“Isaac, today it’s Isaac.”
He wasn’t sure if he believed her, because it seemed to him that while she spoke very much about her father, and now and then about her son, she rarely mentioned her man, John. In his experience, the one you didn’t speak of was the one you missed the most.
*
After a long nap, Alex stood up and dressed, grimacing at the dampness of her jeans. She packed together her stuff, and seeing as Matthew still lay dozing, she shook out his blanket before bending down to roll it back up around his things. The folded paper looked like a deed of some sort, and she spread it flat, trying to decipher the curling handwriting.
“What are you doing?” Matthew sounded very cold.
“Nothing.” She attempted a smile.
He took the paper from her, folding it back along the original creases before stuffing it inside his shirt, eyes never leaving hers.
“I’m sorry. It isn’t as if I could read it anyway.”
“It’s not for you to read my private matters.”
“I know, I just said I’m sorry. And as I also just said, I couldn’t read a word of it.” Except for the one word in the heading that had stuck out like a neon sign; divorce.
Matthew obviously didn’t believe her, throwing her angry looks as he rolled his blanket round his belongings and shoved his feet into his worn shoes. He didn’t even stop to make sure she was ready to go before he strode off along the stream, leaving her to make her way best she could.
*
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she yelled an hour or so later. “You know it’s going to be hard going for me, barefoot as I am, right?” She rolled up her jeans and splashed into the stream instead.
He didn’t reply.
“Well fine! See if I care.” She came to a stubborn stop and limped over to sit on the bank, holding her breath as she pulled out an evil looking thorn from her big toe. The thin skin over her healing burns was irritated, and one of her ankles was covered in a nettle rash.
“Bloody sadist.” She threw a concerned look around her. The woods stood thick, and she had no idea in what direction she was heading. Well, she wasn’t going to follow him, that nasty brute, instead she’d walk back to the clearing. From there she could see the hills, and she much preferred sleeping up there, however bare, than here in this teeming, buzzing green. She paddled her feet in the water, hoping that he’d come back before it grew too dark. When she pulled her legs out of the water, three leeches hung like curling decorations on her calf and she regarded them with disgust.
“Okay; no fainting, no wimpy shrieks. Just get them off.” But that would mean touching them, and they looked very slimy. “Where are all the men when you need them,” she muttered, and then she did just as Magnus had taught her, she slid her nail in under the front end – or what she assumed to be the front end, she wasn’t about to try and check – and felt the thing loosen its hold and drop to the ground. She was quite proud of herself a minute or so later, and turned to share her pride with Matthew, belatedly remembering that he was an insensitive jerk who had left her alone in this threatening environment.
She got to her feet, and in her gut fear bloomed. What was she to do? She trudged back the way she’d come, and for the first time since all this had happened to her, she realised just how alone she was. No one would miss her, not on this end of the time chute. No one even knew she existed, and she had no family, no friends, not one single person who cared if she lived or died. It almost made her cry, but she knuckled herself hard in the eyes and increased her pace. She didn’t want to get stuck here for the night.
Sheer instinct had her coming to a stop several metres away from the clearing. She crouched down and peered through the bushes. Someone had kicked life into the remains of their earlier fire, and she counted to a total of six men sitting round it, four in what looked like leather tunics topped by breastplates, two more at ease in only their shirts. Helmets had been lain aside, she could make out the outline of horses on the further side, and her eyes flew to locate the cameras and the rest of the film crew before she recalled that this was no movie, this was her new life – lucky her.
Alex’s calves were beginning to cramp, gnats settled on her uncovered neck and forearms, and still she didn’t dare to move. One of the soldiers – roundheads, real life roundheads, down to their cropped heads and rather dashing leather boots – poked at the fire.
“He said so,” he said in a loud voice, running a hand through his bristling ginger fuzz. “A woman, dressed just like him in those outlandish, blue breeches.”
“Oh come on, Smith,” one of his companions said. “The man’s a fugitive royalist. Why believe one word he says?”
“But he says he isn’t,” the first speaker said. “He insists he’s from somewhere in the Colonies, and he did say he had a female travelling companion, wearing breeches similar to his.”
“Pfff! A woman in breeches! Who’s ever heard of that?”
Alex wiped her palms up and down her jeans. It must be Sanderson they were referring to. Slowly, she began inching away, casting about for a better hiding place.
“But he said —”
“He said a lot of things, Smith, the tenor of it being that he was innocent and should be set free.” The other men snickered, making Smith glower at them.
“Why would he invent something as far-fetched as that?”
“Well he would,” a rather fat man said. “Admitting to being an escaped convict would be stupid.”
“I’m just saying —” Smith began, but was interrupted by a lanky man with no hair at all.
“It’s your fault we’re here, Smith. It’s you and your big mouth that has us riding up and down these damned moors on the off chance that we’ll encounter a woman in breeches.”
“Because he said she ran off with a man, the real fugitive according to him. Besides, what’s a woman doing wearing breeches, hey? Right ungodly, and —”
“Smith,” the fat man groaned, “give it a rest. Do something about the fire instead, we need more wood.”
