The Elusive Bride Page 5

  “I might have, if it would have done the least good.”

  Her disarming candor made Rowan choke with laughter.

  “Please don’t tell him I said that. Men are such proud creatures. The fact is, I’m in terrible trouble and I need your brother’s help. If I have to wed him to get it—” she shrugged “—then I will, that’s all.”

  The thick, moss-covered trunk of a fallen oak blocked their path. Rowan clasped Cecily’s hand as she scrambled over. Even as he released it again, a faint prickling sensation traveled up his arm. Rowan frowned. His body was behaving in the queerest fashion of late. Once they reached Ravensridge, he would purge himself with a good physic.

  Until then, he tried to distract himself by satisfying his curiosity. “This trouble you’re in—does it involve those men who gave us chase?”

  Without breaking stride, or wasting breath to reply, she nodded. Then, perhaps deciding she owed him a fuller explanation, she said, “One of my old suitors came calling when he found out I’d fallen heir to Brantham. Instead of posies and courting gifts, he brought an army to secure my hand. The men who chased us are his. No doubt he’s discovered me gone by now. He’ll soon have his people scouring the country for me.”

  “How did you manage to get away?”

  She stopped then, and Rowan stopped as well, to catch his breath. By her look of intense concentration, he could tell Cecily was listening for sounds of pursuit. She appeared heartened by what she did not hear. When she set off again at a somewhat slower pace, Rowan fell in step with her.

  “I made it a condition of Brantham’s surrender that Fulke allow a band of refugee lepers to depart unmolested. I donned the robes of a dead leper and went out with them.”

  Rowan shook his head in disbelief. Though he could not help but admire her audacity, there could be no question of his marrying such a woman. He’d partially reconciled himself to the notion of a meek, biddable wife. Those two words were the last he would ever use to describe this unbridled hoyden.

  He would take her to Ravensridge, then do everything in his power to help her recover her keep. But marriage? That was clearly out of the question, Empress or no Empress.

  Something compelled him to ask, “This suitor of yours—were you fond of him before the war? Do you spurn him now simply because he is Stephen’s man?”

  “I liked him very little before.” The aversion in her tone grew harder and colder with each word she spoke. “After the outrage he committed today, there is not a soul in Christendom I detest above Fulke DeBoissard.”

  Rowan collided with another tree. This time it rocked him so violently that he fell to the ground, ears ringing.

  They rang with Cecily Tyrell’s last words to him. There is not a soul in Christendom I detest above Fulke DeBoissard.

  On that point, Rowan decided as he staggered to his feet, they were in complete agreement.

  Cecily shook her head. “You must watch where you’re going. Can you go on? We’re almost to the hills. I know some caves where we can hide until nightfall.”

  “Lead on, lady. I promise to watch my step from now on.”

  When Cecily glanced back, she could see John FitzCourtenay weaving on his feet. She tried to stifle an exasperated sigh. Men could be such a hindrance at times. At least this one wasn’t swaggering and pressing his masculine authority to take the lead. Something about his dogged persistence laid claim to her sympathy.

  Dropping back several paces, she took his arm. “Lean on me until you get your balance back.”

  When he opened his mouth to protest, she countered, “It will only slow us further if you take another fall. Let us put off our talk until we gain a good hiding place.”

  From between clenched teeth he muttered, “Agreed.”

  They labored on in silence for some time, saving their breath to scramble up the rising ground. Though Cecily suspected her companion had regained his balance, he made no move to release himself from her grasp.

  Thanks be, they would soon reach the caves. Their flight had put an unaccustomed strain on her. Her heart raced far more quickly than usual. Her breath came fast and shallow. A most unwholesome flush stung her cheeks.

  One question she burned to pose John FitzCourtenay—were he and his brother very much alike?

  When the Empress had proposed she wed the recently returned Crusader, Cecily had imagined a much older man. Nearly fifty years had passed since the Great Crusade. The few veterans of that celebrated conflict were now graybeards, mumbling their porridge and whiling away winter evenings spinning tales of the Outremer for their grandchildren. If she must take a husband, such a one might be borne, though even Cecily’s stout heart shrank from the thought of sharing his marriage bed.

  Repicturing Rowan DeCourtenay in the likeness of his half brother, Cecily contemplated her wedding night anew. Such musings provoked very different sensations. Different, but still unwelcome.

  While she did not want to fear or despise her husband, she could not afford to entertain tender or, worse yet, desirous feelings for him. A respectful, expedient alliance was what she needed. Cecily had an intuition that such a union would not be easy to maintain with a virile, vigorous husband.

  Despite her warning to FitzCourtenay about keeping his eyes on the trail, Cecily found her own gaze straying sidelong with infuriating frequency. What was it about his strong, jutting profile that drew her so? Surely he had accompanied his brother to the Holy Land. The relentless eastern sun had bronzed his face and etched strangely attractive creases around his deep-set eyes. His wide, firm mouth, aquiline nose and dark, emphatic eyebrows signaled his shifting thoughts and moods with subtle power. What was he thinking and feeling at this moment? Was he as aware of her touch as she was of his?

  Lost in such novel thoughts, Cecily missed her footing on the steep, uneven ground. As she flailed out, trying to avoid a disastrous fall, John FitzCourtenay caught her arm and pulled her close to steady her. The all-too-pleasant shock of finding herself suddenly in his arms made Cecily’s head spin and her knees weaken. She knew she should pull away, but some rebellious impulse urged her to linger. For the first time within memory, she was experiencing the protective warmth of a man’s embrace.

  It intoxicated her.

  There was no other way to explain the sensation. It was as though she had rapidly quaffed a goblet of potent wine.

  His chest rumbled with a deep, infectious chuckle. “Perhaps now you won’t be sorry you suffered me to come along.”

  Something warned her against looking up into his face, but Cecily Tyrell had scarcely heeded a warning in her life—even those of her own reason.

  She looked.

  His eyes, a piercing silvery-blue, held hers and made her wish she could magically exchange the borrowed leper’s rags for her finest linen gown.

  Cecily parted her lips to snap that she wouldn’t have fallen but for the distraction he posed. At the last instant she realized it might not be prudent to admit how much he distracted her.

  “If you recall, I predicted you might have your uses.” Despite her best effort at coolness, her words came out like a flirtatious quip.

  He laughed at this, though Cecily sensed the mirth came almost against his will.

  As the last mellow note of laughter died away, Cecily picked up another sound—faint and distant, but infinitely menacing.

  The baying of hounds.

  Chapter Four

  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 creatur
e.

  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 vesti
ges 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.