Wildewood Revenge

by B. A. Morton

  “What year is this?” she asked.

  Miles cocked his head. “It is February, my lady, in the year of our Lord 1275.”

  Oh yes, this was definitely a dream. How else could she have walked into the woods in 2012 and come out in 1275? She smiled to herself, blessed relief coursing through her. As far as dreams went, it could have been worse. She’d always wondered why knights in shining armour got such good press, maybe if she stayed asleep for long enough she’d find out.

  Then again, a weirdo would say anything and a crazy girl might just believe him.

  She closed her eyes gave a final shake of her head and decided regardless of whatever weirdness had befallen her, she may as well go along for the ride.

  Chapter Seven

  The sun broke through the clouds briefly and the landscape was transformed. The snow, treacherously thick in places, glistened like jewels covering the myriad of rocks littering the high ground. The brightness caused Grace to squint and she released her hold on the saddle to shield her eyes with one hand. She felt Miles’ weight shift slightly behind her as he compensated for her unstable position. She’d dozed briefly, lulled by the gentle motion of the horse, but now she was awake and he was still there, large as life and not in the least dreamlike.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” she whispered, despite her resolve never to speak to her captor again. Her voice was swept away by the wind across the moor and lost amongst the surrounding hills. She assumed she’d gone unheard until she felt his breath warm against her ear.

  “Wait until you see the view from the top, it’s breathtaking. If the sun holds out and the snow holds off, you’ll see over the border and beyond into Scotland.”

  She turned her head out of the wind and into the shelter afforded by his chest so she could be heard, but mainly so she could avoid the feel of his breath on her skin. “Shouldn’t I be blindfolded?” she taunted mildly, she lacked the energy for a fight. “What if I escape while you’re not looking and retrace my steps back to Kirk Knowe? What happens to your ransom then?”

  Miles smiled.

  “I can blindfold you if you like, or tie you up if you prefer.” He paused momentarily as she scowled her response. “But there is no need, beneath the snow, lie bog and marsh and deep crevasses which could swallow a horse. There are paths, safe paths known to those who need to travel them. You would never find your way. You would be lost and perish up here.”

  Grace knew the ancient lore associated with the high moor. This place high above the world, almost in the clouds had cost the lives of many unwitting travellers and it was said their ghosts travelled the moor at night looking for the right path. Some said the ghosts of Roman soldiers could be heard endlessly marching and drilling at the remains of the old roman fort at Chew Green. Locals knew the moor, knew where shelter could be had when the need arose, but even they were respectful of its ferocity and its history.

  “Hmm, we shouldn’t be up here at all,” she muttered sourly. “Not while the army is on manoeuvres.” She recalled the red flags she’d so stupidly ignored. By her reckoning they were probably slap bang in the middle of the ranges.

  “Whose army?” he demanded. He pulled the horse to an abrupt stop and Edmund narrowly avoided piling into the rear of it.

  “Whose army do you think?” She shook her head, made allowances for the fact he was a little alternative.

  He gripped her chin firmly and forced her to look at him. “Whose army?” he repeated fiercely.

  Grace jerked herself free, with a frisson of alarm. “Our army, the British Army, they’ve been all over the ranges the last few days, haven’t you seen them?” How could he have missed them? The sound of their artillery rang through the valley on a regular basis.

  “What do you know about soldiers?” he hissed.

  “Nothing,” she squeaked. “I don’t know anything. They come and they run about and fire their weapons and then they go home.”

  “How many?” he growled.

  He was in her face, so close she could have counted the scars marking his brow. So close, she could feel his breath against her skin. It wasn’t pleasant, wasn’t meant to be. She tried to pull back further, but he restrained her with ease, making no effort to conceal the menace in his expression. Whatever he was, whoever he was, he was dangerous. She didn’t think it wise to reveal that hundreds of squaddies regularly played soldier on the moors.

  “You’re scaring me,” she said finally. She pulled away with considerable effort and put what little distance she could, between them. Knowing full well, he could have snapped her back against him in an instant and snapped her neck just as easily.

  “Good, it’s about time. How many?” He cocked his head, curled his lip slyly and waited.

  “Three or four...” hundred she added silently. She sent out a silent prayer in the hope that a whole battalion in full battle dress, would appear. She avoided his eyes, looked at her hands and twisted them nervously.

  “Where did you see them?”

  “I didn’t see anyone, I just heard them. In the wood before we...met.”

  He stood in the stirrups narrowed his eyes against the glare from the snow and scanned the terrain. There were no soldiers to be seen in the vast, snowy wasteland. He shot her a suspicious look and let the silence between them grow. The horse pawed at the ground restlessly, the jingling harness and the soft wicker of the impatient beast, the only sounds in the vast emptiness. And still he waited silently as if considering his next move.

  The snow began to fall again, softly at first in gossamer flurries, then thicker with gathering momentum. Grace pulled the cloak more securely around her shoulders, the hood over her head.

  “How long will it take to get to Wildewood?” she asked eventually, desperate to dispel the sudden weirdness.

