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  Sir Leargan had taken his leave then. Ansley had had a hard time not staring at his retreating figure, especially the tight breeches that hugged his rear and muscled legs.

  She rubbed her arm, and the touch reminded her of his fingertips brushing her skin.

  The knight’s presence in Greenwald wasn’t a surprise. Her father had told her he was the captain of Cera and her husband’s personal guard, but she’d never imagined he’d be one of the first people she’d meet.

  He has no idea who you are.

  Ansley sighed. It didn’t matter anyway. Sir Leargan Tegran had nothing to do with her assignment anyway.

  Leargan had been a girlhood crush. Over the turns, she’d tried to forget her childish fantasies regarding the handsome knight. And failed.

  He still made her heart flutter and her stomach jump with only a thought.

  And why was she thinking of him anyway? Ansley should be focused on that poor girl.

  Repeated rapes.

  More beatings than what had been evident on her body tonight.

  Thank the Blessed Spirit Lord Dagget had been able to heal her.

  “Who hurt her?” The phrase reverberated in her mind as worry seized her gut.

  The girl’s body was healed. But her mind?

  Moving passed what she’d been through would take a long time. Ansley shuddered, wrapping her arms around her waist.

  Cera had magic at her disposal. Surely, her men would find the person who had hurt the dark-haired girl. Hopefully when she woke, the girl could give Cera’s husband information.

  Ali wuffed, and Ansley threw her a glance. Her bond had claimed the large bed, lying at its center.

  Ansley went to the trunk at the foot of the ornate bed frame, laying her hunter green Senior Rider cloak down with care. After plopping down on the bed, she threw her arms around her wolf.

  “You growled at him, you naughty girl,” she chided, smiling into Ali’s soft mane.

  Her bond whined and licked her ear. The she-wolf whimpered and nuzzled her side before curling up against Ansley’s body.

  A knock on the door made her sit up. “Come in.”

  Ali lifted her large head, but Ansley’s bondmate made no move to exit the bed.

  Stay. Ansley thought-sent the command. If the she-wolf remained still and visible, it would probably make Daicy feel better.

  The staff at Greenwald should be used to seeing wolves, since there were two in residence, but Ansley wanted to be safe.

  Being bonded to a wolf, or any other kind of beast, wasn’t uncommon though, especially among the messengers of The King’s Riders. Even Senior Riders tended to be young and were expected to travel vast distances, most of the time alone.

  Any beast with relative intelligence, sharp teeth and claws was handy for protection, even though Riders were all trained with the sword and bow.

  Ali had been a gift from Ansley’s father three turns before, when she’d achieved the rank of Senior Rider.

  Daicy was back, along with the headwoman and two lads about twelve. They all carried steaming buckets of water and filed into the room.

  Morag was pleasantly plump, rather pretty and had her graying, brown hair in a thick neat plait down her back, just like Ansley’s own. The lads, one blond and the other his opposite with black hair, both displayed lopsided grins Ansley couldn’t help but return.

  Was everyone chipper, despite the late hour?

  Maybe Cera ran an overnight shift of servants regularly.

  They dumped the water into the large tub, and Daicy smiled at Ansley. “That should do it, mistress.”

  Steam rose idly from the tub. Inviting. Ansley couldn’t wait to get into it. So, a bath isn’t a bad idea after all. Her limbs and back ached. Cera was right. She needed a good soak.

  The lads scampered out of the room, their wooden pails knocking together. Ansley bit her bottom lip to keep back another grin as Morag muttered something about rascals being worse late at night.

  “The beast is on the bed?” The disapproval in the woman’s voice swung Ansley’s gaze back to her. Morag wiped her hands on her white apron, glaring at Ali.

  Ansley bit back the urge to gulp. With squared shoulders and mouth a hard line, the woman was the picture of authority but different than she’d been when caring for the injured girl. This expression was irritated.

  “Mistress, shall I stay to assist with your bath?” Daicy asked, a knowing glint in her brown eyes.

  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” Ansley answered, but she wanted to thank the maid for the distraction.