Still muttering, Smith heaved himself to his feet and made straight towards where Alex was hiding.
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t dare to break and run, and the bushes were far too scraggly to offer adequate protection should he come close. She crawled backwards, wincing at every snapped twig. The soldier came to a standstill, cocked his head in the direction of the sound. Alex muffled a whimper against her arm, tried to stop herself from breathing. She relaxed when the roundhead shrugged and veered off to her right. She slid even further back, aiming for the protective thickness of the woods. Almost there… More twigs breaking, yet another interminable minute holding her breath, and one more slithering movement. She took a relieved breath. A metre, no more, and then she’d be safe. A foot came down on her back, pressing her hard into the ground.
“And what might we have here?”
Rough hands turned her over, and in the fading light she couldn’t properly make out the features in the face staring down at her.
“My, my,” Smith crowed. “He was right, after all. A woman – in breeches!”
Chapter 8
She got as far as the closest tree before he brought her down. She’d kicked herself free the first time, and now this Smith character was angry.
“Take your hands off me!” Alex squirmed like a worm under the roundhead’s hard hold.
“I think not,” Smith panted, the sound cut short when Alex landed a punch on his mouth. He hit her back. Hard. It stunned her, and by the time she’d regained her breath and her anger, he had flipped her over onto her front, one arm wrenched up high behind her back. Something was looped round her elbow; a belt? Alex tried to heave him off, but the man was the size and weight of a walrus, soft blubber squashing her flat.
“Smith? What’s taking you so long?” someone called from the direction of the fire.
“I’ll be right there,” Smith called back. “And then we’ll see who was righ
t,” he added in a satisfied undertone, securing his belt around Alex’s arms.
“Let go! Get off me, you…”She rolled, kicked and bit, and there he was, a ton of stinking male pressing her to the ground, one hand groping her breasts. The agony to her trapped arms was such that she froze, unable to move.
“What’s this?” Smith’s fingers were inspecting her bra. She replied by sinking her teeth into his underarm, which made him yelp.
“Smith?”
“I’m fine,” Smith hollered. “I just caught myself a vixen. You’ll pay for that,” he said viciously.
“A vixen? Here?”
Alex could make out the sound of several men moving towards them, but what was she to do, pinned under this man whose fingers were now struggling with her jeans. A wave of rage surged through her; no way. Disgusting creep of a man, and what did he think he was doing, sticking his dirty fingers into her jeans? So, dig your heels in, tense your goddamn thighs and buck, now.
Smith grunted with surprise, sliding off to her right. Ha! Her shoulders were on fire, her arms pulled so tight behind her it felt as if the sockets were about to give at any moment, but she was back on her feet, poised to run, when from the direction of the fire came four more men.
“Well, well,” the fattest of the men said. “Look at that.”
“See? I told you.” Smith got to his feet, one hand holding up his breeches.
“It might be a lad,” one of the soldiers said, squinting at what he could make out of Alex.
“Definitely not a lad,” Smith grinned. “I’ve made sure.”
“Oh have you, now? Well, we’d best make sure as well.”
They converged on her. Alex leapt away, but the men just laughed.
“Run, lass,” one of them urged, “we could do with a bit of sport.”
Alex considered her situation. With her hands tied behind her she had only one option; run and run fast. No way would she be able to kick all five of them to the ground, and besides, her foot was far from healed. Smith lunged, Alex twisted out of range, brought up her knee. Too bad she missed his balls, but the effect was pretty good anyway, with him collapsing like a pricked balloon.
“Feisty,” one of the other soldiers said. “Are you alright down there, Smith?”
Smith scowled at Alex and heaved himself upright. Alex turned and ran. They came after her, whooping like boys playing at Indians. Unlike boys, they weren’t playing, and Alex was cornered. She licked her lips. Bambi meets the wolf pack. Except that Bambi was better at running. One of the men snickered.
“Me first,” he said.
“In your dreams,” Alex spat, trying to sound menacing. Her voice squeaked. They laughed.
From the campsite came a blood curling shriek. Again. The soldiers turned.
“What was that?” the fat one said.
The obvious leader shook his head. “Will? Are you alright, Will?” he called.
In reply came wild neighing, more shrieking.
“Moss-troopers!” the leader said. “They’ll steal the horses.”
He rushed towards the clearing where fire seemed to be spreading in wild, uncontrolled tongues through the closest bushes.
“Come on!” he barked, and all but Smith hurried after him. Powder exploded when the fire found the pouches, a horse broke free of the hobbles and charged off into the night, and Alex took off.
“Oy!” Smith rushed after her, but Alex had no intention of stopping, crashing through the undergrowth like an aggravated boar. A hand came down on her arm, she screamed, yet another hand clamped down over her mouth and she was lifted to the side, pressed hard against a tree trunk.
“Shush,” Matthew whispered in her ear. Alex wanted to cry.
Matthew undid her bindings, threw the belt to the side. From the campsite came shouts, from some metres away came the sounds of a man running through the woods. Smith, she supposed, knees wobbling.
“Quickly.” His breath tickled her skin. Alex needed no further telling. She slunk after him into the protective darkness, mimicking the way he was running, torso bent at an almost ninety degree angle to his hips.