  Miles gave her a slow, thoughtful look, the sly grin, gradually replaced by an altogether more charming countenance as if he’d finally arrived at a decision which pleased him. “We should be there by nightfall if we push the horses.” He gave a final scan of the moor before kicking the horse on. “If this snow gets worse we may have to shelter and delay our journey. Are you cold?”

  Grace shook her head. She was cold but that was the least of her problems. Deep inside her stomach churned with anxiety. She could play the fearless, couldn’t care less charade for only so long. She’d made a mistake in admitting he’d scared her and couldn’t afford to make that mistake again. The ache in her leg provided her with a well needed distraction. She concentrated on the pain, willing it to continue for the remainder of the journey, so she wouldn’t forget what he’d done to her. Or what he was capable of.

  If Miles felt the slump in her shoulders, her spirit, he gave no indication. Grace conceded, her frame of mind would be of little interest to him. He had a ransom to think about. As long as he kept her alive he would collect, that didn’t mean he had to keep her happy. She was therefore surprised and more than a little apprehensive when he tugged her back against him. Wrapping both arms around her, he provided much needed protection from the wind. Despite her resolve, she settled against his warmth. With brisk commands in a language she didn’t even try to understand, he urged the horse on at a faster pace. As the snow continued to thicken and the wind increased, he held her closer and she finally succumbed to the pain and futility of her situation, closed her eyes and laid her head gently against his chest.

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon it became apparent they could go no further. The wind was cruel, the snow unrelenting and the girl frozen and increasingly unresponsive, despite his efforts to shield her from the weather. The horses were disorientated and simply refused to move. Miles slid from the saddle leaving Grace to slump forward awkwardly over the horse’s neck. He secured her with one hand and with the other he led the animal. Behind him Edmund did the same. The two murmuring encouragement to the exhausted beasts. By will power alone they reached the shelter of a cave set high under the escarpment. The natural sanctuary was deep and had
been used before for this very purpose. There were remnants of a fire and dry kindling left for such an emergency.

  With the fire lit, Miles used the saddles and packs to create a protective shelter around it and then taking Grace’s arm he guided her into the warmth. She’d been silent since their arrival, her face pale, cheeks sunken. She looked perished. He squatted down in front of her, smoothing the fringe from her eyes.

  “Mademoiselle,” he rasped, “you need to warm yourself. Remove the cloak and allow the fire’s heat to penetrate your skin. We shall wait out the storm and complete our journey at first light.”

  There was no response.

  “Grace!” He took her chin roughly and forced her to look at him. She blinked as if woken from a trance, her eyes rolled back in her head and the shivering began.

  He muttered a curse. “Edmund get some water heated, she’s frozen through.”

  “Worried yer won’t be able to claim yer ransom?” asked Edmund, sullenly.

  Miles shot him a sharp glance. He sensed Edmund’s disapproval. Edmund was a child who should know better. They’d been through many trials together and it rankled Miles that the scrawny boy, now stood in judgement of his motives and morals.

  “Edmund, I don’t have time for this,” he snapped. He glanced back at the girl and sourly conceded that Edmund was correct. He was not assured of the ransom yet.

  He should have taken an alternate route, stopped off at a hostelry where her comfort would have been assured. He might need to do that yet. But he was reluctant to announce his return to the valley until he was good and ready, and safely ensconced at Wildewood. Not while there were soldiers on the moor, ready to cut him down before he could claim his prize. He rubbed her arms roughly with his hands to encourage the circulation.

  Her eyes flashed open. “Ow, that hurts,” she squeaked and Miles sent up a silent prayer.

  “Mademoiselle, please do not make the mistake of dying.” He forced a smile. “I will not allow it; I have a ransom to collect.” A glowering Edmund thumped the pot of snow on the fire with a shower of sparks.

  “Don’t worry,” Grace replied through chattering teeth. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. I have no intention of ending up in one of your shallow graves.”

  “My shallow...?” he shook his head, she was definitely mad.

  Initially, she resisted his attempts to keep her warm, and he could understand her wariness. If she’d any inkling of what he was capable of, then perhaps she would have taken her chances in the snow. However, ignorance of his inglorious past, along with coldness and necessity drew her close and eventually in the dead of the night she laid next to him. Her head on his arm, her back to his front, and coldness was replaced by heat. He tried to move and she whimpered softly, turning to bury her face against his chest. Miles cursed. She was moving against him and he’d been a long time without a woman. He felt the stirring of need and groaned with frustration. Someone was making jest at his expense. A despoiled nun would be worth nothing at all to the bishop.

  She slipped her slender hand beneath his shirt and released a soft sigh. She snuggled closer, her hand playing gently against muscles tensed in response. He couldn’t decide if she was particularly unrestrained for a nun or particularly skilled for a spy. His indecision on the matter merely added to his torment. If he wanted the ransom, she was a nun and definitely out of bounds. As a spy however, she must take her chances. But right here and now, wound up tighter than a drum, he had no idea who or what she was. He rolled his eyes, glanced at the cave mouth and pleaded for an early dawn.