  “I shall bring you something to eat,” Daicy said.

  “Thank you, but not now. I want to bathe and get some sleep. I rode all night from Terraquist.”

  Both women nodded and took their leave.

  Ansley’s breath exited on a whoosh as she slipped into the water. The warmth enveloped her, and she sank against the side of the tub, arms resting on the edges. She let the warmth take the tension from her hard ride out of her muscles.

  Leargan.

  His handsome form danced into her mind. Ebony hair hung past his shoulders in soft waves she longed to touch. His eyes were the darkest brown she’d ever seen and always so warm.

  Like honey at midnight.

  His naturally golden skin, denoting that he was originally from the Province of Ascova, made her want to run her fingertips over every inch of it.

  Everything appealed; chiseled face, muscular body, height. Not as tall as her father or the king, but he was probably an inch or so past six feet. Perfect.

  Looks aside, he was every bit a knight. A wonderful, chivalrous, honorable warrior. And Ansley wanted him as much as she ever had.

  Her stomach flipped.

  A huge yawn and a wave of fatigue washed over her. She needed to wrap up her bath before the water cooled.

  She scrubbed her hair with sweet-smelling soap and rinsed it from her body.

  After drying off with a linen bath sheet, Ansley slipped into the soft chemise Daicy had left for her, caressing the diaphanous fabric as it settled over her body.

  Ali wuffed a complaint when Ansley shoved the wolf over so she could climb into the oversized bed, but she grinned and ignored her bond’s bluster.

  With another yawn she couldn’t hold back, Ansley yanked up the thick sleeping furs.

  So soft and warm.

  The she-wolf curled into Ansley’s body, as soon as they both settled.

  She glanced up at the carved decorative ceiling of her temporary quarters. Armored and mailed knights sat on powerful steeds, preparing for an unknown battle, flags waving.

  Perhaps she would dream of her own knight, Sir Leargan Tegran.

  “It wouldn’t matter anyway. Not yours,” Ansley whispered.

  Blessed Spirit, she was doomed.

  Chapter Three

  Roduch’s visions had come to life. She lay peacefully on the bed that dwarfed her form. Memories of images teased his mind, the picture in his head so different from the woman in front of him. Even healed, her skin lacked the luster of happiness she’d always exuded when he’d dreamt of her.

  No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get the pictures out of his head that had woken him that morning. The vision rocked him with disturbing clarity, the girl’s smooth pale skin begging for a caress as she threw her head back and laughed at something he’d whispered in her ear.

  What he’d said was a mystery, but his eyes had been locked onto the hollow of her throat. He’d burned to kiss her there. And then he’d pressed a kiss to her lips.

  One kiss normally would lead to two, and…He’d done that, and much more in other visions.

  Tonight…he’d finally met her in reality.

  Beaten.

  Bruised and broken.

  Raped.

  Mixed emotions hit him in a wave, his stomach twisting, grinding his heart into pieces. The organ that should be in his chest had taken up residence in his gut from the moment he’d seen her in a tattered, damag
ed ball on the side of the road.

  This girl, beautiful enigma, was supposed to be his wife. His heart told him as much, though his visions had never confirmed it.

  She’d been in his visions—his cursed magic—since he was a lad, but he didn’t even know her name.

  Since he’d come to live in Greenwald—accepting the position as one of the Aldern personal guard the very moment Leargan had asked him—the visions had been much more frequent.

  He used to get a flash, a tease. The past several months had left him with whole scenes—as if he was reading a book, with occasional conversation, though he couldn’t always make it out. If they weren’t speaking, or she wasn’t laughing, Roduch would see them making love, her face flushed pink, her lithe body bared beneath his. Desire would overwhelm him when awake.

  Each was a reminder of what he didn’t have, and since he’d recently begun his twenty-fifth turn, he was convinced he’d never meet her. It was odd, how much he could ache to hold her in his arms and not even know her.

  A place that was never fulfilled, even by the occasional lovers he’d taken. He might have held them close momentarily, but this girl—dark curly-haired beauty—would always hold him.

