by Deborah Hale
No sense reassuring herself that her father had taken far worse hurts and laughed them off. That was before the loss of his sons had sapped his will and his reason.
Had she been wrong to steal away from him at the time he needed her most?
She tried to divert her mind from that impossibly painful question by laying plans. Surely Fulke would call off the search once darkness fell. Then she and John must get away as far as their legs would carry them through the night. Going to ground at daybreak like a pair of wild creatures. They would need help to stay ahead of pursuit and reach DeCourtenay’s stronghold near Gloucester.
Food. Clothing for her. A mount of some kind. But where to find them? In the lawless years of King Stephen’s reign, there were more folk looking to seize such items from travelers than to give them. Then it came to her.
Rosegarth. The most northerly manor of her father’s widespread honor. If she could hope for aid from any quarter, she would find it there.
Once fed and supplied, she and John must move west as swiftly as possible to reach Ravensridge. There, she would offer herself to Rowan DeCourtenay in exchange for his help in liberating Brantham. For some reason the prospect appealed to Cecily even less than it had a few hours ago.
She wished John would return soon, so she could ask him about his brother. She wished he would return soon so she could reassure herself of his safety. She wished he would return soon to help distract her from fretting about her father. For those reasons, and others she dared not examine too closely, she wished he would return.
Her eyelids hung heavy and her head ached with fatigue, but Cecily knew she dared not sleep. What was taking John so long to return? If he’d accomplished his task, should he not have been back by now? What if Fulke’s men had caught up with him?
Her belly roiled and a weight settled on her heart, like the one she had felt when her brothers went off to war. Like the one she carried for her father in spite of herself.
Cecily tried to will it away, but it would not go. Caring for a man in these violent times was folly, she reminded herself bitterly. It only left a woman prey to worry and heartache. Besides, she didn’t care for Rowan DeCourtenay’s bastard brother. Did she?
More sounds from outside. Faint but coming nearer. Again Cecily froze and listened. This was no fancy. The sounds continued to approach—padding feet and the rapid hiss of indrawn breath. She longed to call out, but caution kept her silent. If John FitzCourtenay had returned, would he not speak to reassure her?
Perhaps she had been wrong about him. Perhaps he’d been captured and forced to betray her hiding place to Fulke.
Footsteps approached the mouth of the cave. Stopped. A shadow crossed the patch of light on the cave’s floor.
Praying to see the silhouette of a half-naked man, she choked back a sob at the shade of a cloaked figure. Her hand closed over a fist-size stone. They would not take her without a fight.
Apparently not satisfied that the cave appeared empty, the figure advanced. Cecily raised her rock.
Rowan peered into the shallow cleft in the rocks. No one here. He’d searched the other caves and found them all empty. Had Cecily Tyrell broken her promise to wait for him? After all these years, he might have known better than to trust a woman.
Something drew Rowan’s gaze to the earthen floor of the cave. Did his wishful eyes deceive him, or did he detect the faint trace of a fresh footprint? He moved closer to inspect it.
A slight stirring from above and behind made him turn just in time to—
“John!”
A slender body hurtled down, knocking him to the ground. Arms went round his neck.
“Why did you not call? You gave me the worst scare. Did you lead Fulke’s pack away? I’m so glad you came back!”
The breath temporarily driven from his chest, Rowan had no choice but to submit to Cecily’s eager embrace. When at last he managed to draw air, the scent of fresh herbs rose from her hair to assail him. Her soft young breasts pressed against the base of this throat, robbing him of breath for a very different reason. A most delicious dizziness overcame him.
“John, will you answer me? Where did you come by this cloak? Are you hurt?”
He remembered his wound. “A scratch.”
Swiftly she drew back and began to examine him. “A scratch, indeed. You’re not the first to tell me that. I’ve seen a man’s arm almost severed to the bone and he would call it a scratch.”
Rowan held out his own forearm, bound with a strip of cloth he’d torn from the dead man’s cloak. “See for yourself. I’ve lost a little blood, but I haven’t been badly butchered.”