  His thoughts strayed to Wildewood, his childhood home. He’d been away far too long. Ten years of battle, death and dishonour had transformed him from boy to man. He’d left with the outrage of youth and returned with a man’s need for revenge. It sat in his belly curdling and demanding to be set free. He could taste it like bile on his tongue. Soon he would be in a position to exact a long awaited justice. Until then he needed to keep his wits about him. Nothing and no one could be allowed to get in his way.

  He closed his eyes and succumbed to weariness. With the release of sleep he moved onto his back and the girl who he’d yet to decipher, moved with him, spending the rest of the night stretched languidly across him, her cheek nestled under his chin.

  Chapter Eight

  Grace woke slowly at first light, finally warm and rested. She stretched and snuggled deeper into a pillow which wasn’t as soft and fragrant as it should be. Miles’ shirt had come adrift in the night and she was laid upon the warmth of his skin, the firmness of his chest, the taut softness of his belly. She lifted her head groggily, opening her eyes as Miles woke with a start and they found each other nose to nose.

  Raising her hand defensively, he caught it swiftly by the wrist

  “What are you doing?” she cried, confused and indignant.

  “I could ask the same question.” Miles released her wrist, lifted her clear and dumped her on the cave floor at his side. “Mademoiselle, I believe you were the one on top.”

  Grace wriggled to a sitting position. She didn’t know how she’d ended up straddling her worst nightmare but when she looked in his eyes, still glazed with sleep, she knew that nothing had happened. The fear she’d felt the previous day remained, but for some reason this morning it was dormant. She glanced at him, wondering how long it would be before his actions caused its reawakening.

  “Okay,” she said slowly, hesitantly. “I suppose I should thank you, for being such an obliging mattress.”

  “My pleasure, Mademoiselle,” replied Miles with a slow smile. “And if you’re a good girl today and behave as you should, I promise not to reveal your indiscretions to the bishop. Though perhaps in future, it would be wise to choose your bedfellows with more care.”

  Grace shook her head and ignored his attempt at humour. “You are mad,” she said as she pushed herself away from him.

  Miles got to his feet and reached out a hand as she struggled upright. “How is your leg?”

  “It’s okay, a little stiff perhaps.” Grace flexed her leg experimentally.

  He raised a brow. “Indeed. I am similarly afflicted this morning. Perhaps we share a malady.”

  She glanced up and caught the sly smile that brushed his lips. “I very much doubt it.”

  “And your leg is okay?” He sounded out the word, his accent transforming it somewhat.

  “Yes...it means good, fine, alright...okay.”

  Miles considered her for a moment and she waited. She sensed from the look on his face he had further questions. She watched with rising indignation as he ran his gaze over the length of her.

  “Yes?” she queried shortly. “You have a problem with the way I speak?”

  He returned his eyes lazily to her face and smiled. “Not at all, Mademoiselle, I am well used to travel and the richness of language. I find your speech unusual...and interesting.”

  “Okay then,” she replied shortly.

  “Okay, indeed.” He dropped his gaze once more. “I must take a look?”

  “You must take a look at what?”

  “At your leg, I must inspect the wound to ensure no bad humours remain.”

  She chanced a sly glance at him. That had to be the worst line ever. Had she really bedded down on his chest last night? She hoped she hadn’t talked in her sleep-or worse. She wondered why he hadn’t taken advantage of the situation; she was both relieved and offended. She gave a quick mental check of the current state of her belly. The fear was waking. Admittedly it was a late riser but it was still there and no amount of French schmooze could alter the fact that he had shot her, kidnapped her and scared the life out of her.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary or proper,” she replied tartly. Did he really think she was going to drop her trousers for him? Maybe she’d given him good cause to think she would. She cringed inwardly at the thought.

  He raised his scarred brow and smiled again. “Proper, no. Necessary, yes.”

  “Oh fo
r goodness sake, take a look if you must.” She unbuttoned her trousers and lowered them just enough so he could reach the bandage around her thigh. Miles knelt before her, seemingly oblivious to the sight of her skimpy underwear and gently unwound the strip of material. She yelped as he pulled the final piece which adhered to the wound and found her fingers gripping the hair on the top of his head.

  “You hurt me, I hurt you.” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Pardon,” he winced. She had one hell of a grip. “The wound is fine and clean, it just needs to heal.” He began to replace the bandage. “When we get to Wildewood you must remove the dressing and allow the air to cleanse it further.”

  “You seem to know a lot about caring for wounds.” She kept hold of his hair, until he had finished and then pulled up her trousers self-consciously. Good God, of all the knickers she could have chosen to wear, she had to have on the tiniest, most frivolous scraps of nothingness. Why couldn’t she have donned her girl boxers or her sensible sports pants?

  He narrowed his eyes, dragged them away from her behind and back to her face. “I gained experience in the Holy Land.”

  “Oh, what did you do there?” she asked, anxious to dispel all thoughts of the appropriateness of her underwear. Was he really a knight? Had she really created herself a handsome knight in shining armour, not a bad dream after all? Although she’d seen neither armour nor crusader treasure and had yet to witness any display of chivalry. More likely he was simply so deranged he had created an alternate reality for himself in which he believed he was akin to Lancelot.

  “I killed a lot of men,” he answered grimly.