Amanda Rose

by Karen Robards

  “No, I suppose not.” He forced the words out through teeth that were clenched suddenly to stop them from chattering. The ghost of a smile vanished as suddenly as it had come, and for a moment he closed his eyes. Amanda watched him hopefully. If she was lucky, he might pass out . . .

  “I presume your family has a house somewhere nearby?” His eyes were open again, but Amanda thought his voice sounded a bit weaker.

  “N-no,” she answered, then as he looked at her sharply her tone became defensive. “It’s the truth. I live in the convent at the top of the cliff. I’m a pupil there.”

  “I see.” He was silent for a moment, apparently digesting the information. When he spoke again, she knew she was not imagining the weakening of his voice. “Are there any outbuildings? A place where I could rest—out of the cold and this damned wind?”

  Amanda thought quickly. The only outbuilding the convent possessed was a small tool shed well within the grounds. If she could get him up there, all she would have to do was scream and the entire population of the convent—eleven girls and twenty nuns—would be out upon them in a matter of seconds. And he couldn’t possibly kill thirty-odd females. She didn’t think he had a weapon.

  “Yes,” she said at last, but again she must have hesitated too long because he eyed her with some suspicion.

  “If you’re lying to me . . .” He let his voice trail off, but the threat was unmistakable. Amanda shivered. When he spoke like that, she had no difficulty believing that he was capable—more than capable—of cold-blooded murder.

  “I’m not.” Desperately she tried to infuse her voice with conviction. In an effort to persuade him further, she added eagerly, “Our gardener sleeps there sometimes. There’s a cot, with blankets. And I could get you some food.”

  He groaned, and his eyes closed. “I haven’t eaten in three days,” he admitted under his breath. Then his eyes popped open to stare at her warily. “You know that I’ll hang if I’m caught?”

  Amanda returned his look just as warily. Then she nodded.

  “Then you know that I don’t have anything to lose if I kill you. And if you cross me . . .” His voice trailed off, but his eyes spoke for him. Amanda shivered. If she crossed him, he would kill her. Did she dare even to try? Looking into those silvery eyes that glittered so coldly back at her, she knew she had no choice. Even if she did everything he said, he would kill her eventually. She had to take the first chance of escape that presented itself, no matter what the risk.

  “Is that understood?” He meant to have an answer. Amanda looked at him and nodded jerkily. She prayed that he wouldn’t read her intentions in her eyes.

  “Then I’ll ask you again, and I want the truth: is there some place up there at that convent of yours where I can rest—without being found?”

  For a barely perceptible instant Amanda hesitated, thinking of the nuns and the other girls—people she had grown to care for—who were sleeping so peacefully in their beds. What guarantee did she have that he couldn’t somehow manage to kill everyone who came to her aid? After all, he had had some experience in mass murder. But then she thought of the path up the cliffs. It would be almost impossible for him to make the climb in his present condition; surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to get away from him on the steep, narrow path . . .

  “Yes.” She was proud of herself. This time her voice was just right: steady and confident.

  “Good. Then you can help me to stand up. And remember what I told you: I don’t have anything to lose.” This last was growled so menacingly that Amanda shrank back.

  “I-I’ll remember.” At the moment she didn’t think it would be possible ever to think of anything else. Sheer fright was causing her hands to shake almost as much as his were. Why did she never do as she was bid? If she had listened to the sisters, she would be safely tucked up in her bed now, not trapped in a living nightmare with a man who could easily take it into his head to kill her at any minute.

  “Are you asleep?” There was a note of exasperation in that gravelly voice. “I told you to help me up.”

  Thus adjured, Amanda made a hasty, abortive attempt to get to her feet, only to be brought up short with a whimper of pain as a sudden, sharp agony shot through the part of her scalp that was attached to the hank of hair wrapped around his hand. Damn. She had forgotten just for an instant that he still had a grip on her hair.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, swiveling his head so that he could look at her as she rocked back on her heels. One of her hands rubbed at her tender scalp.

