LITMIR.BIZ

      Beyond the granite town walls of Barfleur, beyond the marshlands, the forest spread out for miles and miles, a thick green cloak of vegetation, rising high over jagged granite outcrops only to plunge low into the deep valleys cut by fast-flowing rivers. Through the towering beeches and spreading oaks, their bare branches starkly delineated against the grey, lowering sky, Emmeline’s horse picked its way along a narrow, muddy trail alongside the River Argon.

      She rode steadily, relaxing her body into the calm, rocking gait of her roan mare, her strong, delicate fingers controlling the reins with confidence. Despite her obvious unhappiness at Emmeline’s journey, Felice had known better than to try and dissuade her from approaching the Empress; she had encountered her daughter’s stubborn nature on too many occasions to know that she would persuade her otherwise. But her father, Anselm, God rest his soul, would have approved, of that Emmeline was certain. He had always been a man of action, never sitting around passively, waiting for things to happen. Ducking her head to avoid a low-hanging branch, she smiled softly to herself, knowing full well that he would not have endorsed her travelling alone. A shuddering breath took her by surprise; after all these years she still missed his steadying presence, his gentle teaching: a calming contrast to her more nervous, excitable mother.

      As she rode, lulled by the persistent rushing of the river to her left, dark, rain-filled clouds began to fill the sky, dimming the forest beneath. Glancing up apprehensively, she kicked her heels into the warm flanks of the mare; she had no intention of being soaked to the skin. And then, as the wind grew stronger, against the frantic creaking of the bare branches above her head, she heard another sound. Jerking on the reins, she tipped her head to one side, trying to locate the noise. A chink of metal carried on the sharp breeze, the distinctive click of a bridle, then the murmur of voices approaching.

      Heart crashing against her ribs, she threw one leg frontways across the horse’s neck, jumping to the ground in a swirl of grey skirts, favouring her good leg as she landed. Casting about frantically for a place to hide, she plunged upwards, scrambling up the steep slope that edged the track, trying to drag the roan into the trees as fast as she was able. Brambles ripped at her bliaut, her cloak, clawing at the cloth, preventing forward movement, scratching her face and snagging in her linen veil as her hood fell back. She stretched her hands out blindly and her fingers chafed against a jutting outcrop of granite: a huge piece of rock, at least the height and width of two men. Almost crying with relief, she pulled herself and the horse behind it. Twisting back to lean against the cool, hard rock, she tried to control her rapid breathing, a rising sense of panic in her chest. Only now did she begin to question the foolishness of travelling without an escort.

      The voices, low and masculine, drew closer. Turning stealthily in her hiding place, her horse tucked out of sight behind her, Emmeline couldn’t resist a peek around the craggy edge. She had only just been in time. Around the corner came a pair of gleaming chestnuts…

      Nay…it couldn’t be!

      She recognised the insufferable Lord Talvas immediately. He rode up front, his bearing arrogant and imperious, a searching, questioning look upon his face. Had he heard her? His squire, Guillame, rode behind, his flaxen hair forming a stark contrast to the raven locks of his master. Emmeline shuddered, blood coursing through her veins. The black haze of beard that had obscured his features on the quayside had been shaved and now…She stared in amazement at the beautiful man below her. High cheekbones cast a faint shadow at the sides of his face, giving him a hungry, predatory look, offset by a square jaw. The narrow line of his top lip was complemented by a full bottom lip that curved seductively upwards at the corners.

      A thrill of sensation flamed her skin, and she flung herself back into the shadowed security of the rock, pressing her forehead into the damp grittiness of the stone, inhaling the earthy, musty smell. She scrabbled for sanity. A strange fluidity had invaded her limbs, a flooding weakness that left her stunned. Talvas had changed his clothes—now there was no question that he was highly born. His tunic, the densely woven cloth slit from knee to waist at each side for ease of riding, was of sage green wool, intricately embroidered in gold at the cuffs and around the slashed neck. The sleeves of his darker green surcoat reached only to his elbows, showing off the longer, more richly decorated sleeves of his tunic. His short, blue cloak billowed out from his strong, wide shoulders, lined with fox fur and fastened at the neck with a jewelled brooch.

      As the riders passed below, one of the horses whinnied softly, and her own horse nickered in reply, dropping its head down and pawing at the rustling leaves on the ground. Every muscle in Emmeline’s body clenched tight with awareness, with fear. She dared not move; maybe the men would not hear.

      But Talvas was already pulling on the reins, lifting himself easily in the saddle, twisting sinuously around with his hand on his sword hilt, trying to locate the sound. Guillame drew his sword with a silken hiss.

      ‘Who goes there?’ Talvas shouted roughly. The low timbre of his clear voice echoed in the valley. ‘Show yourselves or we’ll root you out!’

      Perspiration gathered in her palms: she had no wish to be pursued like hunting quarry. She knew they would outrun her within moments. ‘’Tis I, Emmeline de Lonnieres.’ Her voice emerged as a pathetic squeak, and she cursed herself for it. She began to climb down, slipping and sliding through the dense vegetation. Talvas flipped an irritated glance back at his squire, who raised his shaggy blond eyebrows.

      ‘The woman on the quayside,’ Guillame murmured, sheathing his sword and dismounting.

      ‘Don’t remind me,’ Talvas grimaced as he followed the maid’s descent with a resigned air. Trust his luck to tangle with this harridan once again! But as she burst out on to the track, her horse pushing up behind her, threatening to topple her over, he had to work hard not to laugh out loud. Brambles clung to the delicate cloth of her veil, the thin wool of her cloak; brambles, no doubt, that had caused the nasty-looking scratch on the bloom of her rounded cheek. Her forehead appeared to have some sort of dark-grey grit embedded in it.

      ‘And where are the others?’ Talvas demanded, crossing his arms across the pommel and leaning forward.

      ‘The others?’ She frowned, her huge green eyes perplexed. Against the richness of the men’s garb, her grey worsted bliaut appeared shabby, yet it had been the best of her meagre collection of garments when she had dressed that morning. Her underdress, of dark brown, was of slighter better quality, but only the tight sleeves were visible, emerging from the long, drooping sleeves of the bliaut.

      Talvas’s eyes lit with blue fire. ‘Don’t tangle with me, mistress!’ he chastised her. ‘Where is your escort?’

      ‘I don’t have one.’ Emmeline shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The cold mud of the track began to seep through her thin leather soles.

      Talvas

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