“That’s not true.” Walter groped for her hand. “I’m forty years old, and I’ve worked my entire life for this moment. Now that I’m comfortable and have achieved a certain position, I want to savor the fruits of my labors.”
What fruits? What labors? she wondered. Aside from his job as justice of the peace, Walter had probably never labored. Why should he? The Stafford family was arguably one of the oldest and wealthiest in all of England.
Her gaze sought the moon, rising above the moors. A black cloud drifted across its golden-orange face. A sudden gust of wind tossed the lanterns and, at the same time, changed the direction of her thoughts. During this past week, she had dwelled endlessly on two things. If Rand really cared for her, he would have pursued her. And perhaps Rand himself was too dangerous to be pursued.
The man at Fountains Abbey had both attracted and frightened her. A shiver passed through her that had nothing to do with a second gust of wind. Had Rand really called her Janey? Who was Janey? And who was Rand Remington? A soldier disillusioned by war? Or a specter from the past who would ultimately betray her?
You betrayed him, an inner voice whispered.
Making a sudden decision, she said, “I shall travel to London with you, my lord, but only to retrieve my money from Charles Beresford. You see, I have never wanted to marry any man.”
“But I want to marry you, Elizabeth. What a fine couple we would make. We could spend our winter season in London and savor the company of London society. You might even continue your scribbling, in between children of course.”
“Sir, you are very persuasive,” she murmured, biting back a sharp retort, “but I don’t love you.”
“I don’t love you, either. Since when has love been a necessity for marriage? However, I do desire you. Beauty is always a door opener, Elizabeth, and will go a long way toward making up for your common origins and your lack of wealth.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” she said, thinking she would chain her Walter-like villain to a dungeon wall, where rats would nibble at his bare toes and spiders would crawl across his body. “I’ll contemplate what you have so generously offered, my lord. I cannot promise more.”
“Don’t keep me waiting, Elizabeth. Once I make up my mind, nothing can dissuade me. I’ve already decided that we should be wed next week, in London.”
“You’re insane,” she hissed, turning away.
He caught her braid and reeled her back, like a fisherman reeling a fish on a line. Then, almost fussily, he tidied her hair. “You know I’ll win in the end, my pet, so why fight me?” He reached into his pocket. “I have something for you.”
Elizabeth felt Walter wrap her fingers around a narrow box. She fumbled at the clasp. A primitive golden rope of a necklace nestled inside the box.
He held it up so that it was detailed by the moonlight.
“I first viewed this in London last year, inside a toy shop of all places,” he said. “I was haunted by its beauty, but I could think of no woman it really suited. Once you and I became more intimately acquainted, I kept picturing how perfect you would look wearing it, so I sent a servant back to London expressly to purchase it for you.”
Mesmerized, Elizabeth stared at the necklace. Forgetting her anger, forgetting even the small ache Walter had produced by his yank on her braid, she tried to steady her wobbly limbs.
“It does suit me,” she finally said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
But she had, although where and when she couldn’t say. Tentatively, she accepted the necklace from Walter. But as soon as it touched her palm, she gasped. She wanted nothing more than to hurl it away, for it felt ice cold. ’Tis just a necklace, she thought, as the metal warmed to her body heat.
“You do like it, then?”
Elizabeth nodded. “’Tis a wondrous piece of jewelry, my lord.”
He removed it from her hand and placed it around her neck. The coil initially felt heavy and foreign against her breastbone, but after a few moments it felt as if it belonged.
“It’s very old, isn’t it?” she murmured, vaguely aware that she should return the gift straightaway. But her arms felt weighted, graceless. In fact, her whole body might have belonged to someone else.
“The proprietor swears it dates from the thirteenth century and was involved in some sort of baronial wars, but his story is most likely fabricated.” Walter smiled. “Whatever its origin, it was made for you.”