Cecily gave his arm a gentle but thorough inspection. “At least it’s on the back of the arm, not the blood-rich flesh at the crook of the elbow.” She sounded much relieved. “I won’t risk unbinding your wound until we have water to wash it clean. It’s not apt to kill you unless it goes putrid.”
Rowan marveled at her cool assessment. Poor Jacquetta had shrieked and swooned at the mere sight of blood. Once upon a time he had thought it sweetly amusing.
He’d been shocked by how little blood she’d shed dying. Only the merest trickle from her mouth.
“That’s an odd spot for a wound, though.” Cecily’s canny observation recalled Rowan from his morbid memories. “What happened?”
He struggled to sit up. His body ached from the exertion of the last several hours. His protests to Cecily notwithstanding, the knife wound did sting. Both were trifles compared with the overpowering throb brought on by Cecily’s too tempting body.
“An arm makes a poor shield.” Flashing her a wry grin, he held it up to demonstrate. “Better a blade in the arm than one in the throat.”
“So Fulke’s pack caught you and you fought your way free?” The intoxicating note of wonder in her voice made Rowan hesitate to admit the less heroic truth.
“No,” he owned at last. “I gave those hounds the slip. For aught I know, they may have run clear to Wallingford by now. I came upon a vixen caught in a snare, so I let her loose.” He chuckled, recalling his ruse. “But not before I tied a strip of your leper’s rags to her tail. No doubt she’ll lead them a merry chase until nightfall.”
“Cleverly done, indeed.” Cecily nodded her approval. “How did you come by your wound then?”
“Carelessness,” Rowan admitted. “I was circling my way back to find you when I ran into a straggler from the hunt. I tried to talk myself free, but he would have none of it. I suppose a man wandering shirtless in that part of the forest would rouse suspicion.”
“And?” Clearly she would not be satisfied until she heard it all.
“And he drew a dagger on me. We fought. I killed him and stripped his corpse of anything that might be of use to us.”
There. Let her see he had blood on his hands, as well as on his arm.
“Bravely done, John!”
Rowan shook his head. To a woman, combat was merely the stuff of thrilling ballads. He must make her see the reality.
“I had no choice. He came at me. It was more than a fair fight, for he was armed and I was not. Still, he was a fellow creature. Some woman’s husband, mayhap. Some lad’s sire. I take neither joy nor honor in having spilled his blood.”
“Of course not.” Cecily knelt beside him, her head cocked at an inquisitive angle that reminded Rowan of a bird. “I’d think much less of you if you did. But you must not take shame from it, either. You only did what was needful to preserve your life and mine.”
Somehow, her brisk practicality did ease his sense of guilt. Though not altogether. “Did they not teach you the sixth commandment at that priory of yours?”
“Is that what troubles you? Thou shalt not kill. Remember, David slew Goliath, and God did not take it ill. If your conscience pains you, when we reach Brantham you can make your confession and do penance.”
He pretended to ignore her suggestion. What would she say if he told her how many years he’s avoided confession? No amount of Pater Nos
ters or Aves would suffice to absolve the guilt that weighed his heart. No pilgrimage. Not even taking the cross.
Rowan knew, for he had tried them all.
“We have a knife now,” he said gruffly. Time to size up their meager assets. “That’ll come in handy. And I have a cloak, though no tunic. Pray the weather continues warm until we can reach some haven of safety.”
“I’ve been giving that some thought while I was waiting for you.” A wide yawn cut off Cecily’s words for a moment.
How tired she must be after such a day as this. Rowan’s own weariness suddenly crashed upon him with the heaviness of a blacksmith’s anvil.
“I think we should head north,” she continued, “to Rosegarth Manor in Warwickshire. I know the tenants well. I’m sure they’ll give us whatever aid we need to reach Ravensridge.”
Rowan dismissed the idea with a frown. “We can’t afford to lose that much time. We must head west into the lands loyal to Empress Maud. The first castle we come to, I will demand their help in the name of Her Grace.”
