by Susan King
Gerard and Etienne peered over the cliff edge, shouting threats that faded into the noise of the water. Emlyn glanced up once to see the tip of a crossbow perched on the turf. A quarrel whistled past her to clatter away on the rocks, quickly followed by another bolt that almost caught Thorne’s arm.
Thick, damp moss coated the slippery rock surfaces. Emlyn’s face and hair and hands were misted and dripping from the spray. Once or twice she missed her footing on a slick lichenous mat. Against the rough green face of the gorge, the breeze played free with her cumbersome cloak and damp skirts and soggy braids.
When a bird flew past and startled her, she tightened her grip on the rocks and clung for a moment, breathing heavily, determined to quell the fear that roiled in her gut. She stretched her foot downward to go on.
Thorne seemed to descend effortlessly, his cloak floating out on the breeze, the quiver and longbow bouncing against his back. Whining quarrels cutting occasionally through the air seemed to bother him no more than buzzing bees. Struggling with her wet skirts and shorter limbs, Emlyn cursed under her breath. Looking down and glancing above made her dizzy, so she avoided looking anywhere but toward the next secure hold for her foot or hand.
As she extended her toe, a bolt pierced the folds of her mantle, fixing it to a crevice in the rock. Stretching to yank the shaft out, she nearly lost her balance. When the bolt refused to come loose, she began to panic.
Then Thorne was there beside her, gliding up to slip his arm around her back. He plucked out the bolt and flung it away. Emlyn rested her forehead for a moment against the rock face, inhaling the musty smell of the moss, breathing hard, her hands and legs trembling.
He pressed her shoulder. Another quarrel sliced the air close to his back, followed by guttural shouts. Emlyn caught her breath in a frightened sob, not sure she could move.
“Easy, lady. Take off your cloak,” Thorne said softly.
Unquestioning, she tried to unfasten the brooch. He reached over and ripped the garment away from her neck, breaking the pin. Clinging to the rock with one hand, he wound her mantle around the leather pack and flung them both into the ravine.
Peering down, she saw her things land on a rocky plateau near the waterfall. Thorne kept his cloak and bow, and she would have commented on that, but he had already dropped below her to continue his rapid, sure descent.
Relieved of the extra burden, Emlyn went faster. Soon climbing in tandem, they reached a flat ledge about two-thirds of the way down the gorge wall and squatted, looking up. The guards were no longer at the cliff edge.
“They will be coming down the path over there at any moment,” Thorne said. “We will be easy targets. Can you swim?”
Emlyn nodded. “A little,” she said. Hot summer days spent in Ashbourne’s fish pond with Guy and Richard and Agnes had taught her a few basic skills.
“A little is enough,” he said, taking off his cloak and heavy leather hauberk and dropping them, with his quiver and bow, to the same ledge where her things had fallen. “Come. Over the edge and into the pool.”
She hesitated, glancing down, and then looked up at him, her eyes large with fright. She remembered that earlier he had mentioned that the water was deep enough for swimming. “But I cannot jump from here,” she whispered.
“Emlyn. You must trust me,” Thorne said urgently. “Worry not, think not, just do what must be done.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. “Feet first, take a breath. Go!”
Again, he left her no choice, no time to think. She had to go with him, had to trust his judgment and ability. Stepping over the rock ledge into empty space, her skirts belled out as she plunged into the sharp cold of the water. Surrounded, sucked under, she kicked her legs, but her skirts wound around her, pulling her down even as she fought to go up.
Slowly, as if in a dream, she looked up through the blue-green depth of the water. Distorted by the pond surface, the green walls of the gorge hovered overhead. Reaching up, she could not rise far enough or fast enough to break through the silent skin of the water. Stale air burned in her lungs.
Thorne came into her vision, his hair floating like a wild dark cloud around his face. He grabbed her arms and drew her up with him, pushing her toward the surface.
Sputtering, she exhaled and whooped in new breath, shaking her head, throwing an arm around Thorne’s neck. He guided her along with him until she began to swim on her own and could follow his lead across the pool and straight toward the falls.
