Page 5 of Lord of the Forest

Stopping once more, he stared at her serious, determined face. Words were hard to find but, eventually, he said, “Make a bargain. Do as I say, and I’ll get your basket and take you to a safe place. Then help you home, on the morrow.” Finally, he attempted a smile, hoping it didn’t look too terrifying. “I promise to do you no harm.”

She chewed at her lip, lowering her eyes. Why should she trust him, indeed? She’d just been abducted by two men and was probably loath to trust anyone. Little did she know he was in far more danger from her than she was from him.

She raised her eyes and stared at him for a long moment. “Very well. If you swear, I will do as you ask.”

“Good.” He scanned her clothing and saw she wore a kerchief, tucked into the low neckline of her gown.

“I cannot show you where we go.” Before she could object, he tugged the kerchief out, rolled it, and knotted it at the back of her head, blindfolding her. She sucked in a breath, but fearing she was about to scream again, he seized her and clamped a hand over her mouth. She was warm and soft in his arms, delicate and fine-boned, and she smelled of the sweetest, most exotic scent he’d ever experienced. Or could remember having experienced. Nestling his head against hers, he inhaled deeply, and stroked a hand from her chin to her neck, reveling in the softness of her skin. What an unexpected delight! Danger came in the most tempting of forms.

A sudden pain in his toe brought him back to his senses.

“Did you just stamp on me?”

“Insolent dog. How dare you maul me like that! A fine Sir Galahad you’ve turned out to be.”

“Lancelot,” he corrected her.

“Lancelot?” She froze in surprise. “That’s your name?”

“I know not.” In truth, he didn’t. But he’d read Malory, and although most of his other memories were gone, some of the stories and characters from the book remained. Lancelot had wandered in the wilderness, out of his wits. He had done the same; therefore, he was Lancelot, also.

He didn’t really need a name. It just felt right to have one. It was certainly better than being called a “great oaf”.

“I’ll try to avoid doing anything you don’t like.” He’d been out of human society for so long that it was impossible to anticipate others’ needs and wants.

“I should hope not. Now, which way do we go? How may I avoid walking into trees and falling flat on my face?”

Speaking was tiring him. He didn’t know the right things to say. Did not, in fact, care for speech at all. Instead, he lifted her up and threw her over his shoulders, much as he’d carry a deer carcass.

She didn’t appreciate it. “You’ll kill me. This is like being tortured on the rack. Crashing. Into trees. Would be. Preferable.”

They’d reached an uneven piece of ground—each bounce cut off her words. He was tempted to run, which would silence her altogether.

“Put. Me. Down.”

If he ran, they would arrive at the holly grove far quicker. Then he could remove her basket from the roadway and hide all sign she’d ever been there. Once night fell, he’d take her to the village, then melt back into the forest—if he could trust her not to give away his existence. For once the villagers knew their occasional livestock losses were no accident, and that their vegetables had not been grubbed up by wild boar or badgers, his life would be impossible. How long would it take him to find another sanctuary as good as the holly grove?

He’d rattled all the resistance out of her now. The tension in her body had gone, but the heat had not. He could feel the warmth of her hand, where it brushed the exposed muscle of his chest, the trickle of her hair on his naked shoulder. These were new, disturbing sensations that filled his soul with dread, while at the same time, they filled his loins with lust.

He’d forgotten so much. Now, the woman’s presence was bringing it all back. He should have resisted the temptation to go to her rescue—she could bring him nothing but trouble.

Unless, of course, he decided to keep her in the forest with him.

Chapter Three

Clemence’s ribs ached as if she’d been kicked by a horse, and her head felt little better after bouncing around on the giant peasant’s shoulder. Her hip was dislocated, she was sure, and it was as well she’d not eaten supper before heading out on her herb-collecting mission, or it and she would have parted company long since.

Having begged this man to rescue her, she’d merely exchanged one dire situation for another. It should at least be easier to escape this one, as her current abductor was alone. Who had the other two been, and why had they attempted to make off with her rather than rob her?

The answer was one that didn’t bear thinking about. It involved degradation, bawdy houses, fat, lusty merchants with fingers smelling of grease, the clink of coin, and the risk of debilitating disease.

Unless… unless Walter de Glanville was behind it. He’d uttered veiled threats, had he not? Had he sent the two villains to frighten her? Had he planned a dramatic rescue of his own, to soften her heart toward him? Or, worst of all, did he mean to force her into marriage?

Would any of these fates be worse than being carried like a sack of meal over the back of a brawny madman? For that was what she’d decided Lancelot must be. No man in his right mind would treat a lady thus after rescuing her from a pair of knaves.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a multitude of sharp pains—little pricking stabs on her exposed hands and ankles. Instinctively, she clutched at her face—then the stings subsided, and she was somewhere airier than the close forest, but nonetheless sheltered from the light evening breeze. This new place had less of the rank smell of wildness about it—instead, she could smell wood ash, and hear the babbling of a watercourse.

When he lowered her to the ground, she swayed, her feet numb and bloodless. Immediately, he caught her, lowering her onto a pile of scratchy material, like dead leaves. She felt too vulnerable to lie down in this strange man’s presence, so she scrabbled her way upright again. Without success—pins and needles caused her to collapse to her knees. There she remained, confused, uncertain—and deep down, exceedingly cross at the way Fate was treating her.