Deborah Hale - The Elusive Bride

“Once we reach our first sanctuary we can travel openly—mounted. Don’t you want to see Brantham liberated as swiftly as possible?”

“Yes, but—”

“The longer your enemy holds it, the more difficult it will be to retake.”

She sat silent for a moment. Rowan sensed the struggle within her.

“Very well,” she said at last. “It is a risk we must take. I would not see my people in Fulke’s foul clutches a moment longer than need be.”

“We’re agreed then?” Rowan could scarcely keep the tone of surprise from his voice. What had made her give in so willingly? From his experience of the women in his cousin’s court, he wondered what subtle revenge this one planned to exact.

“Agreed.” Cecily firmly checked her misgivings. She could see John FitzCourtenay’s reasoning, and he had won her assent. She would not go grudgingly, nor watch for a chance to say, “I told you so.”

“There should be a good moon tonight. I’ll lead you as far west as we can venture before sunrise. In fact, I have a hidey hole in mind if we can get that far.”

As though dismayed by the prospect of journeying empty, her stomach rumbled a pitiful complaint.

Cecily pulled a wry face. “I wish I’d had time to gather some food before I left Brantham.”

John FitzCourtenay rummaged through the scrip tied to his belt. “It’s not much.” He drew out a morsel of cheese and a small apple. “All I have left, but you’re welcome to it.”

Something about his uncalculated generosity touched her. “We must share it. You can’t have eaten much more recently than I, and we will both need our strength for tonight’s journey.”

He grinned then. The tanned flesh on either side of his dark eyes crinkled in a way that made Cecily’s insides wriggle like a brook trout.

“This poor bite is scarcely enough to appease the wolf in one belly, much less two. Go ahead and eat it, Mistress Cecily. I have gone hungry many a time and taken no lasting harm from it.” He deposited the cheese and the apple firmly in her hands.

Cecily took a bite of the apple. Early fruit, it was still half-green—firm and juicy. So tart it made her mouth pucker. Yet to the yawning cavern of her belly it was as welcome as manna from heaven.

“Besides.” The jesting tone of John’s voice and expression faltered. “I should be fasting for penance.”

“Nonsense!” Cecily stopped in midbite. “Because you killed a man in self-defense? I should hope Our Lord is more forgiving than you picture him, else I am doomed for certain.”

All the levity had drained from his face now, leaving behind something harsh and bitter. “Doomed? Do not say so. What can you be guilty of more than childish mischief?”

His chiding tone vexed her, but she heard past it to the regret and the old, unhealed pain in his voice. It must run deep indeed, for he was obviously a man inured to hurt. He had barely flinched when she’d examined his knife wound.

“Oh, I have broken my share of the commandments, Master John,” she answered softly. Honor thy father. Thou shalt not covet. How she’d coveted the love her father had borne his sons.

Biting off another piece of apple, she popped it into her companion’s open mouth as he began to speak.

The bristle of hair on his upper lip grazed her fingers. The smooth, moist flesh of his lips and tongue lingered over them. The sensations set Cecily aquiver, like an overwound lute string plucked by an anxious troubador.

She knew the proper, modest response would be to cast her eyes down. Instead, her gaze went swiftly, frankly to his. The blistering intensity of the look that passed between them arrested her breath.

No question—they must make haste to Ravensridge, while she could still bring herself to wed any man but this one.

While Cecily Tyrell snatched a short, fitful sleep, Rowan kept watch from the mouth of the cave. The sour taste of the apple lingered on his tongue, as did the faint brine of Cecily’s fingertips. It whetted a hunger in him far more ravenous than the one in his empty belly.

To make matters worse, when he’d gruffly bidden her to get some rest before moonrise, she’d urged him to lie down with her and do the same. Knowing such closeness would make him more restive, not less, he’d used the excuse of keeping watch to put as much distance as possible between them.

Not that it mattered.

Their bodies might be apart, but his thoughts flocked to her at every unguarded moment. As impossible to ignore as the throbbing of his wounded arm. He could scarcely believe he’d known her for less than a day. From the instant he’d spied her in that forest-hemmed garden at the priory, something about Cecily Tyrell had drawn him. The unorthodox manner of their second meeting and the long, intense hours of their better acquaintance had only sharpened his response.

Since Jacquetta’s death he had never made a conscious effort to guard his heart. No woman had appealed to him in more than a passing carnal way. Sometimes he’d resisted those urges in a fit of martyrdom. Other times he’d given in to his lust—why not, if he was damned anyway? Always, after the momentary flush of pleasure, he’d repented. Adding another measure to the staggering weight of guilt he would carry to his grave.

What was it about this woman that intrigued him so? Her uncanny beauty, perhaps. That improbable melding of delicacy and strength, like the wild hind. Or was it her bracing forthrightness, a trait he admired in other men, but had seldom encountered in a woman? Both of those, surely, but something more.

Rowan struggled to frame the notion. There was a freshness about her that went beyond mere innocence. An untamed quality outside the limited bounds of morals or propriety. For all that, a deep goodness that beckoned him even as it roused his worst suspicions.

Jacquetta had damned him. Might Cecily be his last chance at salvation? Or might she only make it worse? Rowan was not sure he dared answer that question. But suddenly he understood the ecstatic, suicidal force that must drive a moth to immolate itself within the vibrant, beautiful menace of the flame.

“Cecily. Mistress Tyrell.”

For the second time that day someone roused her from her dreams. Dreams, once again, of a stranger in a garden. Once again, Cecily parted from them reluctantly.

“Wake up now. The moon has risen. It’s time we were away.” There was a sense of urgency in the whispered words, but that was not what lured Cecily awake.

It was the voice. His voice.

Her eyelids fluttered open. In the darkness of the cave she could see only a shadow, backlit by the pale rays of a full moon. Somehow she sensed the force of John FitzCourtenay’s presence. She had never met a man with one so potent.

His scent mingled with the damp, chalky odor of the cave and the lingering musk of some animal that made its winter home there. It felt so right, being close to him in the darkness. A warm, lazy ache pulsed through her.

“Cecily,” he whispered again, louder this time. He must not realize she was awake.

Gingerly, he prodded her. His hand brushed her thigh, perilously close to the crux of that sweet ache.

Before she could stop herself, Cecily gasped.

He pulled back. “I beg your pardon if I startled you, but the moon is up and we must go. You’re harder to rouse than a bear in winter.”

She opened her mouth to say that he roused her far too well. Fortunately, her mouth was dry as dust. All that emerged from her parched throat was a rusty croak. By the time she cleared it with a cough, her tardy self-control had caught up with her.

“Any sign of Fulke’s men while you kept watch?” She sat up and stretched her limbs. Concentrating on their immediate peril might keep her disquieting urges at bay.