“Take a breath,” he called, and when she did, he pulled her under the water toward the milky, foaming cascade. Diving down, they swam through the cold churning water and came up for air.
Gasping, sweeping her hair away from her face, Emlyn looked around in wonder. They were behind the force, which formed one sparkling, thundering wall of a narrow rocky alcove.
Thorne broke the surface beside her, clearing his hair out of his eyes, drops of water glistening like crystals in his beard. Treading water close to her, he reached out and pulled her to him, pressing his cheek against hers. Emlyn twined her arms tightly around his neck, coughing and wiping her face.
“Dear God, Emlyn,” he breathed raggedly into her ear, “I thought I had lost you.” His cool, wet lips touched her brow, her cheek, and clung to her mouth for a long moment.
With quick long strokes, he helped her swim to the back wall. Hauling himself up onto a narrow ledge, he half lifted her out of the water, then turned to toe along the ledge toward the gorge.
Shivering, Emlyn waited only a moment before he appeared again, carrying her cloak, the satchel, and his things. Beckoning for her to follow, he walked along the narrow, slippery ledge and bent to slither into a dark cleft in the rock.
She followed him into a natural tunnel, barely wide enough to squeeze through. The short passage opened into a tiny cave, dark but dry, where the noise of the waterfall was reduced. The low ceiling grazed Emlyn’s head when she stood, and the walls tapered sharply. Thorne, too tall to stand upright in the cave, sat down against the wall.
Rivulets of water ran from her dress and pooled on the sandy floor when she wrung out her skirt. She sat beside him in the small, cramped space, her shoulder and hip pressed into his.
Thorne stretched out one long leg, and they sat together, both panting from exertion.
“Ugh,” she said softly, after a moment.
“Aye,” he agreed, “an ughsome feeling, this cold and wet.”
“ ’Tis luck you knew of this cave,” she said, her teeth chattering. He reached out his arm to draw her close.
“I did not know ’twas here. When I saw the crevice, I hoped there would be some space beyond it. Not much of a cave, but ’twill hide us well, I trow.”
“What do we now?” she asked tremulously.
“We wait, my lady. I will go out shortly to see what has become of the guards.” His voice vibrated, low and pleasant in her ear.
“Did you see them when you fetched the cloaks?” she asked. “Can they find us in here?”
“They were climbing down the path into the gorge then and are surely here by now, but they did not see me. Fret not, they cannot find us here. This place is too well hidden. As long as we are quiet and have no blazing fire to be seen through the waterfall, we are as safe as in a tomb.”
Emlyn flinched at the comparison. “But night approaches.”
“Aye,” he said, barely whispering. “The guards may make camp in the gorge, for one of them is wounded.”
“Must we stay the night here? ’Tis so cold.”
“If we must, we can.” He tightened his arm around her and she leaned her cheek against the soggy wool of his tunic, her body fitting comfortably to his at hip and thigh and shoulder. Thorne rubbed his fingers along her arm, and gradually her shivering began to lessen, though the cold was piercing.
From the tumbled pile of their things, he picked up his cloak and drew it over them like a blanket. Hunched in their chilly, soaking garments, they shivered beneath the dry wool.
In a moment, he sat up again. “Jesu,” he muttered, “we must get dry and warm, or perish of this cold.” Moving away, he quickly pulled off his wet tunic.
Silvery light from the tunnel entrance traced the undulating, muscular contours of his body as he stripped, wrung his tunic with fierce twists, and hung it on a jutting rock. When he bent over to remove his boots and breeches, she caught a glimpse of the side of his taut buttocks before she glanced away.
“Hand me my cloak,” he said softly.
Her gaze shifted back to him, to the gleaming light that outlined his powerful legs and wide shoulders. Blushing heatedly, she tossed him the mantle. He quickly wrapped it around him, and crossed the cave in two crouching strides to drop down beside her.
“Now you must do the same,” he murmured.
