by Rue Allyn
He regarded her a long moment, turned and started through the brush. Wordlessly, she followed, as he waded through the knee-high ferns and thick vegetation. Forced to lift her skirt to a shameful level, she avoided the more destructive nettle bushes.
Soon, the dreadful day’s events exacted a toll. Fatigue pressed on her like a weighted mantle, her feet ached, and hunger gnawed at her insides.
Over the next rise, a crowded grove of trees yielded a secluded marsh outlined by heavily timbered woodland. The fen’s stagnant stench permeated the air, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. The muck tugged on her boots, slowing her momentum, and her calves burned with the added complication. When next she looked up, he awaited her at the mire’s edge and offered his hand. The second she clutched at him, her pulses leapt to life, her breasts tingled against the delicate fabric, and a white-hot ache bloomed in her belly. She slanted a glance at him wondering if he experienced the odd pull of attraction, too.
Abruptly, he leaned in close and placed an index finger to his lips indicating silence. On the opposite side of the marsh, the light winked in and out between the trees and she realized it was torch light that illuminated the pines. Warford’s soldiers were closing in.
Without explanation, Aeden swung her up in his arms and trudged deeper into the bog. He chose their hiding place well. They hunkered down amidst the cattails and milkweed until twilight faded to black. Eventually the muck seeped into her thin boots. She would have no choice except to remove the ruined leathers and wring them out before sliding them back on. Aeden seemed oblivious to the wet, although her dilemma did prompt an unexpected reaction from him.
“We’ll supply you with another pair when we reach Caeverlark.”
“Oh, that is very kind, yet I cannot accept. I have naught to compensate your generosity.”
She wished her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark. She was heartily tired of him frowning at her.
“You have no choice but to accept, and if the cost is your worry, mayhap we might make a trade.”
Intrigued, she waited for him to elaborate. When no explanation followed, she couldn’t work up the nerve to ask what he thought she had of value that made an even trade. Boots were expensive.
He stood in front of her and held out his hand. “Ready?”
She placed her cold fingers into his warm grip. “Yes.”
They started again, but this time he guided her over the rougher terrain.
“Not much longer,” he promised.
Finally free of the fen, she noticed a lone horse tethered to an elm. It pulled its nose out of a honey bush long enough to scent the air. Recognizing his master, he nickered. Aeden approached, flattened his hand and the animal nudged and nuzzled his palm. He ran his hand down the animals back and reached for a bundle, unfurled the roll and revealed a multicolored blanket in varied hues of greens and blues. He tossed the item in her direction.
“Dress yourself.”
Surprised by the blunt demand, she held up the garment between thumb and forefinger, judged the article, and decided he asked the impossible. Unconvinced of its intended use, she concluded the thing far more useful spread over a bed than a body. It retained neither shape, nor make.
With an air of forbearance he explained, “’Tis an arasaid worn by the women of my clan.”
Next, he handed her a long yellow garment.
“The cotton blouse is worn beneath the woolen.”
She tsked. “I am well aware of a woman’s underpinnings.” She tested the texture and shook her head. “Must I wear this? ’Tis scratchy.”
All traces of tolerance gone, he frowned, again.
“Put it on and be done with it.”
She pulled a face, less pleased with his behavior than the garment. “I do not wish to be argumentative — ”
One eyebrow arched toward his hairline. “You could ha’ fooled me.”
She sent him a disdainful glower, uncertain why she continued to argue the point when she knew he was right and she wasted precious time. Nonetheless, the thought of undressing beneath his watchful eye seemed more than a little degrading. “I should like you to explain why I must wear this cloth that, in my estimation, is little more than a blanket. Asides, I already wear an underskirt. Well, several, and they’re much softer alongside the skin.”
He expelled a loud breath rife with irritation giving her the full benefit of his attention. “I’m no’ in the habit of explaining my reasons.”
Her eyebrows rose at his rude pronouncement.
