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“Now you’ll see how unwise it is to cross Galdain,” he muttered and fell upon her.
Arianne, still dizzy, tried to roll aside, but he was upon her before she could move. Heavy and foul-breathed, he pinned her to the floor. She fought and kicked, clawing furiously at his face, but could not get free.
“No! Damn your soul, no! Let me go!”
Fear and rage gave her strength, but not enough to throw him off her. She bucked futilely, and her nails grazed his cheek. “Damn you, get off me!”
“I’ll have you—and the gold—and the ring.” The guard’s voice grunted in her ear as he tore open her cloak. “Rich pickings, wench. Neither of us will soon forget this night.”
Suddenly a deeper shadow moved through the gloom of the stable, and Galdain, perhaps with a sixth sense of impending disaster, glanced up.
Arianne saw a shadow, nothing more. Then a huge hand appeared, seized the guard’s tunic, and hurled him across the stable.
“The lady said to let her up. It appears that a lesson in manners is in order.”
“Arggggghhhh!” With a wordless roar, the enraged dungeon guard hurled himself at his attacker.
Arianne struggled to her knees and watched the fight through wide eyes. The man who had come to her aid was tall, wide-shouldered, and far more heavily muscled than the burly guard. His short-cropped hair and plain cloak, tunic, and breeches were dark, unadorned in any way that marked him as a noble or a knight, yet he fought with the smooth, fierce skill of one trained in battle.
When he deftly struck a series of powerful blows, Galdain staggered back. But as the stranger started toward him again, the guard clanged out his sword.
The breath whistled out of Arianne. “No!” she cried.
In the next instant she saw the answering gleam of metal. Quick as lightning, the stranger had drawn his rapier. She heard his mocking, confident laugh as he faced the other man.
“Come, ruffian. Let us see how you meet an opponent of equal strength and skill.”
Arianne scrambled in the darkness for her own fallen dagger and held it tightly in trembling fingers, watching the thrust and parry. The tall stranger fought magnificently, with a quickness, strength, and ruthless skill that won admiration even through her fear. It was clear at once that the dungeon guard was no match for him.
Just as she was beginning to think that Galdain would cry for mercy at any moment and her protector would send him running, from outside the stable came the thunder of hooves, shouting and the sound of boots thumping on the frozen earth.
The stranger heard the commotion too. For just an instant his keen gaze flicked toward the door. It was all the opening Galdain needed. He lunged with his sword straight at the stranger’s heart, but the tall man swung his blade just in time and turned aside the fatal thrust. An instant later, he ran Galdain through, and the guard’s blood spilled in a crimson gush as he cursed, trembled, and fell dead.
Horror filling her throat, Arianne shrank from the sight. The din outside roared in her ears. She darted to the door and peered out.
Soldiers. At least a dozen of them, Julian’s own handpicked men in black masks and hauberks, with drawn swords. No doubt they were searching for the phantom Lord Nicholas or for Lady Arianne of Galeron, whichever they could get their hands on first.
They were fanning out—to search the inn, she realized, the stables, the grounds. They were everywhere.
She was trapped.
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“Duke’s men, arethey? Seems he’s sent enough of them.”
The stranger’s deep voice spoke wryly in her ear.
“Quick, there’s not much time.” Scarcely thinking, Arianne grabbed his powerful arm and tugged him outside into the misty darkness.
As one, they melted through the night and edged around the stables into the brush. Suddenly he seized her and dragged her down behind a tangled thicket.
One big gauntleted hand covered her mouth, while the other held her helpless against a lean male torso that was as strong as an oak. Arianne had never been held in any fashion by a man before. She’d had suitors, but none she cared for, and she’d kept them all at arm’s length. A rush of heat spiraled through her at this stranger’s intimate nearness, the pressure of his large, strong body against hers.
But there was little time to ponder her reaction, for the next moment a trio of guards stomped by, holding blazing torches aloft.
“Since yesterday sunset we’ve searched from the seacoast to the forest, and all the main roads, and there’s been not one sign of Lord Nicholas,” one man grumbled, his boots crunching less than five paces from where she and the stranger crouched.
“The duke’s own astrologer claims he’s dead.” The soldier beside him spat in the dirt.