Karen Robards - Amanda Rose

“Damn it, you little bitch, I ought to…” What he ought to do she never knew, because his words trailed off in a groan. Throwing himself about like that must have hurt him badly. Trapped beneath him, her breasts heaving with fright and her thighs crushed by his much larger ones, Amanda stared up at him wide-eyed. He was as white as death, and his mouth was set in a furious grimace that struck fear into her soul. He would kill her now, she had no doubt, and terror set her to kicking and hitting at him mindlessly. He cursed and tried to capture her flailing hands. Instinctively they curved into claws, which she raked down his cheeks, feeling savage satisfaction at the bloody furrows her nails left in their wake. He cursed again, viciously, and caught her wrists in a grip that made her fear that he meant to snap the fragile bones. She squirmed and kicked frantically beneath him as he transferred both her hands to one of his; then her eyes widened with fright as he raised his free hand, fist balled to strike her. Her eyes were frantic as she stared at that fist, which was poised to descend upon her face with its delicate bones. He could, and undoubtedly would, beat her to a pulp before he killed her. She screamed with pure animal terror, her eyes locked with his all the while. To her surprise and confusion, she saw an emotion come into his eyes that she would have described as self-disgust in anyone else. Then his fist dropped; she felt his open hand cover her mouth, stifling any further outcry.

“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, effectively quelling her struggles with his body while his hand continued to exert that strangely gentle pressure across her face. “Be still, and I’ll let you go. Only you mustn’t scream, Amanda. Amanda, do you hear me?”

She did hear him, and presently her terror eased, along with her struggles, as the calming note in his voice had its effect. Perhaps he really wasn’t going to kill her. Perhaps he meant the words he was almost whispering to her. Her eyes were still huge and her breathing was fast, but she slowly allowed her tense muscles to relax until she was no longer fighting him.

“That’s right, Amanda,” he murmured soothingly. “Just be still, and everything will be all right. I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth now-only you mustn’t scream again. Do you promise not to scream, Amanda?”

She stared up at him for a moment. His face was very close to hers, his beard tickling her cheek as he muttered in her ear. He raised his head to look at her, waiting for her response, and she saw that his eyes had lost their murderous gleam and looked merely very tired.

“Will you promise not to scream, Amanda?” he repeated, and this time she nodded once. As he had promised, he removed his hand. Instinctively she wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. He watched that tiny movement intently. Then he opened his mouth to speak.

Whatever he was going to say was lost forever as they both heard running footsteps crunching across the shale toward them. Amanda felt his muscles tense against her; as he turned his head to stare in the direction of the sound the look on his face reminded her of nothing so much as the heart-thumping fear of an animal before the hunters close in.

The footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether.

“Whoever is back there, come out, ” a stern voice called. Amanda felt her body sag with relief as she realized that rescue was at hand. All she had to do was to call out… She looked quickly up into the face of the man pressed so closely against her. He was not looking at her; every ounce of his attention was focused on the rock that shielded them from whoever was on the other side, as if by staring at it hard enough he could see through it, see who would finally bring him to justice. He was making no effort to silence her or even to hold her still. She wondered if he had forgotten her existence. The muscles of his arms and legs and chest were rigid against her as he prepared himself for the inevitable. He must know that he had no chance of escape, of fighting his way out of the trap. He was far too weak… She pushed urgently at his shoulders, trying to free herself. Only as a last resort would she scream again… Those silvery eyes were as hard as agates as they swung back to look down at her, but for one single, unguarded instant Amanda saw in their depths a flicker of something that might have been despair. Again she was reminded of an animal at bay…

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, let me up,” she hissed, annoyance and disgust combined in equal parts in her voice. “He’ll be back here any minute if you don’t.”

His eyes flickered again with that same odd expression. His mouth compressed into a tight, controlled line. To her relief he rolled to his side without a word, freeing her. Amanda got quickly to her feet, making no effort to conceal herself as the upper half of her body became clearly visible above the low grouping of rocks.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she called in a tremulous voice to the man standing perhaps three yards away. It was still dark enough to make it difficult for her to recognize him at that distance, but she had no trouble identifying the rifle that had been resting against his shoulder. He was slowly lowering the weapon as she moved out into the open. Apparently her sex had lessened his suspicions somewhat…

Matthew Grayson lay silently staring up at her as she passed around the side of the rock. His face was without expression as she threw him one last, quick glare. “Don’t make a sound, and stay where you are until I come back,” she whispered fiercely. Then she was limping toward the man with the rifle, saying, “I fear I’ve had a slight accident.”

Though the gray light of the slow-breaking dawn partly obscured the stocky figure and square, ruddy face beneath the homespun cap, she recognized him as one of the local sheep farmers as she hobbled nearer.

“Oh, Mr. Llewellyn, thank goodness it’s you.” There was no mistaking the sincerity in her voice. She had helped Sister Agnes attend the man’s youngest daughter through a bout with pleurisy the year before, and had come to know him rather well. Yves Llewellyn was as good-humored as he was stolid, and if he had a thought in his head not concerned with sheep or sheep farming, she had never heard tell of it. His buxom wife and four sturdy daughters had him firmly under their collective thumb. He was more than accustomed to feminine oddities, and Amanda doubted he would even bother to ask what she was doing on the beach, supposedly alone, at such an hour. At least, she hoped he would not. What could she possibly say?

“That be ye, Lady Amanda?” He peered at her doubtfully. Amanda didn’t blame him. With her hair tumbling wildly down her back and her hands and dress smeared with dirt and bits of shale, she must look quite a sight.

“Yes, Mr. Llewellyn, it’s me.” She grimaced noticeably as she approached him, hoping the distortion of her features would pass for an expression of pain. She need not have worried. Mr. Llewellyn frowned and reached out a work-calloused hand to support her as she limped nearer. Amanda stifled a satisfied smile and used that helping hand to steer him as unobtrusively as possible back in the direction whence he had come.

“Hurt yerself, did ye, missy?” he asked gruffly as they progressed with maddening slowness down the beach. His rifle was slung negligently under the arm away from her, Amanda noticed with relief as she leaned heavily against him and limped for all she was worth. Clearly she had managed to allay his suspicions to the point where he no longer suspected that a source of danger might still lurk in the shadows. “Heard ye screechin’. Thought for a minute that it was one of my ewes-dogs been after ’em.”