They.
In all the improbable dilemmas Giles of Cambrai had ever landed, this one took the prize. Unwanted escort to a reluctant female. For a man who prided himself on cool reason, his behavior in the last few hours had been damned illogical. But this lady somehow had slipped through his carefully constructed walls.
Why did he care what happened to her? That question had nagged him through the long, weary night and day of riding. But from the first moment he opened his eyes in that wagon and saw her face suspended above his, she’d haunted him.
His lips quirked at the sight of the blanket-covered mound a few feet away. Some quality in this female spoke to him in an unfamiliar tongue. He understood desire, the lure of a woman’s warm, fragrant body. That language he spoke fluently.
This lady, with her unconventional beauty and sharp wit, attracted him as no other ever had. Even exhausted, he wanted to wrap his arms around her narrow waist, fill his hands with her lush breasts, sink into her body.
He understood lust, all right. But more than lust connected them. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d known her longer than scant days, better than the handful of words they’d exchanged, deeper than the careful tension between. At times he thought he glimpsed the same recognition in her eyes.
Not today.
Well, she needed help, whether or not she wanted it. She faced a danger she had no idea existed. Why couldn’t she simply do as he said? The lady was stubborn, that’s all there was to it.
So here he lay, on the hard ground in a cold country guarding a female who didn’t want protection. A lady at that, one who would scorn him further if she knew the secret of his birth, the circumstances of his life.
In a few hours, he’d bid her goodbye. It was for the best. Once he secured her at Chauvere, he’d return to his task. The group headed for Scotland increased its lead every hour he dallied. He must ride fast to catch them. But he couldn’t travel without rest. He settled his head against the rock. Just a few minutes more.
A cool wind roused him from a doze. The temperature had dropped with the sunset, and clouds languished across a fading, pink-orange horizon. Emelin shivered in her cocoon of blankets. He picked up his cover and added it to hers before he crawled beneath the pile. He’d be up long before she knew and could be offended. With a quiet sigh, he curled around her body.
****
Emelin snapped awake. A hard, thick branch poked her back. A heavy band around her ribs immobilized her body. And this time it was no dream. Cautiously she slitted her eyelids. Her gaze met rock and dirt and dried grass grayed in deep twilight. She looked down at the constriction. An arm. It wasn’t hers, so that meant…
A gasp jumped up her throat, hissed through her teeth. How dare he take advantage of her while she slept? She realized it wasn’t alarm she experienced, it was…anger.
She stiffened, clenched her fists, ready to fling them back to connect with his face, when a noise caught her ear. Breathing—slow, steady. He slept. She listened to make certain it wasn’t a trick. The breath remained even, deep.
The longer she lay, the heavier the arm became. Heat inched upward from it, across her ribs to the underside of her breasts, up their curves to her nipples. A tingle washed them into sensitive nuggets, to rasp against her soft linen shift. She imagined his beautifully shaped, sword-callused hand tracing the flow of warmth, his long, strong fingers easing over a breast. Her nipples throbbed at the phantom touch.
Their kiss in the garden replayed in her mind, his intense gaze, dark brows over ice eyes, as he lowered his head. His top lip had touched the seam of her mouth, his bottom lip closed over hers, drew it in to nibble.
She shivered. Where did such wicked thoughts come from? How could she possibly be tempted by a man who killed for a livelihood? Anyone knew mercenaries were no better than outlaws. The fact he had abducted her showed he was not a respectable knight. Still, he had been kind when he could have been cruel, thoughtful when he could have assaulted her.
At times his unguarded eyes had shown sadness, longing—all emotions with which she identified. Then there were the times his wicked sense of humor surfaced, when his charm had her aching for a touch.
Her eyes jerked open; her hand flew to the arm. It hadn’t moved. She relaxed again. Imagination played tricks. Then she noticed another cover lay across her shoulders. It must be his. The knight had added his blanket to hers and slept beside her for warmth. His and hers. Her mouth curved up. Then she remembered.
