Cecily stiffened in Rowan’s arms. “They’re coming. With hounds, too. An unlicked whelp could track me to ground in these reeking leper’s rags.”
She gazed into his eyes, and for an instant Rowan longed to drown himself in the lush, brown depths of hers. Fulke and his hounds be damned.
“Go, John. If you stay with me, we may both be taken. Go back to your brother and bid him come to my aid at Brantham.”
The slumbering demons within Rowan roused to echo Cecily Tyrell’s behest. Go! Run. Put as much distance as possible between yourself and this dangerous creature.
Other long-buried feelings stirred to battle these. Leave her—how could he? Surrender another woman to Fulke DeBoissard? Not while he had breath in his body!
As Rowan stood there, paralyzed by the struggle within himself, Cecily slipped out of his embrace. She squinted against the ruthless glare of the sun. It had passed midday, but the haven of sunset was still many dangerous hours distant.
“Did you not hear me, John? Or did the bashing you took from those tree trunks addle your wits? You must leave me now. I won’t have you come to harm for my sake.”
Her words stilled the clamor within Rowan’s mind. In such desperate peril herself, Cecily had spared a thought for his safety. He had no claim on her loyalty, yet she had come to his aid twice. He could not abandon her.
“Take your clothes off!”
Her eyes widened and her whole face betrayed alarm. As well as a shade of something else Rowan could not read.
“Would you have me, now, and take private vows before I fall into Fulke’s clutches? I commend your quick thinking, John. But I fear you’d take me to wive in vain. Fulke would not scruple to put you to the sword and make me a widow ripe for remarriage.”
Rowan’s mouth fell slack. The image of having her here in the open, on this wild bit of upland heath, with the baying of Fulke’s hounds drawing closer, made his nostrils flare and his body rouse.
“You mistake me.” He shook his head to dispel the seductive notion. “If the dogs are following the scent of those clothes, you must take them off.”
He untied his coarse-woven cloak. “You can cover yourself with this and with my tunic.” He shrugged out of the garment. “I’ll take the leper’s rags and lay a false trail for our pursuers while you go hide in the caves.”
For a moment she made no reply, but stared at his bare torso. The warm breeze whispered over his chest like a woman’s breath. More acutely aware of his own body than he had been in years, Rowan wondered if Cecily shrank from the sight of his old battle scars. No doubt a maid, even one of her comparatively advanced years, fancied an unblemished mate. Self-consciously crossing his arms before his chest, Rowan berated himself. He had no business disporting himself like some blushing virgin, fumbling his first conquest.
“Go to, lass. We haven’t much time.” He tossed her the garments, glancing around to see if there was a nearby clump of boxwood where she might disrobe.
Nothing but low heath and bald outcroppings of rock.
“I’ll turn my back if you’re overcome with modesty.” He turned.
“It’s a good plan.” She sounded surprised that he’d had the presence of mind to come up with it.
The wonder in her voice mingled with something like admiration. It sent an exasperating rush of pleasure coursing through Rowan.
He heard her struggling out of the leper’s rags. Against propriety and completely against his will, he stole a swift glance back at her.
And wished he hadn’t.
She’d turned away from him to shed her disguise. Still, in the shimmering heat of midday, he saw more than enough to choke off his breath like a tightening snare.
The way that thick plait of lustrous hair coiled down her back—a golden-brown serpent, beguiling a man to perdition. The creamy whiteness of her skin beckoned his hands, as did the gentle tapering of her waist, the mouth-watering curve of her hips and backside. His gaze lingered over her long, lithe legs until he wrested it away.
Feverishly Rowan forced himself to imagine things cold and loathsome—eels, leeches, ship rats. Anything to divert his thoughts before he disgraced himself by erupting with longing, like some green boy.
“You can turn around now,” said Cecily.
No, he couldn’t. At least, not until the approaching racket of the hounds momentarily drove desire from his mind.
“Leave the clothes.” Cecily clutched his hand. Her touch seared his arm clear up to his heart. “It’s too dangerous. What if they catch you? Come with me to the caves.”
Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand from hers. Fulke’s baying pack held far less threat for Rowan than this slender girl whose spirit bewitched him almost as much as her body. They could only rend him to pieces. The harm she could do him did not bear thinking of.
He shook his head. “If we leave the clothes here, they’ll know you’ve come this way and they’ll keep hunting for you. I’ll use the scent to lead them away, then I’ll come back for you.”
She hesitated for one last moment, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. Rowan yearned to catch it between his.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she begged.
At that moment, he would have promised her anything.
“I need you to help me reach Ravensridge, not to perish under some fiendish torture of Fulke’s devising.”
