Sharon Schulze - To Tame A Warrior's Heart

A sheen of sweat dampened Catrin’s brow, and the flush upon her face owed little to the fire’s heat. She hadn’t moved since he’d loosened her clothing. He’d get no better chance than this.

But she stirred when he folded back the cloak and began to wash the area around the arrows, her low-voiced moan sending a chill up his spine. What if she struggled once he cut her? He had worries enough without having to wrestle a pain-maddened woman into submission. Hesitating but a moment, he bound her wrists together with a lace from her gown.

If that didn’t work, he could always kneel on her.

Nicholas drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, readying himself in the same way he would prepare for battle. Eyes closed, he concentrated until a sense of calm flowed through him. Breathing deeply again, he snatched Catrin’s eating knife from the fire and set to work.

The shallowly embedded arrow popped free with but a nudge of the blade, leaving a faint trail of blood in its wake. Should he make the wound bleed more? Could he halt the flow once it began?

If only he knew what in God’s name he was doing!

If cleanliness had been the key to the Saracen’s success, he’d follow its dictates completely. Muttering a plea to the Virgin, he pressed on the cut until a bright trickle oozed forth to wash out the wound.

Lower lip gripped tight between his teeth, Nicholas bent closer to Catrin’s back and slipped the slim blade into her flesh next to the shaft. “Don’t move,” he muttered, pushing the knife deeper despite the way her back tensed.

Blood spurted free and ran in a rivulet over her ribs. When he pressed a wad of fabric against her to stanch the flow, she arched her back and screamed.

“Stop, Catrin,” he said. “You must not move.” She continued to squirm, so he pinned her down and swiftly extended the cut. He tried to work the arrow loose, but ’twas difficult to grasp the short, slick shaft—he’d cut off too much, leaving scarcely enough to grab hold of.

Catrin continued to writhe beneath him, mumbling and moaning as he fought to remove the arrow. Her struggles he could deal with, but to hear her distress…He snatched up one of his leather gauntlets and stuffed it between her teeth.

The arrowhead ground against bone, feeling much the same as ramming a blade into someone’s gullet. Cursing, Nicholas took up the knife once more and, still tugging at the shaft, widened the cut until the arrowhead broke free.

He blotted away the worst of the blood and pressed on the cut as he heated the needle in the flames, nearly scorching his fingers in the process. When he turned back to Catrin he found her staring at him, her eyes awash with tears. But he saw no recognition there, only anger and pain.

’Twas just as well she didn’t recognize him—her opinion of him had been low enough before the day’s events. Christ only knew what she’d think of him after this.

It mattered not, so long as she survived.

Squinting, he focused his still-blurry gaze upon the oozing wound. “Pretend ’tis a shirt,” he ordered himself as he stabbed the needle into Catrin’s flesh. She gave a muffled shriek. “Not bloody likely.”

He set the stitches with mechanical precision, doing his best to ignore the way she flinched with each jab of the needle. By the time he finished he was nearly sitting on her legs to hold her down, and still she squirmed beneath him.

She must have the strength of a warrior to put up such a struggle. And he could well imagine the litany of abuse she called down upon him. At least he couldn’t understand any of it.

Still sprawled over her, he made short work of removing the third arrow. Hands shaking, he wet a rag in the bowl of water and swabbed away the last of the blood. The warm cloth seemed to soothe her, and she ceased her struggles.

He ventured a glance at her face; eyes closed, mouth silent, she seemed to have finally reached the end of her endurance. He made swift work of bandaging the cuts, then tugged her shift and tunic up over her back with a sigh of relief.

Legs shaking, Nicholas went to check on Idris. The dog slept, apparently resting comfortably despite his injuries. He decided to leave him thus till morning.

His own wound could be left till then, as well, but he had to get out of his hauberk. Having slept in it before, he knew he’d regret doing so again. He bent at the waist and tugged the neckline over his head to allow the weight of the mail to pull it off.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. Arm aflame, head reeling, Nicholas pitched forward onto his hauberk and knew no more.

Bryn Du, Northern Wales

Lord Steffan ap Rhys jerked the bedcovers up over his shoulders and burrowed his head beneath the pile of bolsters, but the pounding at his door did not cease. He poked at the woman sprawled beside him. “Answer that, you lazy bitch.”

The slut moaned, rolled over and slid her leg over his hips as she edged closer to him. “Get up,” he snarled, grabbing her by the leg and thrusting her aside. Lips curled in a frown, he shoved the blankets away and climbed from the bed.

A slap on her fleshy buttocks worked well enough to move her off the mattress. “Why are you still here?” He snatched up her gown and threw it at her. Judging from the leisurely way she dressed, his displeasure didn’t disturb her one whit. He’d teach her better next time, he vowed, blood heating at the thought. “Answer the door on your way out.”

She tossed her tangled hair over her shoulder and sent him a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, milord.” Hips swaying, she ambled across the room, then spun about to face him. Her avid gaze caressed his body, lingering on his engorged manhood. “Certain ye want me to leave just yet?”

Did she count herself responsible for this, his usual morning state? Witless bitch! He stepped into his chausses and pulled them up. “Do as I said and go about your duties,” he snarled.

Jerking the door open, she flounced past Huw, the captain of the guard.

“There’s a fine piece,” Huw said as he entered the chamber and shut the door behind him.

“You’re welcome to her.” Steffan slipped into his shirt. “She hasn’t a brain in her head, but she’s skilled enough between the sheets.”

Huw smirked. “She don’t need a brain for what I have in mind. So long’s she’s got the right parts, she’ll suit me fine.”

“I assume you’ve a reason for dragging me from my bed. And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself, you fool—I’ll not tolerate your arrogance for long.” Despite his displeasure, Steffan kept his tone bland, but something in his voice must have alerted the other man. Huw’s expression grew serious and he straightened, assuming the mien of subservience.

Steffan permitted himself a faint smile.

“That fellow Ralph is here, milord, with two of his men.” Huw spoke in a flat tone quite unlike his previous jocularity. “Says he’s got something for you.”

“Indeed.” Being forced from his bed at dawn just might have merit after all. “Bring them to me.” He paused, waiting until Huw was ready to go out the door. “Bring me bread and wine, as well.”

That order did not sit well upon him, Steffan noted as Huw fled the room.

’Twas clearly time to show him who was master here.

Steffan scratched at his chest and savored the successful completion of his latest strategy. He’d tried three times to bring Catrin within his grasp, and three times he’d failed.

This time he would succeed.

Since subtlety hadn’t worked in the past, brute force might—nay, would—grant him a full measure of success. Rumor had it that the scum he’d hired were the best.

Catrin would be within his grasp soon.