He adjusted his collar and lowered the jaunty brim of his felt cap, scowling at the water that ran free. He would give the king’s blundernoses until the next bell hour to show themselves, or he was leaving. Two days and nights’ worth of not knowing what was going on was two days and nights more than his patience could be expected to tolerate. He had only offered to stay behind now because he knew the Wolf would have expected it of him. He was the only one small enough, agile enough, clever enough to outwit any would-be hunters long enough to buy Eduard the time he needed to hie the princess out of immediate danger.
Still, it was too long for them to be on their own in this accursed, foul, damp country. They would need his, Sparrow’s, uncanny knack of knowing exactly where he was going—even if he had never passed that way before—if they were going to steal the Pearl safely away.
On the other hand, it was possible the king would be in no great hurry to have her back. He had done his worst already (and with this thought, Sparrow’s face flushed a venomous red). He might not consider a blind princess worth the effort of retrieving. Why … he might even want her to be stolen away, hoping she might fall victim to the cold and rain, thereby relieving him of the burden and guilt of having her expire while in his care!
Had Eduard considered this?
Not that Sparrow would have ever sanctioned leaving her behind, but had Eduard considered if Eleanor died while in his care, the king could protest his own innocence, deny his own culpability, and blame whatever fate befell the Pearl squarely on the heads of William the Marshal and Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer?
“God save us all, lads,” Sparrow said to the clutch of squirrels. “It seems we are swivved either way, should they catch us now.”
Deciding not to wait for any more bells, Sparrow slung his arblaster over his shoulder and made preparations to leave his perch. He was about to leap to another branch when he was drawn back against the trunk by the faint but unmistakable braying of dogs. A large pack of them, he guessed, followed by an even larger pack of galloping hooves.
He swung his bow around again and nocked a quarrel to the string. He drew half a dozen more from his quiver and jabbed their tips into the soft bark of the tree, ready and waiting to be quickly snatched up, loaded, and fired when the troop came into view.
He did not have long to wait. The sound of the hounds drew beads of sweat across his brow but he steadfastly ignored the memories and the itching of the scars brought on by youthful encounters with the salivating beasts. He closed one eye and sighted carefully along the shaft of the arrow as he drew back on the string … and chose his target.
The soldiers rode two abreast, their lances festooned with the standards and pennons of the king. At least a score, mayhap more, comprised the double column of bobbing conical helms and flapping red mantles. All were fully armoured and bristling with business. A toady, hook-nosed hunchback was in the lead, bristling somewhat more than the others in his newly assumed position of authority.
It ended as ignobly as it had begun as Sparrow’s bolt caught Gisbourne’s seneschal high in the chest. A second bolt sent the man beside Gallworm slewing off his saddle with a scream of agony; a third and fourth jerked back on their reins as they felt the punch of steel through armour and bullhide. Their horses reared and skidded back in the mud, causing those behind to scatter and buckle into one another in a sudden crush of screaming horseflesh and shouting men.
Sparrow snatched up the last two bolts and loosed them randomly into the fray, then slung his bow over his shoulder and moved nimbly to another tree farther along the road, one with an equally clear vantage over the scene below.
Several of the soldiers had drawn their swords and were bracing themselves, wild-eyed, for the expected ambush to erupt from the bushes. Sparrow picked off three more as easily as skewering melons off a wall, then moved again, careful to keep a thick shield of pine boughs between him and the searching eyes. Some of the mercenaries carried crossbows and fired bolts into the trees, but Sparrow struck and moved, struck and moved, never remaining in one place long enough to present a target.
It was sheer misfortune—or utter stupidity—that made him stop and draw one last bead on the retreating crush of soldiers. He loosed an iron quarrel and a curse at the same time, rewarding himself with a small leap of glee as the keeper of the hounds clutched his throat and fell backwards into the mire-muck, releasing the yelping, braying pack of fur-muzzed devils to set off at a run back for the castle, their tails curled low between their legs. Unfortunately, Sparrow’s glee momentarily overrode his sense of caution, and even as he realized he had sprung up in full view of a crossbowman, he could see the lout’s finger pull the trigger and launch the bolt straight at him.