Elizabeth curled her fingers around the necklace. Just above the moors, the pale moon hovered. Around her, the tables and footpaths were hung with shadows. During the Middle Ages people believed the shadow was a man’s soul. “I’ll wear it everywhere,” she said.
“I prefer you wear it ’round your neck,” said Walter.
He laughed at his own jest, and Elizabeth wondered why every time she touched the heavy golden rope she felt like crying.
***
Elizabeth and Walter joined other couples inside the common room.
For the past several months, in anticipation of the Harvest Ball, dancing masters had been teaching single women the latest fashionable steps. Subscription balls were wonderful places to impress eligible gentlemen, and eligible ladies circled the dance floor like buzzards circling a carcass. The orchestra, which had traveled all the way from Richmond, played a variety of music, most prominently minuets and lively galliards. Heat from a hundred bodies, as well as candles, caused perspiration to bead Elizabeth’s forehead. The orchestra, far too large for the room, assaulted her ears.
Walter bowed to her. When he took her hand their eyes met, but she couldn’t read his expression. Then his gaze moved down to her breasts. Nay, her necklace.
As the dance glided to its conclusion, she became aware of a commotion outside. Subscription balls often bred altercations, so at first she paid little heed to the excited voices.
Abruptly, the orchestra stopped playing. Wig askew, a portly man rushed toward the center of the dance floor, followed by his equally plump wife. Both appeared disheveled, though judging from their dress they were well-to-do. Elizabeth saw that the woman’s neck, ears, and fingers lacked jewels.
“Shit,” Walter muttered, then offered a hasty apology.
“We’ve been robbed!” shouted the portly gentleman. “And not a mile down the road!”
“A monster wearing a vizard stopped our carriage at gunpoint,” his wife cried. “I recognized him since we were robbed once before, near York. It was the Quiet Companion.” After imparting this dramatic addition, she swooned.
Several people rushed to her aid, while more clustered around the gentleman, firing questions. Walter strode outside, bellowing something about how the fiend would soon be cold meat. Dorothea stood beside her sister, Lilith. Wringing her hands, Dorothea looked alternately horrified and enraged.
Elizabeth stood alone on the dance floor. She cursed Rand and at the same time prayed that tonight he had not overplayed his hand.
***
A strong wind had sprung up. Elizabeth lay in bed, next to her aunt. She listened to the shutters rattle and watched the moonlight shimmer through the wooden cracks. The ball had ended hours ago. Walter and her father had organized a patrol, and the rest of the guests had departed in frightened groups. Like sheep headed for the slaughter—or the shearing—she thought with dour amusement.
She had to concede the boldness of Rand’s act. He must have been aware of the wrath he would incur, yet he had willingly risked the danger. She could imagine him galloping along the dark ribbon of road, his cape flying. Who would be the recipient of his largess this time? Penniless locals or slum-dwelling Londoners? No wonder Rand was so in love with death, she thought with a sigh. Both shared the same profession. Just like a highwayman, death lurked in the shadows, leaping out unexpectedly to rob one of that which was most precious. Not gold watches and silver-threaded purses, but life itself.
The wind continued rapping at the shutters. Mindful of her sleeping aunt, Elizabeth eased up in bed and cocked her head. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap repeated, and she was almost certain she heard someone whistle. Rand? It couldn’t possibly be Rand. He was reckless, impetuous, but he wasn’t stupid. Gliding from the bed, she raised the window and pushed the shutters open.
Bathed in a pool of shadows, Rand waited.
“Are you mad?” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I’d come for you in my own time.”
“But ’tis far too dangerous. The roads are swarming with patrols. You must be gone before Lord Stafford catches you.”
Rising in his stirrups, Rand caught a strand of her hair and brought it to his lips. “Ride with me, Bess,” he urged. “Out under the moon.”
She hesitated. Although her recent animosity had disappeared at the sight of Rand, a tryst was much too rash, fraught with known—and perhaps unknown—hazards. She turned her face toward Lilith, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
“You can’t risk it, love.” The wind tore her words away. In a few days, she might be on the road to London. In a few days, he might be caught and on the road to the gallows.
