Christian's reaction. What does he want to do? More importantly, what will he do?

Please keep reviewing. I am changing things as I go in response to people's reactions. :) I've made changes in three chapters now as a result of reviews (one's just a correction I haven't uploaded, but the other two were changes I made before the I uploaded them), so don't be shy about stuff you're enjoying, stuff you're worried about, and stuff that upsets you, too!

I know it's taking a while, but I'll be uploading 2x per week now, and the spicy stuff is coming. I have a bunch of other irons in the fire, so keeping this up to date just one of the things I'm juggling. I've got a finished very, very rough draft of this, but I have to make really substantial changes as I go because the original is just a big mess...so yes, I know exactly where it's going, but it takes a LOT of work to get it there.

Oh, and the dream that I said this was based on? Yeah, the dream bit pretty much started with the chase and continues across the next couple of chapters! That was the start of the story. In my dream, it was set "a long time ago," vaguely, so that's why this ended up as a medieval. Doesn't really work with swords and wars and marriage alliances set later! It made a lot of work for researching, but it was fun, too.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn…

Christian's body flooded with urgency, and as the woman's body went limp under him, it took an abrupt and carnal turn, lurching from a fight for survival to the pure white heat of lust.

He didn't move from on top of her for a long moment, not trusting that her appearance of unconsciousness was not another trick, and certainly not trusting the pounding blood that rushed to his head and groin.

By God's nails, Christian was no monster. He might not swoon about the skirts of women in the fashionably chivalric manner, but he had certainly never hit one before. And never had he needed to fight such an urge—the overwhelming desire to ravish what wasn't his, to take what wasn't given. She must be a witch, to do such mad things to his head.

He eased himself to his knees and wished, irrationally, that he hadn't hit her, that she was still trying to scratch his eyes out rather than lying so defenselessly, invitingly, on the detritus of the forest floor.

But she had been determined to kill herself—or him, or both. She hadn't seem to care much which life she took, at that moment. And however inelegant, knocking her unconscious had rather neatly solved that problem, at least for the moment.

The new temptation that it created was entirely of the making of his own flesh, and he would just have to manage it as such. Without violating her or imperiling his soul, whatever the cost. Looking down at her, his mind awash with dark thoughts, he knew his penitence that night would be harsh.

The knife lay on her chest, still grasped lightly in her limp fingers: a jeweled eating blade, far too wide to pierce mail. Not too wide to pierce leather, though, as the bloodstained edge attested—or to go through an eye. He shoved the dagger into his belt with a mental shudder and stood, yanking off his left glove and sucking at the shallow gash in his palm.

"Damn you," he said without feeling, surveying the form sprawled across the leaves. She looked almost saintly lying there, her clear, smooth skin tinged with pink—where it was visible, at least, and wasn't already turning purple. He felt a pang of guilt at that and cursed again.

Her narrow wrists looked even more slender under their linen bonds, and he wondered at the strength she'd show. Her slim body scarcely seemed able to support such defiance. She seemed so innocent, lying there, and he had the urge to smooth the wild wisps of hair from her face and cradle her head in his arms.

He suppressed it with a snort. That little innocent had just tried to kill him and had very nearly succeeded. That thought was tinged with admiration, but he shoved it aside to consider later.

He recovered his sword, sheathed it, and called his horse. Then he looked down at the unconscious woman with a sigh.

"You must make everything difficult, mustn't you, Lady Steele? You just couldn't let yourself be taken from the battlefield to put an end to this this swiftly."

He scooped her from the leaves, taking more care than was absolutely necessary. Her body was soft in his arms, and he had to stifle the involuntary stirring of a response in his groin.

Later, he promised himself.

He slung her across the back of the saddle as gently as possible. It took a good five minutes of maneuvering, which did nothing to squelch the warmth in his loins, but eventually, he got her positioned behind the cantle, her bound arms hooked around his waist as she slumped against his back.

And none too soon, for they had hardly ridden more than a dozen paces when Christian felt her stir, and an instant later, she stiffened.

"If you even think about trying for either one of our knives, you will rue the day you ever heard my name," he warned.

"And you think I don't already?" Her voice was rough, steeped in black bitterness.

"I will not hurt you, my lady," he said, as much to remind his own body as to reassure her.

"It is a fair sight too late for that. You said that once before, my lord—you swore upon your honor, fitz Grey."

"I said if you did not move," he snapped, stung.

"Serpent's tongue!" Her voice rose, and he felt her draw in another breath, but she did not speak again. He would have thought that she had passed out again except for the tension that radiated through every fiber of her body. How she could find the strength to hold herself like that, he did not know. His own limbs dragged with weariness, and he longed for the warm furs of his camp bed.

They emerged upon the scene of the battle before Christian realized they were close, and he shook off a cloud of fatigue as he rode past the perimeter guards to the center of the field, where Sir Johann sat on a stool in front of a blazing campfire. Grinning from ear to ear, he stood and reached up to grasp Christian's arm.

"My lord! May I be the first to congratulate you on a pretty end to this fine mess!" The irrepressible marshal waggled his eyebrows meaningfully at the baroness behind him.

Christian smiled despite himself. "A pretty end, perhaps, but an ugly war. Whom have we lost?"

Sir Johann hesitated, his expression growing grave. "You know about your squires?"

Christian nodded grimly, and Sir Johann gave him the list of other casualties, first those killed, then those injured and unlikely to recover, and finally those with less severe wounds. Christian felt the baroness shift behind him, and he wondered what she was feeling as his marshal listed the casualties. Glee? Exultation? He would be surprised at neither.

When Sir Johann finished, Sir James cleared his throat and spoke from the far side of the fire. "Still, your father will be well pleased," the seneschal said. "Your victory was complete, indeed."

His tone held nothing but respectful blandness, but there was still something about Sir James that made Christian uneasy. It wasn't just that the man belonged to the earl. Christian had led plenty of his father's men, during this campaign and before, and as a boy, he'd known that there was at least one trusted advisor who was judging him and reporting back to his liege. But now Christian was a man grown, and Sir James had never seemed so much like an advisor or a judge as he did a spy.

Christian merely nodded curtly in response. "Have you ordered the men to set up camp?" he asked his marshal.

Sir Johann grinned affably. "I sent most of the army to the village we passed on our way here. The men are camping on the fallow, and the knights and bannerets are in the manor house. Your pages should have the bailiff's chamber ready for you—and your prize."

The woman behind him stiffened. He had to stifle a groan—at Sir Johann's tactless bawdiness, at the even greater difficulty he would now have in winning her trust, and at his own, wholly masculine response to that movement.

"Thank you, Sir Johann," was all he said, though. "Gather the remained troops, and we'll be off."

He could hardly wait to have the woman off his horse and safely barred in the bailiff's chamber—and as for the fact that he would be bedding there, too, well, he wouldn't allow himself to think about that.

Yet.