Deborah Hale - The Elusive Bride

It must be that woman. Cecily Tyrell. His intended bride. He had never laid eyes on the creature and already she was causing him trouble.

He’d been so preoccupied with misgivings about his impending forced union that the bandits had him at knifepoint before he realized what was happening. The large one with the weapon looked none too swift of thought or reflex. If he’d been alone, Rowan would have taken the fellow on without a qualm. But the little fox who taunted him and tossed his purse Rowan recognized for a wilier and far more dangerous character.

Though he shrank from the prospect of turning up penniless for his own wedding, Rowan was content to surrender the paltry sum in his money pouch. What troubled him was the possibility of the bandits guessing his true station and holding him for ransom.

Stalling for time in which to plan his escape, he noticed a stripling boy slip from the cover of the woods. If the other pair had stolen upon him as soundlessly, Rowan would not have reproached himself for being taken unawares. A flicker of admiration for the boy’s skill stirred within him. He assumed the lad must be a confederate of the other bandits, until the young fellow raised a finger to lips shadowed by his deep cowl.

“I swear to you, good men…” Rowan pitched his voice louder to cover any sound of the boy’s approach. “My master wouldn’t spare a crooked farthing to ransom my life. He’d pay more to get back that spavined old nag I ride. To speak plain, I’d sooner throw my lot in with you than go back to his service, anyhow.”

With a flick of his thumb, the boy indicated the burly, knife-wielding bandit. In what he hoped was a subtle countersign, Rowan nodded toward the smaller man. If he read the pair correctly, the big fellow would take a moment to react when the boy clubbed his partner. In that moment, Rowan was confident he could disarm the thief. Besides, he doubted a clout on the head would have much effect upon such a great ox.

Bobbing his unspoken agreement, the lad stepped forward, raising his stout stick.

A twig snapped under footfall.

Both the bandits turned at the sound.

Without the instant’s hesitation that might have cost Rowan and him their lives, the boy smashed his hunk of wood down on the smaller bandit’s pate. The blow landed with greater force than Rowan expected from so slight a youth. Before the slow-witted thief had a chance to react, Rowan plucked the knife from his hammy fist and raised it to the man’s throat.

He flashed the boy a grin of gratitude.

Before they had a chance to savor their victory, a cry rose in the distance. “How now? What’s going on there?”

The boy spun around. “God’s teeth! It’s Fulke’s men.”

Fulke? It was a common enough name among the Normans. Still it struck Rowan like a sword-thrust to the belly.

In one fluid stroke, the boy raised his club again and hammered the big bandit. Rowan barely had time to twitch the knife aside before the man fell senseless to earth.

“Come on!” Clutching Rowan’s wrist, the boy hauled him into the woods.

Behind them came the muted thud of horses’ hooves pummeling the soft ground. It took every scrap of concentration for Rowan to keep from pitching face first into the underbrush as the boy pulled him farther into the forest.

Suddenly they were up to Rowan’s waist in water and wading deeper by the second. Still the lad did not let him go, and for reasons he could not explain, Rowan had no wish to break free. Did he sense that the youngster knew this area and would lead him out of harm better than he could manage himself? Or was he simply curious to make the acquaintance of this stripling who had appeared, as if by magic, to rescue him?

“Over here,” whispered the boy, towing Rowan toward a sheet of trailing foliage that hung from the jutting riverbank above.

They slipped behind it, into a brief, secret space. Rowan started as a fish wriggled past his ankle.

No sooner had they gained their refuge than pursuers burst noisily from the trees on the opposite bank. Through the dense curtain of greenery, Rowan could just make out a trio of armed men. They did not look to be confederates of the bandits, yet some warrior’s intuition advised him to stay out of their sight. Realizing the boy had let go of his wrist at last, Rowan reached around to draw the lad back and cover his mouth.

The men-at-arms beat the bushes across the stream, loudly inquiring of each other where their quarry could have gone. Beneath his fingers, Rowan felt the lad’s lips curve into a wide grin. At the same moment, he became aware that his other hand rested not on a boy’s bony chest, but upon the softly rounded breast of a young woman.

“By Our Lady!” The words broke from Rowan before he could check them.

Fortunately, the searchers were making such a din they took no notice. Realizing he still cupped her breast, Rowan wrenched his hand away. The young woman turned toward him, pulling back her cowl. Even in the emerald dimness of their hideaway, he knew her in an instant.

The novice from that tiny priory in the Cotswolds. The one who’d given him vegetables and behaved less like a nun than any woman he’d ever met. The one who had hovered on the edge of his thoughts ever since, no matter how he had tried to banish her.

Once again, her eyes held him in their mischievous, challenging gaze. Trapped, Rowan had no choice but to drink her in. Those features—delicate, yet lively. That hair, like threads of chestnut silk shot with filaments of gold. The lips that parted in a smile of such radiance it lit her whole face from deep within.

Though he tried to buffer himself against it, his heart lurched within his chest. A hundred long-suppressed emotions kindled to life with the searing pain of frostbitten extremities thawed too quickly. Rowan could scarcely restrain himself from breaking out of the thicket and throwing himself on the mercy of their pursuers. What could they subject him to more hazardous than the sweet peril of proximity to this bewitching creature?

“It’s no good,” panted one of the searchers just then. “We’ll never find them in this thick brush without the hounds.”

With general grunts of agreement, they lumbered back toward the clearing.

The girl let out a long, quivering breath. “I hope the thieves have come to their senses and made away with the horses.”

Rowan tried in vain to keep a sober face. Before he could voice any of the questions that warred in his thoughts, the girl slipped out of their hiding place and waded farther downstream.

“I shouldn’t wait for them to come back if I were you,” she called over her shoulder. “If they do catch you up, please don’t tell them which way I’m headed.”

Defenses he’d labored years to erect momentarily prevented him from following her. An overwhelming curiosity made him scale the barricade.

“Please wait!”

She spun around, continuing to wade backward. “I can’t. Those men will return with their hounds. I have to get as far away from them as I can.”

“Let me come with you then.”

She hesitated, and for an instant Rowan could see his own doubt, suspicion and intrigue mirrored in her face. Her searching gaze weighed him in the balance. He shrank from the prospect that she might find him wanting.

“Very…well,” she said at last, with audible reluctance. “You might be of some use. Only, try not to slow me down.”

Slow her down? Rowan almost snorted with contempt at the notion. Never had a woman challenged him so. Yet he sensed it was no idle boast. This strange, compelling creature might well put a man to the test.

Rowan stirred from his musings only to realize that his companion had turned away and widened the gap between them. By the time he closed it, he was panting so hard he could scarcely gasp out the first of many questions that piqued him.