by Kruger, Mary
“This way.” He pulled her across someone’s neatly tended garden, towards a hedge. A dog barked, too close for comfort, and in a window light suddenly bloomed. “Let’s not make it easy for them.”
“Someone will hear us.”
“Probably.” He stopped just past the cottage, peering into the darkness, and then pulled her forward again, past a trim hedgerow, through a lane and into yet another garden. “I think I know where we are.”
“Are we hiding here?” she gasped.
“No, too open. But I’ve an idea.”
“Why don’t I trust you when you say that?”
“I don’t know, princess. Have I ever led you wrong before?”
“Ha. What about—”
“Save your breath for running,” he said, and tugged on her hand. Reluctant to leave the shadowed quiet of the garden, and yet anxious to escape, she followed, pausing only a moment when they came to the banks of a stream. “It’s not deep.”
“I always seem to get my feet wet when I’m with you,” she complained, splashing beside him, and behind them dogs barked again.
“Hush. You’ll dry.”
They were across at last, scrambling onto solid ground. “If I catch my death it’ll be on your head.”
“Sweeting, that’s precisely what I’m trying to avoid. Careful, there’s a hill here, it’s steep.”
Blythe’s breath was coming quick and hard by the time they reached the top of the small rise. She had the sense of land spreading out before her, with the bulk of a building rising to her left, blocking out the stars. “Where are we?”
“Churchyard.” He spoke absently, leaning down to unlatch the gate, leading her inside. “If I remember aright McNally found us a place to hide.”
“Simon, not in a graveyard!”
“There’s no place else.”
“Could we not go into the church—”
“They’d find us there too easily.” He glanced behind them. “We’re leaving a trail.”
“You would have it that we would go through water,” she said, following him as he threaded his way through the gravestones, faintly visible in the dim light.
“We couldn’t very well use the bridge. Yes.” He stopped so suddenly that she collided with his back, knocking him briefly off balance. “Careful, there.”
“Ouch.” Blythe rubbed her nose. “Simon, what are we doing here?”
“Hiding. There’s a crypt—bloody hell.” Far off behind them came the sudden gleam of light, and the low murmur of voices. “They’re nearly upon us.”
“A crypt.” Blythe set her heels as he grabbed her hand again. “You can’t mean—”
“Oh, yes, I can. This one, here.”
“Oh, no.” This was the end of enough. They were stopped before a small, yet solid, building of white marble in a gothic design. Blythe shuddered. “There’s a lock.”
“Which is broken.” Simon pulled the door handle. “In with you.”
“No.” Blythe grasped the top of the railing that enclosed the crypt. In the past weeks she had been taken captive, had gone upon the stage, and had been chased more times than she cared to count. She had seen her reputation fall into shreds, and she had faced the reality of a bleak future. If she didn’t escape she could end up in prison, or worse. Somehow, though, that was preferable to what was ahead now. “I’m not going in there.”
“You have no choice,” Simon said, and caught her about the waist. She tightened her grip on the railing, but he was stronger. Her fingers slipped, and before Blythe quite knew what was happening, she was being swung off her feet. Struggling, kicking, she was nonetheless borne into darkness, and set down with an unceremonious thud. She had just a chance to see a tiny room, its floor littered with last year’s leaves, before the door boomed shut.
Darkness, dank and complete. Disoriented, unnerved, Blythe stumbled backwards, coming up hard against a ledge of some kind at waist level. Scrabbling for support, she grasped the ledge, finding it solid and substantial, something she could lean against. Something not flat, but oddly sculpted. Her hands moved over the surface, the shape of what she was feeling not quite making sense. Fingers? Oh, mercy! Fingers!
She shrieked and stumbled forward, only to encounter something else strong and hard. This time the obstacle was warm and just a bit yielding. “Hush, princess,” Simon whispered into her hair. “Hush, now.”
“Fingers,” she babbled. “Someone’s back there, Simon, someone dead and laid out—”
“An effigy, princess.”
