by Byrne, Julia
“There’s a mantle in my chamber,” she bit out. “I can fetch that if you insist on pursuing this madness.”
And she would lock herself in her chamber as soon as she got there.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he said, instantly demolishing her plan. “And if we both return to your chamber what we’d fetch would be a heap of trouble. As well ask the town crier to proclaim our departure.”
“As well depart tomorrow morning with an escort, like civilized beings,” she shot back. “There’s no reason to creep away like thieves in the night, and if you think—”
“There’s every reason,” he interrupted without ceremony. “We’re going to be travelling for several days, and I can’t watch you and your cousin, and his men, every mile of the way, all day and night. We’ll be safer alone.”
“So you say,” she scorned. “Why should I listen to you? Tom wants to marry me, not kill me. I’m not much use to him dead.”
“I haven’t got time to argue with you,” Beaudene said. “We’re leaving as soon as I stow that body in the storeroom. By the time ’tis discovered we should have several hours’ start.”
“Oh, wonderful! You expect my uncle to come after us? That should put him in a festive mood. I’ll probably have a beating to look forward to. Well, you might have saved my life, Sir Rafael, but that doesn’t mean I have to obey your orders. I’m not going as far as the gatehouse with you, let alone—”
Her tirade was abruptly cut short when Beaudene took a menacing step forward and captured her face in one large hand. His golden eyes blazed down into hers, fierce and implacable.
“If you want to stay alive, lady,” he said very softly, “you’ll keep quiet and do exactly as I say. If I say we’re leaving tonight, that’s when we leave. If I say ride hard, you’ll ride harder than you’ve ever ridden in your life. If I say walk, you’ll walk. Do you understand me?”
Nell was trembling by the time he’d finished, but it wasn’t in fear of Beaudene. His insistence that they flee her family, his utter confidence that he was right, shook her more than she cared to admit. What if she was wrong? What if the slashed gown was the only piece of spite Margaret had directed at her, and the other incidents attempts on her life?
It came down to a simple choice. She either travelled with Tom and his henchmen, who would obey any order her cousin saw fit to give them, or she accepted the protection of a man she didn’t know at all.
“Let me make the decision easy for you,” he said, obviously losing patience with her long silence. “You can co-operate, lady, or I can knock you senseless and take you out of here slung over your horse.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?” she demanded. Then cried out when he released her and drew back his fist. “All right! I’ll go with you.”
“Do I have your word that you won’t try anything stupid? You’ll obey my every order?”
“Aye.” She flung the word at him. “You don’t have to keep threatening me.”
His fist lowered. Nell’s wary gaze followed it. Not until Beaudene’s fingers uncurled did she lift her gaze to his face. With the candlelight shining directly below it, his scar stood out in harsh relief, a stark relic of violence.
“You really would have hit me,” she whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes before he turned away. “Just remember that whenever you’re tempted to try your hand at rebellion,” he said curtly. “Now, come and help me with this corpse.”
Nell swallowed as the candle was shoved into her hand. “Can’t you just leave him there?”
“For the stable-boys to trip over at dawn?” He sent her a withering glance. “Eventually they’ll notice the horses are missing, but we’ll need every minute of advantage we can get. Don’t look if you’re squeamish. And for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut when we go past that stallion.”
He strode down the corridor and picked up her attacker. The effortless way he handled the body of a man almost as big as himself gave Nell a daunting idea of his strength. She gritted her teeth and followed, making a wide detour around the patch of blood-stained straw. She would not be sick, she told herself with fierce determination.
They reached the storeroom door and Beaudene jerked his head, indicating she should open it. Nell obeyed, hating him. He knew what she was feeling when her gown brushed the limp form in passing, but there was not a flicker of sympathy in those hard amber eyes. He dropped the body behind a large barrel and kicked some straw over it. Then he motioned her to hold the light higher while he examined the harness stored to one side of the room.
“That’s not it,” she objected, when she saw what he’d selected. The saddle in his hands looked large enough to fit two of her. She’d never stay in it.
He stalked out of the storeroom, unhooked the rope from Rufus’s stall and began murmuring reassuringly to the horse.
“Don’t you ever listen to anyone?” she demanded in a furious whisper, hurrying after him.
“Don’t you ever stop arguing?” he countered in the same low tone. “We’re not going on a picnic along the river. For a journey like this a side-saddle is not only uncomfortable but damned dangerous. Now, for once in your life you can do something useful and throw straw over that blood.”
He expected her to refuse. She could see it in his eyes, in the arrogant tilt to his head.
Nell tipped up her chin and wheeled about. She’d defy him to find one drop of blood when she was finished, she vowed, kicking furiously at the straw. A nervous grumble from the stallion had her going about the business more quietly.
Males! Human or equine, they were all the same. Dangerous, threatening, and violent. Clearly there was no justice in a world where a woman needed one of the brutes to protect her from all the rest.
“Are you done?” Beaudene took the candle from her and cast an all-seeing eye over the straw-covered floor. “Wait by the horses,” he instructed. “But stay clear of Samson.”
