Thank the Lord she’d seen it. With clouds dancing across the moon, blocking the stars, she’d nearly ridden right past. With a tug on the reins, she guided the mare, set her heel to its flank when it balked.
“Come on, girl.” Emelin turned her head against a burst of wind, then swiped hair from her face. “Now is not the time for maidenly coyness. We females must work together.”
Sometime later, as they trudged along the trail, she began to think the mount had been wise. Occasional light from the moon struggled through the thick tree limbs.
She shivered against the increasing cold and hunched forward to search the path ahead. Why hadn’t she thought to bring one of the blankets? Clouds scudded across the sky. Still she urged the horse onward. She had come too far to turn back now.
Had Silverhawk regained consciousness? Discovered her absence? Imagine the surprise, when he awoke alone. She’d shown him she was not helpless. Satisfaction lightened the oppression she was feeling—from the approaching storm; that had to explain the growing dread.
Then, carried on bursts of wind, came voices. At last. She’d found them. She straightened, the discomfort of the cold and riding bareback forgotten as she urged the mare forward. Onward down the trail she rode. Once she called out, “Lord Osbert, Garley, I’m here.” No answer came.
In the distance, thunder rumbled, and white light knifed across the ominous sky.
Please, not rain
. Surely the good Lord wouldn’t be so cruel. Her throat constricted. She gulped. She would not panic. Concentrate on deep breaths.
If only her heart would stop clamoring to get out.
A cold, fat drop struck, followed by two more, a dozen. Then the downpour hit. A jagged streak snapped in front of her. A rolling crash shook the earth. The mare tossed its head, danced aside. Emelin murmured, petted the animal’s neck in an attempt to calm it. But at the next sharp crack, it reared, and shot down the path.
Fisting the reins, she clung to its mane as the mount veered through the underbrush, away from the sharp zigzags of light.
Branches struck her face, snatched at her skirts, nearly dragged her off. How she managed to keep her seat, she didn’t know. All she could think was,
Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
At last the mare slowed. Emelin squinted through wet eyes, reached out to knock aside a soggy branch, dripping leaves. Finally, the animal stopped, blowing hard, trembling.
Emelin shook. Breath came in gasps. Her mind could not form a coherent thought as cold wetness dripped from her hair to ooze down her back. The frightened flight of the horse had carried her far from the path. She was hopelessly lost.
All around, wind-whipped shadows dipped, lunged forward, then back. Another spear of lightning wrenched into a nearby tree. Her shout of surprise was swallowed in the earth-shaking roar that followed. The winded mare only shook harder.
Could they survive this nightmare? Then through the rain-drenched night a huge black object hurtled up, rearing as it just missed her.
Emelin screamed.
The monster swung around. Wet black tentacles wrapped around her, dragged her off the exhausted mare. She tried to struggle, but the iron hold wouldn’t allow it.
At last her feet touched ground, and the tentacles embraced her until she couldn’t breathe. It took a moment for the roar to dissolve into understandable words.
“Are you hurt? Are you hurt? Tell me if you’re hurt.”
Silverhawk. Her arms flew around his waist and she nodded against his soaked tunic.
Thank God, thank God.
She was safe.
“Fi-fine,” she stammered through hiccupped sobs. “I’m fine.”
And then he was pulling her away from his chest, shaking her by the shoulders.
“What were you thinking?” The storm’s fury couldn’t compete with his roar. “You could have been killed, do you know that? You could have fallen from that horse. Died broken on the cold wet ground. Have you no sense? Damnation, woman. Where did you think you were going?”
Emelin didn’t bother to answer because she was flattened against his chest again. His iron arms squeezed the breath from her. Then his lips were brushing her forehead, kissing the rain and tears from her face. When they reached her mouth they were frantic, rough in their claiming.
She strained against him. The panic she’d felt was now a wild compulsion to be closer, deeper in his arms. Safe. She kissed him back, pushed into him, clutched his wide shoulders. At last he lifted his head. Both of them gulped for air.
Only then did she realize the downpour continued. Her shivers could be from the wet cold or from the emotion of their kisses. It didn’t matter. They had to find shelter. She had no idea where to look. But he would.
Releasing handfuls of his sopping tunic, she looked up. His eyes seemed to burn, and Emelin experienced that bond she’d felt before when their gazes met.
He was a mercenary, a knight for hire who some called murderer. Yet lost in a violent night, clutched in the arms of this dangerous warrior who had kidnapped her, she’d never felt safer.
Chapter Eleven
She leaned closer when he dragged a knuckle across her cheek. “Part of a tree is down back there,” he shouted above the storm. “We’ll take shelter.”
He grabbed her hand, wrapped the reins around his forearm, and forged back the way they’d come.
The rain began to ease as they squished through mud and wet weeds. Not far away a huge limb tipped to the ground, still partially attached to the giant oak it once topped. Its ragged break gleamed light against the soaked tree bark, evidence of the recent lightning strike that downed it.
Because of its size, the space between the limb and the trunk formed a lean-to the size of a small chamber. Emelin shoved dripping hair from her eyes and struggled past smaller branches to the back of the opening.
“If we move in as far as possible, there may be room for the horses,” she called.
It was a tight squeeze, but they managed. She angled herself as far as possible from the knight. Still he jostled her while he arranged the animals. At last he eased around to face her.
“All right?” He was so close, the warmth of his breath stroked her cheek.
“Yes.” The words squeezed past the constriction in her throat.
“Cold?”
“Of course.” Although the trembling in her limbs owed more to his nearness than the weather.
“The blankets are no use. We’ll have to keep each other warm.” He enveloped her in his arms. After a moment, she flattened her hands on his chest, then tentatively slid them around his waist. Cold and wet but sheltered from the now-steady drizzle, they stood wrapped together.
