Chapter Four

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

~Friedrich Nietzsche

Marcus had taken a sharp breath, aware the rest of his men had done so, as well, when they watched the magnificent horse run to the edge of the cliff and launch himself off. Swinging his gaze back to the person at the tip of his blade, he saw gray eyes glistening with unshed tears. He wasn’t pleased, either, for he hated the waste of a good horse. I didn’t see any trappings on the animal; perhaps, it is a wild one. No way it could be for this child. He, again, descried the person at the point of his sword and recognized it was not a child nor even a man but a woman. A beautiful woman with brown skin, large eyes and full lips.

His heart skipped a few beats as he stared at her. She took his attention. He’d not noticed the outsider previously, aside from a brief glance, since the horse had received the majority of his focus. But, she had it, now. He was impressed with how she’d avoided his horse’s bite. Still, she may be a spy.

The woman backed up to her bedroll and started rolling it, valiantly attempting nonchalance. He realized, in that second, she’d accepted her fate. Or was pretending to. He wanted questions answered; that reason alone saved her life. She constantly jerked her gaze around, as if looking for an escape. She wouldn’t find one, of that he had confidence. Still, he couldn’t explain the feeling within him that made him want to protect her.

Marcus watched as the woman packed up her things quickly and quietly. She was dressed in the manner befitting a man—leggings and a tunic of sorts. Not sure what to make of this, he motioned for her to come closer with a wave of his sword. She hesitated then moved.

“What is your name? What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that? What was that horse doing near you?” Marcus asked. “Come over here. Do you speak English?”

One of his knights—a whipcord thin man with a hawk-like nose perched on a pale face—came over. Marcus noted how her expression narrowed as Roger neared neared, even as her eyes flicked between them, before she summarily dismissed his man and focused solely on Marcus.

“Where do you want her to ride, Marcus…my lord? One of the men could take her.”

“She rides with me, Roger. Someone else can take her bag. We leave now.”

At the use of “my lord”, Marcus noticed her expression started.

“I will ride with you of my own accord, but I keep my bag”

She licked her lips, brushed past Roger, and walked over to Marcus. His chest tightened, and he frowned in response to the emotion that slammed him when he witnessed the fear she wasn’t able to completely hide from him. Roger didn’t matter to her; that was obvious by her attitude.

He arched an eyebrow at her, he stated the obvious. “You speak our language, but your accent is strange. By what name are you called?”

“My name is Katrina, Katrina Lawson. You, Marcus, can call me Kit.”

He noted Roger’s raised eyebrows, aware the cause was her use of his first name. Not many people called him that. In fact, very few did. Most deferred to his title of Baron or called him “my lord”. Roger’s disbelief sat all over his face, his astonishment that this woman had the gall to do so and with no repercussion. Even his men, who rode with Marcus and had done so for years, rarely called him that. Roger’s slipup of it reminded Marcus the man was getting to familiar and assuming liberties he hadn’t the right to take.

While surprised at the sound of his given name from her lips, Marcus gave no indication of such. “Let’s go, wench. We ride now.”

Her expression grew thunderous at his use of the word “wench”. He had this unsettling need to nettle her some more and cocked his eyebrow.

“If you dress like that, you can’t expect people to treat you any better.”

Marcus sheathed his sword and grabbed for her arm to swing her up on the horse, only to find himself grasping air. She’d moved like the wind. There, one second; gone, the next. Marauder sidestepped, not pleased with the ongoing arrangement. Steadying his horse, Marcus once again turned attention to the woman in front of him.

Exotic. He knew of no other word to describe her.

Narrowing his gaze, he held out his hand. He easily read the debate in her eyes. Energy shot through him at the touch of her hand, stunning him, and he was grateful his beard and moustache concealed his reaction. With a glance down at her, he knew she had felt it, also. Her pupils dilated, and her nostrils flared while the argent shade of her eyes darkened. He pulled her up, determined to ignore the visceral reaction in him caused by her.

She barely weighed anything; therefore, it took no effort to lift her to sit before him. Moments after she was up and settled in front of him, her legs on one side of the horse, he put Marauder in motion. She held herself erect, refusing to lean back into him. Part of Marcus wanted her touch on him, part wanted to know what that enchanting smell was that surrounded her, but he inwardly admired the fact that she could sit his horse so well. Even with her legs on one side. Perhaps that big black was hers, after all. No, not possible, she was just scared, and that was the reason for her yelling when he found her. He couldn’t explain the rock, though. Not true, I can. She was defending herself and doing what most women would. Although, once they see I am a knight, they stop fighting. She did no such thing.

When they rode into the bailey of his holdings, she slid down as soon as they came to a halt, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. She didn’t move far from him or his horse but neither did she speak. He noticed her gaze taking in the view, scanning everything there.

He dismounted after staring at the top of her head, and one of the few who could came to take his horse to the stable. He grabbed her arm, realizing that, unlike most of the women he knew or interacted with, there existed a real strength there, and propelled her up the stairs into his keep. Once inside, he sat her on a bench and claimed the chair opposite her, waving away those ones who came to look. She still hadn’t spoken a single word.

“You will tell me what I want to know.” It was a statement, not a question. It was more command, even, than statement. “Where do you come from? What are you doing here? And, mostly, why are you dressed like a man? What matter of clothing is this?” He indicated her attire with his hand.

She looked down at her body. “What’s the matter with my clothes? You’re the one dressed like you are at a renaissance festival.” She snapped her mouth shut, appearing guilty…almost.

Still unable to place her accent, he responded in kind. “You wear the clothes of a man, and yet, they are like nothing I have ever seen before. Where did you get them? From where do you hail? Why are you garbed as such? From whom do you run?” He made a grab for her bag and found himself only holding air, once again.

“Who are you, and what are you planning to do with me?” Her words fell from full lips in a demand.