The Prize (9 page)

The warmth from the fire and her own real fatigue overtook her good intentions then, and she fell asleep.

Royce waited until he was certain she really was fast asleep, then sat down on the ground directly across from her. He leaned back against a fat tree and closed his eyes. He didn't think she'd try to run away until the camp had quieted down for the night. That would give him an hour or two to gain a little rest… and peace.

Nicholaa came awake with a start in the middle of the night. She spotted Royce immediately. She stared at him for a long while, until she was absolutely certain he was sleeping.

He looked very peaceful—content, too. He'd placed his helmet on the ground beside him. His left arm rested on the headgear, his hand only inches away from the sword strapped to his side.

He was a handsome one all right. His hair was dark and much longer than was customary, even for barbaric Normans. It was a rich, dark brown, given to curl, too.

Nicholaa shivered with disgust. How could she be thinking what a fit man he was when he was determined to ruin her life? He considered her a mere possession, a trinket to be given to a knight.

The injustice of it got her moving. She found her shoes buried under the blankets. Her toes stung when she slipped the shoes on. The wind was bitter cold tonight. The long walk back to the abbey was a dreaded ordeal ahead of her. She almost let out a loud sigh just thinking about it.

Nicholaa wrapped herself in Royce's cloak and silently made her way to the woods beyond the small clearing. None of the soldiers paid her much attention, though one of the three men standing near the second fire did glance her way. When he didn't call out to her, Nicholaa assumed he thought she needed a few minutes of privacy.

As soon as she turned her back, Royce motioned to the soldiers to stay where they were. He waited only a minute or two, then stood, stretched the cramps out of his legs, and went after her.

He had expected her to make this move, and she hadn't disappointed him. The woman was courageous to brave such harsh conditions just to get away from him. Foolish, he thought to himself, but courageous all the same.

Nicholaa started running as soon as she'd edged her way through the denser foliage. In the light from the half-moon she wasn't able to see every little obstacle in her path. It was treacherous going. She was as careful as she could be, until she thought she heard someone behind her. She kept on running, but turned to see if one of the soldiers was chasing her.

She tripped over a rotting log and went flying head first down a deep ravine. She had enough of her wits left to shield her head and turn to one side before she hit the ground.

She landed with a thud. And a curse. She lost one of her shoes in the fall and Royce's heavy cloak, too, and when she finally sat up, she was a sorry sight to behold. There were more leaves than curls in her hair, and she was covered with dirt.

Royce stood in the shadows and waited. The daft woman could have broken her neck. Yet the loud, unladylike muttering he heard told him she was all right, just furious. She was cursing loud enough to wake the nuns back at the abbey.

She'd never make a proper chess mate. She didn't know how to calculate her moves. She wouldn't make a true enemy, either. He'd already concluded that she didn't have it in her nature to hate… or to retaliate. She didn't even know how to hold a grudge. Royce smiled, remembering how she'd questioned him about keeping his promise to look after Justin, no matter what happened to her. He'd known then she'd try to escape. Her thoughts were so easy to read, her every expression so refreshingly honest and transparent.

A tightness settled inside his chest. Nicholaa was like a fragile flower, so delicate, so incredibly soft, so beautiful.

His delicate little flower was muttering the most searing curses he'd ever heard. None of the phrases made any sense.

Her burst of temper was short-lived, though. She was ashamed of herself for using such coarse words. She made a quick sign of the cross to placate her Maker, and then stood up. As soon as she put her weight on her left foot, hot pain shot up her calf.

Nicholaa let out a loud cry and fell to the ground. She sat there a long minute debating what to do.

When Royce heard her whimper, he started toward her.

Nicholaa finally admitted defeat. She shouted for help.

He was standing by her side before she'd finished her plea. She was in too much pain to notice it hadn't taken him any time at all to reach her.

He had her shoe in his hand. He dropped it into her lap, then dropped down on one knee beside her.

She thought he looked exasperated. "If you say 'Check' to me now, I'll scream."

"You already did scream," he replied, his tone gratingly cheerful. "And it's 'checkmate,' Nicholaa. The game's over."

She wasn't in the mood to argue with him. She turned her gaze to her lap. "I fell," she announced, stating the obvious. "I believe I've broken my ankle."

She sounded pitiful. She looked sorry, too. Her hair hung over her face in total disarray, her gown was torn around the shoulders, and she was covered with dead leaves.

Royce didn't say a word, just leaned forward to examine the damage. She cried out in pain before he'd even touched her.

"Nicholaa, it's common to wait until you've felt the pain before you complain," he explained.

"I was preparing," she snapped.

He hid his smile. He was already certain the ankle wasn't broken. There wasn't a hint of swelling around the bone. She could move her toes without crying out, too, another sure indication to him that she'd merely bruised herself.

"It isn't broken."

She didn't believe him. She leaned forward, instinctively placing her hand on his arm for balance, to see for herself that her ankle was all right. Her face was just inches away from his. She stared at her foot while he stared at her.

"It looks broken," she whispered.

"It isn't."

"Must you sound so cheerful? I would have your sympathy over this unfortunate tragic mishap," she said.

"This'tragic mishap' wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been trying to—"

She interrupted him. "I was trying to gain a few minutes privacy to take care of a rather personal matter."

She looked right at him when she told that lie. It was a mistake, for only then did she discover how very close to him she was.

Their gazes held for the longest while. Neither said a word. Nicholaa couldn't seem to catch her breath.