“Hurry, Bess, we haven’t much time,” he pressed, while his mount pawed the ground impatiently.
The sight of the stallion’s restlessness made up Elizabeth’s mind for her. The slap of her bare feet followed her out the front door. She raced toward Rand, who swooped her up behind him, then swiveled in his saddle. Beneath the luminescent moon, his eyes danced. “Are you ready, my bonny Bess?”
“Where are you taking me?”
Laughing, Rand dug his heels into his stallion.
***
As they raced across the moors, the moon sped after them. Ragged strips of clouds played hide and seek with the stars. The wind tore through Elizabeth’s shift, lashed Rand’s hair against her eyes, and iced her fingers. The horse seemed to skim the rugged terrain, an extension of the wind and night. Burying her face against Rand’s back, Elizabeth closed her eyes and allowed herself to be swept along. She blanked her mind to the possibility that Walter would uncover them, that even now Lilith was alerting Dorothea. If this moment was madness, and it most assuredly was, she would deal with the consequences later.
Rand reined in his stallion. The jagged walls of the peel tower loomed before them. Clouds closed over the moon like a fist, plunging them into darkness. Rand dismounted and she felt his hands pulling her down to him. She burrowed against him, suddenly afraid, but he gently pried her face loose from the linen of his shirt. His kiss was filled with tenderness—and something else. Exaltation? No. His slow exploration of her lips conveyed a yearning for the years they had not spent together, a surrender to the years, or months, or even weeks they might yet spend together. It was the sweetest, most profound kiss she had ever experienced.
When the moon broke free, Rand led her into the depths of the peel tower, and she responded to the pressure of his knee between her thighs by sinking to the ground. His hands cradled her back as he followed her descent, his knee still in place.
He kissed her palm and sucked her fingers. If the suck of his fingers had once fueled her desire, the suck of hers caused a throb that was almost unbearable. Sensing her need, he guided her wet fingers beneath her shift and placed them on the very core of her womanhood. His hand applied pressure to her fingers as he stroked back and forth. With a moan, she wrenched her hand free, pushed his face toward her breasts, and silently implored him to taste her nipples. He tightened the white cotton of her shift. Then he filled his mouth, shift and all, with her breast, until she cried out, wanting more, needing more.
She felt chagrin at the sound, but Rand said, “Cry, scream, howl, my love. We are alone and the moon does not care if you express your pleasure. Neither do I.”
He rose to his feet, and she experienced a vulnerability that had nothing to do with her state of undress: a forlorn isolation that made her breath catch in her throat. Before she could express her grief, she felt the weight of his body settle upon hers. He was nude, gloriously nude, and this time more than a knee wedged itself between her thighs.
She felt his mouth claim hers, hot and demanding, so that when she screamed and howled, he swallowed her cries and they became a part of him. Her body raged with need. Thrashing wildly beneath him, she sobbed his name over and over.
He halted her frantic writhing with his hands, tender yet firm, and an uncontrollable shudder rippled through her frame at his pervasive penetration. For the first time in her life she craved complete male dominance, and her lusty cries of pleasure, along with her violent quivers, gave credence to her restive desire. At long last, when she had nothing left but whimpers, Rand grasped her buttocks, and his thrusts were rough, without gentleness of any kind, just as she wanted them to be.
Past and present melded together. Elizabeth saw the face from Fountains Abbey; the face of the man who haunted her. His hair curled long, blacker than black. His beard was as dark as the night. His mouth was sensual and cruel, his nose straight, aristocratic. His eyes were more than compelling. Mesmerizing.
A part of herself slipped free. She was Bess, but she joined with someone else. In the depths of her mind, she knew his name. She could almost call it out. The man she loved and hated. The man she had betrayed.
