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

letting his legs dangle from the tree. His body prickled to life from the numbing sleep. “Surely her maid could’ve gone to attend her.”
    Sayer lifted a brow. “Nest? She’s not a maid. She’s a warrior, a shield maiden like the princess. Enough talk,” he growled. “We need to keep moving.”
    As Sayer jumped to the next branch, leading the way to the ground, Warren’s thoughts strayed to enticing images of Eleri bathing by the river. The water was too cold to swim, but he imagined her dipping a cloth, sponging her neck, and trails of icy water causing her nipples to peak.
    Indeed he was no monk.
    He compared Eleri against the women of his acquaintance in England. Elegant and refined, they complained of getting their slippers damp when they passed through the flower garden, and their fingers performed nothing more strenuous than stitchery. These rebel maids would seem built of iron by comparison if he hadn’t been close enough to Eleri to know better. She was all soft skin and lean feminine muscle that his hands ached to stroke and explore.
    Marrying her was thoroughly out of the question now after the Deheubarth attack, but seducing her was too tempting to resist. If she wielded half the passion in bed as she used in fighting, his efforts would be rewarded. Then he would bring her to the Norman keep—by force if he must. After all, hadn’t she made him a prisoner first?

Chapter Five
    Eleri pulled her fur mantle tight around her shoulders. The wind from the north swept through the mountains, penetrating the sanctuary of the valley passage, and her bliaut whipped against her legs. Soon they would visit hosts who would not approve of a woman wearing breeches, so she’d worn them beneath her gown, unseen yet still providing warmth and mobility.
    With their enemies close, they had needed to change their plans by taking shelter during the day and traveling by night. She, Sayer and Nest walked their horses while the healing prisoner rode with his hands tied in case he chose to try and escape on horseback.
    Eleri smothered a yawn in the sleeve of her gown as they trudged along the path. Her long vigils at the water’s edge were beginning to take their toll. The cyhyraeth spirits had not returned for another death portent since Gwrach had wailed for Lew, but if there was going to be another Welsh death in either Deheubarth or her father’s Gwynedd, Eleri would be the first to know.
    Nest led the way and her long black braid swayed in time to her steps. Clever and loyal, the woman was the best friend Eleri could ever want. When they reached Gwynedd, she would have to ask her father to give both her guardians something in exchange for their faithfulness, though she already knew the two of them would ask for naught in return.
    At the sight of a familiar flying rowan ahead, Nest lifted a hand, signaling the rest of them to stop. “A holy well lies around this hill.”
    Eleri sighed, relieved. “Aye. St. Anerin’s Well. We should drink from it.” She had noted the strain in Sayer’s form and couldn’t remember the last time he’d quenched his thirst. “Sayer will go first, and if the water is pure by his reckoning, we will follow.” Her otherwise brave warrior avoided the rivers and streams with her at all costs, dreading he might see or hear the keening cries of the spirits.
    As Sayer left the group and disappeared over the crop of boulders that spilled down from the hill, Eleri risked a glimpse at De Tracy. Her stomach fluttered to find him watching her. How long had he done so? Mayhap long enough to see how weary she was, and now he waited to take his chance to escape.
    Reflexively, she reached for an arrow in her quiver and caressed the silken fletching. The corner of De Tracy’s mouth curved, mocking her.
    She hadn’t meant the gesture as a threat, yet standing in the path of his cool, intelligent blue gaze, her control slipped piece by piece, as if by some ancient wizardry. Without saying a word to