Inside, Rufus leaned against the door, Amabel in his arms, Brogan beside him, and did his best to stay upright.
“We need a room,” he hissed. The sudden warmth was scalding him, his cheeks flushed and paining. “Two rooms, actually.”
“Shilling and sixpence sir.”
Rufus shut his eyes. He didn't have the money on him anymore. Sleeping in the stable was not going to work. These two might die out there.
“Sir?” the boy whispered.
“What?” he asked. He felt lethal. All he needed was the young man trying to explain why it would be perfectly alright to sleep in the stable and he would finish him.
“Sir,” the young man said again. His eyes were huge. “I got the money. Look.”
He produced a silver piece.
Rufus wanted to cry. He sighed instead.
“Thank you, lad.”
“Don't mention it.”
They paid the innkeeper, who was staring at the unlikely trio as if they might be a wild hallucination sent to torment him, and then shuffled wearily up the stairs.
Rufus stayed on his feet long enough to tuck Amabel into the bed in the room where a fire was still burning. He looked down at her, chafing her still-sleeping hand to ensure the blood flowed still. Then, slowly, knowing it was wrong of him but unable to resist it, he kissed her brow. Then he walked out.
“We'll take th' other,” he sighed at the youth.
They fell in through the door together. Rufus saw the boy sit by the fire, crying out in torment as the warmth reanimated his toes. Then he collapsed onto the bed and was soon asleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AN ENCOUNTER AT AN INN
AN ENCOUNTER AT AN INN
The sway of the horse moved under her, slowly, slowly. Like a lullaby, like a song at the cradle, it rocked her, reaching into her soul. The night was dark and the road before them white as chalk on fresh slate.
Amabel rested, not knowing who held her. She was safe and warm. Safe. And warm...
She stirred. Winced. Fire ate at her fingers, making them scald and itch. She cried and rolled over, balling her fists together, trying to make the pain stop. As she did so, she became aware of other things. Her frozen toes, so cold she could not feel them. Her shoulder, burning from a blow, covered with a woolen blanket. Her head pillowed on a pillow stuffed with wool wadding.
She sat up.
Gritting her teeth against the pain in her hands, screwing her eyes shut as she straightened her fingers, she made herself flex each one of them.
She opened her eyes.
Where am I?
Memory came back suddenly, too quickly. She stood up. Her head throbbed so she sat down. Her feet pained her. The robbers. Outlaws. Rebels. Whatever they were. They must have captured her. She reached her hand to her head and winced. She had become unconscious, dreaming of the ride, safe in warm arms. They must have brought her to this prison, whatever it was.
“I need to go!”
She hissed the words aloud and stood again. Her toes ached and she wondered what would happen when the feeling returned completely. If they were broken, any of them, she would only find out about it then, when it was too late to remedy that.
She scrabbled about at the end of the bed, searching for her boots. She found them. Someone had slid them off and covered her with the soft wool blanketing. They were courteous thieves, to do that!
I have to get out of here.
She went to the window and looked out. She was somewhere on the first level above ground in a stone-walled building. Out there, the sky was dark blue, the moon huge over the black hills. The town below was yellow with torches, bracketed to walls, ocher with cobblestones and tiles. She shook her head.
Wherever this is, I must escape.
With the waking had come fresh memories. The memory of what that man had said. Duncan or Douglas or whatever in perdition his name had been. Lord Callum.
What was he playing at? Why detain riding parties?
She sighed. None of it made sense. However, she had to take word of it to her father. He would know what to do. Wincing and gritting her teeth against the agony in her toes – she was sure one of them at least was broken on the right foot – she stood.
Tugging on her boots, she clattered to the door. Ran out.
Headed for the stairs.
“Milady?”
A face appeared at one of the doors and she cried out.
“No!” She yelled. “I have to go!”
She ran down, feet clattering on the wooden boards.
“Milady...” the face became a body, a man, pursuing her.
Amabel ran for the stairs. She slipped and righted herself, sobbing in lungfuls of harsh, hard-drawn breath as she ran.
“Milady.”
She stopped. The hand on her wrist was warm but not constricting. The pressure that held her back from her headlong rush was gentle. The voice...it spoke into the heart of her, making her calm.
“You!” she sobbed. It was a cry of relief, of amazement. It surprised her, the depth of feeling she experienced toward him.
She sat down without warning on the stairs. Then, without expecting to, she started to sob.
“Milady,” he said. He was crouched at the top of the uppermost landing, keeping a respectful distance from her as she held her face in her cupped hands and sobbed.
“I'm so...sorry,” she sniffed. “I'm sorry. I didn't...”
He sighed. Very gently, he reached out and held her.
“I know you didn't,” he said, without her having said – or even really understood within herself – what it was that she didn't do. “I know. It's well. You're safe now. You're safe.”
She sobbed and he held her and it was only later, as the fear drained out of her and her mind slowly came back to her sense, that she realized that she was crouched on the floor and he was holding her, very gently, to his chest.
She tensed and pulled away. He sighed.
“I'm...s...sorry,” she said again, shakily, drawing in a breath as her voice wobbled with the ending of her sobs. “I d...didn't mean to wake you. I thought...”