“What?”
“An effigy. A carving. No bodies, princess. I promise.”
Her hands clung to his shirt. “I don’t like it here.”
“I know. I know.” His arms were about her, strong, hard, protective, his chest a bulwark against the terrors that beset her. “It won’t be for long.”
She could hear his heartbeat, strong, a trifle fast, a trifle erratic, under her ear. “Do you promise?”
“I promise. Only until ‘tis safe for us to leave.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon.” In the darkness she felt his head rise. “Someone’s coming.”
“How can you tell?” she asked, and at the same time heard sounds, distant voices and tramping feet. Suddenly the imagined terrors of the crypt gave way to the very real threat outside. “They’ve found us.”
“Not yet. Hush now, princess.” He cupped her head with his hand, holding her close against him. “We must be quiet.”
Blythe bit her lips, burrowing her head against his solid warmth. Dear heavens, how would she survive this night if not for him? Never mind that she was here because of him, that it was his fault that her safe, comfortable world was gone. Safe, comfortable and boring, she confessed to herself, while outside, the voices came closer. Stifling, smothering life. She’d felt more alive in the past weeks than ever she had. And what she was feeling now. She raised her head, though she couldn’t see Simon’s face. What she felt for this man came perilously close to love.
“No one here, sergeant,” a voice said, much too close.
“Look in the tomb,” another, more distant voice ordered.
Blythe stiffened; Simon’s hold on her tightened. “The tomb? But, sarn’t—”
“The tomb, soldier. Now.”
“Sir Hubert’ll have my head, me disturbing the family tomb,” the soldier muttered. His bootheels sounded hollow on the stone doorstep. “Not to mention the dead.” The handle to the tomb rattled. “God in heaven, protect me. Lord Jesus, protect me. Mother Mary and all the saints...”
“Give me your handkerchief,” Simon hissed in Blythe’s ear, as the soldier continued with his litany.
“What?” she whispered, her voice lost in the scraping noise of the crypt door opening, but already she was obeying, pulling her kerchief from her pocket. She felt oddly bereft and abandoned as Simon’s arms dropped from around her, and frightened. They were about to be discovered, and he was concerned with her handkerchief.
The bottom of the door rasped as it opened, bronze against granite. Against the pale rectangle of the night sky, the soldier stood silhouetted, hesitating. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he muttered, and Blythe shrank back. It was only a matter of moments before they were discovered.
From her side came a strange sound, a low grown that rose and lengthened into a moan. Her arms prickled, even as she recognized the voice. Simon. But what in the world was he doing?
Simon moaned again, longer, louder, and the soldier stumbled back. “Who is that?” Simon demanded in a harsh, rusty whisper.
“I—I—oh, sweet Jesus!” The soldier fell back again. “Don’t hurt me, I swear I mean no harm—”
Simon came forward, his head covered by Blythe’s kerchief. The effect was remarkable: his clothing blended into the darkness, while the white cloth appeared as a floating, disembodied head. “Who dares disturb my rest?” Simon growled.
“Unhh,” the soldier grunted, and with a clatter of sword and musket fell
to the ground.
Simon pulled off the kerchief. “He’s fainted. Come on.”
“There are others,” she protested, though she didn’t resist the pull of his hand on her arm.
“Blythe, will you for once in your life do as I say without putting up a quarrel?”
“But—”
“We’ll not have a better chance. Come.”
This time she allowed him to pull her forward, past the still form of the soldier, onto the doorstep. The crypt had held only terror just a moment ago; it now appeared a sanctuary. Yet she knew he was right. They had to escape, now.
“This way.” Simon tugged on her hand, and dropped into a crouch. She followed, dodging behind tombstones and trees. At the other side of the graveyard torches flickered, the searchers apparently not having realized yet that one of their number was missing.
Simon stumbled to a halt behind a table grave, pulling her down to the ground with him. “We’ll hide here,” he muttered in her ear.
