A Summer Seduction (Legend of St. Dwynwen)

by Candace Camp

  He had the grace to look chagrined. “Perhaps I can sometimes be impetuous. But I promise you I do not make a habit of stopping carriages and kissing young women by the side of the road.”

  “You are fierce, is what you are,” Damaris retorted. She was not about to add that his fierceness thrilled her down to her toes. Instead, she forced herself to pull away from him. Reaching up to adjust her hat, which his rough embrace had knocked awry, she said with all the calm she could muster, “I am sorry I did not tell you. I knew you would argue and make it difficult to leave.”

  “Of course I would. Why will you not allow me to help you? Why are you exposing yourself to danger this way?”

  “I’m not!” she insisted. “It was the rational thing to do. I removed myself from London so that those men could not seize me again.”

  “And what if they seized you on the road?”

  “Really, Alec, it’s broad daylight. They are not going to attack m—”

  She was interrupted by the sound of a shot. Damaris jumped and whirled to see four men charging at them. Before she could move or even think, Alec picked her up and threw her into the carriage. Once again finding herself deposited rudely on the floor of the vehicle, Damaris scrambled up and looked out to see Alec, who had pulled a pistol from his pocket, coolly take aim at the rider bearing down upon him. He fired, and the other man jerked as the ball hit him in the shoulder, yanking on the reins as he slumped to the side. His horse reared, and he fell heavily. The animal, thus unencumbered, took off at a run.

  Alec neatly sidestepped another horse, but one of the other men launched himself out of his saddle at Alec and the two men went tumbling to the ground. Damaris reached into her reticule and pulled out her little pistol. One of the remaining attackers slid down from his horse and ran toward her, and she lifted her pistol and fired. Her shot, unfortunately, went wide of the mark, smacking harmlessly into a tree. It was enough, however, to make the last rider’s horse rear, whinnying in fear, and the ruffian was too occupied with trying to control his mount to come to the aid of either of his companions.

  The assailant whom Damaris had shot at let out a curse and ran forward again. Her weapon, having been fired, was useless now, and as he reached the carriage, she swung it at him. It caught him flush on the forehead, splitting open his skin and bouncing off, but it did not fell him, only made him roar with rage as he reached up, grabbed her arm, and pulled her from the coach. Damaris resisted, kicking at him and clinging with her other hand to the door.

  He jerked her free of the coach and dragged her toward his horse. Damaris dug in her heels, slowing him down as best she could, and reached up to her hat. Pulling out the long, decorative hatpin that secured it to her hair, she brought it down hard, stabbing her assailant in the arm. The man let out a high-pitched scream and released her instantly. Damaris, having been pulling away from him with all her strength, stumbled back and sat down hard on the ground.

  “You bitch!” the man roared, clutching the arm she had stabbed and lunging toward her. Damaris scrambled backward, glancing around frantically for something to throw at him. She had managed to keep her grasp on the hatpin, but she knew it was a pitifully poor weapon against the man’s strength now that she no longer had the element of surprise. There was nothing close at hand, so she clutched the long pin firmly and started to her feet to meet him.

  At that moment Alec came barreling into the man, knocking him to the ground. The two of them rolled across the ground, punching and wrestling as the horses danced nervously around them, wild with the noise and excitement. The horses pulling the carriage were equally affected; it was all the postilion could do to keep them under control.

  Damaris got to her feet and started toward the struggling men. Alec was on top of the other fellow, slamming his fist into the man’s face, so she glanced around her, looking for what danger might spring up next. Her eyes took in the chaotic scene of whinnying, stamping horses. The man who had first attacked Alec was on the ground, sitting up with a dazed look on his face, and the other man, whom Alec had shot, lay a few feet away from him, clutching his shoulder and moaning. The last of the men had finally settled his horse and dismounted. As she caught sight of him, he reached down and picked up a rock and ran toward Alec.

  “Alec! Watch out!”

