“Keep going,” he shouted to Helen. “Let Starlight choose her footing.”
The shale was loose and heavy, disastrous for a horse if not taken slowly. The narrow path edged a steep valley, and a single misstep could be fatal. Mist shrouded the trail and turned the hillside into a huge bottomless abyss. He’d never have come up here if the blasted map hadn’t dictated it.
Helen slipped to the side of her saddle and he froze, watching breathlessly as she
righted herself. Bloody hell, that was too close. He forced his breaths to even, feeling like the skin had been stripped from his body. All that was left was his heart. He was goddamn furious at the situation.
Helen stopped on the trail before him, obviously unnerved by her near fall.
“We have to cross the ravine before the rain gets worse,” he yelled. Otherwise, they’d be stuck on this side for days, at a dead end with no way to outrun the men following them.
She didn’t look back, just continued on. Both horses slipped and slid their way down the rocky trail. Their labored breaths were puffs of smoke in the fog—the storm had brought the cold. On either side of the trail, water cascaded down the steep mountain in rills and waterfalls. His hat kept some of the rain from his face, but Helen’s bonnet was drooping and clung to her skin. She must be freezing.
Finally, the path flattened, and they reached the river crossing. Roane’s curses were swallowed by the roaring sound of the white water. The river was already swollen over its banks and nearly impossible to cross.
He glanced at Helen. Her face was pale and her lips blue from the cold. There was no time to waste; they had to cross and make camp.
He investigated the waters upriver and found a straight, wide and shallow spot that seemed safe to cross.
He hoped.
“Ready?” he yelled to Helen, motioning for her to follow him. He knew she was afraid. The horses, the storm, the goddamn men shooting at them. But she lifted her chin and nodded, showing nothing of her fear.
Warmth flooded his chest. He was proud of her. More proud than he had any right to be. “We’ll switch horses.” Roane was already on the ground. He would rather ride with Helen on his lap, but Zeus couldn’t safely carry two riders across the river. He didn’t know Starlight well, but he trusted Zeus with his life.
With Helen’s life.
“I’ll go first on Starlight. Follow close behind. Go slow and keep your weight forward.”
Helen was stiff from cold and fear when he pulled her down from her mount. Roane chaffed her upper arms. “Helen.” He slid his palms up to her face and tilted it toward his. “Helen, it is naught but ten seconds. Zeus is a powerful horse. I’d not send you across if I didn’t feel confident.”
She nodded and—he couldn’t help himself—he planted a swift kiss on her cold lips. Then he helped her atop Zeus. His stirrups did not fit her, and he’d only a moment to shorten them before he gave his mount a firm pat on the buttocks. “Take her safely, Zeus.”
He turned to Starlight. “Just you and me, old girl.” He lowered the stirrups and swung up into the strange saddle. Starlight danced sideways two steps, growing accustomed to his weight on her back. “We’ll take this nice and slow.”
He led the mare into the water, one foot, then two. She lifted her head, but otherwise seemed to take to the wet well. Once they had cleared the shallow bank, he turned in his saddle. “Now,” he yelled to Helen.
Zeus stepped into the river and Helen fell forward and wrapped her hands around the gelding’s neck, holding on for dear life. Roane caught his breath, his heart slamming as they entered the deeper rapids. But Zeus didn’t flinch, unaffected like the warhorse he was.
“Good boy,” Roane muttered under his breath, loving that horse with his whole heart and not wanting to consider this choking, piercing feeling he had for Helen.
He turned forward and gave the mare a reassuring pat. She was navigating the currents perfectly.
They’d almost gained the opposite bank when a wave splashed against his leg, near to his knee. The mare reared as the cold hit her belly. Roane instantly relaxed his hands on the reins and let himself be lifted upward, then brought his weight forward on the way down. But Starlight’s front legs were swept from under her by the rushing current.
They went down. Horse and rider hit the freezing water.
