Sorry, guys! I got waylaid by the holiday. :)
The honor of a fitz Grey, Anastasia thought, swallowing against the hysterical giggle that tried to bubble from her throat. That is truly an assurance I can hang my life on!
Again the images of bodies of her father and brother rose in her mind, and the whispered tales of heiresses caught in the power of ruthless men. The hardness against her thigh and the speculating look in the man's eyes made her stomach twist. St. Agnes, please, anything, anything but that. She swallowed, and the edge of the knife brushed the skin of her throat.
The knife!
With a desperate whimper, she threw herself forward, steeled against the bite of the blade, but fitz Grey jerked it away before it even broke the skin. "By the mass! Take care, woman! You nearly cut your own throat."
Anastasia closed her eyes against the black despair that surged up to consume her, dropping her head back listlessly against the leaves. Again a sickening, traitorous laugh built up inside her, and she did not have the strength to keep it from frothing from her lips.
"You are mad," the man said, stunned wonder staining his voice.
Tears pricking her eyes, she said nothing as he shifted on top of her, waiting, knowing, bracing herself for what was bound to come next. She would bear it in silence, and when he was satiated and certain she was too cowed or injured to challenge him—then, she would drive his own dagger through his heart.
She felt him pulling at her skirts, and her eyelids flew open at the abrupt sound of ripping fabric. Fitz Grey's head was tilted down, firm chin set in concentration as he cut a strip of fabric from the hem of her chemise, somehow managing to maintain an appearance of cool self-control and dignity even crouched awkwardly on top of her. He looked up and caught her gaze. "No reason to destroy a good mantle," he said cryptically as he sheathed his knife.
He shifted again, freeing her hands, but before she could react, he had both of her wrists caught in one hand and was winding the strip of linen around them. He had an expression in his gray eyes that made her catch her breath as he tugged them tight. Was it enjoyment? Horror tightened deep in her belly.
Fitz Grey stood, keeping a grip on her forearm. "Come, Anastasia le Steele," he ordered, pulling her up.
Ignoring her broken quiver on the ground, Anastasia got her feet under her, her mind whirling with confusion. What was he going to do to her now? His gaze on her was sharp, and she had the unwelcome realization that he was probably the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon. A fringe of copper hair emerged out from under his skullcap and mail coif above aristocratic features and clear gray eyes—he was as beautiful as Satan himself, and Anastasia made a silent prayer against witchcraft.
"I am not she." The words came unbidden, steady with a calmness she did not possess, and even as she spoke them, she seized upon an unlikely plan.
The man just snorted and began striding through the forest, pulling her with him, his grip on her bound hands firm but not cruel. She stumbled along as best she could, her arms extended before her.
"I suppose you shall tell me that you are the Queen, then," he said.
"The baroness's attendant," Anastasia said quickly. "Lady Cynewise."
He shot her a sideways, incredulous look. "And why were you on the battlefield and not your lady, then? Was she cowering in her castle while you faced danger for her?"
Anastasia threw back her head, trying to look disdainful. "I was a decoy. A successful one."
Fitz Grey just shook his head and continued in silence.
She was out of options, out of diversions. She was beaten, and she knew it. Exhaustion sweeping down, Anastasia let hopelessness take her, blanking her mind as she followed him blindly through the woods. Her limbs felt stuffed with straw and impossibly heavy. Every fallen branch, every low bush, every root caught at her feet, and she found herself stumbling and dragging in fitz Grey's grip.
He turned back, his broad jaw tensed with irritation, and her stomach flipped over. But after a single glance at her, his expression softened. He said nothing as he turned away again, but when he set out, he moved with less haste.
Anastasia could not guess what such consideration meant, not could she find the energy to care enough to speculate. It took all her strength to keep one foot moving in front of the other.
When fitz Grey stopped, she nearly ran into him. She blinked, taking in the gray-and-silver-caparisoned charger that stood patiently in front of them, blowing into fitz Grey's hair.
She looked around, and with a start, she recognized the slope upon which she and her men had made their stand. It was bare now, though the leaves were scuffed into piles and stained with blood, and the woods around them were unnaturally silent.
"Do not move, Lady Cynewise," fitz Grey said, pinning her with an icy glare. "You will not like what happens if you force me to chase you down again."
Anastasia nodded, believing him, but her heart still sped up when he released her to untie his mount and swing into the saddle. Her eating knife seemed suddenly to weigh a hundred pounds in its sheath, and a part of her crowed for joy as the man turned his back to swing into the saddle. Even before she had fully formed a plan, she had scuttled half a dozen steps away and the knife was clutched between her bound hands, its point held unwaveringly before her.
Fitz Grey turned in the saddle at the sound of her retreat, and a dozen expressions flickered across his smooth, hard-planed face: surprise, irritation, and a piercing hunger that made her knuckles whiten on the hilt with fury, fear, and a hot sensation deep in her center that she did not care to examine.
"Drop it," the man snapped, his voice cracking through the silent woods like a whip.
"No." How could she sound so calm? she marveled. There was not even an edge of trembling in her voice, but she could feel the treacherous weakness in her legs, and the knife tip dipped once before she got her arms back under control.
The man drew his sword. "I will not ask again."
If only he were on the ground instead of that horse—then she would have plunged the blade hilt-deep into that gray-coated chest! "Stay away from me."
He turned the horse slowly, and it began walking towards her. Under the hammered metal edge of his skullcap, the man's brows lowered, and he shifted his grip on his sword. Anastasia swallowed back bile. He truly meant to kill her—and, perhaps, do even worse first.
"I'll not give you the satisfaction!" she blurted, and with that, she reversed her grip on her knife and stabbed toward her own chest with all of her strength.
Her gunna ripped, but the wide point skittered harmlessly off her mail, and she cried out in chagrin as fitz Grey slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. She clung to her dagger, pinned flat between them, struggling to force the point up against the man's weight as she thrashed against him. She felt a hand close like a vise around her wrist, but with one last burst of strength, she jerked free and stabbed blindly, the blade shuddering as it met resistance.
Fitz Grey snarled a curse, and the last thing she saw before the world exploded was his fist hurling toward her face.