  “I told you—you’re hurting me.” Her tone was resentful. Then, as a thought occurred to her, she continued carefully, “If you want me to help you, you’ll have to let go of my hair. You must see that I can’t do anything while you’re holding me like this.”

  He looked at her consideringly. Amanda returned his look, her expression as innocent as she could make it.

  “And as soon as I let go of your hair, you’ll be off like a little doe,” he said, sneering. “I told you before, I’m not stupid. You’ll just have to manage to get up and get me on my feet the best way you can. And considering the consequences if you don’t, I’m sure you’ll contrive something.”

  Amanda swallowed. He was right; considering the consequences, she would contrive something. She positioned her feet beneath her and then straightened her knees so that she was upright from foot to waist, but still bent over him, anchored to him by her blasted hair.

  “Very good,” he said approvingly, and again she thought she detected a touch of humor in his voice. Crossly she wished the fever would come upon him once more, rendering him helpless. Why did nothing ever happen as it should?

  After a moment’s thought she reached down to grasp him under his armpits, pulling back with all her might. He barely budged, and she was soon panting as if she had run for miles.

  “You’re not very strong, are you?” he said critically at last, his eyes disparaging as they moved over her slender body. Amanda started to stiffen indignantly, remembered just in time his hand in her hair, and contented herself with glaring at him instead.

  “You’ll have to help me,” she answered coldly—or as coldly as she could with perspiration beading her forehead and her breathing ragged. “You’re very heavy.”

  “Grab my hand and pull,” he instructed, and when she had grasped his proffered hand, he unwound his other hand from her hair. Amanda felt a flood of mingled relief and surprise, and immediately jerked as hard as she could on her imprisoned hand, hoping to yank it free. But she only succeeded in hauling him into a sitting position. His grip was like a vise.

  “I knew you could do it.” His voice was faint but the tone sardonic. He was now leaning back against the rock that had sheltered him, and his eyes were closed. Her petticoat had slipped from his shoulders to lie like a crumpled flag of surrender against the dark shale. Amanda waited a second, watching him, then gave another surreptitious tug on her hand. Nothing happened—but his eyes opened.

  “Don’t try to run away, Amanda,” he cautioned softly, his voice chilling her blood. “You won’t succeed—except in making me very angry.”

  She stopped tugging. He leaned back against the rock again, his eyes closed, his breathing labored. Anchored to his hand as she was, Amanda could not help but be aware of the raging heat of his flesh and of the tremors that shook him. Despite her fear, she felt another of those odd little pangs of pity for him. He was clearly very ill . . . But there was nothing she could do for him, nothing she would want to do for him if she could. She was not foolish enough to aid, any more than she could help, a man who gave every indication that he planned to kill her sooner or later.

  His eyes opened again, touching on her face like a silvery flash of fire before moving on to fix with grim concentration on his feet in their ill-made shoes. Moving slowly, as though it required tremendous effort to do so, he drew his knees up so that his feet were planted as close to his body as he could get them. Watching, Amanda saw his muscles t
ense as he braced his back against the rock.

  “All right. Now see if you can help me stand up,” he ordered. Amanda looked at him briefly, then did as he told her, pulling on the hand that imprisoned hers with all her might. To her mingled relief and dismay, he inched slowly upright until at last he was on his feet, leaning against the rock, his face as pale as a corpse’s and his breath rattling in his throat in a way that made Amanda wince just to hear it. Throughout, he had never slackened his grip on her hand.

  He stayed like that for several minutes, catching his breath, and then he looked at Amanda again.

  “Come closer,” he said, pulling on her hand to enforce his words. Amanda hung back, not liking to get too near him now that he was on his feet. His sheer size frightened her. He was huge, tall and broad-shouldered, easily dwarfing her own petite frame so that she felt like a little child beside him. Despite his leanness, the muscles that were clearly visible through his ragged clothes were corded and strong-looking. She was no longer left with even a shred of doubt about who would emerge the victor in any contest of physical strength between them.