Heat came, a bolt through her breasts, which were pressed to his chest. It tingled up her legs—how had they become wedged between his? It pulsed in her belly, clasped tightly against his hips.
Nothing would feel better, warmer, than to climb closer. She didn’t realize she pushed against him until he shifted and tightened his arms.
What should she do? Alone in the tight dark shelter, the world narrowed to the two of them. Emelin fought a battle with her former cloistered self. And lost.
Angling her face, she buried her cold nose against the side of his neck. His skin scorched her. How would it feel against her tongue? She didn’t dare. Instead, she burrowed further into his arms.
He growled and tipped his head to the side. Along her temple, Emelin could feel warmth as his lips moved. A light touch, firm and wet and rough, outlined her ear. His tongue. She shivered but not from cold.
His hands slid to her waist and lifted until she was balanced on her toes.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
Oh, how she wanted to, but she feared to meet his gaze. He might see the raw need she didn’t understand, herself. Yet she opened her eyes. Little was visible in the blackness of their shelter. She needed no sight. His large, beautiful hands curved around her face as his lips caught hers.
Without support at her back, she wavered, then anchored her fists in his wet tunic. The tip of his tongue brushed her closed lips; desire shot to her core. She gasped.
He took advantage of the opening. His mouth found that perfect angle, as if their lips were made to fit together. Their bodies fit together, as well. A growing ridge pulsed against her mound. When his hand pressed the small of her back, her hips jerked forward. He leaned back against the trunk and pulled her forward, up and against his body.
Emelin fought an urge to grind against the hot hardness probing where her legs met. But a whisper from her conscience stilled her. Where was her control? She must not give in to desire.
With a quick shake of the head, she pulled away. He tipped her chin upward. As if it had a mind of its own, her hand lifted.
Fingertips brushed the beard-stubbled chin, traced the shape of his cheek, the contours of his eyes. One brow arched beneath her touch.
She sucked in a breath to still the undulating emotion. How was it this man made her long for the unknown? A sharp flash of light illuminated the intensity of his gaze. Thunder shook the ground.
The hideaway sheltered them from renewed rain. As if they were alone in the world. As if this were a dream in which no rules applied.
Without conscious thought, Emelin slid up his body, lifted her lips. His arms wrapped around her, pulled her tight.
The large, firm proof of his desire pressed between her thighs, evident through layers of thick, wet clothing. She wriggled; a moan rumbled in her ears.
Fingers traced along the gown’s sagging neckline. Slipped inside, down the valley between her breasts. Her nipples were hardened from the cold, but they knotted tighter, ached at his touch.
Nothing she’d ever imagined matched the sensations surging through her, sharp and bright as lightning. Tumultuous as thunder.
More. She rocked against his erection.
He released her mouth and with a low exclamation angled his head back against the trunk. She snuggled her cheek against his chest. In her ear echoed the heavy thud of his heart. He was not thoughtless and cruel, this fierce knight. Who was he, really?
“Giles.” Her tongue curled around the name. She smiled. “Where are you from? Who are your people?
His body tensed. “My grandfather lived near Cambrai in Normandy. He died when I was seven.”
“Your mother and father?”
He set her away from him, and she shuddered in the sudden coolness.
“My mother died when I was five,” he answered after a pause.
“Did your father die as well?”
“No.” His voice hardened. “He still lives.” Giles turned his head, forestalling more questions. He and his father must be estranged. Emelin could certainly understand families at odds with each other. She touched his shoulder, but he shrugged away her hand.
“The rain has stopped,” he announced.
So wrapped up in him and his story, she’d failed to notice the thunder had become distant, the bursts of light now mere winks.
“We should try to find a way to dry our clothes and warm up, or we could face lung fever.” Any gentleness he had shown earlier disappeared as he ducked out of the shelter. Had the questions angered him? The remnant of warmth from their embrace evaporated, leaving her chilled inside and out.
Alone in the makeshift shelter, she stared at the branches without seeing. What had she done? Hot waves of shame flooded her. Sweet Mary. She had forgotten herself, behaved as the veriest wanton. Allowed liberties with her body only a husband should take. He must think her the lowest of women, ready to share herself with any man who came along. Unfit as a wife and mother.
How could she face him in a few moments?
More to the point, how could she face Lord Osbert? But she would. And make a comfortable home for him. Her back stiffened in resolve. She’d devote herself as a model wife, a loving mother. Then these wild, scandalous emotions she felt need never be faced again.
First, however, she must locate the searchers whose voices she heard before. They couldn’t have traveled far in this storm. The need for rescue had become even more acute. She’d be a model prisoner until she could manage to slip away again. But this time she must be more careful.
****
Giles tied the horses to a small tree and set out to find anything dry enough to burn. He hoped for the chill wetness of his clothes to dampen his need.
His cock still ached from want, but that feeling shouldn’t surprise him. He’d been too long without a woman.
It was the unfamiliar urge to hold Lady Emelin, to protect her, that caught him by surprise.
He was a man who satisfied his lust with willing, convenient women, not untried maidens. This one was not for him. He had nothing—only what he earned with his arm in battle and tournaments. His coin and prizes waited in the safety of St. Anselm Priory for the day he gave up the sword. Or fell at last.
She could mean nothing to him, this lady betrothed to his father. She was an armful of innocence, and he never took advantage of innocence. He stole her away as a means of revenge. And because her life was in danger. His responsibility ended when they arrived at Chauvere. She’d be Lord Henry’s problem then.
Ladies! Giles kicked at a damp, rotten limb, then stomped to a rock outcropping. He should have taken the invitation of that maid at Langley. As soon as this benighted business was over, he’d find a willing woman. And she damned well wouldn’t have red hair.