In the host of improprieties Emlyn had experienced of late, any one of which would have shocked Tibbie into apoplexy if she had known, this was by far the greatest. Not enough that she sat beside a nude man; now she would need to remove her own saturated clothing to don the dry garments in her bag. Wrapping her arms around herself uncertainly, she shivered violently and sneezed.
Thorne sat up. “Lady, you are chilled to the bone. If we are to survive this cursed night we must both get warm. Remove that sopping gown before you become ill.”
He was right and she knew it. Turning her back to him, she reluctantly slid up the skirt of her gown to remove her boots and wool hosen. Tugging at the side laces of her gown beneath the cover of the cloak, she gave a half sob of frustration when she encountered stubborn wet knots.
Thorne reached out to undo the crisscrossed silken cords. She turned away from him, but he laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Let me help you,” he said softly. His gentle tone eased her anxiousness a little. She lifted her arm slightly to give him access to the lacing.
His long, nimble fingers worked patiently. Emlyn watched the soft sheen of his dark head inches from her own in the dimly lit cave. When his fingers brushed against the subtle swell of the side of her breast, she found herself breathing raggedly, heavier.
Her thoughts were centered not on the danger of their predicament, with guards just outside looking for them; not on the half-mad marriage proposal she had received; but rather on his scent, on his touch. On the light graze of his fingers against the curving side of her breast as he undid the laces. On the scent of his damp hair, of warm male skin and the freshness of their cold water plunge. His breathing, too, was louder now, nearly in tandem with hers.
He touched her other shoulder, and she turned to allow him to undo the laces on the opposite side. Pulling her back against him, he slipped his arm over her chest to work at the second set of knots. Warmth radiated wherever their bodies touched. She thought his fingers trembled at the laces.
When her loosened gown slipped down over her shoulder, she felt his warm breath against her bare skin. Then, suddenly, his soft lips were nuzzling the back of her neck below the part of her heavy, damp braids, his beard tickling the skin there. Her heart seemed to plummet into her belly and bound back up again at the utter pleasure of the feeling. Instinctively she arched her back, and his hand came full over the softness of her breast. She might have moved, but her ability to reason was rapidly diminishing.
Then he turned her abruptly into his arms. Drawing her across his lap, he covered her lips in a melting, crushing kiss that suckled the breath from her. Winding her arms around him, she pressed closer to him, aching for more of his touch, for his warm solidity. The skin of his back was cool and damp beneath her trembling fingertips, and the puckered scar of an old, deep wound marred the smooth muscle there.
“Emlyn,” he murmured against her lips, “marry with me.”
She would have spoken but his tongue touched at her lips, the contact moist and hot and vibrant in the cold darkness.
She opened to its irresistible caress, moaning softly against his searching, pulling lips.
Thorne sank his fingers into her hair, loosening what was left of the tangled braids, and ran his hand along the damp, cool, silky length. Grasping a pillowed handful of its heavy thickness near the nape of her neck, he pulled her head back.
“Marry with me,” he repeated hoarsely. His lips swept the gentle arch of her throat, his breath blowing hot into the neck of her gown, warming her damp breasts. The silken fabric slid full off her shoulder, and his long fingers found the buttersoft contour of one breast beneath her wet chemise. His palm pressed into the firmly niched center, sending deep quavers through her body.
“Thorne—” she whispered, shuddering suddenly, only in part because of her chilled skin. What he asked of her, what his lips and hands and words were urging from her frightened her in part. Yet she realized that she trusted him now, so completely that she felt, with odd surprise, no need to cease his hands or his words. She drew a kind of strength from his solid, sure touch, and the sense of lightness grew within her.
“Marry with me,” he breathed, and kissed her again, soft and clinging. Her lips began to tremble beneath his as she began to answer, but he sat back and looked at her, frowning.
“By the rood,” he murmured, “your skin is like ice. We need to get you dry.” Sitting back a little, he pulled off her cloak, deftly released the last of the side laces, and tugged her gown over her head.
