Some distance away he found some almost-dry twigs nestled among a bed of leaves beneath a small outcrop of rock. Soon he uncovered another cache of usable braches from what looked like an animal den. They were small enough to carry back and dry enough to burn.
He dumped them in the small empty space on the ground Emelin had made amid the debris. She also had raided his pack to find the wrapped flint and stone he carried to make fires. After long minutes of concentrated chipping and judiciously applied swearing, Giles was rewarded. A spark flared, caught.
By the time the fire produced enough heat to be helpful, the sun had risen in a clear sky. Soon, between the fire and the sunshine, their clothes would dry.
Emelin had found a spot where the sun shone through the trees and unplaited her braid, picking out bits of leaves and tiny twigs, reminders of her frantic ride. She spread the long, thick strands over her shoulders and rubbed them briskly. Not once since he returned had she looked at him.
The lady must be exhausted. As for himself—he’d had damned little sleep the night before, what with her soft, round bottom pressed against him. And when he had at last dozed off, she’d knocked him on the head. Her wallop had been light, however, the headache over quickly.
He’d underestimated her. She’d taken him by surprise because he never expected her to run. Protest, yes. Attempt to leave more trail markers, of course. He rather looked forward to matching wits with the lady.
Mark up one more mistake he’d made since meeting her. Silverhawk, the cold blooded mercenary, seemed to lose his edge when presented with one small warrior-nun.
He had to stop calling her that. The memory of her soft, curious mouth made him readjust himself yet again. Those lips were definitely not nun-like.
Muttering, he searched his pack. His belongings were damp, but his spare shirt and tunic were at least drier than the ones he wore. He didn’t want to consider the condition of his light mail jack, shoved into the bag with all the other supplies. No time to don it before they left the castle.
Yet another uncharacteristic lapse. If he didn’t get command of himself fast, they both could be in danger. He stripped off his tunic and shirt, draped them over a nearby rock, then dragged the other shirt over his head.
Too bad there wasn’t something the lady could wear. “The lady.” The words felt awkward in his mind—he’d thought of her so long as the little warrior- nun. She was a lady, all right. Spirited, courageous, and damned exasperating in the bargain.
“What are you doing?” Her voice managed to sound indignant even as it squeaked. He glanced over his shoulder to see her startled gaze on his back.
“Drying out.” Guilt. He definitely felt it. He had not brought clothes for her. Disgusted at the lack of planning, he tossed the bag to the ground. At her sharp intake of breath, he turned. Her gaze flew to his. Was that alarm he saw?
“Here.” He held out the tunic he’d been about to don. “Go behind those bushes and put this on. Then spread out your gown; the sun will soon do its work.”
He expected her to argue. Most ladies would refuse. She wasn’t most ladies. Tunic in hand, she disappeared behind the undergrowth. In a moment she was back.
“My ties are wet.” She refused to meet his eyes as she turned to present the soaked knot.
He worked the cords loose, and she stalked away without another word. His bemused gaze followed her then jerked away. Best tend to the horses, then try to discover where the night’s wild race had landed them.
Once out of sight, he removed his dry shirt and used it to dry off his sword and knife. When he’d assured himself they hadn’t suffered from the rain, he continued his reconnaissance.
The sun was nearly at its high point when he returned. He’d located a path. It wasn’t the one they came down, but he’d not taken the time to search for that one. They would follow the new trail until it crossed a larger road. He could find the way from there. If necessary, they could ask at a cottage.
He worried the heavy rain had washed away any trail the traitors made. That meant he’d have to travel closer to settlements where he could uncover information on other strangers in the area.
As for taking Lady Emelin to Chauvere—that depended on how far from the castle they’d wandered in the storm. To judge from the position of the sun, they’d veered northeast. He just didn’t know how far.
He could see her move around the camp as she checked on the clothes laid out to dry. She wore his simple tunic over her chemise, which covered her arms and tied high on her chest. So she hadn’t disrobed completely.