It was odd how he could see it so clearly. So distinctly. It moved as if it cut through liquid, not air, the barbed iron tip rotating slowly as it found the gap in the trees and struck its target with a solid whonk!
Chapter 24
The rain stopped around mid-afternoon but the sky never grew any brighter. It grew colder, however, and by the time the sodden, shivering travellers arrived at the waterfall, there were ice crystals forming on the ground and on their clothes. Building a fire and drying themselves off was a priority and while Dafydd and Robin searched for a modest shelter for the horses, Eduard located the tunnel-like entrance to the cave that led behind the wall of water and opened into a large, musty hollow formed in the solid rock. There was evidence it had been used by both two- and four-legged creatures in the past, and proof that Sparrow had thought well enough ahead to stock an ample supply of dry kindling and wood.
Since there were no dry clothes for the women to change into, a wall of wet cloaks was strung up, dividing the cavern in two halves. The women waited, blue with cold, while a fire was built, then eagerly and willingly stripped down to their tunics, which would dry the fastest, and sat almost on top of the flames, enjoying the sensation of wrinkled toes and icy fingers drying in the heat.
Marienne fussed and fretted over Eleanor, unplaiting her hair and spreading it to dry, coaxing her to drink some broth the handy Welshman brewed out of the assortment of purloined foodstuffs he had carried away from Gorfe. Marienne did not have to coax hard, for Eleanor found the broth delicious and her appetite ravenous. Warmed inside and out, cocooned by walls of steaming clothes, the princess was persuaded to rest her head on Marienne’s lap, whereupon she fell fast asleep despite her protestations against being pampered.
Ariel fought to keep her own eyes open but she too was lulled by the heat and the bright glow of the fire. Her eyelids drooped and her head swayed forward, burdened by the weight of her hair. The sound of the river rolling by overhead vibrated the air and even though the men had to talk loudly to be overheard, Ariel found herself drifting to the sound of their voices, sliding sideways, and finally curling up asleep on the floor.
When she wakened—she knew not how much later—the fire had been robustly restocked. Marienne and Eleanor were both asleep, covered by blankets. Ariel had been covered as well, though the folds of the wool cloak still gave off a slightly damp smell.
She pushed herself up on one elbow and rubbed her eyes to remove some of the fuzziness. She could hear nothing over the rumble of the river, no voices coming from the other side of the blanket—were they all asleep?
Creeping to the woolen wall, she poked a finger between two overlapping edges and inched them apart. Lord Dafydd was the first one she saw. He was sitting with his back propped against the cavern wall, his head tilted to one side, his complexion pale beneath the beard. He had not complained throughout the long, wet morning, not when river water rose as high as the bellies of their horses, not when brambles and briers tried to drag them out of their saddles. His arm must have given him nothing but pain, but he had drawn his sword alongside Henry and Sedrick, prepared to fight to their defense on the roadside, and he was first out of his saddle to help with whatever task was asked of him. He had not asked to become involved in any of this madnes
s. He had only gone along with it because of her, because she was betrothed to his brother. What would he do when he discovered she had deceived them both by falling in love with Eduard FitzRandwulf?
Robin was curled in a tight ball, his back to the small fire they had built on their own side of the wall. Henry and Sedrick were dozing lightly, their experience and training telling them to take advantage of what time they had to rest and restore their strength.
Sedrick managed to pry an eyelid open and offer a weak smile as Ariel tiptoed past, but he did not ask her where she was going or why. He had enough to do to keep his eyes and ears on Jean de Brevant, for he still did not trust the man not to turn on them all and slit their throats for the gold they carried in their money belts.