“They’ll find us,” Blythe whispered, her head close to his. It was oddly intimate talking this way, so close that their very breaths mingled.
Simon’s lips grazed her cheek, and she jerked back. “They’ve looked here already.”
“Oh.” He hadn’t kissed her, she told herself. He hadn’t, and the pounding of her heart was from fear, not excitement. And she did not—did not!—wish that he would move his head again, just so, just there. She was frightened; he was familiar. That was all.
“Shea?” The sergeant’s voice suddenly rang out. “Damn it all, where are you? Jackson. You and Martin there, go see what’s become of Shea.”
Simon gripped her shoulders. This was the moment. When the soldiers discovered Shea lying in the doorway of the crypt, they would know what he had found. They would know that the objects of their search were very close.
“Sergeant!” one of the men called, voice high and sharp. “You’d better come here, sir.”
“What is it, Jackson?” the sergeant said, sounding almost bored.
“Shea, sir, here in this crypt. He won’t wake up, sir.”
“Won’t he, now. Shea, lad!” There was the sound of a hand slapping flesh, followed by a groan. “Up with you.”
“Sweet Jesus!” Shea yelled, so suddenly that Simon and Blythe, though some distance away, jumped. “Did you see him?”
“See who, lad? The criminal?”
“No, the ghost. He was there,” Shea babbled. “Right there, protecting the tomb. All he had was a head, no body, no hands—”
“Rubbish. On your feet, soldier.” There was the sound of scuffling, Shea apparently being pulled upright. “Are you saying you didn’t see the criminal?”
“No, sir, a ghost as I live and breathe, sir. I swear, sir—”
“Rubbish,” the sergeant said again. “They’re not in the tomb, at any rate. Move out!” This, as he moved away from the crypt. “We’ve searched here, lads. Time to look elsewhere.”
“But I swear there was a ghost,” Shea was still saying, his voice fading as he moved away. His comrades answered, their voices lost to distance. From their hiding place, Blythe could see the small troop forming up at the gate. The torches wavered, then straightened, and the soldiers at last moved off. Within a moment only the echo of their footsteps remained.
Blythe sagged, her head resting against the cool stone of the tomb, her muscles atremble. “Dear heavens.”
“Hush.” Simon’s hand on her shoulder was gentle. “We’ll wait a few minutes.”
She looked up at him, and though she was accustomed to the darkness, she could see little beyond his shape. “For what?”
“For them to be well away.” He shifted, settling with his back against the stone and his legs outstretched. “Come here, princess.” He drew Blythe against his side. “We’re safe, for now. You’re quite remarkable, you know,” he went on in that same, easy tone.
“No, I’m not, really.”
“But you are.” His thumb rubbed across the ridge of her shoulder, again and again. “I don’t know another woman who wouldn’t be in hysterics by now. Running from soldiers, hiding in a crypt—”
“Oh, yes, quite unladylike of me,” she said tartly, pulling away. “You needn’t remind me of that.”
“Blythe.” His breath touched her face in a gust of amusement. “I never said such a thing.”
“And all because of you,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. Because of him she had left her life behind; because of him, she stayed. “I wouldn’t be here except for you.”
“No.” He glanced away, and then rose. “Come. They’re gone. ‘Tis time we left.”
Blythe swayed with tiredness as she got to her feet. “Now where are we going? To another crypt? Or will I have to make do with a ditch?”
“Neither. Come, there’s a barn nearby where we can stay. It’s not far.”
“How do you know about such places?” she complained. “First the crypt, now the barn—”
“McNally. He’s been a great help. Come, princess.” He tucked his arm about her waist. “You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
“That I sincerely doubt,” she muttered, but she let him lead her out of the churchyard, following him blindly, as she had from the beginning. As she would continue doing, as she was helpless to stop doing. He was a convicted murderer, an escaped criminal, and it didn’t seem to matter. She’d realized that while he’d held her in the crypt, realized that she’d done something very foolish. She did not at the moment particularly like or trust Simon, but that was beside the point. Somehow, at sometime during their adventure, she had fallen in love with him.