Her concern wasn’t necessary. After a firm lecture to himself, he’d clamped down his desire. There’d be no more intimacy between them, no more kisses, no heated embraces.
Still with her auburn hair flowing around her waist, against the deep blue of the tunic, she was temptation. As if she heard his thoughts, she looked up. Her tentative smile hit him like a mace to the stomach. He must have halted, because she called out.
“Come along. You’re back in good time. Our garments are ready. I put those in your pack out to dry, as well.”
Sure enough, all his clothes were scattered about, along with the blankets. Even his mail jack hung over a low branch. Some of the visible metal links were rusted. Or that might be dried blood left over from his attack. The light mail coif definitely showed worse for wear. Sand for a good cleaning wasn’t at hand. He’d just have to make do.
“Here.” Her closed hand reached out to him. “I found this at the bottom of your pack and didn’t want to misplace it.” Into his palm she released the medallion. God’s blood! She’d found that, too.
With a glare, he jerked the cord from her grasp and turned his back. He’d hidden it before he’d returned to Langley, wanting to avoid possible discovery before he was ready. Best it remain hidden for the time.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “The design looks familiar. Was it your mother’s?”
He ignored her as he grabbed the pack, wrapped the medallion in his now-dry shirt, and shoved both inside.
“Get ready. We’ve got a long distance to travel before nightfall.”
****
Emelin snatched up her gown and headed for the bushes to change. He was a disagreeable, ungrateful wretch, and she couldn’t wait to escape again. Only this time, she’d be more careful. She had to leave. The sight of his eyes smoldering in a sultry gaze sent shivers through her, delicious chills that had nothing to do with the cooling temperature.
Recalling the incendiary kisses they’d shared in the rain, she paused. Her mind had been filled with little else all morning. Her body remembered the feel of him, molded against her. It wanted that again. It wanted the empty ache filled.
Again, a shiver of shame. Was this the way a wanton thought? She dragged her mind away from that memory. She must concentrate. Clothing must be changed, travel resumed. Yes. The quicker they were on the road, the faster she could find a way to elude him. He was her captor, after all. They would travel on a real road this time, he’d said. Her chances of escape would greatly improve.
She went deeper into the brush to make sure he could catch no sight of her as she dressed. A faint scent she recognized as Giles’ wafted from the folds of the tunic as it passed over her head. She held it there for a moment, savoring.
With a moan of exasperation, she placed in on a bush and grabbed her gown. For the last five years, the nuns had instructed her against a litany of temptations. A pity this man hadn’t been one of them. Her resistance to him was as thin as a wet chemise.
When she emerged, he wordlessly helped her mount and they set out.
Throughout the afternoon, they rode in silence. Giles had given up his saddle to Emelin, and he rode Nuit bareback. She was grateful. There hadn’t been time for Giles to grab the second saddle when he followed her the night before. Some lucky traveler would discover the expensive piece and wonder. Emelin brightened at the thought her rescuers might happen upon it. But any sign of the pair’s trail would be washed away.
In mid-afternoon, they espied a cottage not far off the road. Giles called to Emelin. “Do you know the language? My supply of English is not good.”
“I do,” she answered as she urged the mare closer. He was from Normandy. Of course he didn’t speak English. Many Norman nobles in England still did not bother to learn the language of the countryside, but she grew up with children of villagers and servants.
Her lips curved up at the implication. She could leave her own message.
A worn woman answered the door. Giles asked the goodwife about other strangers, explaining that he and his wife were to meet them earlier but had been delayed in the storm. Emelin translated. He looked satisfied when she described a large party of men which passed by two days earlier.
He thanked the woman and smiled. Emelin caught her breath. She’d never seen him smile. It was devastating. Strong white teeth gleamed as his beautiful lips parted. A long dimple caressed one side of his mouth.