  “Amanda.” His voice was a chill warning. Not knowing what else to do, Amanda reluctantly moved nearer, flinching as he drew her close to his side. He positioned her so that she was under his left armpit and he could lean on her. When his arm had clamped firmly around her shoulders—his fingers tangling in a strand of her hair again for extra insurance—he let go of her hand. Amanda could have sobbed with frustration. He was taking no chances on losing her.

  When at last she was situated to his liking, he took a tentative step away from the rock, leaning heavily on Amanda, who staggered. He staggered with her, and for a moment she thought they were both going to fall on the rock-studded beach. But miraculously they managed to stay upright, although he was none too steady on his feet. They advanced a step, and then another—and then he stumbled over something, perhaps a jutting rock or even his own feet. Whatever the cause, he fell heavily, his arm slipping away from Amanda’s shoulder and his hand wrenching the lock of hair he had held captive from her scalp. The pain made Amanda’s eyes water. She clapped an instinctive hand to her head, rubbing vigorously in an effort to ease the ache as he crashed to the shale. His curses turned the air blue and would have put Amanda to the blush again—if she had stayed around to hear them.

  But she did not. As soon as she realized that she was free—free—her feet seemed to sprout wings and she was off like a shot, scrambling away over the beach. She had not gone more than a yard when she heard a murderous growl behind her. Throwing a terrified look over her shoulder, she saw that he had somehow managed to get to his feet and was coming after her. Even as she tried frantically to speed up her escape, he was launching himself toward her in a flying tackle. She screamed as she felt his arms lock around her waist and his weight force her to the ground. The sound was silenced abruptly as the sudden jolt crushed the breath from her lungs. By the time she had recovered her senses enough to be aware of what was happening again, he had turned her onto her back and was leaning over her, his eyes flashing with an unholy light. His lower body crushed her legs into the shale.

  “Damn it, you little bitch, I ought to . . .” What he ought to do she never knew, because his words trailed off in a groan. Throwing himself about like that must have hurt him badly. Trapped beneath him, her breasts heaving with fright and her thighs crushed by his much larger ones, Amanda stared up at him wide-eyed. He was as white as death, and his mouth was set in a furious grimace that struck fear into her soul. He would kill her now, she had no doubt, and terror set her to kicking and hitting at him mindlessly. He cursed and tried to capture her flailing hands. Instinctively they curved into claws, which she raked down his cheeks, feeling savage satisfaction at the bloody furrows her nails left in their wake. He cursed again, viciously, and caught her wrists in a grip that made her fear that he meant to snap the fragile bones. She squirmed and kicked frantically beneath him as he transferred both her hands to one of his; then her eyes widened with fright as he raised his free hand, fist balled to strike her. Her eyes were frantic as she stared at that fist, which was poised to descend upon her face with its delicate bones. He could, and undoubtedly would, beat her to a pulp before he killed her. She screamed with pure animal terror, her eyes locked with his all the while. To her surprise and confusion, she saw an emotion come into his eyes that she would have described as self-disgust in anyone else. Then his fist dropped; she felt his open hand cover her mouth, stifling any further outcry.

  “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, effectively quelling her struggles with his body while his hand continued to exert that strangely gentle pressure across her face. “Be still, and I’ll let you go. Only you mustn’t scream, Amanda. Amanda, do you hear me?”

  She did hear him, and presently her terror eased, along with her struggles, as the calming note in his voice had its effect. Perhaps he really wasn’t going to kill her. Perhaps he meant the words he was almost whispering to her. Her eyes were still huge and her breathing was fast, but she slowly allowed her tense muscles to relax until she was no longer fighting him.

  “That’s right, Amanda,” he murmured soothingly. “Just be still, and everything will be all right. I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth now—only you mustn’t scream again. Do you promise not to scream, Amanda?”