  He sighed, stubble grazing his palm, as he dragged a hand down his face.

  Now that she was in front of him, he felt farther away from her than ever before. His gaze rested on their joined hands. So small, her palm resting against his. Soft. Pale. In need of protection.

  Cursing under his breath, Roduch clenched his jaw. Pain shot up into his teeth. He’d find who had dared hurt her and rip them to shreds.

  Nonnegotiable.

  No one would hurt her again.

  When she woke, he’d voice his vow.

  Roduch must have fallen asleep in the chair, because the rustling of bed linens jolted him awake.

  His lower back and neck ached. After shifting and taking a breath, he met the greenest orbs he’d ever seen, even more so than the young Greenwald knighted mage, Lucan.

  She gasped when she realized he was awake, yanking her hand out of his and scrambling back against the large, carved headboard, knees drawn to her chest. She wrapped her arms tight, making herself smaller while glancing around the room frantically.

  She’s going to bolt, first chance she gets.

  “Wait.” Roduch kept his voice low, raising flat palms. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The girl froze and stared. “Where am I?” The whisper was so low he’d almost missed it.

  “Castle Aldern. We found you in the middle of the road. You collapsed in my arms. Asked for help,” Roduch spoke softly, making no moves. He was a large man, but she had nothing to fear from him, ever.

  The girl whimpered. Her gaze was locked onto his hands. She trembled.

  Damn, she’s scared.

  Roduch’s heart flipped, and he forced another breath. She couldn’t fear him. “I won’t hurt you,” he repeated. “Ever.” He wanted to touch her, but she would just shy away. She wasn’t ready.

  She looked around the room again, this time a bit slower. “What’s your name?” she whispered but avoided his eyes.

  “Sir Roduch Grantham, one of the twelve knights of Lord and Lady Aldern’s personal guard.” He gave a small bow from his seat. Standing was a bad idea.

  The girl was likely nervous of his size while seated, so he’d terrify her if he straightened, all six-feet-five-inches of him.

  “You’re a knight?” Gorgeous green eyes wide, the girl looked torn between horror and awe.

  “Aye. I’m from Terraquist, formerly one of King Nathal’s knights.”

  “I was rescued by a knight?” She glanced at him sharply when he chuckled, but her shoulders loosened, and she let her legs fall to the bed. Still pressed into the corner, she reached for the furs, snatching them away, when Roduch leaned in to help.

  He tried not to be offended that she made sure they didn’t touch. “Actually, you were rescued by a Senior King’s Rider, several knights, a half a dozen men-at-arms, and a squire in training. Mistress Ansley Fraser found you first. We were on patrol when we rode up to the both of you. I got to you as fast as I could.”

  The girl finally looked at him, and Roduch fell into her eyes. He swallowed hard. Her black curls were disheveled, but it didn’t take away from his instant attraction to her. Her face was still flushed pink from sleep, and he ached to touch her. “What’s your name?” he breathed, ordering his hands to remain in his lap.

  She shook her head, and her front teeth sank into her full bottom lip.

  Roduch reached for her hand, but she scooted even further away from him. “It’s all right. I promise you’re safe here. No one will hurt you ever again.” After berating himself for reaching out when he’d known better, he threaded his fingers together and planted them on his thigh.

  Silence descended, and he called himself every curse word he could think of. He’d ruined what tiny bit of progress he’d made with her.

  “Avril,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, averting her eyes.

  “Avril,” Roduch repeated, one corner of his mouth lifting.

  My wife’s name is Avril.

  But as he met her gaze, he saw the long road ahead of them.

  She wouldn’t be his until she healed.

  He’d be by her side, no matter how long it took. But as much as he distasted his magic, it was never wrong. Avril was meant to be his.

  Avril spread her fingers, then hands, looking at her arms. She touched her face, her stomach, small breasts lifting with one breath, then two as she inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes and stretched like a cat.

  He watched as memories from his past visions teased. Roduch had seen her move like that many times.

  Naked. With him moving over her, with her.

