by Lynn Kurland
She hazarded a look behind her to find her brothers falling farther and farther behind her. At least it was but the two of them, not the whole of her father's guard. Then again, she supposed the latter was only a matter of time.
She swore again. What was she to do now?
Well, she had no choice but to continue on and leave her brothers to fend for themselves as best they could. The twins would never outride her. She had pinched her sire's finest horse, one that not even he cared to ride outside the gates lest it throw him and be off without a backward glance. Jasper's speed was only matched by his endurance. He could have been to Edinburgh before she knew it if he hadn't unexpectedly slowed.
He trotted up to something in the grass, then leaped over it easily. Amanda was startled enough that she turned him around to see just what he'd bypassed.
A man, lying facedown.
She came to a halt.
Jasper went still.
Even time seemed to slow.
Amanda slid down off her horse before she thought better of it, to the accompaniment of howls in the distance. She looked up to see her brothers flying toward her, each of them hollering and making motions for her to get back up on her horse. She ignored them and took a step closer to the man. He was, she had to admit, finely fashioned.
And, as Fate would have it, wearing nothing but what greatly resembled those flimsy Scottish trews.
She would have studied that particularly interesting bit of clothing more closely, but instead she found herself with her face, and the rest of her, suddenly upon the ground, with her brother flattening her there. Jasper whinnied in distress and she supposed it was only by some saint's protection that she did not find herself flattened by him as well.
"Off," she gasped through a mouthful of grass.
"Are you daft?" John demanded. "My best clothes. That devil horse. A strange man in the grass who might be just waiting there for you to lean over so he might more easily slit your throat! What are you thinking?"
"Get off me," she wheezed.
John heaved himself up with a grunt, but didn't have the courtesy to help her up. He leaned over to study the unmoving man, completely ignoring the fact that he'd done more damage to her than an unconscious man ever could have.
She lay, crushed, on the ground next to the man and stared at the back of his head, wondering what he looked like. She stretched out her hand to touch his limp one that lay in the grass.
And the shock of it was almost enough to steal her breath again.
She squeaked as she found herself quite suddenly hauled to her feet and held there by Montgomery's hands under her arms. She managed to breathe in and out, though she wasn't quite sure she would be doing it very deeply any time soon.
"Can you stand?" Montgomery asked.
"No thanks to John," Amanda said. She took an unsteady step away from Montgomery and tested the extent of the damage. Nothing broken, nor permanently crushed. She brushed off John's clothes, then pushed him out of her way. "Move, you unchivalrous oaf. A knight does not crush his lady under himself and then not aid her."
"You're not my lady, you're my sister," John grumbled, "and you've less sense than a mewling babe. This man could have done you a serious injury."
"John, he's senseless!"
"So he appears," John said, turning to study the man, then stroking on his chin in an unsettlingly good imitation of Robin at his most speculative, "but what is he really?"
Amanda rolled her eyes, leaned over, and felt the man's throat. There was life there in him, and he breathed still. She straightened and looked down at him. It was obvious he'd been robbed. No man, well, other than a Scot of course, would have gone about dressed so scantily. It was summer, true, but summer did not mean an end to rain or to chill.
Nay, something untoward had happened to the man before them. It was only right that they execute a rescue.
But hard on the heels of that thought came the realization that if she aided this man, she would be giving up her own chance for rescue from her string of unsuitable suitors.
Home.
The thought whispered over her like a cool sea breeze. She struggled against it for a moment or two, but the images of her home, the feeling of safety and belonging, all combined together into something she could not fight against.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and she did nothing to stop them.
She looked down at the man again.
"I owe him nothing," she whispered. "I don't have to take him home. I can leave him here and continue on my way, keep on with my plan to flee."
The man didn't reply.
Neither, she noticed after a moment or two of complete silence, did her brothers.
She turned slowly and looked at them. They were staring at her, the both of them, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. She chewed on her lip and looked at them, wondering what she could say now to wipe that expression off their faces.
Montgomery was the first to recover. "Continue on your way?" he asked.
"Keep on with your plan to flee?" John echoed incredulously.
Amanda found, for the first time in her life, that she was without a single useful thing to say. She attempted a smile, but that failed completely.
And her brothers continued to look at her as if she had just plunged daggers into their chests.
"I would have given you clothes if you'd asked," John said in a low voice.
"I would have filched John's clothes for you, if you'd asked," Montgomery said.
She looked at the two of them, their earnest gray eyes brimming with tears, their faces wearing identical looks of dismay, and she felt the magnitude of what she had been trying to do catch her with full force.
By the saints, what had she been thinking?
Well, she'd been thinking she would have to leave them just the same when she wed. She had thought the brief notes she had left behind would have seen to the business of her good-byes, leaving her free to flee without any unpleasant and uncomfortable encounters.
But this, this having to face her youngest siblings was far more dreadful than she would have imagined.
She closed her eyes and sank to her knees.