He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It doesn't matter, lass,” he said gently. “It's all well. Couldn't have slept much in there anyway,” he said again with a grin.
Amabel saw his smile but didn't know whether she should ask for what reason he smiled. She returned it, tentative, feeling her cold cheeks lift in a reciprocating grin. She was cold!
“Tired,” she murmured. “And freezing.”
“Yes,” he said. Slowly, so slowly, he stood and drew her to her feet. Respectfully, keeping his hand on the top of her shoulder, he guided her, very gently, up the hallway where she'd just been. He led her to her room and to the bed. He closed the door and made sure she was seated on the bed.
“You need to get under that blanket,” he said gently. He knelt before her and carefully slid off her boots, in the way her maidservant might have done when she was a small child. Then he stood, turning back the coverlet on the bed.
“Come on, lass,” he said gently. “Get yourself inside.”
Amabel sighed. She inched back, tensed as her broken toe, throbbing with the returning blood flow and the sudden motion, sent its fresh message of pain up to her brain.
“My toe's broken,” she hissed.
He frowned gently. “Which one?”
“The second one,” she said. “Right foot. I'll see to it tomorrow.”
He smiled. “I can try.”
She looked at him. Surprised herself by getting a wry smile that half-shut her weary, tear-reddened eyes. “Sir, I trust you with my life. Unstintingly,” she replied. “But touch my broken toes and I won't stop short of striking you.”
He chuckled. He had a nice smile, she noticed again. It crinkled the crows' feet at the corners of his eyes, making that stern, rugged face a plain of sweetness.
Her eyes lingered on his. The contact was more intimate than a touch, though it felt like one, a to
uching of their souls. She blinked, her heart pounding in her chest. Her breath was ragged in her throat and her lungs were tight, somehow, constricted.
He smiled and his eyelids closed, momentarily, then he shifted where he sat.
Without warning, he was sitting on the end of the bed and his hand, soft, warm and gentle, reached out to touch hers. Amabel felt her breath stop.
“Sir,” she whispered.
“Sorry,” he whispered. He kissed her hand. She closed her eyes. His lips tickled over her knuckles, warm and tender. The breath was warm and gentle on the skin and she sighed, wishing that gentle nudging of his lips on her skin could continue.
“No,” she breathed.
“No?” he asked. He looked into her eyes, his own eyes dark and warmed both with the light of the fire and by his naughty expression.
“No. Don't be sorry.” She smiled.
He chuckled. “I am not sorry,” he said, turning her hand over. Very deliberately, he kissed the fingers, each one at a time. The touch of his lips traced fire down her arms, igniting her heart and making her feel as if her whole body was melted, dredged in sweetness from the touch of his lips.
“No,” she whispered again.
“No,” he agreed. He held her wrist, his thumb firm and the touch reassuring.
“You know we mustn't,” she whispered.
“I know,” he agreed. He moved to sit so that they were a palm length or so separate, his eyes looking straight into hers.
“Rufus,” Amabel whispered. “There is something I need to say,” she said solemnly. “I need to speak with you. It's so strange...” She bit her lip, shaking her head.
“Tell, then, lass.” He sighed. His eyes were warm on hers and she knew that he would never betray her confidence. “What's disturbing ye?”
She smiled, hearing how his accent broadened when he was sleepy. She shook her head. “It's...I was given...troublesome news. Yesterday, in fact. Which is why I rode out.”
“Tell me what it was,” he murmured. He held her hand on both of his, a gentle friendly touch. No smirching of her barriers, no imposition. Just care.
She sighed. She wanted to tell him, but where to even start? She closed her eyes. “Yesterday I met a friend. We were sewing together and...and I found out – indirectly, so it happens – that,” she said sourly, “that my father made arrangements over my head.”
“It happens,” he said with a sorrowful smile. “'Tis why I joined the guard, that. But that's for another time. What happened..?”
“Oh?” She frowned, interested in his own tale. However, she wanted to tell her own. She sighed and paused, trying to gather her own thoughts together. She didn't even understand this news herself. “Well, I discovered my father had made arrangements for a betrothal.”
“Oh.”
She saw his eyes go flat, emotionless, as if he was standing before a trial for execution. She frowned, wondering why. He coughed.
“To whom?” he asked. “I mean, I presume this is a new arrangement?” He asked formally.
Amabel stared at him, head jerked back. What was he talking about? “No,” she said slowly. “No, this is the first time I ever heard of this. The first time I ever knew I...was promised.”
“What?” He stared at her. It was his face that was expressionless now, though his eyes burned.
“Yes,” she said, surprised by the unfathomable quality of his responses. What was ailing him? “I found out yesterday, for the first time ever, that I'm promised to Lord Callum.”
He stared. Then, to her amazement, his eyes grew wet. He coughed. Looked down. There was a depth of uncharted emotions there, too complex to read. She thought she saw surprise, for sure. As well as disbelief, or amazement. The other, more elusive, seemed like joy. Mayhap love.
“My lady, I...I'm sorry,” he said. He drew in a long ragged sniff. Coughed. Cleared his throat slowly. “I'm sorry...I...I don't know what to say. Not exactly.”