Although he didn’t raise his voice, there was a definite edge to his words. “Do as I instruct, woman.”
The “or else” was implied, however, she refused to be cowed by the man. Tired of his irritable disposition and inability to meet her half way, she groused with little compunction.
“Sir, I do not believe I asked for the moon and stars. Surely, the person commanded to strip in the out-of-doors deserves the courtesy of a lengthy explanation.”
When he raked his eyes over her body, her cheeks grew hot, but she stood her ground. If she gave in now, he would come to expect her capitulation in all instances.
“Enough,” his hand sliced through the air, and he moved in to loom over her. “Did it no’ occur to you that you will stand out in your richly made, English clothes.”
His annoyed expression morphed into one of impatience. “Clothe yourself. I do no’ wish to spend another night upon this blighted soil.”
So saying, he presented his back to her. She supposed this was his one concession to privacy. Miffed by his high-handed manner, she stuck her tongue out at his broad back. The childish gesture did nothing to relieve her frustration as she fiddled with the odd woolen piece. Precious moments slipped away before she admitted to herself she needed assistance. Defeated, she dropped her arms, blew a hank of hair off her forehead and wondered if a person might die from shame.
“Well, there is naught for it,” she murmured.
She poked Aeden’s shoulder.
He jerked beneath her hand, but caught himself from turning around. “Are you dressed yet?” Even though he assumed a casual stance, his body exuded tension.
“I do require your assistance.”
The sharp intake of breath followed by a rush of air gave her pause. Was he truly irate with her request?
“I am no’ a lady’s maid,” he grumbled.
She huffed, disgusted with both him and the cloth.
“Unfortunately for you, a lady’s maid is what I require, and as one is unavailable, you, sir, are it.”
The force of the sigh he loosed might have uprooted a tree stump if any were about. Tired, she dropped her arms down to her sides and gave in to tears of frustration. “Truly, this is too ridiculous.”
He didn’t budge. “We do no’ have all day.”
Exasperated, Elisande blurted, “I do not know how to wrap this garment. If you do not help me, we will stand here all night. I have immense sympathy for your wife if you are this obstinate in your everyday life.”
In profile, she noticed his jaw clench. “I’m no’ married.”
The resigned note in his voice surprised her, briefly derailing her irritation. Had he been disappointed in love, thereby refusing to marry? Mayhap he had a bevy of women to choose from and remained undecided. Either way, he was allowed to choose for himself, not suffer the whims of a mercenary sire.
“Are you properly clothed?”
His question thrust her back into the moment, and she took inventory of her appearance. One arm exposed to the elements, hair in a tangle, and the blasted arasaid still a blanket. “I have told you already I am not. This beastly garment is impossible to put on!”
“Are you down to the hide or no’?” Impatience peppered his terse speech.
Scandalized, she gasped. The shameful question put a stop to her struggles. Pin-pricks of heat flooded her cheeks at his outrageous inquiry. “Good Lord, of course not. Just because I am forced to wear this hideous dress chosen by my father’s wife, please do
not make assumptions about my virtue.”
“To what purpose were you forced to wear such revealing garb?”
Ashamed, she stared at her feet. “I — it is embarrassing, and I do not wish to speak of it.”
Abruptly, he whipped around, causing her to lose balance, her arms wind-milling out at her sides. Quick as fox, he grabbed her arms, and pulled her back.
“Ow.” She reached up and scrubbed the palm of her hand over her right eyebrow, all traces of shame gone and replaced, once again, by irritation.
“Why did you have to yank so hard?” She twisted away from him and tripped on the hem of her skirt.
“For God’s sake, woman, hold still and step sideways.”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
At his silence, she glanced up. Astonishment etched deep lines in his face as he stared after her mouth ajar and his large hands planted on his lean hips.
“What is it?”
“Did you just tell me to, ‘keep my hair on’?”
Unapologetic, her voice dripped with sugared sweetness. “Why yes, I believe I did.”
