew in his heart he would soon have to remove his mask.
How would she react? He’d frightened her, carried her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. It wasn’t the behavior of a nobleman well versed in courtly behavior.
His brain told him to abandon her, but his heart refused to allow it.
