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Flight
The mood of the men with whom Blythe rode was sombre. They were keenly aware they had failed in their mission and it had cost their comrades’ lives. They rode all day, slowed down by the injured men and by her presence in their midst. She was a liability. It was clear from several hushed yet heated exchanges between the Black Knight and his men they questioned his bringing her. Did they advocate killing her to rid themselves of the burden? Fear stalked her, yet, deep down, she did not believe her abductor would harm her.
There were no amenities when they camped at night. Her bedraggled dress weighed her down like a stone. She longed for a good tub soak, and privacy. Her braids had come partly undone and she despaired of ever combing her hair again. Her bottom was chafed. She could not recall the last time she had ridden so far.
The Black Knight seemed to be sensitive to the discomfort of her sore derrière, sometimes having her ride before him. She was dismayed and embarrassed by the hard male length pressed against her when the movement of the horse caused unavoidable contact—which was most of the time. He smiled his crooked grin when she eased her body away from his obvious interest. While she had not lain with a man, her mother had enlightened her as to what that particular swelling meant. The thought of lying abed with this powerful, enigmatic warrior sent gooseflesh racing up her spine.
Lacking expertise as a healer, she nevertheless did her best to ease the pain of the wounded men. None of the wounds were severe enough to be fatal, but fever could carry off the strongest of men in a trice. Her linen underskirt served to make bandages to stem bleeding, but she had no salve to offer. Her efforts to ease their suffering seemed to soften some of the censure. The sacrifice of her underskirt was a relief in the heat.
The second night they made camp close by a small lake. She stared longingly at the water.
“Do you wish to bathe, my lady?”
Preoccupied with gazing at the moon shimmering on the water, she had not heard her captor approach. The accented voice broke into her reverie and heat suffused her chest and throat. She shook her head. “No,” she said, longing to say yes.
He gave her a quizzical look. “With your permission, I intend to avail myself of the lake to cleanse my body and revive my spirit.”
He bowed slightly and left her by the campfire. He had spoken to her as if they were friends, equals, intimates. The audacity! He had abducted her. Chivalrous knights were supposed to rescue maidens, not carry them off. Yet, his familiarity was strangely thrilling.
She turned her attention to doing what little she could for the wounded men. It would be a while before the cook had food ready. She was afraid to fall asleep if she sat by the fire. Perhaps, she could steal away and at least wash her face in the lake. There was no possibility of removing her clothing surrounded as she was by foreign bandits.
She deliberately set off in the opposite direction her captor had taken, hoping to find a secluded spot on the bank.
* * *
In an effort to rid himself of his tension, Dieter walked almost the whole way around the small lake before finally stripping off his clothing along with the irritating mask. He placed his sword and dagger on top of the pile and plunged in, letting the chill of the water ease his anger at the failure of his mission. He prized cleanliness and felt calmer once his body and hair were clean.
He waded to the bank and strode out of the water, raking wet hair off his face, singing a ballad about Parsifal he had heard a minnesinger perform. As he bent to pick up his drying cloth, a squeal startled him. The song died on his lips. He had thought they had not been pursued, but now he reached for his sword and dagger, bracing to either flee or fight. He peered towards the source of the sound. Blythe FitzRam stood ten feet away, mouth agape. She had undone the neckline of her gown and rolled up her sleeves. The sight of her bare arms and slender neck sent blood rushing to his groin.
He covered his erection with the cloth, embarrassed for her that she had stumbled upon him naked. “Lady Blythe—”
“I thought…I came this way…you had gone the other way…” She was frantically pushing down her sleeves, still staring at him.
It would not be the behavior of a gentleman to move towards her, but he wanted to take her in his arms, apologize for her abduction, kiss away the fear and embarrassment on her reddened face. A decisive man, his indecision hobbled him. Why had he burdened himself with the complication of Blythe Lacey FitzRam?
Before he could explain that he had walked around the lake, she turned and fled, leaving him with the problem of what to do with his rock hard arousal and the realization she had seen his unmasked face.
* * *
Blythe struggled to free herself from a whirling nightmare of trees and lengthening shadows as she staggered back to camp. She should have looked away immediately when she saw the man striding from the lake, water sluicing off his body, his hair dripping wet. The sheer size of him had held her gaze.
She paused to gulp air, leaning her arm against a tree and resting her head atop it. She closed her eyes, but the image of broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and powerful thighs would not leave her. And his manhood—oh God, who knew they could be so…substantial?
His rich, deep voice echoed in her head, though she had not understood the words of his song. Swallowing hard, she hastened to the campfire. She wrapped a blanket tightly around her shoulders, refusing the roasted hare offered by the cook. She dared not look to the woods from where her captor would soon emerge.
She knew now where she’d heard his voice before. She should have listened to the inner voice telling her she’d met her captor. He looked different with wet hair slicked back off his face and, admittedly, she had been distracted by his bare body. But there was no doubt it was Count Dieter von Wolfenberg who had abducted her.
* * *
Cursing out loud, Dieter dressed quickly after hurling the now useless mask into the trees. This was not the way he planned to reveal his identity to Blythe. He’d envisioned her seated on a comfortable sofa in his elegant home, her hand resting in his while he explained actions he barely understood himself.
He’d not only deprived her of freedom, he’d embarrassed and shamed her, though a tiny kernel of smug pride told him she’d been impressed with his body. Or perhaps his singing.
Before reaching the camp, he paused and took a breath, fearing he was losing his mind. Years living with Fredericka’s lunacy had evidently taken its toll.
He caught sight of Blythe crouched under a tree, swathed in a blanket. The urge to apologize was powerful, but his men would question his judgement. The undercurrent of resentment was too palpable. Were they blaming Blythe for the failure of their mission and the loss of comrades?
He’d put her in an intolerable position—a woman alone, sleeping out of doors with strange men.