The dive her stomach took was not a good sign for her sanity. She had to find a way to leave, immediately. Explaining to Giles that she wanted to add her own thanks, Emelin told the woman the rest of their party followed.
“Be sure to give them our direction,” she instructed in a lowered voice. “It’s important they reach us soon.”
She need not have worried he would overhear.
Giles was already down the road.
Chapter Twelve
Mary’s tears
. Emelin bit the inside of her mouth to stifle a moan. Her arms ached and her backside was numb, but she’d pitch from the saddle before uttering one sound of complaint.
She shot a disgusted glance at the man beside her. How could he sit so tall? They’d ridden for hours. Did he never tire?
Determination alone held her erect, but he ambled along at ease, as if he were part of that black brute of a gelding. Bareback, no less. Still he must stop eventually, to rest the horses if nothing else. Oh, yes, he’d think of the horses, if not of her.
An unladylike snort escaped. How silly she sounded, like a petulant child. But she’d resolved not to utter one squeak of complaint. Lady Emelin, late of St. Ursula, could be as stubborn as Sir Giles of…where did he say?...oh, yes, Cambrai.
Every attempt she’d made to extract information had failed. Very well. If he chose to be obstinate, let silence reign. To take her mind off her exhaustion, she searched the countryside they passed.
Finally in the distance, she made out a lazy curl of smoke above a small hill. A village? Another cottage? Surely he would pause at last. Perhaps she could find a moment of privacy to leave some kind of message for Garley and Lord Osbert.
The men must be near. Twice she’d heard voices carried on the breeze. Once, she thought to turn and gallop toward those voices. But she wasn’t certain they were close enough to reach before
he
caught up to her.
Better to wait. At least now she knew rescue was certain, she could be patient. Sir Giles apparently hadn’t heard, because he plodded onward.
They topped the rise to see three small cottages clustered among outbuildings that included two large open barns. A tiny girl played in front of one of the rough cots. Clothing was draped over a nearby fence, and as the horses drew to a halt, a woman came from behind the home. She dried her hands on the skirt of her worn gown while she eyed them with suspicion.
Giles turned to Emelin. “Ask her if she’s seen a group of men pass by. Tell her we were to join them but became lost in the storm.”
The woman frowned at Emelin’s words, then nodded and answered.
“They were here night before last,” Emelin told Giles when the woman finished. “They asked directions to Granville Castle. It is a day’s ride and a bit, on the north road, there.” She gestured to the crossroads.
“Do you know the place?”
She nodded, lower lip caught between her teeth. “Yes, but I’ve never visited.” She turned to the woman again. “Sir Daviess still there, is he?”
“Aye, milady, but he’s not well. And him with no heir, my man says, makes it bad for his people.”
Emelin dutifully translated for Giles. “Ask her how many in the group,” he prompted.
“Eight,” the woman replied to the question. “The fancy lord and four soldiers. Three others, too, but they was stopped back a ways.”
This time, Giles thanked her in English. With a nod at Emelin, he suggested they halt to rest. The woman pointed out the stream, then invited Emelin to step around in back where she could be private.
Numb as she was, Emelin allowed Giles to lift her down. She clung to his arms while she found her equilibrium but refused to look at his face. Bad enough her heart raced at the touch. No need to chance another searching glance. Those eyes saw too much.
With a deep breath, she set out behind the woman whose name, she discovered, was Annie. Giles made to follow, but she held up her hand.
“Perhaps you could go to the stream. I’ll be here when you return.” When he paused, she pointed out, “You have both horses.”
“Nevertheless, I will wait for you. Then we can care for the animals together.”
Blasted man. Surely he didn’t think she would try to escape on foot. His scowl confirmed his suspicion.
“You think I will enlist her help?”
He merely lifted his brows and motioned for her to precede him.
Annie showed her the privy, then returned to the wooden tub of water. Emelin was out of sight before she realized the significance of that tub. It meant a certain level of prosperity for the family. Most peasants lugged their laundry to a stream.