The Elusive Bride. Deborah Hale

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.

      “I heard dogs not long ago.” He backed toward the mouth of the cave. “Sounded like they were retracing their path.”

      “Let’s hope they’ll all sleep soundly after the chase you led them today.” Slapping the dust off her cloak, Cecily emerged from the cave, into the uncanny warmth of the night.

      Moonbeams frosted the countryside with silver. In the black velvet sky, swaths of stars glittered a spectral enchantment. If ever a night belonged to the fairies, this was it.

      Before she could think to restrain herself, she reached for John FitzCourtenay’s hand. It was firm and strong, with a reassuring warmth. The touch of it sent an answering spasm of heat pulsing through her.

      “Have you ever seen such beauty?” she breathed.

      He stiffened. “I’m not apt to notice such things.”

      Lifting her face to the night sky, Cecily soaked in the mild breeze that wafted the perfume of ripe fruit and dew. “I pity you, Master John. If ever I doubted divine grace, a night like this would restore my faith.”

      “If we stay here much longer, we run the risk of capture,” he reminded her in a voice hard as flint. “Then you’ll need every scrap of grace you can muster. Pray, lead on.”

      For some reason his severity struck her as comical.

      “At your service, master,” she answered in a tone of good-natured mockery. “Let us head this way. I can marvel at the beauty of the night just as well while I walk. Perhaps better.”