If this was the reaction of her brothers, who in truth had done little but worship her from the time they'd realized she would tramp about in the mud with them and not complain of it on her clothes, what would the rest of her family have said?
What would her mother have said?
She put her face in her hands and wept.
Arms went around her. She hugged her brothers and found nothing to say in her defense.
"How could you?" John asked reproachfully. "How could you leave without telling us you meant to?"
"I can't believe you would," Montgomery added, his voice quavering in a most unmanly way. "Mandy, how could you?"
Amanda kept her arms around them for a moment or two longer, then pulled back. "What else was I to do?" she asked, wiping the tears off her cheeks. "Find myself carried off to some keep by a man who wanted me for naught but my dowry—"
"Like every other woman in England," John noted.
"Not me," Amanda said, delivering a friendly slap to the back of his head where it might inspire him to keep his thoughts to himself. "I would likely never be allowed to come back home anyway. Far better that I leave when 'tis my choice, go where I willed it, than to be little better than a prisoner."
Montgomery cleared his throat. "We could find you a man, couldn't we, John?"
John nodded quickly. "I'm sure we could."
"I've been at market for four years and seen not a man I would wed without a knife to my throat. Who will you find that I haven't already met?"
Montgomery looked about him until his gaze fell on the senseless man lying next to them. "Here is a man. What is amiss with this one?"
"Other than we haven't a clue who he is?" Amanda asked.
John shrugged. "He's not covered with the pox—"
"John!" she exclaimed. Then she actually felt herself begin
to smile. "You are impossible."
Montgomery put his arm around her. "You aren't really going to leave us, are you?"
"I cannot now. I don't know if you two would survive it."
"We wouldn't," they said together.
By the saints, she was doomed. All her planning, her preparations, her agony of heart, all for naught. And now she would have to go retrieve the letters she'd left behind. For one thing, Robin would likely never recover from all the sentiment she'd dribbled all over his missive. The others would think she had lost her senses with all the pleasant things she'd had to say. Aye, she would certainly have to collect those when she returned to Artane.
She sighed deeply and rose.
"Very well, my lads, let us be off before we find ourselves robbed like this poor fool." She looked down at the man. "But we cannot leave him here."
"Nay, we cannot," Montgomery agreed. He knelt and turned the man over carefully.
The man didn't change so much as his breathing.
Amanda wished she could have said the same.
It wasn't as though she hadn't seen a fine-looking man or two during the course of her life. Even her brothers were, she had to admit, extremely handsome. Every one of them. She had even marked the occasionally passable suitor. But this man was easily the equal of any Artane lad, and that was no small compliment. She leaned on her brother's back where she could have a better look.
The man stirred briefly. His eyes opened and he focused on her.
And time stopped.
It was the same feeling she'd had when she'd first touched him.
Overwhelming sweetness, breath-stealing joy, heart-wrenching longing.
By the saints, who was this man?
Then his sea-green eyes rolled back in his head and he became as senseless as before. Well, except for the fact that this time he had begun to snore.
Amanda leaned so hard on Montgomery that he had to catch himself with his hands on the ground before he went sprawling.
"By the saints, Mandy," Montgomery said with a laugh, trying to right himself with her on his back, "get off me."
Amanda righted herself with a scowl. "My apologies. I lost my balance."
John grunted. "Indeed. And apparently you had the same effect on him."
Montgomery slung his arm around her companionably. "Or perhaps John's finest tunic and one pair of unpatched hose are what did the poor lad in."
John shot her a faint look of irritation. "Why do you always have to filch my clothes when you're about your adventures? Can't you fashion some of your own?"
"Yours fit best," she said evenly.
"Why can you not use Montgomery's?"
"His aren't as clean."
"I don't suppose I should begrudge you the wearing of them," he grumbled.
"I don't suppose you should. You've no idea how it feels to be trapped inside a keep."
"Ha," John said with a snort. "You should try squiring for Pevensey. You might as well be a prisoner in his dungeon for all the liberty you have. I couldn't be happier to be home where I can roam at will."
"And torment me at your leisure," she added.
He smiled and the charm of it, as usual, left her wondering why it was she wanted to do him so many injuries. "Aye, that as well."
"And what of him?" asked Montgomery, gesturing at the man. "How do we get him home?"
"We'll put him on my horse and I'll ride back with you, Montgomery," Amanda said. "Your mount will never feel my weight."
"And what," asked John as he pulled the man up into a sitting position, "are we going to do with him once we get him home?"
"We'll worry about that later," Amanda said as she watched Montgomery take hold of the man's lower half.
"Dungeon," John said with a grunt.
"Solar," Montgomery suggested as he helped John heave.
"He might be an outlaw," John said through gritted teeth.
"He's too clean to be an outlaw," Montgomery huffed.
Amanda had to agree; the man was, outside of a bit of dirt in his hair and some blood here and there, remarkably clean. She stood by and watched as her brothers got their quarry settled over her saddle. She hesitated, then looked at the lads.
