Daughter of Sherwood by Laura Strickland

third tried to separate him from Wren, the way a sheepdog peels away a ewe, and terror touched him, raw and pure.
    You must protect her. She belongs to you.
    He drew his sword. A man on foot had no advantage facing one on horseback, but he could not choose. From the corner of his eye he saw that Wren, bless her, stood firm; refusing to be chased, she ducked back and forward, keeping out of the third man’s reach. Sparrow shook the hair from his eyes and lunged with his blade, getting in a blow to his opponent’s leg.
    He would never be the swordsman Martin was. Martin’s father, a rogue soldier himself, had taught his son well. Sparrow’s own father was a shepherd and woodsman before turning wolfshead, but desperation now made up for any lack of skill. Sparrow parried two crushing blows before using his strength to good advantage, seizing the soldier’s bleeding leg and pulling him from his mount to the ground, where Sparrow’s sword took him in a welter of blood.
    He spun toward Wren. She had doubled back through the stream, her hood fallen loose upon her shoulders, and her eyes burned toward the man chasing her. Never had she looked more the wild thing, trapped. Sparrow heard a loud cry and cast a look at the thick of the fighting, where he saw Lambert, eyes fixed on Wren’s face, trying to force his mount through the intervening combatants.
    Terror stung him, and he leaped to haul the third soldier from his horse. Escaping his grasp, the man immediately engaged Sparrow’s sword.
    “Wren!” Sparrow barked over his shoulder. “Run!”
    Her eyes, held fast by Lambert’s approach, did not waver—neither did she obey.
    “Curse it—Wren!”
    Brought to his senses by a blow from his opponent that laid open his sleeve, and the flesh beneath, Sparrow experienced a surge of rage worthy of Martin himself. He thrust with his blade, following the impetus of his emotion, and ducked the soldier’s shield. He felt his blade scrape bone as the man fell.
    “Come!” He caught Wren’s hand, and they ran until the breath seared his lungs and Wren at last stumbled. He tried to catch her as she fell, and they both went down and landed in the soft loam, Sparrow’s heart pounding so loud in his ears he could not listen for sounds of pursuit.
    “Be still.”
    Bless her, she did not move. She lay on her side with her back to him, as if they spooned in a bed. Her breath came in big, deep gulps she fought to quiet. His lips were at her ear.
    Silence now made their best cover. Trees arched above them, restless in a breeze that stilled even as he held his breath. The very forest listened.
    Time crept by. Sparrow’s hand lay on Wren’s breast, and he felt it when her heartbeat began to calm. His own limbs eased, and he raised his head.
    Far off he still heard faint sounds of the continuing battle. How far were he and Wren from Oakham? He heard no sound of pursuit, but under his hands and pressed to the front of his body he could feel Wren, both her body and her spirit. He sensed the life moving in her, the rampant curiosity, the simmering terror, all overlying courage like bedrock. His heart rose in response, and in wonder that he could feel her this way.
    “Are you hurt?” he breathed, stirring her dark hair.
    “I am all right. But your arm—”
    He sat up, and she came with him as if they were attached to one another, as perhaps they were. She turned her head and they looked into one another’s eyes. He saw—
    Wild places, rushing water, the rising and setting of the sun. He saw every peril of the future and all the beauty he could ever hope to know.
    He could do nothing, then, but capture her lips with his. The desire came to him like the need for water after a long run, or winter’s-end hunger. Her mouth felt unexpectedly soft beneath his, and she tasted like the sweetest honey wine. He could not tell where his lips ended and hers began.
    Her spirit rose to meet his, rushing. All that she was bounded upon him, mingled