Royce couldn't either. He didn't know what to make of his reaction to her. The urge to touch her was overwhelming. He couldn't stop himself from gently brushing her hair back away from her face. His fingers gently touched her cheek.

Nicholaa was comforted by the caress. The feeling didn't last long, though, for he was suddenly scowling at her. Her eyes widened. His hand gripped her chin, and he forced her head to one side, towards the moonlight. Then he pushed her hair farther away from her eye with his other hand.

"How did you get this bruise?" he demanded. His voice was rough, angry.

She shrugged.

He squeezed her chin. "Answer me. This couldn't have just happened, Nicholaa. The mark is too dark."

His frown intensified. "But it wasn't there this afternoon. I would have noticed."

"It was too there this afternoon," she told him. "It just wasn't as noticeable. Why are you so angry? It's my bruise, not yours."

He ignored that remark. "How did it happen?"

"It's not your concern."

She pushed his hand away and pulled back. The stubborn man followed her. He nudged her chin back up with the crook of his fingers.

"I'm weary of your stubbornness, woman."

"As weary as I am of your constant orders?"

She thought that was a rather cunning reply. She was giving back as much as she was getting, she thought. Besides, the Norman needed to know he wasn't dealing with a timid, frightened adversary. He wasn't going to intimidate her. He'd better not turn his back on her, either, for if she had a dagger, she'd plunge the blade deep between his shoulder blades.

God save her, she was lying to herself now. She couldn't kill him. And in the corner of her mind, she thought he might know that.

She let out a frustrated sigh. She noticed a lock of hair had fallen forward to rest on his forehead. Before she could think about what she was doing, she reached up and brushed the hair back where it belonged.

He acted as though she'd just smacked him. He jerked back, looking incredulous. She was so embarrassed by his reaction that she turned her gaze away.

It took him a moment to recover from her bold action. His voice was gruff when he said, "Every mark on your body is my concern, Nicholaa. I'm responsible for you. Now tell me how you came by this injury."

"You'll get surly if I do."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been watching you," she answered. "It's important for one enemy to know how the other's mind works, Baron. I've been studying you closely and am now convinced you have a surly nature."

He smiled at the authority in her voice. "And what else have you noticed?"

"You don't like me."

She waited for a contradiction. When none came, she continued. "You think I'm a nuisance."

"Yes, I do."

She took exception to that bit of honesty. "If it wasn't a mortal sin to hate, I could become very good at hating you."

"No, you couldn't," he answered, smiling gently. The look in his eyes made her stomach quiver. "I may have an unpleasant nature, Nicholaa, but you have a very gentle one. You don't know how to hate."

She was too weary to trade insults with him. "I'm going to freeze if I don't return to the fire," she announced. "Are you waiting for me to beg for your assistance?"

He shook his head. "I'm waiting to hear how you came by this bruise," he informed her.

Lord, he was stubborn. She could tell from the look on his face that he was determined to get his way. "Justin struck me."

She should have softened the truth a little. Royce looked bloody furious. She didn't want him to think ill of Justin. "You cannot blame my brother."

"The hell I can't."

He started to stand. She grabbed his arm. "I can explain," she said.

"Nicholaa, you can't justify what—"

She put her hand over his mouth. "Justin was sound asleep, Royce. I was leaning over him to pull the covers up, and he turned. His fist caught me below the eye when he rolled to his side. Justin had no idea he struck me."

He didn't look convinced.

"I'm telling you the truth," she muttered. "Saxon sisters and brothers don't strike one another. Is it because the Norman families fight like devils that you find my truth difficult to believe?"

He wasn't going to let her bait him. He picked up his cloak, wrapped it around her, and lifted her in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he headed for the camp.

She whispered thank you against his neck.

What the hell was he going to do with her? he wondered.

She was easing herself right into his heart and he didn't have any weapons to stop her. Damn it, his life was set in a pattern, and he was too old to change. Besides, he liked the order, the discipline, of his daily routine. He was very content.

Wasn't he?

Royce tried to put the contrary woman out of his thoughts. It was difficult, though, because she was so wonderfully soft and cuddly in his arms.

She was still a nuisance. She gave him hell all the way back to camp. She was back in the mood to argue with him. He was in the mood to gag her just to gain a few minutes' peace.

When they finally reached the campsite, he carried her back to his spot by the tree. He sat down in one fluid motion that didn't even jar her, adjusted her on his lap, shoved her head down against his shoulders, and then closed his eyes.

His cloak covered her from head to foot, and his arms held her close. The heat from his body kept her nice and warm.

"Royce?"

"What now?"

"I shouldn't sleep like this," she whispered. "I'm a married woman, after all, and I—"

"Your husband's dead."

She was surprised by the vehemence in his voice. "You can't possibly know if my beloved husband is dead or alive."

"He's dead."

Was he amused? She thought he might be, but when she tried to look at his face, he rudely shoved her head back on his shoulder again. "Oh, all right," she muttered. "He's dead. I'm still mourning him, though."

"You wear blue to mourn him?"

She hadn't thought of that. The man was a quick thinker, she realized. But then, so was she. "I'm mourning him in my heart," she muttered.

"How long has he been dead?"

He was gently rubbing her shoulders. The soothing touch felt too good to protest. She let out a loud, unladylike yawn before answering. "Two years."

"You're certain?"

He was laughing at her all right. She could hear the amusement in his voice. "Yes, I'm certain," she snapped. " 'Tis the reason I'm not wearing black any longer. It's been two years."