Cecily’s lower lip jutted out at a mulish angle. “We’ll never reach a castle to ask for help. Don’t you see? West is precisely the direction Fulke will expect me to go, once he figures out how you led his hounds astray. We would surely be taken.”
Her words stung Rowan. She would question his judgment, after what he’d done for her today? Somehow her opposition felt like disloyalty.
“Not if we’re careful and cunning as we’ve been today. You appear to know this country well. There must be places we can hide during the day. Seldom used trails.”
The gentle brown of her eyes hardened to unyielding amber. “Of course there are hiding places and secret ways, but if we go north we can travel more openly, make better haste.”
There was some sense in that, Rowan conceded—but only to himself. Admitting it to Cecily would show weakness. He was used to commanding, as warrior, leader, lord. She had made him far too vulnerable already. He dared not risk spending too much time with her. The sooner they reached Ravensridge and rallied his troops to wrest Brantham from Fulke DeBoissard, the sooner she would be out of his life.
“Once we reach our first sanctuary we can travel openly—mounted. Don’t you want to see Brantham liberated as swiftly as possible?”
“Yes, but—”
“The longer your enemy holds it, the more difficult it will be to retake.”
She sat silent for a moment. Rowan sensed the struggle within her.
“Very well,” she said at last. “It is a risk we must take. I would not see my people in Fulke’s foul clutches a moment longer than need be.”
“We’re agreed then?” Rowan could scarcely keep the tone of surprise from his voice. What had made her give in so willingly? From his experience of the women in his cousin’s court, he wondered what subtle revenge this one planned to exact.
“Agreed.” Cecily firmly checked her misgivings. She could see John FitzCourtenay’s reasoning, and he had won her assent. She would not go grudgingly, nor watch for a chance to say, “I told you so.”
“There should be a good moon tonight. I’ll lead you as far west as we can venture before sunrise. In fact, I have a hidey hole in mind if we can get that far.”
As though dismayed by the prospect of journeying empty, her stomach rumbled a pitiful complaint.
Cecily pulled a wry face. “I wish I’d had time to gather some food before I left Brantham.”
John FitzCourtenay rummaged through the scrip tied to his belt. “It’s not much.” He drew out a morsel of cheese and a small apple. “All I have left, but you’re welcome to it.”
Something about his uncalculated generosity touched her. “We must share it. You can’t have eaten much more recently than I, and we will both need our strength for tonight’s journey.”
He grinned then. The tanned flesh on either side of his dark eyes crinkled in a way that made Cecily’s insides wriggle like a brook trout.
“This poor bite is scarcely enough to appease the wolf in one belly, much less two. Go ahead and eat it, Mistress Cecily. I have gone hungry many a time and taken no lasting harm from it.” He deposited the cheese and the apple firmly in her hands.
Cecily took a bite of the apple. Early fruit, it was still half-green—firm and juicy. So tart it made her mouth pucker. Yet to the yawning cavern of her belly it was as welcome as manna from heaven.
“Besides.” The jesting tone of John’s voice and expression faltered. “I should be fasting for penance.”
“Nonsense!” Cecily stopped in midbite. “Because you killed a man in self-defense? I should hope Our Lord is more forgiving than you picture him, else I am doomed for certain.”
All the levity had drained from his face now, leaving behind something harsh and bitter. “Doomed? Do not say so. What can you be guilty of more than childish mischief?”
His chiding tone vexed her, but she heard past it to the regret and the old, unhealed pain in his voice. It must run deep indeed, for he was obviously a man inured to hurt. He had barely flinched when she’d examined his knife wound.
“Oh, I have broken my share of the commandments, Master John,” she answered softly. Honor thy father. Thou shalt not covet. How she’d coveted the love her father had borne his sons.
Biting off another piece of apple, she popped it into her companion’s open mouth as he began to speak.