*
An hour or so later they stopped, and Alex sagged down to sit.
“Are you alright?” Matthew asked.
Alex nodded, still out of breath.
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“A bit, but nothing too bad.” She massaged her aching shoulders one by one, rearranged her clothing. She slid him a covert look; he’d come back for her, saved her, so maybe he did care a little, however big a bastard he’d been earlier. “They’re looking for me.” Damn Sanderson; probably his idea of an adequate little payback.
“Aye, I heard.” He remained where he was, crouched over his fire making efforts, his eyes darting in her direction. “I’m sorry,” he said after a few minutes. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“It would feel more sincere if you said it while facing me.”
He turned. “I’m sorry,” he enunciated clearly. He sat down beside her, waiting.
“So am I, but I did apologise already before.”
He muttered a gruff agreement.
“My brother-in-law helped me,” he said without any form of preamble. She must have looked confused. “With the divorce.”
“What divorce?” She did her best wide-eyed look – not that it worked, given how his mouth twitched.
“Mine. And I disowned the child as well, in view of her telling me in front of witnesses he wasn’t mine.”
Alex scratched her head vigorously. The bloody midgets had eaten their way across her entire scalp.
“I didn’t know you could.”
“Could what?”
“Get a divorce. I thought you needed some kind of papal dispensation.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow. “The Pope? What would he have to do with us?” Alex hitched her shoulders. She had absolutely no idea.
“I thought you’d gone for good,” she said with a quick glance in his direction. She blushed at the intensity of his gaze. “It made me realise, twelve days too late, that here I’m totally alone. It scared me.” She sighed and looked away, fiddling with her blanket roll. He could say something, not just sit there staring at her. She cleared her throat and got to her feet, muttering something about a human break. His hand closed round her ankle and she looked down in surprise.
“You’re not alone,” he said, before gracefully standing up. “Not unless you want to be.” His eyes were very close. Somehow she got the impression she was answering a much bigger question than the one actually expressed, and she licked her lips before replying.
“I don’t.”
“Good,” he smiled, and his hand rested briefly on her head.
*
“So, do you get gifts for your birthday, then?” Matthew asked a couple of days later. Alex smiled at his transparency, but was touched by the fact that he’d actually remembered.
“Oh yes – and for Christmas. And of course wives expect gifts at anniversaries and such as well.”
“And it would be the one gift?”
She grinned up at him. “It tends to get a bit wild and crazy, at least for Christmas – mountains of gifts. Quite disgusting really, commercialism at its best.”
He clearly didn’t understand, and she tried to explain about Christmas shopping, and after Christmas sales, and all the commercials winding kids up weeks in advance with expectations.
“But why?” he said. “Why would anyone buy something before Christmas, if you can buy it at half-price after Christmas?”
“Because everyone expects gifts for Christmas, not New Year’s Eve.”
He made a small sound of astonishment at this incredibly stupid behaviour, and dug his fingers into the waistband of his breeches, struggling to extract something.
“Here, happy birthday.”
Alex turned the small piece of wood round in her hands. It was exquisite, a miniature, faceless baby, spine curved shrimplike and small legs pulled up to mee
t equally small pudgy arms. It fit into the palm of her hand, and yet the detail was fantastic, down to small toes and fingers and wisps of hair on its skull. And he’d made it himself, for her.
“Look, it’s sucking its thumb!”
“Aye, and it’s a he, not an it. So that when you feel the need to touch Isaac you can at least run your fingers over this little one, and maybe he will feel it.”
“How did you know? That sometimes it aches in me to touch him?” Sometimes? Like a hundred times a day.
He looked away. “It is the same for me – with Ian.”
“Thank you.” She let her hand rest on his arm longer than necessary. He smiled down at her, raised his free hand as if to tweak her hair. She wanted him to.
He stopped halfway through the movement, turning in the direction of the small grove further down the slope. Alex narrowed her eyes; among the stunted trees she could make out horses, more than one, and she could hear the murmur of voices as well.
“What?” she whispered, made nervous by how tense he’d gone. Two horses stepped into the open, the sun shot sparks off a breastplate, and when two more horses appeared Matthew wheeled, dragging Alex with him.
“Run!”
She didn’t need a second telling. Soldiers – even she could see that. He rushed them through the undergrowth, and Alex had to wade through bracken and heather. From behind came the unmistakeable sounds of pursuit, loud voices telling them to stop.
Gorse tore at her arms, her hands, the tender skin on her unhealed foot broke open, and still she ran, struggling to keep even pace with him. Which was bloody difficult, given the length of his legs. But not even Matthew Graham could outrun a horse, and how the hell would they get out of this one? The ground shook with the approaching horses, a dull throbbing that vibrated up her feet and legs to close like a fist of ice round an unidentifiable point in her belly.
A swift assessment of the terrain, and Matthew turned them sharply to the right. What, up there? He shoved her towards the scree slope, and she stumbled and fell flat on her face on the slippery, shifting rock face. She was up again, scrabbling on all fours. When a shot went off she squeaked, ducking for an instant before increasing her efforts up the steep incline.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 8
