Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

As his comrades murmured in assent, Henrik strode around the end of the altar. He needed to get the boy moving toward the nearest exit. The sooner he left, the better. No way he wanted the scamp anywhere near the coming battle. The enemy wouldn’t care that he was an innocent caught in the cross fire. Regardless of his tender age, the Al Pacii bastards would gut and leave him to bleed out on the temple floor.

No mercy. No second chances. Just a slow, hard death.

Henrik gritted his teeth. Christ help him if that happened. He had enough to feel guilty about without tossing that mess onto the ever-growing pile. Gold glimmered in the low light as he cleared the corner of the altar and stepped around—

Steel glinted in the gloom.

A six-inch blade sliced toward him.

Reflexes kicked in. His muscles coiled. Henrik leapt sideways, away from the threat. The razor-sharp tip grazed his thigh, cutting through his trews. Surprise made him stare at the gash in the leather even as he shifted into a fighting stance. He frowned. What in God’s name did the boy think he was doing? Well, besides ruining his favorite pair of goddamned trews.

Fists raised and brows drawn, Henrik scowled at the little bastard. Huge green eyes met his over the points of twin daggers and . . .

Henrik sucked in a quick breath. He took a step back. “Jesus Christ.”

Not the most elegant response. Then again, neither was his reaction. But both were warranted, not to mention appropriate, ’cause . . . shit. He didn’t know to react—had never . . . ah hell. Another mistake on his part. He’d missed the obvious. The scamp staring him down was not a boy, but a woman dressed as one.

Unable to believe his eyes, his gaze skimmed over her again. A pretty good disguise, all things considered. Without her hat, though, the smoke screen dissipated. No one would ever mistake her for a boy with all that thick red hair. Tumbling in loose curls, the cascade reached well past her shoulders, framing her pretty face, giving her a disheveled look that only increased her appeal. Instant attraction sparked, blazing into an inferno, making his heart thump and his body tighten. Christ take him. Even dressed as a boy—trews, leather tunic, short boots, and a heavy woolen cloak—she presented an enticing picture.

One he appreciated, even though she held him at knifepoint.

The observation should’ve alarmed him. Her bravery charmed him instead. Not many had the balls to threaten him. Most turned tail and ran when faced with the possibility of taking him on. But not her. Courage out in full force, she stood firm, weapons raised with the wherewithal to use them. He could tell by the way she leveled the twin blades at him. Hands steady. Grip sure. Dagger tips pointed at just the right angle. His mouth curved. Incredible. A sight to behold. A warrior wrapped up in a small package.

He shifted toward her.

She adjusted her fighting stance. “Stay back.”

Her hushed tone reached out to stroke him. Pleasure ghosted down his spine. Henrik quelled the reaction. No matter how appealing he found her, he must stay even. Desire was all fine and good, but not here. She felt threatened—with very good reason. So nay, ’twas no time to give the traitor behind the lacing of his trews free reign. He needed his head screwed on straight and a solid plan to disarm her. If he didn’t do it right—or fast enough—he’d cause her pain. And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. Again.

Gaze steady on his, her back to the altar, she stepped to her right. He mirrored each of her movements, pressing the advantage of his position while weakening hers.

Not liking his proximity, she bared her teeth. “Move away.”

“No need for alarm.” Holding his arms out to the sides, Henrik flipped both hands palm up. The move was designed to reassure her. She didn’t take the bait, keeping her guard high and him at bay. Boots sliding over marble tile, he kept pace with her and, dancing the dance, searched for an opening between her blades. He didn’t have much time. The buzz between his temples told the tale, sending up a serious warning. The enemy was approaching, which meant . . . time to disarm the little hellion and send her to safety. “I mean you no harm.”

“Liar.”

“Leave. I will not stop you.”

“I belong here. You do not . . .” She twisted a blade in her hand, leveling one at him. “Get out.”

Her territorial tone rubbed him the wrong way. The words whispered through his mind. I belong here. Hell in a handbasket. She couldn’t mean . . . wasn’t admitting to . . .

Suspicion took an ugly turn, raising internal alarms bells. As the clang got going inside his head, Henrik raked her with his gaze. He clenched his teeth. Please let him be wrong. He’d hoped never to see her kind again. Didn’t want anything to do with blind faith, never mind those who held it in high regard. And yet even as he hoped for the best, instinct told him to expect the worst. Swallowing the bad taste in his mouth, he tabled his hunch. Intuition was all fine and good, but facts were better. Mayhap he was just being paranoid. Mayhap she’d simply made White Temple her home when everyone else deserted the holy city. Henrik stifled a snort. And mayhap he would grow two heads on the morrow.

Her assertion—and the steely tone that carried it—left little doubt.

His eyes narrowed on her. “You are one of the Blessed.”

“What I am is none of your affair.” Eyes glittering with mistrust, her fingers flexed around the knife hilts as she sidestepped again. Her mistake. The slight shift unbalanced her for a split second, giving him an opening. “Get the hell—”

Lightning quick, he struck. She cursed as he slipped through her guard. She spun, trying to counter. But it was too late. He’d already invaded her space, moving in so tight she couldn’t maneuver. A precise strike. A quick twist, and he blocked each of her thrusts. She lost her grip on her weapons. Steel whirled through the air. The twin blades clattered against the floor and slid, colliding with the wall behind him as he surrounded her with his body.

She lashed out. Her small fist came toward his head. Henrik dodged the blow and tightened his hold. Using gentle pressure, he spun her around, lifted her off the ground, and took a step forward. She gasped in outrage. He pressed his advantage, trapping her between him and the lip of the altar. Her hip bones pressed to the edge, he bent her forward and pinned her down: bottom up, breasts pressed to the golden surface, his thigh lodged between her own as her feet dangled inches from the floor.

“Let go!” Fighting like a wildcat, she bucked beneath him. “Get off me!”

“Little hellion, calm down.” Shackling both her wrists with one hand, he immobilized her. Her breath hitched as she vibrated beneath him. Fear. A cartload of it. He smelled it on her and . . . remorse hit him chest level. Goddamn it. He was scaring the hell out of her. Which made him feel an inch tall. Particularly since he respected women too much to ever hurt one. But desperate times called for rougher methods. He needed to know. Couldn’t let her go until she answered his question. So like it or nay, he would play the ruffian until she did. “I meant what I said. I am no threat to you. But tell me true, or I’ll see for myself.”

“Nay,” she said, gritting the denial between clenched teeth. “You have no right—”

“Have it your way.”

“Don’t!”

He ignored her and, backing off a bit, wrenched her cloak from beneath her hips. As he held her down and tossed the thick wool to one side, she threatened to kill him . . . with a battle-axe . . . to the head. Henrik almost grinned. Almost, but not quite. He was too busy staring at the curves he’d uncovered. Christ, she was well put together, sweetly rounded in all the right places. Which—damn it to hell and back—was the wrong thought to be thinking.