The bristle of hair on his upper lip grazed her fingers. The smooth, moist flesh of his lips and tongue lingered over them. The sensations set Cecily aquiver, like an overwound lute string plucked by an anxious troubador.
She knew the proper, modest response would be to cast her eyes down. Instead, her gaze went swiftly, frankly to his. The blistering intensity of the look that passed between them arrested her breath.
No question—they must make haste to Ravensridge, while she could still bring herself to wed any man but this one.
Chapter Five
While Cecily Tyrell snatched a short, fitful sleep, Rowan kept watch from the mouth of the cave. The sour taste of the apple lingered on his tongue, as did the faint brine of Cecily’s fingertips. It whetted a hunger in him far more ravenous than the one in his empty belly.
To make matters worse, when he’d gruffly bidden her to get some rest before moonrise, she’d urged him to lie down with her and do the same. Knowing such closeness would make him more restive, not less, he’d used the excuse of keeping watch to put as much distance as possible between them.
Not that it mattered.
Their bodies might be apart, but his thoughts flocked to her at every unguarded moment. As impossible to ignore as the throbbing of his wounded arm. He could scarcely believe he’d known her for less than a day. From the instant he’d spied her in that forest-hemmed garden at the priory, something about Cecily Tyrell had drawn him. The unorthodox manner of their second meeting and the long, intense hours of their better acquaintance had only sharpened his response.
Since Jacquetta’s death he had never made a conscious effort to guard his heart. No woman had appealed to him in more than a passing carnal way. Sometimes he’d resisted those urges in a fit of martyrdom. Other times he’d given in to his lust—why not, if he was damned anyway? Always, after the momentary flush of pleasure, he’d repented. Adding another measure to the staggering weight of guilt he would carry to his grave.
What was it about this woman that intrigued him so? Her uncanny beauty, perhaps. That improbable melding of delicacy and strength, like the wild hind. Or was it her bracing forthrightness, a trait he admired in other men, but had seldom encountered in a woman? Both of those, surely, but something more.
Rowan struggled to frame the notion. There was a freshness about her that went beyond mere innocence. An untamed quality outside the limited bounds of morals or propriety. For all that, a deep goodness that beckoned him even as it roused his worst suspicions.
Jacquetta had damned him. Might Cecily be his last chance at salvation? Or might she only make it wors
e? Rowan was not sure he dared answer that question. But suddenly he understood the ecstatic, suicidal force that must drive a moth to immolate itself within the vibrant, beautiful menace of the flame.
“Cecily. Mistress Tyrell.”
For the second time that day someone roused her from her dreams. Dreams, once again, of a stranger in a garden. Once again, Cecily parted from them reluctantly.
“Wake up now. The moon has risen. It’s time we were away.” There was a sense of urgency in the whispered words, but that was not what lured Cecily awake.
It was the voice. His voice.
Her eyelids fluttered open. In the darkness of the cave she could see only a shadow, backlit by the pale rays of a full moon. Somehow she sensed the force of John FitzCourtenay’s presence. She had never met a man with one so potent.
His scent mingled with the damp, chalky odor of the cave and the lingering musk of some animal that made its winter home there. It felt so right, being close to him in the darkness. A warm, lazy ache pulsed through her.
“Cecily,” he whispered again, louder this time. He must not realize she was awake.
Gingerly, he prodded her. His hand brushed her thigh, perilously close to the crux of that sweet ache.
Before she could stop herself, Cecily gasped.
He pulled back. “I beg your pardon if I startled you, but the moon is up and we must go. You’re harder to rouse than a bear in winter.”
She opened her mouth to say that he roused her far too well. Fortunately, her mouth was dry as dust. All that emerged from her parched throat was a rusty croak. By the time she cleared it with a cough, her tardy self-control had caught up with her.
“Any sign of Fulke’s men while you kept watch?” She sat up and stretched her limbs. Concentrating on their immediate peril might keep her disquieting urges at bay.
“I heard dogs not long ago.” He backed toward the mouth of the cave. “Sounded like they were retracing their path.”