“Gods be damned, woman!” he swore, unable to catch his breath as he stared furiously down at her. “That’s the last time I try to help a bloody stranger.”
“I didn’t need your help.”
“Well, if you don’t shut your gob and stop screaming, then every half-blood for miles will be bearing down on us. I’d like to see how you’d fare then.” He scanned the surrounding area, his green eyes glinting against the afternoon light. It was a look she was familiar with; the Royal Guards often had the same hawkish expression on watch. Assessing the area for threats.
“Get off of me,” she said in a quieter tone. He looked down at her then, his eyes widening and a flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. He scrambled off of her and cleared his throat, cautious to look only at her eyes. Liz sucked in a sharp breath; she’d forgotten in all the excitement that she was in her corset and underdress. She pulled her knees tight against her body to make herself small.
“My...” He cleared his throat again. “My apologies, M’lady. I hadn’t realized you were... that you weren’t wearing...” He shook his head, eyebrows furrowing deeply on his face. “Nevertheless, we need to find my companion and leave this area.”
Liz tried to protest, but he pulled her up to her feet by her bound hands and began dragging her back up the hill behind him without another word or glance in her direction. She slid and whimpered at the wrenching pain in her wrists as the ropes rubbed her skin raw beneath them.
It was only a few minutes before they stopped. She stumbled at the sudden change of pace and fell straight onto her bottom with an undignified “oof.”
They weren't alone.
A dark-haired man stood vigilant at the makeshift camp. Her smarmy rescuer crossed to him, speaking in low tones. The stark difference between the two men puzzled her. While her rescuer wore plain clothes and leather pauldrons, accentuating strong shoulders like those of a farmer or blacksmith; his companion couldn’t have been more different. He stood a head taller in armor she did not recognize. There was an arrogant tilt to his chin and a rigidness to his gait that was all too familiar. What would a knight or nobleman be doing in the woods with a commoner?
He turned to fix bright eyes on her and suddenly Liz was jarred into an otherworldly awareness. The feelings and visions Liz experienced were a secret, one that only she and Tia shared. She didn't know how it worked, but she was sure this other man was just as tied to her fate as the one before. Who were these men? Her hands trembled at the confirmation that her visions and feelings were right. That meant, more death was coming.
Movement from behind his shoulder caught her eye and Liz nearly fell over in her attempt to jump up from the ground. Tia. There she was, soaking wet but thankfully alive. The dark-haired man with the austere expression also looked wet. Had he saved Tia from drowning after she’d been tossed into the current?
"Tia!" Liz wailed, holding her bound hands out to her friend who rushed forward and wrapped her arms tightly around her shoulders. Hot tears welled in her eyes. Liz’s brutish savior scoffed at her tears, and to her great embarrassment, she wept all the more.
"Why are her hands still bound?" Tia asked, looking over her shoulder to the wet, exacting man. Both men shared a questioning glance, and Liz's rescuer sighed, offering a nonchalant shrug.
"Trust me, it's better that way," he grumbled under his breath, putting a hand to the streaks of red on his neck where her nails scored his skin. She huffed in response, infuriated at his arrogance.
"You will unbind her, at once." Tia demanded; her expression unyielding. Liz tried to contain her emotions but she felt shaken. She thought she’d lost Tia, but she was here. She was here. The well of her sorrow cracked open wide; her bottom lip quivered and her eyes grew hot. Her breathing came hard as she tried and failed to stop the wave of sadness enveloping her.
The man who’d saved her pulled a sword from the saddle of his friend's horse and reached out to her. She recoiled, tears tumbling down her cheeks, afraid of what visions his touch might show her this time. He reached forward again, more slowly and intentionally this time, but she stumbled back a few paces to evade him.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his green eyes no longer bright with anger or mischief, but dulled with concern.
"I’m not going to give you the opportunity to try," she retorted spitefully, keeping her bound hands clutched to her chest.
He sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair before squaring off against her again. He changed directions faster than she anticipated, and his hand gripped one of hers. He pulled her toward him until she hurtled into his chest. There were no visions, just the warmth of his skin. She sniffled, pushing her arms against the steel wall of him to brandish her hands.
He made quick work of the rope, and as it fell away, her cold fingers began to prick with feeling again. She rubbed the raw, bruised skin of her wrists and mopped at the tears on her cheeks.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, the playful spark back in his eyes. She narrowed her gaze at him.
"Matioch, we should leave the area before the half-bloods return. I don't think their horse bolted too far."
Liz deferred to Tia, who was staring at the dark-haired man with ...Matioch. Tia had to be wondering the same thing Liz was. What happened now?
Nodding sharply, the infuriating man threw his leg over his horse and settled in his saddle. He looked down, holding a hand out to Liz as if she should know what the gesture meant. She raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
As insufferable and confusing as she found this man to be, he’d rescued her once already. Although she didn't want to admit it, she felt a tenuous safety with him. She shuddered as she thought about the bounty hunters roaming the woods for her with their reptilian gazes, bearing down on them with superhuman speed. They were still out there, ready to bring her back to the Dragon in chains.
Her rescuer, Matioch, grinned at her with that same crooked grin from before, and she knew he was thinking of how she had been slung over the back of his horse. She pushed an errant curl away from her face and placed her dirty hand daintily in his calloused paw. Before he could pull her up, her eyes fell to the ring on his finger. The blood drained from her face as she recognized the gold signet ring. Stamped with the familiar yet elusive sigil of a black thistle. The same ring she’d seen on the knight’s hand in her vision.
In one smooth motion, he settled her, somewhat inappropriately, on the front of the horse with his arms wrapped too familiarly around her shoulders. He clucked his tongue, and Liz clutched the saddle horn to keep her balance as they began to ride. A chill in the air breezed against her skin, and she wondered how long until the snow would stick to the ground. If her visions came true, winter would approach quickly and harshly this year.
When it did, this man, Matioch, was going to die.
Chapter Eight
A disgraced mistress? Kidnapping victim? Runaway bride?
The possibilities seemed endless and the longer they rode the more outlandish Mat’s theories became. They didn’t speak, and the absence of conversation forced his focus onto every small detail before him. Her skin was cold when their arms brushed, so she hadn’t discarded her dress out of discomfort. Had she been hurt?