Page 42 of The Forest Bride
“I was just saving your life.”
“I would have been fine. There is a wagon filled with hay down there.”
“From this height, on that ridiculous rope, the cart would have broken apart, if you were lucky enough to hit that target rather than fall to the ground.”
“I always hit the target.”
“I have noticed. And you were a climber too, as I recall. Climbed a tree once, and fell out.”
He remembered. “For all the good it did then.”
“Meaning?”
“I never saw that beautiful falcon again. I never saw you again until lately. Did you send her back to the king to earn your reward?”
“The only reward King Edward ever gave me was a long stint in prison.” He sat on the bed beside her, mattress rustling, sinking. She scooted away. “Do not fret. I will not touch you, unless you try to escape again.”
“Then what do you mean to do here?”
He blew out a harsh breath, as if he struggled with the question. Reaching out, he took up the fabric rope and began to untie the knots. Shaking a blanket free, he tossed it over her. He freed another blanket for himself.
“I mean to sleep here tonight.”
“What! You cannot!”
He lay back, not beside her but lying opposite, his head at the other end, and pulled the blanket high, bending his arm for a pillow. Long legs and big feet in big boots created an effective barrier. Margaret would have to climb over him to get out of the bed, which now sagged in the middle.
“Lie down,” he said. “You are going nowhere.”
“You cannot stay here.” She scooted back, pulling her blanket high as she leaned against the wall. “You need to leave.”
“Someone must ensure you do not break your troublesome neck.”
“Not here, not in my very bed.”
“I am no threat. I still have a rusty sense of honor.” He lifted on his elbow to regard her. “I want to know you will be here in the morning.”
“It is discourteous to treat a lady thus, even a captive so wrongfully held. Get off the bed and out of my room.” She kicked him.
“Oof. Here.” He grabbed a linen sheet from the tangle on the floor and crammed the length of it between them. “There. A wall.”
“What is that supposed to do?”
“It is customary in Germania, among other places, for two people who are betrothed or courting to share a bed with a bolt or board between them.” He patted the wadded cloth. “Lay back and go to sleep.”
“This is not Germania and we are no longer betrothed. That was your choice, as I recall. And I will not lie here with you all night.”
“Near me, not with me. And not all night. I just want to be sure you will not try to go out the window again and fall on your bonny head.” Lying on his side, he shifted his topmost leg to rest it firmly over hers, cloth bunched between. She felt his strength and tension sure as an iron lock. “Go to sleep, Margaret Keith.”
“You go to sleep.” Her gaze drifted to the door. She did not think he had set the drawbar in place.
“If you are hoping the drawbar is still up,” he said, as if he read her thoughts, “I will fix it in place again. Just do not try the window again. That is all I ask.”
“I was thinking about it,” she admitted.
“I feared so. But that cart will not be there long. It belongs to the brewer who brings ale and supplies for our larder. Euphemia MacArthur sent for him today. He sometimes plays dice and drinks half his ale with Bran and Hector before he heads home. And your rope is shorter now by two blankets and a sheet. Remember that.”
“Beast,” she said, scrunching down to pull the blanket over her.