Just as she hovered on the truth, Rand exploded inside her. Then he slumped on top of her. She felt his heart gradually slow against her chest, felt the sweat from both their bodies, felt the cold biting earth assault her buttocks. Beneath her shift, Rand’s hands cradled her back.
“’Tis over, then?” she murmured.
“Nay, sweet Bess, ’tis just beginning.”
Before she could question the ambiguity of his statement, he led her from the tower and covered her with his cloak. Then he swung up onto his stallion and settled her behind him.
“What if they are waiting for us?” she asked, as Rand’s horse once again galloped across the rugged terrain.
“They won’t be.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. My fate is not to be shot down in some damnfool courtyard, where a white hart passively guards the front door. I prefer to run like a hart. If I am shot down, it must be on the highway, or in the forest.”
She wanted to ask what her fate was, but she bit her lower lip, maintaining a silence that was permeated with fear.
He sensed the fear, if not the reason. “They won’t be waiting,” he assured her.
He was correct. The courtyard was deserted. While passing the stables, Elizabeth fancied she glimpsed Tim’s pale face, but she dismissed it as a trick of the dawn’s light.
Riding toward the inn’s entrance, Rand felt Elizabeth’s warm breath in his ear. During their weeks of separation, he had reached an incessant conclusion. She held the key that would unlock the secrets of his past, a past that had occurred five hundred years ago. He had meant what he said about running with the hart, but he now knew that Bess must run by his side. He had known it from the moment they met. He had fought it, but the battle had been lost before it had truly begun.
He helped her slide from his horse, then leaned sideways to kiss her. “I’ll be back for you tonight,” he said. “Together, we shall leave for the south. I’ll deal with Stafford another time.”
As Elizabeth handed Rand his cloak, she heard her heart pound. “’Twould be madness,” she countered, aware that her inner joy belied her words.
“I won’t go anywhere without you.” Rand tilted her chin. “You and me, Bess. After tonight we’re linked together once again.”
“What do you mean?”
“We both have things to uncover, things that will inevitably be revealed to us if we stay together. You’ve felt it from the very start. So have I,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper.
Elizabeth
caught his hand and brought it to her lips. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”
“Neither do I. But I do know that I love you. Come with me, wherever that might lead. I won’t let the past hurt you, I promise.”
For the first time he sounded unsure, but she merely said, “Life without you holds no promise, Rand. I shall follow you to the ends of the earth.”
“Cornwall should be far enough.”
She released his hand, but clung to his boot and stirrup. “I don’t want you to leave me. I have a premonition—”
“Hush. I’m the one with premonitions.”
“Why can’t we leave now, Rand? Why?”
“You are clothed in nothing more than an insubstantial nightshift. I may be a rogue, Bess, but I would never steal a half naked woman.”
“Give me but a few minutes to change my clothes,” she pleaded, ignoring his tease.
“No. ’Tis almost dawn, and daylight’s far too dangerous, even if I were on my own.”
“We can hide in Fountains Abbey.”
“Would they not search for you there? Everywhere?”
“Yes. Of course they would. My father found me at Fountains Abbey when I was ten. I had ridden there on my pony. I was skirling, screaming, frightened out of my wits. I cannot remember why, though I’m fairly certain it had something to do with my nightmares.”
“I wish I had been there to hold you, comfort you.”
“So do I, but I think we were not meant to meet until now. And please don’t call me logical. ’Tis just a feeling.”
“A feeling we must explore together. I’ll be back tonight, Bess.” His lips brushed hers. “I love you.”
She watched him ride away, then opened the inn’s front door. Furtively entering, she groped her way toward her bedroom. Her feet felt like blocks of ice and her hands were numb. Perhaps the sudden chill was caused by Rand’s departure, or perhaps her elusive childhood memory, but she couldn’t stop shivering.
The door to her chamber remained open, just as she’d left it. She stepped inside, only to see Lilith and Dorothea seated on the bed, waiting for her.
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