  Alec half turned at Damaris’s scream, and the rock the other man swung at him hit him a glancing blow on the side of his head instead of crushing his skull. It was enough, however, to send Alec crumpling to the ground. The man raised his hand as though to strike again, but Damaris got there first and sank her hatpin into the assailant’s leg. He howled and dropped the rock as he flailed out, knocking Damaris to the ground. Alec’s horse, which had been nervously stamping and turning near the fighting men, reared up, hooves lashing out. This was apparently the final blow to the man’s courage. He scrambled away from the horse, as did the other man whom Alec had been beating, and they ran for their mounts.

  “Alec!” Damaris dropped down on her knees beside him, scarcely noticing as the others struggled onto their horses and clattered away. She had eyes only for Alec. Blood streamed from the cut on the side of his head, staining his pale hair red.

  He let out a low groan before his eyes popped open, and he started to push himself up.

  “No! Lie still. You’re hurt.” Damaris laid her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Alec! I’m so sorry!” She dug into her reticule, which was still, rather absurdly, dangling from her wrist, and she pulled out a handkerchief to press against Alec’s cut.

  “What in the bloody hell is going on?” Alec sat up despite her restraining hand. His blue eyes were stark in his dust-and blood-smeared face, and a light still burned in them so fiercely that it was enough to make anyone want to flee. “Who the—” He winced and raised his hand toward his head. “The devil!”

  “Don’t move. Don’t worry. They have all left. We’re safe. Let me get something to bind your head.” Damaris turned toward the post chaise, starting to rise.

  “No!” she cried in dismay, and jumped to her feet.

  The sounds of horses running had not been only their attackers. Right behind them, galloping away at full speed, was her post chaise.

  Nine

  Damaris spit out a word she had learned from her French schoolmates and dropped back to her knees beside Alec. “The carriage is gone.”

  “So I gathered,” Alec said drily. He reached up gingerly to touch his head, where Damaris’s handkerchief was now stuck to it with blood.

  “Oh, Alec, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to involve you in all this.”

  “In what? What is ‘all this’? No, wait.” He held up a hand. “This is neither the time nor place to discuss it. We need to get away from here.”

  He got to his feet with Damaris’s aid. He swayed for an instant but remained standing. His horse had calmed down considerably with the departure of the other animals, and now he came over to Alec and butted his head lightly against Alec’s chest. Alec reached up and rubbed his head. “Aren’t you the good chap?”

  “He was indeed,” Damaris told him. “It was your horse that sent that man fleeing. My poking him wouldn’t have kept him away long.” She lifted her hand, which, amazingly, still clutched the hatpin.

  “Good Gad,” Alec said with some awe, looking at the lethal ornament. “You stuck that thing into him?”

  “Yes, after he hit you with the rock. It was the only thing I had. I’d already fired my gun.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I heard. I feel quite extraneous.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You are the only reason I’m still here.” She paused, then added, “Thank you. I am sorry to—”

  He shook his head. “It’s not necessary, I assure you. And we really should be on our way.”

  “You’re right. We need to see to your head.” He was, she thought, even paler than usual, and the blood that had streamed over one side of his head and face was horrifying.

  “What we need is not to be h
ere if our friends decide to come back.”

  “Do you think they might?” A thrill of alarm ran through Damaris. “Surely not. They were wounded.”

  “Only one of them was seriously wounded. I’m not at all sure they won’t get down the road a bit, assess their damages, and decide that they would be better off ridding the world of the witnesses to their crime.”

  “You’re right. We’d best go.” Damaris ran to pick up her little pistol and stuff it back in her reticule, then retrieved Alec’s as well. “Oh, look, here is another gun. The man you wounded must have dropped it.”

  She went over to get the other gun, and, turning back, she saw that Alec was leaning against his horse, one arm on the animal’s neck, his head resting against that arm, his eyes closed. Her heart clenched inside her and she hurried back. Alec straightened at her approach and gave her a reassuring smile, but Damaris was not fooled. There was still a dazed look in his eyes that did not bode well.

  “You’ll have to ride in front of me. Erebos won’t like it, but he’ll manage.” He bent and cupped his hands to vault Damaris into the saddle, but she shook her head.