  He gulped.

  Wretch.

  She’d been through hell, and all he could think about was her being bared to him?

  “My wounds…they’re gone. I’m not hurting now. Where are my clothes?” Avril whispered, staring down at the soft beige chemise. She reached for the fabric, as if it was the finest gown.

  “Who…who…dressed me?” Her cheeks went an adorable shade of pink.

  Roduch couldn’t hold back his smile. “The Headwoman, Morag. Lord Dagget healed you. And Lady Aldern threw your clothes out. She’ll have them replaced. They were beyond repair.”

  Avril’s hands stopped their exploration of the linen. Her eyes went wide again.

  “A…a…lord healed me?” She whimpered. Her small fist balled up the chemise at her stomach, her already-pale skin as white as the bed linens.

  “Avril? Are you all right?”

  She ignored him. “The Lady of Greenwald will get me new clothes?” Muttering, she shook her head, dark curls bobbing, and her knuckles blanched from her tight grip. Then she trembled. As she met his eyes again, she jolted, as if she remembered she wasn’t alone. Avril cleared her throat. “I am fine, Sir Grantham.” Her voice was steady, he had to admire that she’d gotten herself together so quickly, even if she really had nothing to fear.

  His instincts tingled. She was far from fine. It was all a mask. They’d just officially met, but it bothered him she wore it with him. Immensely.

  “Just Roduch,” he whispered. Roduch reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away, so he squeezed gently.

  Her eyes darted there and then back to his face.

  He offered a small smile, but her shoulders didn’t relax. Roduch wanted her to open up, needed to find out who’d hurt her, but she had to trust someone first. They’d made progress, but not nearly enough.

  Would she answer him if he discreetly questioned her?

  “What happened to you?” he whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who hurt you, Avril?”

  Silence descended again. Roduch cursed under his breath. Being direct had pushed her too far. He loosened his hold and her fingers slipped away.

  Wringing her hands, she scooted as far
away as possible, paling out even more and drawing her knees to her chest like she had before. She studied the bed linens, her small frame heaving. “My husband.”

  His chest ached when she wouldn’t look at him. Sharp daggers pierced with each breath. Rage boiled his blood. He was torn between that anger and crushing pain.

  She was already married. Belonged to someone else. She was supposed to be his.

  A man who should have sheltered and protected had harmed her.

  He growled. “I will kill him,” Roduch whispered.

  Avril scooted to the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him. She grabbed his arm, pulling him back to reality, when her nails bit into his skin.

  Damn, he must’ve spoken aloud.

  “Kill him?” she croaked, tears spilling down her cheeks. A tremble racked her small body. “You would do that for me?” Awe and admiration wrapped her words.

  He froze, every fiber in his being wanted to pull her in his arms, but he couldn’t. She’d recede even further from him. Even though her expression was the most open he’d seen it. He couldn’t overwhelm her like that.

  “Did he rape you?” Roduch demanded. He bit back a groan as she winced.

  Cheeks very red, Avril looked down, took a breath and met his gaze. Her jaw was tight. “Yes,” she whispered. “Ever since I was fourteen.” The toughness in her expression faltered. Tears cascaded again, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

  Roduch slid onto the bed and pulled her into his arms as gently as he could. “Dammit,” he whispered.

  She didn’t wrap her arms around him, but Avril didn’t yank away, either. She buried her face against his tunic, but sobs reached his ears as they racked her slight frame.

  He held her, rubbing her back tentatively at first, then with more soothing pressure when she didn’t protest. She was so tiny and perfect.

  How could someone hurt her?

  Roduch didn’t tell her not to cry. Avril deserved the reprieve the tears might bring. Instinct told him she never cried over what happened to her. Her mask, her inner toughness, wouldn’t allow it. She needed to grieve, as sure as she would’ve if someone had died.

  He bit back curse after curse, plotting the murder of the man she called husband. The bastard would die. And it wouldn’t be pleasant. A dull sword, hell, maybe just a shovel and a stake. His bollocks would be the first to go.