Eyes narrowed, he scowled.
“God on high, is it possible for you to form any other facial expression besides that cursed frown?”
He was serious when he answered. “I am no’ frowning.”
“If the face you sport signifies your delight, I would avoid any cows unless you enjoy curdled milk.”
That he possessed the audacity to deny his displeasure and then use her title in a snide tone deserved her rude rejoinder.
He gripped the back of his neck with both hands and transferred his weight to one leg. “For Christ’s sake, lass, you’d try the patience of a saint.”
“Ha.” She clucked her tongue. “Do not delude yourself. You’re no more patient than I, nor will you ever be sainted.”
He threw his hands in the air. “Do you want my help or no’?”
“I believe that is what I have been — ”
Before she could finish, he whirled her about, hooked two fingers into the lace neckline and wrenched the bodice until the flimsy material gave way. Another firm tug split the fabric down the front seam and shredded the gown.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Helping you undress.”
Chapter Four
Appalled by the amount of exposed flesh, she slapped her palms on the swell of her breasts. It proved a futile effort — akin to tossing a tankard of ale on a grass fire. Thankfully, the rest of the ruined garment hung down in pieces shielding her womanly bits. She did notice his eyes follow her hands. Well, she assumed so, if the bright flush across the bridge of his nose was any indicator. Distracted, the soft thunk atop her foot almost passed unnoticed. Then she remembered shoving the comfort-stone down the vee of her gown when she fled the estate. Frantic, she fell to her knees and sifted her fingers through the long grass, her nakedness forgotten in an effort to find her cherished stone.
His voice softened to a kind tone. “Here, lass.”
He reached down and tried to pick her up, but she shook him off and clawed the grass.
“No, please, I must find my stone.” She spoke in a broken whisper.
“You have to find your … stone?”
“Yes, yes, my stone,” she answered, aware her voice carried a shrill edge.
Gentler than she thought him capable, he knelt down, covered her hands with his and gave a light squeeze.
“Be still.”
His quiet authority caused her to look up. Unwavering blue eyes captured gold, and his composure calmed the butterflies that lined her stomach, as sudden exhaustion replaced panic. She slid to the side, knees bent, and crossed her arms over her breasts. She didn’t blame him when he walked away from her. Ashamed by her display, she averted her eyes from her nakedness. Moments later, his legs came into view and he draped a plaid about her shoulders. His scent enveloped her at once. It smelled of sandalwood, leather and him.
A surprised “oh” formed her lips and she whispered, “Thank you.”
She cast her eyes about looking for any signs of pursuit, but the only disturbance was the occasional hu-hooo of the Tawny owl.
“Slow your breathing, lass.”
“But Warford … ”
“Let me worry about him. You need to calm yourself if you’re to have any breath left.”
As he spoke, his long fingers fiddled with a leaf of heather before he plucked the sprig and presented it to her. Her eyes widened and she snatched it from his hand, balanced it on her right shoulder and chanted.
“Be there evil in the air, spreading darkness everywhere, behold heather on shoulder bent, and guard us from evil intent.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Woman, what are you about?”
“Ridding the area of malevolent spirits,” she reasoned, and dug a shallow hole to bury the weed.
She stole a glance at him. Although he stayed silent, his attention had not wavered in the least. By now, most people either accused her of witchery, or made the sign of the cross and ran from her as if she offered the plague. He did neither.
“How do you know evil lurks here?”
“A cold chill chased a tremor up my spine. ’Tis a sign there are malevolent spirits about.”
He studied her with an indecipherable look for a beat. “Might not the chill be attributed to the coolness of the night and your lack of clothing?”
Uncertain what to think, she closed her eyes and opened her senses to flora and fauna alike. She set her hand in the grass near his thigh touching the outer ring of his aura. The charm-stone jabbed her palm. Relief, swift and pure, flooded her body. She slid her thumb along its smooth indent and opened herself further to the natural world. A slight breeze whispered through conifers, carrying the clean scent of pine and beyond, the heavy sweetness of rotted apples. The poignant song of the nightingale, calling to its mate, replenished her soul.