  “No, there’s a stump over there. Let’s use it. There is no need for you to lift me.”

  “Are you saying I haven’t the strength?” He slanted a look down at her in his familiar arrogant way, which, she realized with a start, was beginning to seem rather endearing.

  Damaris grimaced. “Clearly that knock on the head took away some of your sense.” She started toward the stump without glancing back to see if he followed. She took it as a sign of his feeling weak that he did so without any more protest.

  Even with the added height of the stump, Damaris had some difficulty getting on Alec’s horse. Not only was Erebos tall, but he was also skittish at the idea of her climbing into his saddle. It did not help that she was not dressed for riding. Alec held the stallion’s head, talking soothingly to him and stroking his nose, and finally, on the third try, Damaris was able to squirm her way onto the horse’s back. Scooting up as far as she could, she decided to damn propriety and ride astride, even though her skirts did not completely cover her legs. Alec, too, used the stump to mount, confirming Damaris’s suspicions regarding his weakness.

  His arms went around her to hold the reins. Damaris’s back was pressed against his front, and she found herself relaxing into him. It was impossible not to feel safer with his strength wrapped around her like this. She felt the movement of his arms and thighs as he turned Erebos and started across the road, and she could not deny that something stirred in her in response. It occurred to her that she must indeed be shallow to be so aware of the intimacy of their physical situation. Alec was injured. They were fleeing dangerous men. And she was thinking about the breadth of his chest and the heat of his body. Sternly she tried to pull her thoughts onto more appropriate matters.

  “Are you not taking the road back?” she asked, surprised, as he struck out across the land.

  “If they come looking and find us gone, that would be the obvious direction we would have taken. Strong as Erebos is, I have ridden him hard this afternoon, and he’s carrying double now, so we cannot travel fast. They could catch us on the road. Better to stay off it. Beyond that meadow, the trees look fairly thick. With luck we should lose any pursuers.”

  Their pace through the meadow was quick. Alec kept glancing back at the road for any sign of their attackers, and when they reached the stand of trees, they both let out a sigh of relief. They picked their way through the woods at a much slower pace, heading generally east as the sun dropped lower in the sky behind them.

  When they came to a shallow stream, Damaris insisted that they stop to clean Alec’s wound. He protested for a moment, but gave in. As he dismounted, Damaris saw him waver, so she hastily slid off the horse before he could reach up to help her. Soaking her handkerchief in the clear stream, she began to carefully wash the blood and dirt from his face.

  Alec sat on a rock, level with her, watching her as she worked on him. Damaris found it faintly unnerving to stand this close to him, looking into his eyes. She put her fingers on his chin to hold his head steady as she worked, and she was tinglingly aware of the sensation of his skin beneath her fingers, the faint scratch of the beginnings of his beard. It did curious things to her insides, and she felt jumpy and strangely unsure of herself, as if she might suddenly do something over which she had no control.

  He drew in a quick, hissing breath as she drew closer to his wound.

  “I’m sorry.” Her hand stilled.

  “No, go ahead. We have to find a place to spend the night, and the less I look like a vagabond, the better.”

  She resumed her cleansing, and after a few more minutes, she had cleared away the blood and dirt from his hair, revealing a small cut, thankfully no longer bleeding.

  “It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said with relief.

  “Scalp wounds always bleed a great deal,” he said casually.

  Damaris let out an indelicate snort. “You, obviously, are accustomed to being knocked on the head with rocks.”

  “It’s more ordinarily fists, though once Gabe and I got into a mill with some chaps at school, and one of them threw a tankard at me.”

  “Good thing you have a hard head.”

  “Aye. ’Tis the border blood.” He adopted the thick, faintly lilting Northumbrian accent.

  She chuckled, the twinkle in his eyes warming her. She was aware of a strong—and very inadvisable—desire to lean in and plant a swift kiss on his lips. She also thought of kissing that sharp jut of cheekbone… or the strong line of his jaw… and how would the tender skin above his eye feel beneath her lips? Indeed, she wanted to hold Alec’s face between her hands and kiss him all over. Heat and danger fizzed up in her, and her breath caught in her throat. She was, she realized, feeling a bit wobbly herself.

