Karen Robards - Amanda Rose

His hair was as black as coal and curling, and she guessed that his skin would be dark, too, without the twin influences of illness and moonlight. His brows were thick and as black as his hair, and his lashes curled with incongruous and oddly disarming innocence against his lean cheeks. The rest of his face was hard, aggressively masculine though he was unconscious, with chiseled cheekbones, an arrogant blade of a nose, and a jaw covered with thick black bristles that effectively obscured the lower third of his face. But it was not all this that arrested Amanda’s attention, causing her eyes to widen with slowly dawning horror. It was the scar.

It was a long, thin sear, faintly raised and paler than the skin around it, which descended from the outer corner of his left eyebrow down across his cheek to disappear in the stubble at the side of his mouth. Amanda could not tear her eyes away from it. Not that the sear was horrible in itself; it wasn’t, not at all. But Amanda had heard tell of a scar like that only once before, just recently, when one of the girls at the school had received a letter from her married Londonite sister. In the letter, the scar, as well as the man who bore it, was described thoroughly. And he was identified, too-as Matthew Grayson, the escaped murderer who had the whole country in a quake.

Thank the Lord he was unconscious. That was the first thought that went through Amanda’s head as she made the connection. Her heart hammered against her breast as she imagined what would have happened to her if she had come upon him on this deserted stretch of beach when he was in possession of all his faculties. He would undoubtedly have killed her, to keep her from telling what she had seen… Dear God. At the thought of what could have happened, she quivered from head to toe. For once the nuns had been right. She should never have ventured out alone at night-and would never do so again. But now she had to get away, get to the authorities…

Amanda started to scramble to her feet. As she did so her unconfined hair fell forward to brush against his face. To her horror he lifted his hand a little, trying to push her hair away. Amanda jumped back-but it was too late. His hand closed painfully on the trailing ends of her hair, jerking her back to her knees beside him. Frozen with fear, Amanda could only stare dumbly into that dark face as his eyes slowly opened. They were light, she noted distractedly, almost silver in the faint moonlight, and as cold as death. They fixed on her face for a long moment before moving on to stare at the silken length of hair wound so tightly around his fist. The expression in his eyes made her tremble; she shrank back as he lifted his other hand to touch the imprisoned skein of hair.

“An angel,” he muttered dazedly, turning his head so that his cheek nuzzled against her captured tresses. “An angel with red hair.”

And then he began to shiver violently.

He was delirious from fever, Amanda realized, and breathed a little easier. Plainly weakened by whatever it was that afflicted him, he surely couldn’t do her any harm. All she had to do was to disengage her hair-gently-and run to fetch the authorities. She doubted that he would try to escape before she was able to lead them back here. He was clearly in no condition to run away; he probably couldn’t even stand.

Those silvery eyes were still fixed on her. She could feel the hand that trapped her hair shaking convulsively. Her eyes never leaving his, she reached out tentatively to touch that hand. Her movements were as gentle and unalarming as she could make them as she sought to unclench the fist that held her prisoner. His flesh was burning hot to the touch; his long limbs were racked by tremors. Unfortunately he seemed to have no intention of letting her go-if he even knew he was holding her. From the glassy blankness of his eyes, she questioned whether he did.

Amanda was afraid to be too forceful in her attempts to free herself, afraid that any careless movement on her part might provoke him into violence: he had already killed half a dozen people that she knew of.

“I’m cold,” he said suddenly, conversationally, sounding so normal that Amanda jumped. Inching a little farther away from him, as far as she could get without snapping her neck, she eyed him nervously. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes seem more aware than they had a moment ago?

“If you let me go, I’ll… I’ll fetch you a blanket,” she promised with sudden cunning. He frowned, seeming to understand and consider her words.

“Will you?” He sounded doubtful.

“Y-yes.” Amanda was willing to promise anything that might induce him to let her go. “I promise.”

“They were going to hang me, you know.”

Now, what on earth could she say to that? If he was even the least bit aware, and she let on that she recognized him, her fate was as good as sealed. He would kill her. He certainly couldn’t let her go; even she could see that. She would immediately run to the authorities, as he must realize as soon as he regained his senses. She said nothing, her eyes wide in the pale oval of her face as she stared at him.

“But I escaped.” He chuckled hollowly. “By God, I escaped. But they shot me, and then that damned horse went lame and I had to walk, and I fell, and then it rained. God, it rained. Does the sun never shine on this wretched country?” He lapsed momentarily into incoherent muttering. With his black hair straggling in wet curls all around his face, his thick beard bristling at her, and his eyes wild and staring, he looked out of his mind. And not just with fever. Amanda tugged despairingly at her hair, wishing vainly that she had a pair of scissors with her. She would gladly have cut the whole mane off if it would have freed her from this madman.

“Who are you?” His eyes were suddenly sharp on her face, and his voice was demanding. Amanda swallowed. He looked extremely fearsome, glaring at her as he was. And she was very much afraid that he had just regained his senses, if in fact he had ever lost them.

“My… my name’s Amanda. Amanda Rose Culver.” Then, desperately, she added in what she hoped was a confidence-inspiring voice, “And I’m going to help you.”

“You know who I am.” It was not a question. The words rang like a doomsday bell in her ears. She felt her muscles tense in horrible anticipation. Denial would be useless, she saw, staring wretchedly down into his set face, even if she could have found the right words and forced them from her lips.

“I-I can help you,” she said again, weakly. His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace; his hand tightened painfully on her hair. Amanda cringed away from him.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice harsh. His fingers, embedded in her hair, dragged her closer, so that her face was just inches from his. “I’m not stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured frantically as he glared at her. His teeth were bared in what she could only think of as a snarl, and he looked like a dreadful beast bent on devouring her. Amanda shuddered. He must have seen the convulsive movement or correctly interpreted the fear in her eyes, because he relaxed his grip a little, a faintly satisfied expression flitting across his face.

For a moment neither said anything, the man seemingly bent on recouping his strength and his senses at the same time, and Amanda thinking furiously.

“Could you please let me go?” she ventured at last in a small voice. “You’re hurting.”

It wasn’t much, but this appeal to any latent chivalry he might still possess was all she could come up with. As she had expected, it won her nothing but a grunt and a scornful look. But after a moment, to her surprise, his hand did readjust itself so that it was not pulling quite so hard on her hair.