  She stared up at him for a moment. His face was very close to hers, his beard tickling her cheek as he muttered in her ear. He raised his head to look at her, waiting for her response, and she saw that his eyes had lost their murderous gleam and looked merely very tired.

  “Will you promise not to scream, Amanda?” he repeated, and this time she nodded once. As he had promised, he removed his hand. Instinctively she wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. He watched that tiny movement intently. Then he opened his mouth to speak.

  Whatever he was going to say was lost forever as they both heard running footsteps crunching across the shale toward them. Amanda felt his muscles tense against her; as he turned his head to stare in the direction of the sound the look on his face reminded her of nothing so much as the heart-thumping fear of an animal before the hunters close in.

  chapter four

  The footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether.

  “Whoever is back there, come out,” a stern voice called. Amanda felt her body sag with relief as she realized that rescue was at hand. All she had to do was to call out . . . She looked quickly up into the face of the man pressed so closely against her. He was not looking at her; every ounce of his attention was focused on the rock that shielded them from whoever was on the other side, as if by staring at it hard enough he could see through it, see who would finally bring him to justice. He was making no effort to silence her or even to hold her still. She wondered if he had forgotten her existence. The muscles of his arms and legs and chest were rigid against her as he prepared himself for the inevitable. He must know that he had no chance of escape, of fighting his way out of the trap. He was far too weak . . . She pushed urgently at his shoulders, trying to free herself. Only as a last resort would she scream again . . . Those silvery eyes were as hard as agates as they swung back to look down at her, but for one single, unguarded instant Amanda saw in their depths a flicker of something that might have been despair. Again she was reminded of an animal at bay . . .

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, let me up,” she hissed, annoyance and disgust combined in equal parts in her voice. “He’ll be back here any minute if you don’t.”

  His eyes flickered again with that same odd expression. His mouth compressed into a tight, controlled line. To her relief he rolled to his side without a word, freeing her. Amanda got quickly to her feet, making no effort to conceal herself as the upper half of her body became clearly visible above the low grouping of rocks.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she called in a tremulous voice to the man standing perhaps three yards away. It was still dark enough to make it
difficult for her to recognize him at that distance, but she had no trouble identifying the rifle that had been resting against his shoulder. He was slowly lowering the weapon as she moved out into the open. Apparently her sex had lessened his suspicions somewhat . . .

  Matthew Grayson lay silently staring up at her as she passed around the side of the rock. His face was without expression as she threw him one last, quick glare. “Don’t make a sound, and stay where you are until I come back,” she whispered fiercely. Then she was limping toward the man with the rifle, saying, “I fear I’ve had a slight accident.”

  Though the gray light of the slow-breaking dawn partly obscured the stocky figure and square, ruddy face beneath the homespun cap, she recognized him as one of the local sheep farmers as she hobbled nearer.

  “Oh, Mr. Llewellyn, thank goodness it’s you.” There was no mistaking the sincerity in her voice. She had helped Sister Agnes attend the man’s youngest daughter through a bout with pleurisy the year before, and had come to know him rather well. Yves Llewellyn was as good-humored as he was stolid, and if he had a thought in his head not concerned with sheep or sheep farming, she had never heard tell of it. His buxom wife and four sturdy daughters had him firmly under their collective thumb. He was more than accustomed to feminine oddities, and Amanda doubted he would even bother to ask what she was doing on the beach, supposedly alone, at such an hour. At least, she hoped he would not. What could she possibly say?

  “That be ye, Lady Amanda?” He peered at her doubtfully. Amanda didn’t blame him. With her hair tumbling wildly down her back and her hands and dress smeared with dirt and bits of shale, she must look quite a sight.

  “Yes, Mr. Llewellyn, it’s me.” She grimaced noticeably as she approached him, hoping the distortion of her features would pass for an expression of pain. She need not have worried. Mr. Llewellyn frowned and reached out a work-calloused hand to support her as she limped nearer. Amanda stifled a satisfied smile and used that helping hand to steer him as unobtrusively as possible back in the direction whence he had come.