His Captive Princess by Sandra Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

their hiding place, his brain had become addled and his cock had taken control. After she’d brashly kissed him to keep him from shouting at Lord Vaughn, Warren had wanted to reciprocate with a kiss of his own…and more. The fact that she’d thought to silence him with her lips meant she’d at least thought about kissing him before that moment. He’d hoped to charm her into offering him another kiss—a lasting, deeper one which would lead to others—but apparently she’d read his intentions and would have none of him.
    Should’ve just stolen the kiss. Should’ve parted her lips, caressed her tongue, given her all the pleasure she desired until she begged for release. Then you could’ve taken your own.
    Warren strained against the ropes again. He must get down soon before his regrets became evident to his captors.
    “Damn, I see you lived through the night.” Sayer climbed onto the limb beside him. The branch bowed beneath his weight.
    Warren grimaced. “No thanks to you. If one of our pursuers had returned to slaughter the three of you, I’d have been no help in this tree.”
    Sayer snorted. “You’d have been no help with half the Norman army at your back.”
    Warren bit back a retort. In his present condition, he could scarcely argue with the man. “I could be useful, though. Don’t say you haven’t considered the thought. You’re all better archers, but I’m faster on the ground and on horseback.”
    Sayer grunted and stooped to untie him. “For a prisoner, you think highly of yourself. To arrive on foreign soil with no mail? The princess said you had the look of a noble son and spoke in Occitan. With your training you’re no bard, no troubadour, nor priest. What are you? Templar? You’re no monk, for certes!”
    Warren was thankful the guard couldn’t see the shock on his face. It had been two years since he’d worn the white mantle of the Order, and yet this Welshman recognized its stain on him.
    He felt the ropes loosen on his arms as the man kept unwinding. Even under amicable circumstances, he never shared his past. The memory of his excommunication stung.
    After Sayer took the rope away from his arms and legs, the man leaned back, studying Warren. “Your silence betrays you.” His gruff voice and astuteness pricked at Warren’s nerves, making him regret that he wasn’t a skillful liar. “If it’s a Templar you were, haps I should’ve left you tied up. An assassin with the blessing of the Church and his god…now that’s a man with nothing to fear.” Sayer’s hand wrapped around the worn hilt of the sword in his scabbard, and his eyes narrowed.
    Warren rubbed feeling back into his arms and squeezed his hands into fists. He returned the guard’s stare. “As you said, I am no monk. Not then, not now. I am loyal to England, but that doesn’t make us foes unless you choose to make it so.”
    Warren surveyed the Welshman. He was powerfully built and slightly older with gray at his temples. Whatever advantage in combat Warren had in speed, the rebel would overcome in experience.
    Sayer gave him a faint nod, acknowledging his new understanding and, Warren hoped, an inkling of respect for his battle experience. “I’ll remember to watch you more carefully.”
    Warren anchored an arm around a branch and peered down at the camp where Nest was stuffing a blanket into a bag on her horse’s back. “Where is the princess?”
    “At the river, not that it should matter to you.”
    Warren looked up from the dizzying view below. “Is that safe? What sort of guardian allows his princess to go about unprotected in woods with enemies afoot?” He frowned. This was far from the diplomacy he’d hoped to use with the man, but after years of combat, his instincts ofttimes overpowered his tact.
    “The sort who follows the daughter of the King of Gwynedd. Besides, where she went, she had to go alone.” Sayer’s tone was defensive despite his assurances.
    Still uneasy from the height, Warren sat,