Roane kicked and kicked, struggling to get his feet out of the ill-fitting stirrups. Cold water closed over his head and he held his breath, twisting his way out of the saddle. Finally, he came up for air. Starlight was already a few yards farther downstream, her front legs working frantically to swim through the white water. Somewhere, he heard Helen screaming.
He swam diagonal to the current and was able to grab a tree branch on the river’s edge. He had to get to Helen, be sure she was safe. But his arms were exhausted from chopping wood and he slipped. The water closed over his head and, when he resurfaced, he was another fifty yards downstream. Finally, he wrapped his arms and legs around a fallen tree and hauled himself out of the water. He gained his feet, caught his breath, and ran upriver.
Tree branches caught at his clothes and stung his face as he rushed through the thick growth. At last, he saw Helen, seated atop Zeus, staring at the waves.
She’d made the crossing safely.
“I’m all right,” he called. His voice was hoarse from the water he’d swallowed, but she heard him.
“Roane!” she shrieked.
“I have to find Starlight.” He turned and ran downriver again to try to save the mare.
Some angel was watching over them, for the horse was only a hundred yards away, having gained the bank on their side of the river. The mare’s eyes were wild with fear as Roane approached. He slowed his steps, speaking softly and reassuring her she was safe. She allowed him to grab her reins, and he slumped down, still coughing water from his lungs.
But there was no time to rest. The rain had turned to sleet and was hitting like little needles. He had to get back to Helen. The mare in tow, he stumbled and slipped on exhausted legs. It seemed forever before he reached Helen again.
“You’re bleeding,” she gasped when he pressed through the trees. He looked down and, sure enough, his clothes were covered with blood. His blood.
“Your arm.” Still seated atop Zeus, Helen lifted her skirt and tried to tear a length of her petticoat, presumably to wrap his wound. But her fingers would not work. Cold was settling into her bones.
Roane ignored his forearm, which hurt like the devil now. He looked at Helen, so small and slim atop Zeus. More than anything, he wanted to keep her safe. More than finding the gold, more than securing his own dreams for the future, he wanted to keep this brave and stubborn woman from harm.
But she was dangerously chilled. Her lips were blue, she was shivering uncontrollably, and her breathing was fast and shallow.
He should never have allowed her to ride into the mountains with him. Should never have led them atop Bleaklow, blast the goddamned map.
It took a few tries, but he found the path and climbed out of the ravine, leading Starlight by the reins, Helen and Zeus behind. He pushed them over two hills until finally, the glistening tops of trees appeared above a deep crag. They had made it to Birchen Bank Wood. Here, they would find shelter from the wind and the worst of the rain, and plenty of wood for a fire.
The path down to the woods was steep, with loose rocks rolling beneath their feet. Roane stopped at the first flat, calm spot he found and turned to Helen.
“Aw, sweetheart,” he muttered, gently pulling her off Zeus and into his arms. She did not protest, just slid off the side. “Are you cold?”
“Tired.”
He placed her on the ground, but her legs buckled and he swept her up into his arms. It was not a good sign that she was no longer cold. It meant the chill was setting in. The thin layers of her clothing were soaked through. He crushed her against him, wishing he could warm her by sheer will.
“I am no mere mortal man,” he teased, muttering a string of nonsense, promising her everything under the sun. He grabbed a blanket, then carried her to a group of low-hanging Scots pine and placed her on some dry needles.
Ignoring the gash on his arm, he untied the ribbons of her soaked bonnet and pulled it off her head. Her lips and ears were blue. He guessed that, if he took off her riding gloves, her fingers would be blue as well. He’d seen it before and knew he had to act fast. First, he’d get her wet clothes off her and wrap her in a dry blanket. Then, he’d make a fire.
He’d dreamed of getting her naked every night since they’d met. But never like this.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling her across his lap. “I have to take your clothes off. I will try not to cut them, because I notice you are very concerned about your garments. I know how much you love this gown.”