Captain Littlejohn was soundly asleep, his massive chest rising and falling like a farrier’s bellows. He had stripped out of his armour, as had the others, and was sprawled comfortably in a linsey-woolsey chainse and hose, looking no less formidable now than when he was wearing several layers of padding and chain mail.
Ariel drew the edges of her cloak around her shoulders and ventured into the much cooler tunnel that led to the opening beneath the falls. A shiver was about to send her hurrying back to the warmth when she saw a shadow detach itself from a niche in the wall and come forward into the light.
“There is no sign of Sparrow yet?” she asked.
Eduard shook his head. “It has only been a couple of hours. I will allow him a couple more before I worry him into an early demise.”
“You are not worried now?”
“Not about Sparrow,” he said. “In all the years I have known him, he has never overstayed his welcome anywhere his feathers might get clipped. He comes and goes like a ghost in the night and …”
The words just stopped, the thought simply ended. The need to talk was suddenly, overwhelmingly surpassed by the need to gather Ariel in his arms and hold her so close he feared he might crush her. To kiss her so hard, it all but took his breath away.
Ariel clung to him and did not protest his roughness. She welcomed his urgency and matched it with her own. His body was cool through the thin layer of his tunic and hose, but it smouldered quickly when she spread the folds of her cloak around him and pressed her own scantily clad body next to his, warming them deeper than any man-made fire ever could.
“I was so frightened today,” she confessed on a gasp. “I wanted so desperately just to touch you … hold you.”
“You were brave beyond measure,” he countered. “And in truth, I longed to do more than simply touch you, or hold you.
When I saw you sleeping in there, curled up like a kitten …”
“You covered me?”
“It was either that or join you,” he said huskily. “And I doubt the others would have survived the shock.”
“The others are all asleep now,” she said, breathing just as huskily in his ear. “Only you and I are awake, my lord. And quite alone.”
He groaned and pressed a muffled curse into the tender crook of her neck. “You play unfair, wench, to tease a man so.”
“Unfair,” she agreed, her mouth molding eagerly to his as he kissed his way from one side of her neck to the other. “But I do not tease.”
His hands pushed savagely into her hair and he held her away from him for a long, long moment of melting contemplation, his gaze roving from her moist, swollen lips, to where the exquisitely peaked crowns of her nipples strained against the cloth of her tunic. His tunic, he realized with a jolt, and was at once irrationally jealous of its intimacy.
His mouth covered hers again, this time with a bold intent that sent tremors racing through the length and breadth of her body. His hands slipped down to her waist, then her hips, and he pulled her against him, heat to heat, flesh to flesh, groaning deep in his chest when she responded with a shuddered, breathless plea. His hands skimmed up beneath the hem of the tunic and cupped the heavy coolness of her breasts, and she shuddered again, unable to keep the wildness from flowing into her limbs, making them part brazenly over the growing bulge in his loins.
“Someone could come—”
“Someone could,” she agreed again, panting lightly as his thumbs abraded her nipples with small, torturous brushstrokes then trailed deliberately down and around to cup the softness of her buttocks. The challenge was there, gleaming in the smokey gray eyes, and Ariel’s hands answered it, moving down to his waist and unfastening his belt, casting it away in the shadows. A second assault, launched beneath the hem of the loosened chainse, met with a hissed curse when she discovered the rows of infernal rawhide points that bound his hose to his thighs.
Undaunted, she tugged only the front few thongs free so that the surging flesh that was already halfway clear of the slash in his braies, leaped through the widened gap and pushed forward to fill her questing hands.
Eduard shuddered and bent his head forward. Her lips were there to savour his soft oaths even as she guided his heat between her thighs.
“Help me,” she implored. “Lift me.”
“Madness,” he gasped.
“Yes. Yes. Yes …”
When she felt her feet leave the ground, she drew her knees high and hooked her legs around his waist. A shallow cry, stifled against the curve of his shoulder greeted the straining spear of his flesh as he lowered her over him; a gasp of splintered wonder sent her teeth sinking into the ridge of solid muscle and her hands threading into the dark mane of his hair.