"I think I should ride behind him and keep him balanced. We'll offer him the courtesy of our hall when we return, but watch him carefully, lest he prove to be false."
"I don't think Sir Walter will like this," John warned. "He'll demand that we lock him away until we know who he is."
"I daresay that's true," Amanda agreed, but chose not to think about it. She had far more overwhelming things to think on.
Her ride that morning had produced two moments of complete giddiness, when she thought her soul had crossed from joy to madness.
The first had been at the peak of Jasper's speed, when she thought he might fly if asked.
The second had been when the man had opened his eyes and looked at her.
She rubbed her hands over her face, took a deep breath, and accepted Montgomery's boost onto Jasper's back. Perhaps she had traveled fully to madness, leaving good sense and caution behind. Perhaps she had been trapped in her father's keep for too long.
Perhaps she should have continued her flight and ignored a stranded, obviously in-need-of-aid traveler.
She put her hand on his back and felt a shiver go up her hand, as if she'd touched something she shouldn't.
"Dungeon," John said, to no one in particular.
"Dungeon," Amanda agreed, though she was having second thoughts about who should be going in.
Considering all the impossible things she felt just looking at the man, it just might be the safest place for her.
* * *
Chapter 6
Jake woke up with a start. He sat up just as suddenly, then realized that that was an extraordinarily bad idea. He clutched his head in his hands until it stopped pounding long enough for him to think straight. He'd been in the car. The last thing he remembered was the spinning that had gone on endlessly. In fact, the spinning was still going on, only he was quite sure he was sitting on something solid.
So out of a very strong instinct for self-preservation, he kept his eyes closed, his fists pressed over his eyes, and decided to take his time figuring out where he was.
He simply sat for a moment. He was in a farmhouse, probably. An old stone one, likely. There was no offensive smell, but there wasn't anything that smelled like dinner on the stove either, which didn't bode well for his growling stomach. He should have taken advantage of Worthington's traditional English breakfast earlier that morning and downed some fried tomatoes and sizzling sausage.
He gingerly felt the bench he was sitting on. It was wooden, quite smooth, and gave no indication of either its origin or ownership. He put his hand back over his eyes and slowly swung his feet around to the floor, where he could rest his elbows on his knees and let his head get used to the idea.
And as he did, images began to come back to him.
One image in particular.
Eyes. Turquoise—no, aquamarine. Or perhaps a soft, pale sapphire. No, aquamarine, he finally decided. Blue-green eyes in a face that could cause angels to weep.
Man, could he ever conjure up a hallucination when he had to.
He would have shaken his head, but he knew where that would lead, so he remained still until the pounding in his head subsided a bit and he thought he could keep his lack of breakfast down where it should be. He moved his fists from off his eyes and anchored them firmly under his chin where they could do the most good in holding up his aching head. He opened his eyes slowly and hoped for the best.
Well, it was for damn sure he wasn't in a hospital. That was a good thing. The downside was, he had no idea where the hell he was.
He looked around him slowly, trying to absorb the details of his surroundings. He was, from what he could tell, in some sort of study. But it looked nothing like Seakirk's study. The glaring omissions were the big-screen TV and comfortable couch. There were woode
n chairs, and though he had to admit that there were cushions on them that looked relatively comfortable, they were not of Seakirk's ilk. Under the deep window stood a desk littered with papers of all kinds.
Parchment kinds, actually.
A bookshelf stood against one wall. There were, and he could count them from where he sat, ten books. The other shelves were filled with what looked like ink pots, several wooden boxes, and other kinds of study paraphernalia allowed by a man who didn't particularly care for knickknacks.
Heavy wooden shutters were pulled back from the windows and folded against the walls. Jake almost wished they were covering the windows, for the cold was numbing. The chill came up from the stone floor as well, a floor devoid of a good, thick carpet, but instead strewn with straw. He frowned, then shrugged. It took all kinds, he supposed. He followed the floor as it led to a fireplace across the room that was unfortunately devoid of a good fire.
All in all, the place could have done with a good remodel.
Then again, if the owners were going for bona fide medieval, they had it nailed. Jake had been through enough castles to appreciate the authenticity of the place. He just wished he was appreciating it with the promise of a pint in front of a roaring fire at day's end to look forward to.
Well, the only thing he could surmise was that somehow he had been liberated from his car and brought to the closest house for a little recovery. That didn't bode well for his Jag, but he seemed to be free of injuries, outside of a colossal headache, so perhaps the Jag had escaped as well.
He got to his feet, swayed, then waited until his head cleared. He patted his pockets and then realized something quite unsettling.
He was standing there in his boxers.
No wonder he was so cold.
Good grief, what had happened to him? He speculated quickly. Maybe he'd been robbed. Maybe he'd been abducted. Maybe he'd been robbed, then abducted.
Or maybe he'd just been taken in by some kind soulhopefully that stunning woman he'd hallucinated—who had taken his clothes to give them a good cleaning and would soon be handing them back to him with his keys and his wallet. He would then leave the house and find his Jag in pristine condition outside.