He kept up his useless monologue as he pulled off her wet clothing. Her cloak came off quickly, but her gown was plastered to her skin, and he had to use his knife on the laces. His own fingers stiff from cold, he wrestled the heavy gown over her head. A series of violent shivers wracked her small frame.
She half looked around. “I don’t feel well. You should go get my papa.” Another round of shivers coursed through her. Roane swore under his breath. Confusion would lead to sleep and perhaps never waking up.
With a curse, he set to work on the laces of her corset and yanked it off. He couldn’t help but steal one glance at her full, round breasts as he removed her transparent shift.
Christ.
She was gorgeous. He had to close his eyes and take a breath before he could continue to remove her clothing.
Her boots were muddy and the laces were a pain, but he could not cut them, not if she hoped to ride out of here tomorrow. Swearing heartily, he finally got them untied and pulled the useless boots off her feet. The breeches he’d given her came next. Those stuck to her skin and he had to peel them down her long, long legs.
Good God, his hands were numb from cold. Gritting his teeth, he peeled off her garters and cotton stockings.
Roane wrapped Helen in the blanket and rubbed her limbs vigorously through the coarse wool. “I thin’ I fell ashleep in my bath.” Helen slurred her words like a drunkard. “So cold.”
“I need to find wood,” he said, rubbing her arms as if he could rub heat back into her bones. She was shaking and her teeth clattered as she nodded.
He ran as fast as he dared through the small valley, looking for wood dry enough to burn. It seemed an eternity had passed, though it was likely a matter of a few minutes before he had an armload of sticks.
When he got back to camp, Helen was huddled into a ball on her side.
Not a good sign.
He couldn’t decide what to do first, start the fire or go to her. She won out.
He needed to get his own clothes off. It would be best if he held her close, letting his skin warm up her skin. It was the fastest way to treat such extreme heat loss. But he didn’t know if he could do it. Just looking at her was torture. To hold her… He didn’t trust himself naked with her, not even now. Heaven knew, he was no saint.
He crossed to the horses and unstrapped the saddlebags from Zeus—
Mittens! The poor kitten. Roane flipped open the lid to the basket and pulled out the shivering, soaked kitten.
“There, there, little one.” He rubbed the kitten vigorously and promptly got a nice swat of sharp kitten claws. Mittens seemed to be just fine. Roane placed him under a tree, relieved to see the animal was none the worse for wear. But he himself didn’t fare so well—he was bleeding again, the gash on his forearm swollen and angry. He whipped his shirt off over his head and wrapped his arm with a length of linen from his saddlebag. Then he grabbed his woolens and a second blanket and went back to Helen.
His breeches gave him trouble, but finally they were off and he stepped into the woolen hose. He climbed into the blankets and pulled Helen into his arms. Sensation overwhelmed him.
Her skin was freezing.
Her breasts were round and heavy and lay on his left forearm.
Her bare buttocks nestled his cock.
She was soft everywhere. Impossibly soft.
He squeezed his eyes closed, but it did not help. He was a cad for getting so worked up when she was near to freezing to death. This was a new low, even for him.
“Mmm,” she murmured and pressed closer to him. “Better than a fire.”
Roane counted backward from one hundred. Still, his cock hardened until it was straining painfully against her soft bottom. He tried to conjugate Latin, but soon abandoned that useless task. He thought about his aunt’s grave. His father. The men chasing them. Anything.
Nothing helped.
His left hand twitched, desperate to cup her luscious breast. He could feel the weight and shape of her in his palm. Tortured, he tucked his chin and rested his lips on her bare shoulder for one quick moment. It couldn’t even be called a kiss, not technically.
Helen was quiet, her breathing steady, and Roane assumed she had fallen asleep. But another violent tremor took hold of her body, making her quake from head to toe. She was still too cold.
He rubbed her arm briskly, trying to warm her, and she rolled over and pressed the front of her body against him. The tips of her hardened nipples grazed his bare chest and he groaned, fisting his hands in the blanket to keep from hauling her up against him and kissing her with all his tortured passion and longing.