Don’t bother telling me I did a good job, she fumed silently, sending a glare after him as he replaced the candle on the shelf. She took a few steps and found herself trading stares with his huge horse.
“Samson,” she murmured, hoping the animal wouldn’t take it into his head to move.
“Forget the charm.” The words came from somewhere in the shadows. “You won’t find Samson as susceptible as his namesake.”
“Especially if he takes after his master,” she muttered beneath her breath. She wanted to say the words aloud but didn’t have the courage. Instead, she looked across at Chevette who was watching the proceedings with interest. Impulsively, Nell crossed the passage and put her arms about the mare’s neck. At that moment it seemed the little horse was her only ally, her only comfort in a world that was suddenly full of danger. Her throat tightened convulsively on a wave of emotion.
“Farewell, little friend,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against the palfrey’s mane to stifle the tears burning in her eyes. “Be safe.”
When she stepped back the stable was plunged into darkness.
“Don’t panic,” Beaudene said, beside her. She felt his hands circle her waist. He turned her toward the horses.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked, unnerved by his closeness in the impenetrable blackness surrounding them. If dancing with him made her feel small and vulnerable, standing alone with him in the dark was ten times worse. With the loss of sight, her other senses became painfully acute. Her heartbeat hammered in her head; with every ragged breath she inhaled the scents of man and horses. And his hands…so hard and warm and strong. She trembled in his hold, wanting to escape his overwhelming strength, and yet drawn to it.
Horrified, she barely heard the small sound of shock that escaped her lips.
“I’m going to lift you onto your horse.” His voice, soft and deep, rasped over her quivering nerves. “Can you reach the reins?”
Somehow she forced her arms upward, groping for the reins with one hand and the saddle with the other. T
he position made her feel even more defenseless. When Beaudene spread his fingers wider and tightened his hold she shivered violently and almost cried out.
“Relax,” he growled in her ear. “I won’t drop you.” An instant later he lifted her into the air with breathtaking ease.
She didn’t know if it was instinct or desperation that had her swinging her leg over the saddle, but she found herself atop Rufus’s back, shaken but secure.
“Are the stirrups all right?” Beaudene asked, encircling her ankle with his fingers.
“Aye.” Nell immediately put her weight on her left foot, knowing that, to him, it would feel firmly in place. The stirrups were far from perfect, but if he touched her again she suspected she would fall straight off the horse.
He moved away and she went limp with relief, grateful now for the lack of light. If he saw the way she was blushing, her humiliation would be complete.
A second later a faint lightening of the gloom told her that Beaudene was opening one of the big double doors.
“I’m going to lead the horses out through the postern,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Once we’re in the woods we’ll be away clear. Until then, not a sound.”
Apparently taking her silence for agreement, he walked the horses through the narrow opening, turned back to close the door, then faded into the shadows against the bailey wall, leading Samson. Rufus followed the other horse without protest, the sound of their hooves muffled in the long grass.
They were going to get away, Nell realized, as the postern gate loomed up beside her. It was locked, but that little circumstance apparently presented no problem to Beaudene. And there were no guards posted here. Why would there be, when, with the final destruction of Lancastrian hopes earlier in the year, there was no danger of siege?
The gate closed behind them as soundlessly as the stable door. A few minutes later the dark of night gave way to the deeper blackness beneath the trees.
“We’ll keep to the woods for a mile or so then rejoin the road,” Beaudene said quietly as he mounted. “Stay close by me, Lady Eleanor. ’Tis easy to become lost at night, and if I’m put to the trouble of searching for you, I will be greatly displeased.”
Nell didn’t bother to answer. Mayhap she was becoming immune to his threats. Or mayhap there were too many other things for her to think about, like deciding whether she was relieved or worried that no one had noticed their escape.
The question was still occupying her mind when the heavens opened again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three hours passed in a silence broken only by the sounds of rain and swiftly travelling horses. Rafe told himself he should be grateful he wasn’t having to listen to a barrage of complaints, but some perverse whim made him want to goad his charge out of her sulks. Fortunately, disgust at his own contrariness kept him quiet. She was a duty, an obligation, nothing more.
He grimaced into the darkness. He might be annoyingly perverse where Lady Eleanor fitzWarren was concerned, but he wasn’t about to start lying to himself. He had no obligation to her and even less to her father. There were other reasons why he was riding through a filthy night when he could be in bed catching up on some overdue sleep. Not least of which was the scene he’d walked into in the stable.
Rafe frowned and cast a glance at his silent companion. She’d dropped back a little, but not enough to draw a comment from him.
Did Eleanor really think all the incidents she’d described to be genuine accidents or mere spite? Taken alone, such a conclusion might be excusable, but together? She would have to be a complete innocent or a simpleton. And he doubted she was either of those things.
The irony of the situation caused a grim smile to curl his mouth. If the lady was neither innocent nor simple it made everything very straightforward or very complicated, depending on which way you looked at it. And if he had any sense at all, he’d look at it the way he usually faced his problems. Head-on.
He wanted her. Badly.
He hadn’t expected it. He definitely didn’t like it. But he couldn’t ignore the fierce surge of desire she aroused in him whenever they touched. Touched! By the pit, it seemed he only had to be near her.