Hah! No gesture of kindness would soften her resentment or wipe out the sight of a green ribbon fluttering between his outstretched fingers. The sneak.
How dare he discover her try at freedom and not tell her immediately.
How dare he allow her to relax in the mistaken belief that rescuers would find her sign and overtake them by nightfall.
Her stomach had clenched at the sight of the ribbon, and she’d fought furious tears, she who never cried. Anger had kept fear at bay. But later, as the anger trickled away in the stillness, her old nemesis—uncertainty—crept in. Could she find another way to signal the followers? The wind had died; calm surrounded their cocoon of blankets. And then… How could she have slept so soundly?
Right now, she was trapped, pinioned by his body. His scent wrapped around her, as well. The mix of musky male and elusive spice underlay the pungent odor of earth and moist air. Instinctively she snuggled back against his warmth. For a brief moment, she was safe, protected. She sighed.
A firm pressure at the small of her back brought her to her senses. That blasted branch. What in Mary’s name was she thinking? She should move the opposite direction. This was her chance. While he slept, she could escape, seek out the party she knew tracked her.
But his heavy arm was an anchor. Then, exhaling, he shifted. As he turned to the other side, the arm was drawn away, as was the pressure on her backside. Her mouth clamped down against an exclamation when she realized what had prodded her. Not a large stick. Sudden heat bathed her face and neck. How foolish she was.
She stilled until his breath returned to a regular, deep pattern. Coolness seeped around her now that their bodies did not touch. Nearby the horses moved, fallen leaves rustled, and an idea blossomed. The way back would be difficult on foot. Did she remember enough to accomplish it on her own?
Yes. This opportunity was too great to ignore.
With infinite stealth, Emelin eased from between the blankets, away from the sleeping knight. Beneath her, leaves crackled.
His breathing hitched. She froze. He didn’t move.
He was a warrior, trained to sleep lightly and awake at the slightest disturbance. A miracle he’d not leapt up the moment she moved. He must be exhausted. But if she continued in this manner, he
would
discover her.
Then she saw it. A small stone, one she could easily grip. Did she dare? Oh, but what if she struck him in the wrong spot and killed him? But the rock fit perfectly into her palm; the rounded side protruded slightly. Perfect. A small tap, just to allow her to get away.
If she hit the back of his head there, near the top, perhaps he wouldn’t be hurt.
Why should she care? He’d kidnapped her. He’d ruined her life. He was no better than an outlaw. Never mind his gentle touch, his magic lips, the unreasoning safety she felt in his presence.
Bit by bit she lifted her arm, then brought her hand down. At the last moment she clenched shut her eyes and slowed the descent. Did it connect hard enough? Too hard?
She eased open her eyes. He was still. No blood. Yet she couldn’t resist a touch to the spot, to make certain he was all right. Her eyes focused on his back as she waited. It moved. Thank God. He breathed.
Emelin sighed.
Thank you, Sweet Mary.
She brushed moisture from her cheeks. Were those tears? No. Not for her abductor, who deserved a much stronger blow to his thick head.
But perhaps he was injured. A sound of disgust slid from between her teeth. Here she worried over the man who held her prisoner. If she didn’t act soon, the chance might slip away.
Now, how to accomplish her escape? She straightened and sucked in a breath. Thankfully, he had left bridles on both animals, although he’d removed the saddles. There was no chance she could heft one of those onto the mare’s back, so she’d have to do this without a pad to protect her already sore behind.
She untied the reins, then realized she couldn’t mount. No stirrups to brace against, no saddle to hold to. One hand on the mare’s nose, the other clutching the reins, she looked around for something to stand on.
Nothing. Perhaps down the road lay a rock that could be used. As quietly as she could manage, Emelin led the horse forward. There. A ragged stump beside a fallen tree. Balanced on an uneven edge of wood, she eased her leg over the mount’s back. Breath held, she pushed off and landed solidly astride.