Chapter Fifteen
Dawn was tinting the sky by the time Simon and Blythe reached their destination. The barn was old and ramshackle, with boards missing here and there, and the aroma of long-gone animals still lingering. Nearby were the charred remains of a farmhouse, and fields long gone fallow. “What a shame no one uses this land,” Blythe said.
“Fortunate for us.” Simon pried open one creaking side of the barn door, peering around inside. “McNally found it on one of his rambles, thought it would come in handy. He said last night he’d try to get some supplies out here—oh, good man!” He grinned at her, looking tired but otherwise no worse for wear. She forced an exhausted smile. Why didn’t he at least have the decency to show the effects of the night’s ordeal, as she was certain she must? “I see blankets and a basket. Food, milady.”
“At the moment, all I’d like to do is sleep.” She wandered into the barn, vaguely surprised at how normal everything seemed. Just a few weeks ago, she would not have been able to imagine such an experience, let alone live it. And yet here she was, taking it for granted that she would be passing the day in a barn, in the company of a convict. “Life is strange.”
Simon, engaged in shaking out one of the blankets, turned to her. “Why?”
“Why? Because.” She gestured helplessly. “All this.”
“It’s an adventure, princess. Come, I see McNally’s left bread and cheese for us, and water.”
“I would kill for a cup of tea,” she murmured, dropping to her knees on the blanket beside him.
“Aye, men have been killed for less,” he said, after a moment.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant, princess.”
“It was just a saying,” she said, lamely.
“You surprise me, princess.” He broke off a hunk of bread and handed the loaf to her. “You face soldiers without turning a hair and get up on stage in front of hundreds of people, and yet you’re concerned about my feelings.”
The bread, though dry, was manna. “I’m afraid you’ll hurt me.”
“Blythe.” He set down his food, and she could see that this time she’d truly shaken him. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“No,” she said. Because you came back for me last night. “Simon, why did you—oh!”
A sudden rustling, a stirring
of air, was all the warning they had. A great dark shape hurtled past them, narrowly missing Blythe’s head, and then was gone. It was too much. With a shriek, she threw herself into Simon’s arms. “Wh-what is it?” she gasped, clinging to him. “Not a ghost, not—”
“A barn owl, sweeting.” He sounded as shaken as she. “That is all. We must have disturbed him when we came in.”
“A barn owl.” She pulled back, managing a shaky laugh. “How silly. Everything that’s happened, and I’m afraid of a barn owl.”
“I think you’ve the right, princess.” His gaze on her was peculiarly intent; his grip on her arms, though loose, was somehow possessive. She felt her muscles going slack, her mouth going dry, as she looked back at him, helplessly caught. He was so close, so warm, so solid. Dear Lord help her, but she kept remembering how his lips had felt on hers that night at the Tabard Inn, and his hand on her breast. And she loved him. That one little fact made her helpless. She did not protest, then, when his mouth came down on hers.
“They were here.” Quentin stood at the gate to the churchyard. The pale light of morning illumined wildflowers growing in profusion along the stone wall, lilies and lavender, and the grass was an incomparable emerald. Quentin, however, was frowning down at the tracks that could be seen, faintly, in the dust near the gate, though they had nearly been obliterated by the passing of soldiers last night. “We traced them to the stream. It looks like they went across and then up the bank, and then?” He looked up at the sergeant. “Where did they go?”
“We searched here,” Sergeant Thompson said stiffly. Why he must answer to this man, he did not know. “We looked into the church, and behind every stone, and not a sign of them did we see.”
“Except for Shea’s ghost, sarn’t,” someone said.
Quentin looked up. “Shea’s ghost?”
Thompson shook his head. “One of my men’s superstitious. Irish, you know, thought he saw something—”
“But I did,” Shea protested. “Sir,” he added belatedly, as Thompson glared at him.