A curious weakness had sapped any urge to protest. She allowed him to remove the gown. He skimmed her wet chemise up her thighs and quickly drew the clinging fabric over her head, flinging the garments away. Turning her, naked now, he cradled her snugly in his lap and pulled a cloak around them both. Her bare skin seemed to absorb an instant, simmering warmth from his skin, startlingly intense and profoundly welcome.
As he held her, her arm and breasts grazed the long wedge of hair that softened the taut surface of his torso. Against her hip, she could feel the rigid press of him, wholly exciting and strangely intriguing. She curled into his embrace, anticipating more than simple warmth from him now, more than simple kisses. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she was certain, for a moment, that he could feel its strong beat, just as she was easily sensing his.
“Are you cold, love?” he asked, as he tucked the cloak closer around them, a thick, soft shield against the chill, damp air.
“Aye so, she murmured, shuddering. He wrapped her in his arms as a sultry heat kindled between and around their bodies. Languorously he rubbed his hand down her back, his other arm across her thighs, those fingers lightly caressing the silken skin of her hip. After a moment he groaned softly, his lips near her ear, a low whispered vibratto that spun a melting whirlpool down in her belly.
“Emlyn,” he breathed, “Emlyn. Marry with me.” His lips brushed along the skin of her jaw toward her mouth, erasing all traces of reason from her mind.
“Wait,” she murmured, “I cannot think—”
“Neither can I think well,” he whispered, laying his mouth over hers, gentle, breathless, nuzzling kisses. “God. I cannot think at all.” He lowered his head, and his lips moved against the velvety skin of her upper breast.
As his fingers slipped over her hardened nipple, as his lips found the firm bud, she arched and gasped low.
When he raised his head to kiss her mouth again, long and luscious, the deep searing warmth offering a glorious comfort in the cold cave interior, Emlyn opened her lips fully beneath his, a swift moment of surrender amid the whirling, surging sensations that overwhelmed her last rational thought.
She roused beneath his subtle touches, like feathers, like soft flame along her skin, slow and potent caresses that stoked something fervid within her. His body was warm and hard along hers, like a banked hearth, heating her skin and awakening a kind of blood-fire that she had no idea how to quell or control. She only went with it, willing and curious.
Kneading her breasts beneath long, gentle fingers, with his other hand he answered the instinctive arching of her body. Slipping between her thighs, his skimming touch moved upward. At her sudde
n intake of breath, he drew her head to his shoulder and moved his lips along her ear. “Emlyn,” he whispered, “wed with me. Now. Here.”
“Oh, God,” she gasped, “Thorne—”
“Now,” he murmured. His tongue and lips swallowed the little half sob that burst from her when his finger delved into the downy cleft, slick within, sliding upward. With firm, delicate motion, his fingers stoked the ember within until she sobbed wordlessly and tossed her head back, straining toward his touch.
Effortlessly, he turned her so that she straddled him, her breasts flush against his chest, their sensitive, awakened tips teased by the hair that feathered over his chest. His heart thudded a heavy pulse beneath hers; the rhythm blended with the rapid beat of her own heart, and merged with the soft thunder of the waterfall outside.
Lifting her for a moment, he set her down again, and pushed, firm and warm, between her thighs. A shift of his hips, a willing settle of hers, sheathed him, wrapped him just inside. She surged forward, stirring her hips, breathing deep and heavy with a need so strong that she nearly cried out for the want of it. Yet he held still; she sensed the subtle tension within him.
“Thorne—” she said breathlessly, pressing her lips to the side of his brow.
“Your answer,” he whispered raggedly against the soft underside of her jaw. “I would have it now, than later. Wed me, now and here.” Together, as one, they stirred again, pulsing, moistened, waiting. His hands pressed into her back and he leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing rapid and charged with intensity. She kissed his sweat-damp skin. At what moment he had begun to ask two questions of her, one with his body, the other with his heart, she was not certain, but she knew that both questions could be answered the same.
His hands slid to her hips, his fingers trembling. “Urge me to stop,” he whispered, “and I will. But press me to go on, and ’tis done.” Their breaths, a rushing echo in the small, damp cave, hung in the air.