Free Warrior's Princess Bride by MERIEL FULLER Page A

at the edge of the clearing, as if unwilling to come forward to witness the dreadful sight. Above them, leaves rustled, the breeze through the trees began to strengthen with the onset of evening. Benois con tem plated the barely perceptible rise and fall of Tavia’s chest, then reached his fingers to the side of her neck; a strong, steady pulse con firmed what he already knew. On instinct, his thumb moved fractionally to trace the corner of her mouth, a mouth that still bore the blush of his kiss. He snatched his fingers away, springing to his feet. Was he completely mad? How had this fey creature managed to slip beneath his guard? His self-control had been the one thing he could rely on since…since that time .
    ‘Nay, the girl’s not dead,’ Benois bit back, his slate eyes tracing Langley’s lumpy profile in the twilight. ‘And, if you look a little closer, Langley, you will see that we have been well and truly duped. This maid is not the Princess Ada.’
    ‘Don’t be a fool, of course it’s the Princess!’ Langley came forward, stumbling over an unseen tree root. ‘God in Heaven, there will be hell to pay if Henry finds out how we’ve treated her!’
    ‘The girl has brought it all upon herself,’ Benois returned curtly. ‘When was the last time you witnessed a princess sprinting off like a hare, and climbing a tree with the grace and agility of a cat?’
    Langley shrugged. ‘I admit, it is unusual.’ He moved to crouch down next to Tavia’s prone figure. ‘She certainly has the Princess’s hair.’ He touched his fingers lightly to Tavia’s head. ‘As far as I know, only members of Scottish royalty possess such an amazing colour. Malcolm and his dead father, Earl Henry, and, of course, King David.’ Langley frowned, his eyes sweeping the length of Tavia’s figure. ‘But you are right, Benois, this maid is not tall enough to be Ada. How high does she stand?’
    ‘Up to here.’ Benois indicated the place below the curve of his shoulder.
    Langley nodded. ‘And there’s less of her, too. Just see how this dress hangs about her. She wears the clothes of the Princess…’
    ‘But she is not the Princess,’ Benois concluded.
    ‘The question is…’ Langley surveyed his friend ‘…what do we do with her now?’
     

    Through the flimsy layers separating consciousness, the deep timbre of male voices penetrated Tavia’s brain. Where was she? Cold seeped disagreeably through the material of her clothes…her back felt wet as she lay on the damp ground. Pieces of memory came floating back, at first slowly, and then in a rush, fitting together neatly to form coherent pictures in her brain. The chase through the forest. Climbing the tree. The kiss. Reality smashed into her as she suddenly remembered. Forcing herself to keep her breathing low and steady, she kept her eyes firmly shut. She could hear Benois’s voice, and another man also talking. Why were they still here?
    She shivered, the cold beginning to freeze her bones.
    ‘She’s awake,’ a voice announced.
    Pressing her hands flat against the soggy leaves, Tavia pushed herself up, raising one hand to smooth her hair from her eyes. Benois towered above her, scowling, a dark and brooding presence that made her want to scramble to her feet and run once more. He radiated a dynamic energy, an energy that made every inch of his body spark with vitality. He made her feel vulnerable, weak, so she dragged her gaze to the man beside him, a smaller man, also in English colours, who smiled at her courteously. She fixed on his ruffled blond hair and genial features with relief.
    ‘Are you well, my lady?’ the blond man asked.
    ‘Aye, no thanks to him!’ Tavia grumbled, jabbing a finger in Benois’s direction. ‘Why did you have to land on top of me, you big oaf!’ Why did you have to kiss me? The words were left unsaid.
    His mouth curled. ‘Ah, Langley, I don’t believe you have met the charming Tavia of Mowerby?’ Derision laced his tone, as he