  She told herself that it was just gratitude she felt, and a lingering excitement. The aftermath of fear and anger were fueling her outrageous, licentious urges. She could not allow herself to give in to them. She would be appalled and embarrassed later, when she was herself again.

  With an effort, Damaris took a step backward. “I—um, I haven’t a clean handkerchief to dry your wound and bandage it.”

  “Don’t worry, it will dry. And at least I won’t look the fool with a great strip of white wrapped around my head.”

  “No, wait, I have an idea. I don’t suppose you are still carrying that knife of yours?”

  He cast her a smug look and reached down to his boot to pull the hidden knife from the sheath strapped to his calf. His gesture was somewhat spoiled by the fact that the sudden movement made him sway and he had to grip the edge of the rock upon which he sat.

  “Alec!” Damaris reached out to steady him. “I knew you were hurt worse than you’d say.”

  “Just felt woozy for a bit. I am fine.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Though feel free to hold me up if you’d like.”

  Damaris snatched her hand away and grabbed the knife. Ostentatiously turning her back to him, she bent over and raised the front of her skirt to cut through a ruffle of her petticoat. She felt Alec’s hand curve over her buttocks, and she jumped and whirled, her insides a sudden, clanging mix of astonishment, indignation, and pure roaring lust.

  “Alec!”

  “I could not resist.” The devil-may-care grin on his face had widened. “You were right there in front of me.”

  “Well, you had best curb your impulses,” Damaris told him, trying her utmost to sound stern despite the yearning heat that had blazed up deep in her abdomen. She stepped away and ripped the rest of the ruffle from its moorings, then cut the strip into pieces, handing him one. “Here, you can dry your own face if you are going to act like that.”

  The truth was, she was not sure she trusted herself to do so without giving in to her own base impulses. It was pure effrontery for him to caress her in that way, and she should be furious. But what she felt was not anger but a rush of excit
ement. Foremost in her mind was a thrilling curiosity about exactly how that hand would feel on a number of other parts of her body.

  She turned and walked a few feet away as she folded another piece of the strip into a pad, using the time and distance to pull herself under control. Adopting what she hoped was an adequately freezing look, she stalked back to him and pressed the pad to his wound. Alec’s face was once again stamped with its usual undemonstrative expression, but there was an undeniable heat in his eyes, and Damaris could not keep her fingers from trembling slightly.

  “Hold this,” she ordered, pleased that at least she sounded crisp instead of the decidedly liquid way she felt inside, and she began to wrap the last strip of cloth around his head to hold the pad in place.

  “You are determined to make me appear foolish, I can see.”

  “Don’t whine. We can’t have you bleeding on someone’s doorstep if we hope to make a good impression.”

  He grasped her wrist and lifted her hand, turning it, to press his lips gently into her palm. Damaris stood, unable to move, scarcely daring to breathe, caught by surprise at the tender gesture. Impulsively she reached out to smooth her other hand over his shock of silver-gold hair. It was soft and fine, like silk beneath her fingers, and she wanted to sink her hand into it. She wanted to pull his head against her breast.

  “Thank you,” he murmured. “You are an angel.”

  “Far from it,” she retorted shakily. She felt nothing like an angel at this moment. “Come. We should leave.”

  It took an effort to step away from him, and if he had resisted, if he had pulled her to him, Damaris was not sure what she would have done. But Alec let go of her hand and rose, his gaze lingering on her face for an instant before moving away.

  Alec made no protest this time when Damaris climbed onto the horse by herself, merely guided Erebos to a rock so that she could do so more easily. When he settled in behind her, she could feel the tension in his body. Damaris was even more aware now of his body curving around hers as they rode, of the brush of his breath against her hair and the shift of his thigh muscles as he guided the horse, the tautness of his arms around her, his hands holding the reins, resting against her stomach.