She shook her head, smiling at him in complete confusion. “Why're you apologizing, sir?”
He chuckled. “I don't know, lass.” He waited for a while, clearly thinking about it. “I guess...I suppose I'm apologizing for believing him.”
“For believing him?” Amabel jerked her head up, frowning at him, totally bemused. “Who?”
“Sir Ivan.” He sighed. When the name had no effect on her – who was that? She had never even heard the man's name – he sat back. Looked into her eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said again. He coughed and hung his head.
Amabel smiled. Very gently, hesitating, she reached out a hand and rested it on his shoulder. He jolted and then stilled. His eyes looked into hers.
He leaned forward and she leaned forward.
Their lips met and they kissed.
Amabel let her breath flow out in a long, drawn-out rush. She felt his lips nibble hers, their touch so soft as to be the slightest ripple. Then the contact hardened, pushing against her mouth, drawing first one lip and then the other between his own, for tasting. His tongue flicked out, exploratory, and probed the parting of her lips. She sighed and yielded to his entry. His warm tongue pushed into her mouth, strong and pressing.
She closed her eyes and let the kiss linger, then tensed fractionally, then relaxed, as his arms came round her. He held her close. Her head was against his chest, and his arms drew her against him. She could feel the lean chest pressing against her breasts and she stroked the flat of her hand down his back, shivering as she felt the ripple of his muscles under her finger.
He leaned back, eyes slowly focusing. His breath was ragged like hers was.
She smiled at him as he caught his breath.
“Amabel,” he whispered. “I mustn't...”
She smiled. Her body was ignited with wanting and she had a sense that, somehow, it knew what it wished for. It would know exactly what to do, though her mind had no real grasp of what would follow.
“I know,” she said. Her voice was small and breathless and she was surprised by the sound of it. Again, it seemed to seek things her rational mind only dimly grasped.
“Amabel,” he said again. This time he said her name with such raw intensity of longing that she felt her body dissolve.
He wrapped her in his arms and she stroked his muscled form as he kissed her again, tongue thick and exploratory in her mouth as he pushed her back onto the pillows. She sighed and let his body push her down, down into the cushion, his mouth devouring her.
Then, as her body pulsed insistently, the warmth filling up and growing more insistent as he let his hand stray to her waist, its strong fingers kneading her softly, she sighed.
“No,” she said with a sort of regret in her voice. She sat back and looked into his eyes. His own were soft with firelight and longing.
“I know,” he said gently. His voice growled.
“I know,” she said, smiling ruefully. “Trust me, I am in as much reluctance to desist as you.”
His eyes widened and to her surprise he guffawed.
She smiled, too. “Well, you said we should tell the truth to each other.”
He roared with mirth again, and then sobered suddenly. “Yes, we must.” He nodded. “My lady, you know then that I tell the truth when I say I would I never had to leave, but...” he shook his head, looking at the bed cover again.
She nodded. “I know.” She knew enough of the human body to know something of how it made replicas of its own kind. She knew the mechanisms of it, both from dispassionate medical terms to the far more salacious descriptions, all implicit and glancing, she had heard from servants' chatter in the colonnade. However, all of it added up to a fair explanation of what her body felt right now.
That was something she could not do before wedlock.
He sighed. “I should leave you,” he said. His voice bled.
“I know.”
They looked at each other tenderly.
“I'm glad I told you,” she said softly.
The smile he gave her was like a sunrise. “Me,
too.”
She blinked, feeling her eyes fill with sudden tears. “Well, then.”
“Well, then.”
Neither of them moved.
“Goodnight,” he whispered softly.
“Goodnight.”
She could almost not manage to get the words past the lump that had, suddenly and unwarranted, blocked her throat.
He stood and, as she smiled through the imminent tears, walked from the room.
“Good rest.”
She nodded. As he shut the door gently behind him, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. She loved him. She knew that now. Yet she was promised to another, and she did not think she could stand the thought of it any more than she could stand the slow ache of longing that was burning in her like a furnace and threatened not to let her rest until she sated that desire with the man she had, suddenly and unexpectedly, started to love.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DECIDING WHAT TO DO
DECIDING WHAT TO DO
Rufus lay in bed, unable to sleep. It wasn't the snores of the stable boy, bundled up under blanketing next to the fire, that disturbed his rest. It wasn't the birds that stalked sleepily about in the thatch above his head, or even the rattle of pans in the kitchen as somebody down there moved slowly about, setting a pot on the bracket over the hearth, to boil hot water for the tea.
It was her.
Amabel.
He sighed. His poor body was on fire with his imagination. He recalled the sweet parting of her lips under his tongue, the way her body, rounded and warm, had felt as he thrust himself on her. He could not sleep for want of her.
He sighed. She was not dissembling. He knew she was telling him the truth that she'd had no idea of her betrothal. It doesn't make it any less binding, though, does it? He sighed.
What were they going to do?
He closed his eyes, tearing his imagination away from its imagery of her naked – he drew a curvaceous, silky-smooth body and high, firm breasts and nipples the color of cherry blossoms – to the solutions to the issue.
A Highlander’s Terror_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Page 13