Feverishly Rowan forced himself to imagine things cold and loathsome—eels, leeches, ship rats. Anything to divert his thoughts before he disgraced himself by erupting with longing, like some green boy.
“You can turn around now,” said Cecily.
No, he couldn’t. At least, not until the approaching racket of the hounds momentarily drove desire from his mind.
“Leave the clothes.” Cecily clutched his hand. Her touch seared his arm clear up to his heart. “It’s too dangerous. What if they catch you? Come with me to the caves.”
Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand from hers. Fulke’s baying pack held far less threat for Rowan than this slender girl whose spirit bewitched him almost as much as her body. They could only rend him to pieces. The harm she could do him did not bear thinking of.
He shook his head. “If we leave the clothes here, they’ll know you’ve come this way and they’ll keep hunting for you. I’ll use the scent to lead them away, then I’ll come back for you.”
She hesitated for one last moment, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. Rowan yearned to catch it between his.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she begged.
At that moment, he would have promised her anything.
“I need you to help me reach Ravensridge, not to perish under some fiendish torture of Fulke’s devising.”
So that was what lay behind her concern for him. She needed his assistance to reach Ravensridge and Rowan. The thought skewered him like the heavy, lethal bolt of a crossbow. He remembered the pain of repeatedly losing the competition for someone’s affection. But losing to himself—that was indeed a new low.
“Don’t fret for me, lass. If there’s one thing my years in the world have taught me, it’s how to take care of myself.” He scooped the leper’s rags from the ground where they lay.
She gave him one last searching look, as though she’d marked the hint of regret in his voice and somehow understood. “Very well, then. The caves are not much farther up this path. I’ll be in the one with—”
“Go. I’ll find you.” Sternly reminding himself he did not mean to bid for Cecily Tyrell’s heart, Rowan licked his thumb and held it aloft to test the slight breeze. Then he set off, moving downhill. He would give Fulke’s pack a chase such as they’d never run before.
Perhaps in the process he would drive these adolescent yearnings from his body.
When Cecily called after him, Rowan willed himself not to glance back. He almost succeeded.
How could a woman look so appealing, wrapped in a man’s tunic and cloak—garments of poor quality, at that? No matter how, Cecily Tyrell did. Fresh, lithesome, vibrant.
“God go with you, John.” She smiled the smile he recalled from their first meeting. The luminous one he had not been able to erase from his dreams. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
He gave a casual wave of parting, not trusting his voice. Something compelled him to protect her at all costs. She trusted that he would return for her, and he knew he would find her waiting. The notion tempted and terrified him.
How she hated waiting!
Cecily huddled on a narrow ledge of rock above the entrance to a shallow cave. She had discovered it long ago, in the vaguely remembered days of her childhood. Back when King Henry had sat securely on the throne and the children of Brantham Keep had been safe to venture forth into the surrounding countryside in play.
How often had she hid here from her brothers during their games? The other caves they would enter and search. But this one they would only peek inside and, seeing no sign of her, move on. If John FitzCourtenay failed in his mission to draw pursuit away, Cecily prayed Fulke’s men would prove no more thorough than her late brothers.
Shivering, Cecily drew John’s cloak more tightly around her. The unseasonal heat outside had not permeated the cave. Yet it was not the clammy chill alone that made her tremble, Cecily admitted to herself. There was also her fear of discovery and capture. And her worry for John FitzCourtenay.
The ghost of his scent rose from his cloak and tunic, haunting her with memories of their first meeting in the priory garden. No man had ever made such a strong impression upon her. She was not sure why this one had, and she was not sure how she felt about it.
She pictured John FitzCourtenay as she’d seen him a few hours ago. Peeling off his tunic. Standing in the noonday sun with his legs planted wide, naked from the waist up. The expanse of his shoulders. The firm flesh of his chest, sown with dark hair that tapered to his belly. The hard, corded strength of his arms. Even the vestiges of old wounds did not detract from his appeal, for they were evidence of a man tempered in combat.
Sister Veronica would have fainted dead away at the sight of him. And how would the little weasel have reacted to his casual demand that she strip naked? A chuckle broke from Cecily’s throat at the very notion. It echoed in the hollow fissures and stone clefts of the cave.
Not that she had received his charge so calmly, Cecily reminded herself. She recalled her rising tide of panic outstripped by one of—what? Anticipation? Eagerness?
Surely not!
Hearing someone or something stirring outside the cave, Cecily held her breath and listened. Had whoever it was heard her laughing to herself? The cave walls muffled sounds from outside, heightened those from within.
What if John’s plan had not worked? What if Fulke’s searchers had traced her here? Worse still, what if they had captured her companion and forced him to divulge her whereabouts?
No. Cecily reined in her runaway imagination. She knew little of the man who would soon be her brother by marriage. But some deep instinct assured her that she could trust him. He would forfeit his life before he’d betray her.
After several more tense minutes of stillness and listening, Cecily allowed herself to relax a little. Perhaps the sounds had been made by a passing animal or the chance slip of a stone. Perhaps she had only fancied them.
How much longer?
She stared down at the wedge of sunlight that penetrated the cave’s mouth. It had narrowed and receded since the last time she’d checked—but how much? Already it felt like many hours since she’d settled into her hiding place. From her experience at the priory, Cecily knew how solitude and inactivity played tricks with time.
Worry for her father suddenly ambushed her, after having dogged her path all day as surely as Fulke’s hounds. Part of the reason she’d pushed herself on was the vain hope that she might outrun it. Perhaps that was why she’d let herself become distracted by John FitzCourtenay—because she desperately needed distracting.
No sense reassuring herself that her father had taken far worse hurts and laughed them off. That was before the loss of his sons had sapped his will and his reason.
Had she been wrong to steal away from him at the time he needed her most?
She tried to divert her mind from that impossibly painful question by laying plans. Surely Fulke would call off the search once darkness fell. Then she and John must get away as far as their legs would carry them through the night. Going to ground at daybreak like a pair of wild creatures. They would need help to stay ahead of pursuit and reach DeCourtenay’s stronghold near Gloucester.
Food. Clothing for her. A mount of some kind. But where to find them? In the lawless years of King Stephen’s reign, there were more folk looking to seize such items from travelers than to give them. Then it came to her.
Rosegarth. The most northerly manor of her father’s widespread honor. If she could hope for aid from any quarter, she would find it there.
Once fed and supplied, she and John must move west as