Karen Robards - Amanda Rose

“Yes, ma’am.” There was a spark of humor in his voice that sent her eyes flying up to meet his. She must have been mistaken, she decided, meeting those stony eyes and seeing the hard, unrelenting set of his mouth, which was just barely visible through the bristly beard. Her eyes dropped back to her work; with commendable efficiency she wound the strips of petticoat around him, trying to make as little contact with his bare skin as she could. She couldn’t help but notice that, from the feel of it at least, the lower part of his back was not covered with hair like his belly and chest. The pattern of hair on his front side was very interesting, she decided almost subconsciously as she knotted the ends of the bandage directly over the pad. His shirt was pulled up around his ribs, leaving bare the lower part of his chest and abdomen to where the breeches rested low on his hips. There seemed to be a thick growth of hair on his chest-at least, what she could see of it-that narrowed until it was hardly more than a silky trail once it got past his navel. From there the trail began to widen again down the center of his abdomen until the breeches abruptly cut off her view. She wondered how much hair he had lower down-and was horrified at the thought. This time her blush was almost painful. To hide her confusion, she quickly pulled the breeches back up over the bandage, apparently hurting him in her haste because he grunted. But he didn’t say anything, and she sat back with a feeling of relief, leaving him to fasten the buttons himself, which he did one-handed. His other hand showed no signs of releasing its tether hold on her hair.

“Good job,” he said approvingly as he fastened the last of the buttons. “Now see if you can dry my hair. It feels like it’s turning into icicles around my ears.”

It took Amanda an instant to realize that he meant for her to use what was left of her petticoat for that purpose. Hesitating only a moment, she picked up the ragged garment and, inching closer to his head, began rather gingerly to dry his hair. The icy wetness of the curling black strands soon penetrated the thin linen of her petticoat, chilling her fingers. He was soaked to the skin; she could feel the muscles of his neck and shoulders trembling with cold. If she hadn’t been so afraid that he meant to murder her at any minute, she would almost have felt sorry for him. After all, she wouldn’t have been able to stand seeing even a mad dog in his condition without wanting to do what she could to alleviate its suffering. But, then, a crazed murderer, sick or well, was a different proposition from even a mad dog…

Finally his hair was as dry as she could get it, and she sank back onto her heels, eyeing him, the petticoat in her lap.

“Wrap that thing around me as well as you can, will you?” he requested next, and it was a request, not an order, despite the gruffness of his tone. Amanda did as he told her, spreading the damp linen over his chest and tucking it in around his shoulders and neck. It covered perhaps a third of his body, leaving his hips and long legs protected from the wind only by the raggedy breeches. The petticoat could not have provided much comfort, but he snuggled into it as if it were the woolliest of blankets.

“What did you say your name was? Amanda? Amanda Rose?”

Amanda nodded, slowly backing away from him as she did so, eyeing him warily. Now that she had seen to his comfort to the best of her ability, would he decide her usefulness was at an end and wrap those long, strong fingers around her neck?

“What are you doing wandering around in the dark, Amanda Rose? Did you sneak out to meet someone? A man, perhaps?”

“Yes.” Her voice must have been a shade too eager, because he looked at her silently for an instant before slowly shaking his head.

“Don’t lie, Amanda.” It was surprising how formidable he could sound, even lying flat on his back with his body racked by tremors and his shoulders huddling into her torn petticoat.

“I’m not,” she began, then gave it up. She had always been a dreadful liar anyway; it was no wonder he could see through her clumsy attempts at subterfuge. “I often walk on the beach before the sun comes up. I… like to be alone.”

“So you weren’t looking for me?”

“ No. ” She spoke so fervently that his lips moved in the semblance of a wry smile. Amanda stared at the crooked twist of those lips, thinking that it made him seem suddenly so much more human. Maybe he wasn’t totally evil after all, she thought. Maybe, just maybe, he had done what he had out of sincere political convictions. If so, it meant that he was that much less likely to murder her out of hand… she hoped.

“No, I suppose not.” He forced the words out through teeth that were clenched suddenly to stop them from chattering. The ghost of a smile vanished as suddenly as it had come, and for a moment he closed his eyes. Amanda watched him hopefully. If she was lucky, he might pass out…

“I presume your family has a house somewhere nearby?” His eyes were open again, but Amanda thought his voice sounded a bit weaker.

“N-no,” she answered, then as he looked at her sharply her tone became defensive. “It’s the truth. I live in the convent at the top of the cliff. I’m a pupil there.”

“I see.” He was silent for a moment, apparently digesting the information. When he spoke again, she knew she was not imagining the weakening of his voice. “Are there any outbuildings? A place where I could rest-out of the cold and this damned wind?”

Amanda thought quickly. The only outbuilding the convent possessed was a small tool shed well within the grounds. If she could get him up there, all she would have to do was scream and the entire population of the convent-eleven girls and twenty nuns-would be out upon them in a matter of seconds. And he couldn’t possibly kill thirty-odd females. She didn’t think he had a weapon.

“Yes,” she said at last, but again she must have hesitated too long because he eyed her with some suspicion.

“If you’re lying to me…” He let his voice trail off, but the threat was unmistakable. Amanda shivered. When he spoke like that, she had no difficulty believing that he was capable-more than capable-of cold-blooded murder.

“I’m not.” Desperately she tried to infuse her voice with conviction. In an effort to persuade him further, she added eagerly, “Our gardener sleeps there sometimes. There’s a cot, with blankets. And I could get you some food.”

He groaned, and his eyes closed. “I haven’t eaten in three days,” he admitted under his breath. Then his eyes popped open to stare at her warily. “You know that I’ll hang if I’m caught?”

Amanda returned his look just as warily. Then she nodded.

“Then you know that I don’t have anything to lose if I kill you. And if you cross me…” His voice trailed off, but his eyes spoke for him. Amanda shivered. If she crossed him, he would kill her. Did she dare even to try? Looking into those silvery eyes that glittered so coldly back at her, she knew she had no choice. Even if she did everything he said, he would kill her eventually. She had to take the first chance of escape that presented itself, no matter what the risk.

“Is that understood?” He meant to have an answer. Amanda looked at him and nodded jerkily. She prayed that he wouldn’t read her intentions in her eyes.

“Then I’ll ask you again, and I want the truth: is there some place up there at that convent of yours where I can rest-without being found?”

For a barely perceptible instant Amanda hesitated, thinking of the nuns and the other girls-people she had grown to care for-who were sleeping so peacefully in their beds. What guarantee did she have that he couldn’t somehow manage to kill everyone who came to her aid? After all, he had had some experience in mass murder. But then she thought of the path up the cliffs. It would be almost impossible for him to make the climb in his present condition; surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to get away from him on the steep, narrow path…