She wished John would return soon, so she could ask him about his brother. She wished he would return soon so she could reassure herself of his safety. She wished he would return soon to help distract her from fretting about her father. For those reasons, and others she dared not examine too closely, she wished he would return.
Her eyelids hung heavy and her head ached with fatigue, but Cecily knew she dared not sleep. What was taking John so long to return? If he’d accomplished his task, should he not have been back by now? What if Fulke’s men had caught up with him?
Her belly roiled and a weight settled on her heart, like the one she had felt when her brothers went off to war. Like the one she carried for her father in spite of herself.
Cecily tried to will it away, but it would not go. Caring for a man in these violent times was folly, she reminded herself bitterly. It only left a woman prey to worry and heartache. Besides, she didn’t care for Rowan DeCourtenay’s bastard brother. Did she?
More sounds from outside. Faint but coming nearer. Again Cecily froze and listened. This was no fancy. The sounds continued to approach—padding feet and the rapid hiss of indrawn breath. She longed to call out, but caution kept her silent. If John FitzCourtenay had returned, would he not speak to reassure her?
Perhaps she had been wrong about him. Perhaps he’d been captured and forced to betray her hiding place to Fulke.
Footsteps approached the mouth of the cave. Stopped. A shadow crossed the patch of light on the cave’s floor.
Praying to see the silhouette of a half-naked man, she choked back a sob at the shade of a cloaked figure. Her hand closed over a fist-size stone. They would not take her without a fight.
Apparently not satisfied that the cave appeared empty, the figure advanced. Cecily raised her rock.
Rowan peered into the shallow cleft in the rocks. No one here. He’d searched the other caves and found them all empty. Had Cecily Tyrell broken her promise to wait for him? After all these years, he might have known better than to trust a woman.
Something drew Rowan’s gaze to the earthen floor of the cave. Did his wishful eyes deceive him, or did he detect the faint trace of a fresh footprint? He moved closer to inspect it.
A slight stirring from above and behind made him turn just in time to—
“John!”
A slender body hurtled down, knocking him to the ground. Arms went round his neck.
“Why did you not call? You gave me the worst scare. Did you lead Fulke’s pack away? I’m so glad you came back!”
The breath temporarily driven from his chest, Rowan had no choice but to submit to Cecily’s eager embrace. When at last he managed to draw air, the scent of fresh herbs rose from her hair to assail him. Her soft young breasts pressed against the base of this throat, robbing him of breath for a very different reason. A most delicious dizziness overcame him.
“John, will you answer me? Where did you come by this cloak? Are you hurt?”
He remembered his wound. “A scratch.”
Swiftly she drew back and began to examine him. “A scratch, indeed. You’re not the first to tell me that. I’ve seen a man’s arm almost severed to the bone and he would call it a scratch.”
Rowan held out his own forearm, bound with a strip of cloth he’d torn from the dead man’s cloak. “See for yourself. I’ve lost a little blood, but I haven’t been badly butchered.”
Cecily gave his arm a gentle but thorough inspection. “At least it’s on the back of the arm, not the blood-rich flesh at the crook of the elbow.” She sounded much relieved. “I won’t risk unbinding your wound until we have water to wash it clean. It’s not apt to kill you unless it goes putrid.”
Rowan marveled at her cool assessment. Poor Jacquetta had shrieked and swooned at the mere sight of blood. Once upon a time he had thought it sweetly amusing.
He’d been shocked by how little blood she’d shed dying. Only the merest trickle from her mouth.
“That’s an odd spot for a wound, though.” Cecily’s canny observation recalled Rowan from his morbid memories. “What happened?”
He struggled to sit up. His body ached from the exertion of the last several hours. His protests to Cecily notwithstanding, the knife wound did sting. Both were trifles compared with the overpowering throb brought on by Cecily’s too tempting body.
“An arm makes a poor shield.” Flashing her a wry grin, he held it up to demonstrate. “Better a blade in the arm than one in the throat.”
“So Fulke’s pack caught you and you fought your way free?” The intoxicating note of wonder in her voice made Rowan hesitate to admit the less heroic truth.
“No,” he owned at last. “I gave those hounds the slip. For aught I know, they may have run clear to Wallingford by now. I came upon a vixen caught in a snare, so I let her loose.” He chuckled, recalling his ruse. “But not before I tied a strip of your leper’s rags to her tail. No doubt she’ll lead them a merry chase until nightfall.”
“Cleverly done, indeed.” Cecily nodded her approval. “How did you come by your wound then?”
“Carelessness,” Rowan admitted. “I was circling my way back to find you when I ran into a straggler from the hunt. I tried to talk myself free, but he would have none of it. I suppose a man wandering shirtless in that part of the forest would rouse suspicion.”
“And?” Clearly she would not be satisfied until she heard it all.
“And he drew a dagger on me. We fought. I killed him and stripped his corpse of anything that might be of use to us.”
There. Let her see he had blood on his hands, as well as on his arm.
“Bravely done, John!”
Rowan shook his head. To a woman, combat was merely the stuff of thrilling ballads. He must make her see the reality.
“I had no choice. He came at me. It was more than a fair fight, for he was armed and I was not. Still, he was a fellow creature. Some woman’s husband, mayhap. Some lad’s sire. I take neither joy nor honor in having spilled his blood.”
“Of course not.” Cecily knelt beside him, her head cocked at an inquisitive angle that reminded Rowan of a bird. “I’d think much less of you if you did. But you must not take shame from it, either. You only did what was needful to preserve your life and mine.”
Somehow, her brisk practicality did ease his sense of guilt. Though not altogether. “Did they not teach you the sixth commandment at that priory of yours?”
“Is that what troubles you? Thou shalt not kill. Remember, David slew Goliath, and God did not take it ill. If your conscience pains you, when we reach Brantham you can make your confession and do penance.”
He pretended to ignore her suggestion. What would she say if he told her how many years he’s avoided confession? No amount of Pater Nosters or Aves would suffice to absolve the guilt that weighed his heart. No pilgrimage. Not even taking the cross.
Rowan knew, for he had tried them all.
“We have a knife now,” he said gruffly. Time to size up their meager assets. “That’ll come in handy. And I have a cloak, though no tunic. Pray the weather continues warm until we can reach some haven of safety.”
“I’ve been giving that some thought while I was waiting for you.” A wide yawn cut off Cecily’s words for a moment.
How tired she must be after such a day as this. Rowan’s own weariness suddenly crashed upon him with the heaviness of a blacksmith’s anvil.
“I think we should head north,” she continued, “to Rosegarth Manor in Warwickshire. I know the tenants well. I’m sure they’ll give us whatever aid we need