She opened her eyes to discover his were alight with an emotion she could not pin down.
“We are protected here.”
He regarded her a long moment before confirming her statement. “Aye, for the moment anyway. The guards will soon change direction if they haven’t already.”
She absorbed the information before she spoke. “And you know this, how?”
One corner of his mouth kicked up in a half-smile. “I am battle-hardened, lass, attuned to my surroundings just as you seem to be.”
Nothing escaped his notice.
The air between them practically sizzled. He shoved the long heavy undershirt at her. Head down, she wiggled into the close-fit linen blouse, mindful her ample bosom jiggled with every movement. Nervous, she prayed his attentions were occupied elsewhere. Laced in, she made an unintelligible noise to attract his notice. He faced her and, if at all affected by her semi-nude form, he disguised it well. His apparent indifference dismayed her.
In silence, he retrieved the arasaid from the ground and shook it out. Deft hands fashioned the cloth around her lower half. When that was in place, he crossed the long ends together and arranged it over one shoulder where it dangled below the small of her back. Next, he encircled her waist with a wide leather belt, securing the garment.
“You appear to understand a good deal about a woman’s attire,” she accused.
She nestled her talisman between her breasts. Satisfied it would not slip out; she glanced up and caught his stare. Something intense and indefinable flared to life between them. He started to speak when a cacophony of hooves, the clang of armor and halo-glow of torchlight appeared beyond the previous rise. He gestured to her.
“Come,” he commanded.
In a few long strides, he mounted his wheat-colored warhorse. “Ready?”
In answer, she clasped the strong hand he extended and jumped up as he pulled her forward. The natural inclination to keep her legs to one side thwarted, she straddled the horse instead, his rock-like thighs flanking her. Much to her overwhelmed sensibilities, his familiar
ity did not end there. A warm hand pressed her midriff until she flattened against his firm chest. The intimate contact he forced upon her, coupled with the earthy scent of his still-warm skin, left her breathless. The tickle of his breath along the sensitive shell of her ear sent icy prickles across her flesh. She swallowed hard, unable to suppress a violent tremor that shook her frame.
“Cold, lass?” He seemed dubious since the weather was fairly warm.
“Lass?” he prompted.
“I am — ” she cleared her throat, “ — well.”
He snugged her closer, his mouth grazed her ear, and she swallowed. Breathless with anticipation her body tensed.
“Hold on,” he whispered.
In spite of the danger, pleasure radiated throughout her body. His muscled hardness surrounded her like a shield. Remembering his command, she dug her fingers into the horse’s mane just before he urged the horse down a deer trail. The animal paced a fast clip, carrying them away from the immediate threat. He slowed the beast to a lope. Her backside rubbed against his unyielding thighs. The too-familiar touch strained her self-possession. She needed a distraction, anything to divert her reprehensible thoughts from his manly parts.
“I am a capable horsewoman, quite able to ride behind you.” Surely he detected the desperation in her voice.
“Capable or no’, I favor you right where you are.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips, only to devolve into a thin line when he added, “Asides, I have witnessed the Englishwoman’s idea of horsemanship,” he waited a beat, “’Tis an odd seat and unskilled.”
Annoyed, she upbraided him. “You say English as if speaking a foul word. Afore you say such again, please keep in mind, I am English.” She inched forward ever so slightly.
Unrepentant, he shrugged and slid her back against him. “I suppose ’tis wrong of me to defame your heritage.”
“Thank you.”
“You canna help your parentage, I ken.”
She bristled. “Come now, you cannot claim to dislike all the English.” She inched forward a fraction.
“Can I no’?” He slid her back again.
She heard the smile in his low-pitched voice. For some unknown reason, the man found enjoyment in her vexation.