Eduard stood motionless. He had heard her cry and had felt her stiffen against him and he was afraid—because he had never needed or wanted a woman as badly as he needed and wanted Ariel now—that he was too big and too hungry to cause her anything but pain.
The next few gasps he heard dispelled those fears, for they were accompanied by such greedy, undulant urgings of her hips, he was compelled to lose all sense of caution and reason, and thrust himself so deep inside her, it was all he could do to keep his pleasure from spilling then and there.
He was big, but Ariel only rejoiced in the hunger and stretching thickness. There was no pain. Sweet Mother Mary, there was no pain, only pleasure—deep and shaking, all-consuming, ravaging pleasure.
Something cool and damp was against her back and she realized he had moved into the darker shadows near the mouth of the tunnel where moss grew lush and soft on the walls. The contrast of thrusting heat and cushioning coolness sent her fingers clawing into his hair. The sound of the water roaring only an arm’s length away, the sight of it blurred and luminescent plunging past them with such power, such might, only made the power plunging within her seem all the more shattering and intense.
Ariel’s ragged gasp of warning brought Eduard’s mouth back over hers in time to swallow her hoarse, gusting cries of rapture. He felt her begin to convulse around him and he weathered the stunning ferocity of her climax as long as he could before his own tempest broke within him, causing them both to cry out against each other’s mouths and writhe through the deluge of ecstasy together.
Eduard held her with bruising desperation. He held her with a body that continued to press her into the moss, continued to move with each of her soft, mewling cries until the last thudding pulsebeat of pleasure had shivered from their flesh. Neither wanted to be the first to move or the first to break the spell. Their mouths were still together and the need to muffle each other’s cries changed without thought or notice to a need to acknowledge the flamboyant excesses of their passion.
“Shameless,” he breathed against her lips. “’Twas not a position I would have thought a lady yearned to couple in.”
“I was not thinking, my lord,” she admitted with a slow sigh. “I was only … needing.”
“Even more shameless then,” he whispered, his hands continuing to cradle her against him. He kissed her again, and this time, Ariel’s legs—utterly depleted of strength—began the long slide down from his waist. She looked up at him, her lashes spiked with tears, and after a moment, raised a hand from where it
rested limp on his shoulder and traced cool, trembling fingers over the hard ridges of the scar on his cheek.
“My only shame is remembering the things I have said to you in cruelty and ignorance. My shame is my pride and I gladly lay it at your feet, my lord, to trample upon, discard, or scorn as you will.”
Eduard covered her hand with his own and drew it from his cheek to his lips. “How could I possibly scorn that which I possess too much of myself?”
Her eyes were like dark mirrors to her soul and he could see each brush of his lips, each flicker of his tongue reflected there. She was still aroused, still peaking delicately, languidly, in a way that made him acutely aware of where they were still joined together.
Ariel was aware of it too and her lashes fluttered down and her teeth caught her lower lip, curling it between them in a sharp bite for courage.
“Have you … given any thought as to what will happen at Gloucester?”
He had given a good many things a great deal of thought over the past twelve hours; he had not anticipated the need for outright answers so soon.
“I … know I have no claim,” she stammered, swallowing to cover the awkward gap caused by his silence. “Nor do I expect you to feel any obligation to marry me, but … I would ask … beg … that you do not cast me aside altogether. I w-would stay with you as your mistress, your cook’s helper, your boot scrubber if that is what you would make of me, but only … do not … banish me—” she sobbed, “—to Wales. Do not … m-make me wed a man … I do not know … or … do n-not care to know … or …”
She dissolved in tears and buried her face against his throat, too mortified to see the look of shock which she was certain must be widening his eyes as he beheld the ultimate proof of her brashness. He still cupped her hand over his lips— it was frozen there by horror, she supposed—and she could feel his breath, hot and stilted, gusting into her palm.
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