So that was what lay behind her concern for him. She needed his assistance to reach Ravensridge and Rowan. The thought skewered him like the heavy, lethal bolt of a crossbow. He remembered the pain of repeatedly losing the competition for someone’s affection. But losing to himself—that was indeed a new low.
“Don’t fret for me, lass. If there’s one thing my years in the world have taught me, it’s how to take care of myself.” He scooped the leper’s rags from the ground where they lay.
She gave him one last searching look, as though she’d marked the hint of regret in his voice and somehow understood. “Very well, then. The caves are not much farther up this path. I’ll be in the one with—”
“Go. I’ll find you.” Sternly reminding himself he did not mean to bid for Cecily Tyrell’s heart, Rowan licked his thumb and held it aloft to test the slight breeze. Then he set off, moving downhill. He would give Fulke’s pack a chase such as they’d never run before.
Perhaps in the process he would drive these adolescent yearnings from his body.
When Cecily called after him, Rowan willed himself not to glance back. He almost succeeded.
How could a woman look so appealing, wrapped in a man’s tunic and cloak—garments of poor quality, at that? No matter how, Cecily Tyrell did. Fresh, lithesome, vibrant.
“God go with you, John.” She smiled the smile he recalled from their first meeting. The luminous one he had not been able to erase from his dreams. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
He gave a casual wave of parting, not trusting his voice. Something compelled him to protect her at all costs. She trusted that he would return for her, and he knew he would find her waiting. The notion tempted and terrified him.
How she hated waiting!
Cecily huddled on a narrow ledge of rock above the entrance to a shallow cave. She had discovered it long ago, in the vaguely remembered days of her childhood. Back when King Henry had sat securely on the throne and the children of Brantham Keep had been safe to venture forth into the surrounding countryside in play.
How often had she hid here from her brothers during their games? The other caves they would enter and search. But this one they would only peek inside and, seeing no sign of her, move on. If John FitzCourtenay failed in his mission to draw pursuit away, Cecily prayed Fulke’s men would prove no more thorough than her late brothers.
Shivering, Cecily drew John’s cloak more tightly around her. The unseasonal heat outside had not permeated the cave. Yet it was not the clammy chill alone that made her tremble, Cecily admitted to herself. There was also her fear of discovery and capture. And her worry for John FitzCourtenay.
The ghost of his scent rose from his cloak and tunic, haunting her with memories of their first meeting in the priory garden. No man had ever made such a strong impression upon her. She was not sure why this one had, and she was not sure how she felt about it.
She pictured John FitzCourtenay as she’d seen him a few hours ago. Peeling off his tunic. Standing in the noonday sun with his legs planted wide, naked from the waist up. The expanse of his shoulders. The firm flesh of his chest, sown with dark hair that tapered to his belly. The hard, corded strength of his arms. Even the vestiges of old wounds did not detract from his appeal, for they were evidence of a man tempered in combat.
Sister Veronica would have fainted dead away at the sight of him. And how would the little weasel have reacted to his casual demand that she strip naked? A chuckle broke from Cecily’s throat at the very notion. It echoed in the hollow fissures and stone clefts of the cave.
Not that she had received his charge so calmly, Cecily reminded herself. She recalled her rising tide of panic outstripped by one of—what? Anticipation? Eagerness?
Surely not!
Hearing someone or something stirring outside the cave, Cecily held her breath and listened. Had whoever it was heard her laughing to herself? The cave walls muffled sounds from outside, heightened those from within.
What if John’s plan had not worked? What if Fulke’s searchers had traced her here? Worse still, what if they had captured her companion and forced him to divulge her whereabouts?
No. Cecily reined in her runaway imagination. She knew little of the man who would soon be her brother by marriage. But some deep instinct assured her that she could trust him. He would forfeit his life before he’d betray her.
After several more tense minutes of stillness and listening, Cecily allowed herself to relax a little. Perhaps the sounds had been made by a passing animal or the chance slip of a stone. Perhaps she had only fancied them.
How much longer?
She stared down at the wedge of sunlight that penetrated the cave’s mouth. It had narrowed and receded since the last time she’d checked—but how much? Already it felt like many hours since she’d settled into her hiding place. From her experience at the priory, Cecily knew how solitude and inactivity played tricks with time.
Worry for her father suddenly ambushed her, after having dogged her path all day as surely as Fulke’s hounds. Part of the reason she’d pushed herself on was the vain hope that she might outrun it. Perhaps that was why she’d let herself become distracted by John FitzCourtenay—because she desperately needed distracting.
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 Nosters 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.