From between clenched teeth he muttered, “Agreed.”
They labored on in silence for some time, saving their breath to scramble up the rising ground. Though Cecily suspected her companion had regained his balance, he made no move to release himself from her grasp.
Thanks be, they would soon reach the caves. Their flight had put an unaccustomed strain on her. Her heart raced far more quickly than usual. Her breath came fast and shallow. A most unwholesome flush stung her cheeks.
One question she burned to pose John FitzCourtenay—were he and his brother very much alike?
When the Empress had proposed she wed the recently returned Crusader, Cecily had imagined a much older man. Nearly fifty years had passed since the Great Crusade. The few veterans of that celebrated conflict were now graybeards, mumbling their porridge and whiling away winter evenings spinning tales of the Outremer for their grandchildren. If she must take a husband, such a one might be borne, though even Cecily’s stout heart shrank from the thought of sharing his marriage bed.
Repicturing Rowan DeCourtenay in the likeness of his half brother, Cecily contemplated her wedding night anew. Such musings provoked very different sensations. Different, but still unwelcome.
While she did not want to fear or despise her husband, she could not afford to entertain tender or, worse yet, desirous feelings for him. A respectful, expedient alliance was what she needed. Cecily had an intuition that such a union would not be easy to maintain with a virile, vigorous husband.
Despite her warning to FitzCourtenay about keeping his eyes on the trail, Cecily found her own gaze straying sidelong with infuriating frequency. What was it about his strong, jutting profile that drew her so? Surely he had accompanied his brother to the Holy Land. The relentless eastern sun had bronzed his face and etched strangely attractive creases around his deep-set eyes. His wide, firm mouth, aquiline nose and dark, emphatic eyebrows signaled his shifting thoughts and moods with subtle power. What was he thinking and feeling at this moment? Was he as aware of her touch as she was of his?
Lost in such novel thoughts, Cecily missed her footing on the steep, uneven ground. As she flailed out, trying to avoid a disastrous fall, John FitzCourtenay caught her arm and pulled her close to steady her. The all-too-pleasant shock of finding herself suddenly in his arms made Cecily’s head spin and her knees weaken. She knew she should pull away, but some rebellious impulse urged her to linger. For the first time within memory, she was experiencing the protective warmth of a man’s embrace.
It intoxicated her.
There was no other way to explain the sensation. It was as though she had rapidly quaffed a goblet of potent wine.
His chest rumbled with a deep, infectious chuckle. “Perhaps now you won’t be sorry you suffered me to come along.”
Something warned her against looking up into his face, but Cecily Tyrell had scarcely heeded a warning in her life—even those of her own reason.
She looked.
His eyes, a piercing silvery-blue, held hers and made her wish she could magically exchange the borrowed leper’s rags for her finest linen gown.
Cecily parted her lips to snap that she wouldn’t have fallen but for the distraction he posed. At the last instant she realized it might not be prudent to admit how much he distracted her.
“If you recall, I predicted you might have your uses.” Despite her best effort at coolness, her words came out like a flirtatious quip.
He laughed at this, though Cecily sensed the mirth came almost against his will.
As the last mellow note of laughter died away, Cecily picked up another sound—faint and distant, but infinitely menacing.
The baying of hounds.
Chapter Four
Cecily stiffened in Rowan’s arms. “They’re coming. With hounds, too. An unlicked whelp could track me to ground in these reeking leper’s rags.”
She gazed into his eyes, and for an instant Rowan longed to drown himself in the lush, brown depths of hers. Fulke and his hounds be damned.
“Go, John. If you stay with me, we may both be taken. Go back to your brother and bid him come to my aid at Brantham.”
The slumbering demons within Rowan roused to echo Cecily Tyrell’s behest. Go! Run. Put as much distance as possible between yourself and this dangerous creature.
Other long-buried feelings stirred to battle these. Leave her—how could he? Surrender another woman to Fulke DeBoissard? Not while he had breath in his body!
As Rowan stood there, paralyzed by the struggle within himself, Cecily slipped out of his embrace. She squinted against the ruthless glare of the sun. It had passed midday, but the haven of sunset was still many dangerous hours distant.
“Did you not hear me, John? Or did the bashing you took from those tree trunks addle your wits? You must leave me now. I won’t have you come to harm for my sake.”
Her words stilled the clamor within Rowan’s mind. In such desperate peril herself, Cecily had spared a thought for his safety. He had no claim on her loyalty, yet she had come to his aid twice. He could not abandon her.
“Take your clothes off!”
Her eyes widened and her whole face betrayed alarm. As well as a shade of something else Rowan could not read.
“Would you have me, now, and take private vows before I fall into Fulke’s clutches? I commend your quick thinking, John. But I fear you’d take me to wive in vain. Fulke would not scruple to put you to the sword and make me a widow ripe for remarriage.”
Rowan’s mouth fell slack. The image of having her here in the open, on this wild bit of upland heath, with the baying of Fulke’s hounds drawing closer, made his nostrils flare and his body rouse.
“You mistake me.” He shook his head to dispel the seductive notion. “If the dogs are following the scent of those clothes, you must take them off.”
He untied his coarse-woven cloak. “You can cover yourself with this and with my tunic.” He shrugged out of the garment. “I’ll take the leper’s rags and lay a false trail for our pursuers while you go hide in the caves.”
For a moment she made no reply, but stared at his bare torso. The warm breeze whispered over his chest like a woman’s breath. More acutely aware of his own body than he had been in years, Rowan wondered if Cecily shrank from the sight of his old battle scars. No doubt a maid, even one of her comparatively advanced years, fancied an unblemished mate. Self-consciously crossing his arms before his chest, Rowan berated himself. He had no business disporting himself like some blushing virgin, fumbling his first conquest.
“Go to, lass. We haven’t much time.” He tossed her the garments, glancing around to see if there was a nearby clump of boxwood where she might disrobe.
Nothing but low heath and bald outcroppings of rock.
“I’ll turn my back if you’re overcome with modesty.” He turned.
“It’s a good plan.” She sounded surprised that he’d had the presence of mind to come up with it.
The wonder in her voice mingled with something like admiration. It sent an exasperating rush of pleasure coursing through Rowan.
He heard her struggling out of the leper’s rags. Against propriety and completely against his will, he stole a swift glance back at her.
And wished he hadn’t.
She’d turned away from him to shed her disguise. Still, in the shimmering heat of midday, he saw more than enough to choke off his breath like a tightening snare.
The way that thick plait of lustrous hair coiled down her