She’d done it. Her heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. Gulping lungs full of air, she patted the horse’s neck and steadied herself. She wasn’t sure of the location, because the contrary man had never said. But—if she kept to the road they’d traveled, the trail should be clear.
One last, deep inhalation. She was ready. A touch of heel and the mare trotted off—back the way they’d come the day before. Emelin winced as her sore bottom bounced. Then her mouth lifted in a smile.
The glow of victory carried her into the dungeon-dark night. Never had she thought to feel such accomplishment again, to achieve success in a plan of her own formulation.
Still, better pay attention to the road. It became an overgrown path at some point; she needed to remain alert to find the turn off.
She could hardly wait to face Garley and Lord Osbert. How surprised they would be to discover she’d escaped on her own. It would be a relief to return to Langley, to put the events of the last few hours behind her. To forget the adventure.
Adventure? Surely she didn’t consider abduction in such light. Although her kidnapper insisted he acted to protect her, she didn’t really know what he planned. There was no reason to trust him. Yet she’d never felt threatened. Nor fearful. Angry? Oh, yes.
His actions had been honorable while they were alone in the countryside. In fact, she’d felt surprisingly safe. Not once did he try to force his attentions. Even when she awoke and found he had combined their beds, she wasn’t alarmed.
Her face grew warm as she recalled the incident. The sensation of his strong arms tight around her in sleep remained vivid. Her nipples tingled and she shifted. Because she sought a more comfortable position on the animal’s hard back, of course. Not because the memory prompted those unfamiliar shivers throughout her body.
And the hardness of his body pressed against her back—how could she not have known immediately what that was? She hadn’t grown up around six brothers without some knowledge of men’s bodies and their desires, even if she’d never experienced them herself.
She would not think of him again. No matter how much the mercenary she’d left behind resembled the beautiful dark knight of her earlier dreams, Giles of Cambrai could never be that man.
Think of Margaret, who needed her. Think of Lord Osbert, of Garley. She’d rather not think of her brother. The men would likely be angry at her absence, but they must understand that she had no choice. Her abductor hadn’t asked her permission.
How had she been carried off undetected? The shock of the journey and the intense headache had wiped all thought of her abduction from her mind. Now the pain was gone, all but the tenderness on her jaw. Gingerly she touched the spot. Had a fall caused it?
She’d been in the garden with Giles. He kissed her. She pulled away, unsettled by the roiling emotion, and rushed to the gate. For some reason, she turned. He reached for her.
The next she knew, she awoke, clinging like a kitten to the disreputable knight as they clopped through wild undergrowth in the cool autumn dawn.
Her thoughts skittered back to the garden. His outstretched hand. He had struck her. She gasped
. Oh! I wish I had hit him harder.
Somehow he had managed to leave the castle without challenge. Who had provided help? When that person was caught…she shuddered. The punishment would not be pretty.
Lord Osbert would want revenge. Not just on the traitor in his own keep, but on the one who kidnapped his future lady. And Garley would demand retribution, as well. A chill swept over Emelin that had nothing to do with the increased wind. Her brother would kill Silverhawk.
Didn’t the mercenary deserve it? He’d carried her off in the deepest night, spirited her away for who-knew-what intention. Yet he’d not touched her, nor in any way harmed her. She jiggled her jaw—except for that. In fact, he had been rather kind, if overbearing. Insisted it was for her protection.
Emelin huffed a laugh. Who could possibly want to hurt her? Lord Osbert wanted an heir. He’d keep her safe and healthy for that reason, alone. Nor would Garley want evil to befall her. He had too much riding on the marriage.
Even if her captor honestly believed she was in danger, he was wrong. She would hate to see him harmed, however. Perhaps when he discovered she’d fled, he’d continue his journey home and escape pursuit. He said he had no ties in England.
Oh, Sweet Mary. Lord Henry and Lady Evelynn. Did they realize what kind of man they befriended? Thoughts of the young Evie were interrupted when Emelin spotted a fork in the main road. The small path to the left looked like the one they passed down this morning.