Needing something to do, he vigorously rubbed her back and, good God, felt the naked swell of her buttocks beneath his palm.
Her breathing stopped altogether and her posture went rigid. When he looked down at her, her eyes were open, staring up at him.
“I’m…I’m naked,” she whispered.
Roane swallowed. He could see the lovely tops of her breasts, could feel them against his skin. He was going mad. “Yes.” His voice was like sandpaper.
She did not pull away, but she did secure the blanket tight over her breasts, leaving his bare back exposed to the cold. He hardly noticed.
She stared at his chest.
“You were chilled to the bone,” he explained. His right arm was still looped over her hip, his hand resting on the crest of her arse, and he didn’t move it.
She placed her hand on his bare chest. Her fingers were still cold. “You’re not chilled.”
“No.” He was on fire. Her small touch had his blood leaping and bounding.
She stared at her hand. Her breaths quickened, became almost little pants that brushed hot little exhales across his chest.
She was killing him.
God help him, Roane let her go and rolled to his feet in a swift motion that left his head spinning. All the blood had gone to his cock. “I need to make a fire.”
He couldn’t look at her. He scrubbed both hands through his hair, trying to calm himself down, then set to laying out the fire. He needed to get a source of heat and set water to boiling. Then he would give her something hot to drink.
He always carried flint and a bit of dry bark in his saddlebag, so, with patience, he managed to start the damp fire. He pulled on his wet cloak—even wet the wool would warm him—and filled the kettle at the river.
When he returned, the fire was blazing, heat rolling off it in near visible waves. Helen was a lump hidden in the blankets. He passed her the woolen shirt, and she grabbed it from him, not uttering a sound.
Using a padded cloth, he pulled the kettle out of the fire and poured some hot water into the cup. The rest he poured into the canteen.
He placed the canteen on Helen’s belly, atop the blankets so it wouldn’t scald her skin, and held the cup to her lips. “Drink this.”
“I can do it—” She sputtered as he poured the hot liquid down her throat, but swallowed. He did not stop until the warmth filled he
r belly.
“I feel awful,” she mumbled.
Roane pressed his lips into something like a smile. They had gotten through the worst of it. “You’ll feel better soon.” He hoped, anyway. There was no telling if the cold would get into her lungs, or if she would develop a fever.
He placed Mittens at her feet—the kitten had curled up close to the fire and was warm to the touch. Then he grabbed the kettle and once again headed to the river. This time, he kept his eyes trained for signs of the men following them. He saw nothing—it would be impossible for them to cross the river now.
On his way back to camp, he looked for rose hips. His Aunt Pearl had always made him rose hip tea when he was ill. To his luck, he found a small cluster of bushes and gathered a handful of the fruit.
But stomping through the wet woods did little to cool his longing. All he could see was Helen naked. Helen’s nipples. Helen’s belly. Helen’s thighs. Then, naturally following such thoughts—his mouth on her nipples. His fingertips tracing her navel. His knees between her thighs, pressing her open.
Torture.
He wasn’t going to touch her. He was going to stay in these damn woods until he had himself under control.
Chapter Twelve
Helen felt like she’d been trampled by horses.
Her every muscle was stiff and sore, and she could barely move. She sat huddled in a ball, her arms clutching the warm object Roane had given her.
Canteen. It was a canteen. She needed to clear the cobwebs from her head and get herself oriented. She brushed the tangled hair from her eyes and peered around. She sat beneath a structure of some sort and a fire burned just feet away.
Apparently, while she’d been sleeping and utterly useless, Roane had been a veritable font of ingenuity.
The man had somehow found a small, flat clearing on the side of this Godforsaken mountain and erected a shelter against the storm. He’d woven pine boughs into the branches over her head, effectively warding off the rain and dripping water. He’d also coaxed a fire to life amidst the torrential downpour and was drying her clothes over the flames.
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