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hard reality of the failure of his mission. But his body betrayed him again as Lady Blythe’s soft breasts pressed against his back in cadence with the movement of the horse.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    The mood of the men with whom she rode was sombre. They were keenly aware they had failed in their mission and it had cost their comrades’ lives. They rode all day, slowed down by the injured men and, Blythe knew, by her presence in their midst. It was clear from several hushed yet heated exchanges between Dieter and his men that they questioned his bringing her. Did they advocate killing her to rid themselves of the encumbrance?
    They camped at night. Every amenity and courtesy was extended to her. Unfortunately, there were no amenities. Her bedraggled dress weighed her down like a stone. She longed for a good tub soak, and privacy. Her braids had come partly undone and she despaired of ever combing her hair again. Her bottom was raw. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d ridden so far.
    The Black Knight was sensitive to the discomfort of her sore derrière , sometimes having her ride before him. She was dismayed and embarrassed by the hard male length pressed against her when the movement of the horse caused unavoidable contact—which was most of the time! He smiled his crooked grin when she eased her body away from his obvious interest. While she hadn’t known a man, her mother had enlightened her as to what that particular swelling meant. The thought of lying with this powerful, enigmatic warrior sent a thrill racing up her spine.
    Lacking expertise as a healer, she nevertheless did her best to ease the pain of the wounded men. None of the wounds were severe enough to be fatal, but fever could carry off the strongest of men in a trice. Her linen underskirt served to make bandages to stem bleeding, but she’d no salve to offer. Her efforts to ease their suffering seemed to soften some of the censure. The sacrifice of her underskirt was a relief in the heat.
    The second night they made camp close by a small lake. She looked longingly at the water.
    “Do you wish to bathe, my lady?”
    She’d been so preoccupied with gazing at the shimmering lake, she hadn’t heard her captor approach. The accented voice broke into her reverie and heat suffused her chest and throat. She shook her head. “No,” she said, longing to say yes .
    He gave her a quizzical look. “With your permission, I intend to avail myself of the lake to cleanse my body and revive my spirit.”
    He bowed slightly and left her by the campfire. He’d spoken to her as if they were friends, equals, intimates—how dare he? He was a brigand who’d abducted her. Chivalrous knights were supposed to rescue maidens, not carry them off. Yet his familiarity felt strangely—arousing!
    She turned her attention to doing what little she could for the wounded men. It would be a while before the cook in the group had food ready. She was afraid to fall asleep if she sat by the fire. Perhaps she could steal away and at least wash her face in the lake. There was no possibility of removing her clothing surrounded as she was by foreign bandits.
    She deliberately strolled away in the opposite direction her captor had taken, hoping to find a secluded spot on the bank.
    ***
    The chill of the water had eased Dieter’s anger at the failure of his mission. He prized cleanliness and felt calmer now he’d cleansed his body and hair. In an effort to rid himself of his tension, he’d walked almost the whole way around the small lake before finally stripping off and plunging in.
    He waded to the bank and strode out of the water, raking his wet hair back off his face, trying to recall the words of a ballad about Parsifal he’d heard a minnesinger perform. As he bent to pick up his drying cloth, a squeal startled him. The song died on his lips. He’d thought they hadn’t been pursued, but now he reached for his sword and dagger, bracing to either flee or fight. He peered towards