The memory of the soft fragility of her body between his hands when he’d held her in the darkness of the stable caused his fingers to clench on the reins. Only the need to get her away had stopped him sliding his hands higher until he could close them over the sweetly rounded breasts half-exposed by her gown. A sight that had tormented him since he’d first seen her in the hall, weaving her spells. Definitely no innocent.
And she didn’t want marriage.
So why not take her? And, while he was about it, take what else was owing to him. The perfect revenge, he thought with a silent, mirthless laugh. Take what fitzWarren had cheated him out of years ago even as he took the man’s daughter. Take and give nothing in return, except the payment expected by a courtesan for the use of her body. Set her up in her chosen vocation.
A swift, savage grin flashed across his face at the notion. She wanted to be a mistress rather than a wife? Then why not make it so?
* * *
Wasn’t hell supposed to be a fiery place of torment where demons persecuted their victims with pitchforks?
After hours of hard riding, Nell knew better. Hell was a dark, endless tunnel through a forest of moaning specters, whose weapons were stinging needles of rain. It was chafed, aching thighs whose cramped muscles were forced to grip the saddle with no respite because the stirrups were too low to support some of her weight. And it was a confused, frightened mind that was beginning to question the wisdom of trusting Beaudene.
What sort of bodyguard forced a lady to travel in these appalling conditions, just because he said she was in danger? Why was she supposed to take his word for everything? What would he say if she accused him of trying to kill her, because at this rate she would be dead of lung fever before her supposedly murderous cousin crawled from his warm, comfortable bed in the morning.
She shivered violently as a gust of wind whipped at an overhanging branch, spraying water all over her. Not that it mattered. She was already soaked to the skin. Her full skirts with their ermine edging felt like dead weights hanging from her waist, the same fur trim around her bodice was plastered to her chilled flesh, her headdress dragged at its pins, making her head throb, and the pretty silver veil was a sodden rag that slapped against her neck with every movement of her horse.
Even if she survived this nightmare, what was she supposed to change into when the rain stopped? She possessed nothing but what she stood up in. No clothes. No maid. No—
Her maid! Holy saints, why hadn’t she thought of the girl before? She wouldn’t have been alone with Tom and his men. Lucy would have travelled with her and they had intended to sleep at religious hostels along the way. Instead, she was at the mercy of a man who was bigger than her, stronger than her, and who had not only threatened her with violence, but had killed a man without a single question or qualm.
And at that inconvenient moment, another picture flashed into her mind that sent ice through her veins.
She had seen no one speak to Beaudene in the hall before she’d collided with him. She had not seen her aunt or uncle acknowledge him. Nor had he approached them. He had simply appeared. She knew nothing about him, except that he was arrogant, ruthless, and considered her to be a loose woman.
And she only had his word that he was there at her father’s request.
On that last frightening thought Nell tugged frantically at the reins. She was not going another inch—not one more inch—until she got some answers. And if she didn’t like those answers, she would run—away from the road where the darkness would hide her. Even a night in the forest was preferable to stepping into the terrifying pit beginning to yawn at her feet.
As if he sensed her inner turmoil, Beaudene reined in and wheeled his horse about. His voice was a whiplash, cracking with command. “We ride until I say stop, lady, and that isn’t here or no
w.”
Nell leaned forward over the saddle, trying to ease her aching thighs. “Please,” she said, her cold lips barely able to form the words. “I need to alter the stirrups.”
She didn’t care if he knew she’d been lying earlier. She needed to get off the horse.
After an almost imperceptible pause, Beaudene nodded and dismounted. “A few minutes, no more.”
She didn’t wait for him to offer any assistance. Letting herself fall against Rufus’s neck, she forced her right leg over the saddle and slid to the ground.
Both legs almost gave way under her when she landed. Tears of pain and weariness stung her eyes. How was she going to run when she could scarcely stand? Her legs quivered with strain, and the soft flesh of her inner thighs was burning from contact with the hard leather of her saddle.
She let her weight rest against Rufus for a moment, trying to gather the strength to move, but the wind snatched at her veil, slapping it against the horse’s flank. Rufus snorted and shied away in alarm, nearly pulling her off her feet.
“Hell’s fiends!” Beaudene grabbed her with one hand and Rufus’s bridle with the other while she made a futile attempt to control her veil. “Get rid of the bloody thing unless you want to travel the rest of the way on foot.”
“Rufus isn’t nervous,” she muttered. “It just startled him for a moment. He’s accustomed to more elaborate headdresses than this.”
“Nobody could be accustomed to such a piece of useless idiocy.”
Beaudene tied the reins to a tree, turned back to her, and started pulling pins out of her hair. In the fitful moonlight that emerged to chase the clouds across the sky, she could see the glitter in his eyes and the hard line of his mouth. The combination was enough to keep her from protesting—until he ripped the veil from its moorings and tossed the limp remains of her headdress into a pile of leaves.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, lifting her hands to stop her hair from tumbling over her shoulders. “I can’t ride with my hair blowing every which way.”
