Linda Barlow (19 page)

"You left papers," he repeated slowly, as if he wanted to be certain he was getting it straight.

"Aye, with orders that they be opened immediately should I fail to return from this nasty little expedition of yours."

"God's teeth! You think you're clever, don't you? I murdered Will, did I? You see the mark of Cain on my forehead? What about Alan? Is he really missing or have I cheerfully dispatched him too? Give me that."

He grasped the blade of the scimitar in his bare hand and jerked it away from her. Blood welled up immediately in his palm as he flung the weapon into the farthest corner of the cave. For an instant she didn't move, staring in dismay at his injured hand, startled into an unwilling admiration of his strength of will. Then she turned to run.

She got perhaps three yards before he caught her from behind. One strong arm circled her neck, choking her, while the other jerked her back against him, her hips colliding with his steel-hard thighs. One of his hands plunged into her hair. She tossed her head despite the pain this caused her, frantic to get free. She raised one booted foot and slammed her heel into his knee. As he stiffened in agony, she tore savagely at his injured hand. He nearly lost his hold on her. Muttering obscenities, he forced her left arm up behind her back and twisted it until a sound escaped her. "Stop squirming or I'll hurt you. I mean it. I'll snap your bones like kindling if you don't desist."

She went limp, and his roughness instantly ceased. Stumbling, she sank to her knees, as if in a swoon, but she was hoping for another chance. As he dropped down beside her, she reached out and snatched the dagger from his sword belt. Now, she thought, exultant. Now. She turned it on him, but, quick as she was, he was quicker. Before she could inflict more than an ineffective poke at his shoulder, the side of his hand descended on her wrist in a sharp, numbing blow and the knife clattered to the ground. Cursing more loudly now, he wrestled her to the cave floor. They rolled over wildly for several seconds before his superior strength prevailed and he pressed her down on her back beside a conical pile of loose stones. Straddling her hips, he captured both her wrists and pinned them on either side of her thrashing shoulders.

Panting, she looked up at him, noting with dismay the fury in his dark eyes, the tight lines around his narrow, sensual mouth. The desperate fight had exhausted her, but even so he couldn't completely stop her frantic struggles, not even with the full weight of his body.

"Be still." He brought her wrists together and clasped them in one of his large hands, the one that was bleeding, while entwining the uninjured one in her thick red hair. When she continued to squirm, he added, "You're only making me more determined."

There was an unmistakable lilt to his voice. Was he
enjoying
this? She stole another glance at his face, so close to her own. His eyes, so deep in color, so expressive; his mouth, which had kissed her passionately, arousingly. Like hers, his clothes were wet; through them she could feel his body's heat. He shifted slightly and she became aware of the lean muscles of his thighs pressing against her own. His beautiful muscles. Oh, God. Once again she knew that queer melting excitement deep within her, deep. He shoved a knee between her legs, forcibly parting her thighs. His loins were tightly locked with hers, and she could feel the hard fullness of his sex. They couldn't have been more intimately positioned if they had been making love.

She moaned softly as one of his hands slipped between their bodies and closed possessively over one of her breasts. His fingers caressed her gently. Tears pricked her eyes. The fascinating Roger. She could almost hear her mother's mocking voice. Despite everything that had passed, she was drawn to him still.

"You're something." His eyes had gone soft and smoky, and his mouth had a carnal twist to it. "Fierce as an Amazon. Who taught you how to fight?"

"You're going to rape me first, aren't you?" She swallowed, her throat as dry as ash. "Don’t. Kill me if you must, but please don’t put me to shame."

His hands turned rough again as he shook her soundly. "By God, I'll beat the wits back into you if I have to."

"There's nothing wrong with my wits!"

"It must be your excellent judgment, then, that has failed you." He cast a wary look around, adding, "I doubt I’d have to rape you, given how cooperative you’ve always been, but the last place I'd choose for such exploits would be this bloody snake den."

"There's one crawling toward you now."

He laughed, his voice ringing through the cavern. "My dear resourceful Alix, you're an admirable adversary, but here's a lesson for you: never use the same trick twice."

Then she would have to try something else. After a moment's deliberation she allowed her body to go slack beneath him and her voice to waver as she said, "His face was horrible. So grotesque. I've never seen anything like it. When I came into the cave and saw him, the entire world seemed to reel and go mad." She looked in the direction of the corpse and made no effort to repress her shudders. "I think I'm going to vomit."

He hesitated, gazing narrowly into her eyes. He obviously thought this was another trick.

"You're heavy, which is making matters worse."

He rolled over onto his back beside her, freeing her. "Get up, then, and don't tempt me further."

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, keeping both hands over her mouth as if in danger of convulsing. Given all that had happened, it was not difficult to feign. He lay unmoving, his mouth tight with some sort of intense concentration. One leg was bent, his fists were clenched, and under the white lawn collar of his shirt, the pulse in his throat hammered visibly. She noted the taut stretch of fabric in his groin. He wanted her. That, at least, was real.

She felt another wave of confusion as it occurred to her that he looked young, and, apart from that rampant maleness, not a threat to her at all. Oh, Roger, would that I could read your mind at this moment! More than anything in the world, she wanted to trust him.

Then she saw Ned's body once again. Could someone else have killed him? Who but Roger had had reason to fear him? Who but Roger had had reason to want Will Trevor dead?

"I thought you were sick? Go outside, for God's sake, and take some air. Your fever must be back….that must be why you're acting like a madwoman."

Was he letting her go? Would he come after her as soon as he collected himself? She blinked at the odd cairn of stones on the cave floor to the left of Roger's body. It looked like an altar of sorts, erected to whatever gods the poor Ned had worshiped.

Forgive me, gods, she said to them in silence. But you didn't help Ned very much, did you? Then she shifted her weight and kicked with all her strength at the bottom on the pile.

Some of the rocks careened down onto Roger, who snarled a multilingual spew of expletives that he had undoubtedly picked up in some foreign den of iniquity. Alexandra grabbed a couple of loose stones and threw them at him. One struck him on the side of the head. He cursed again and bent over double, the dust from the rock collapse rising around him. Alexandra lurched to her feet and fled.

Unbelievably, she found herself out of the cave, stumbling over the dead body of a snake at the entrance. The early evening moonlight first startled, then uplifted her. The rain had stopped, and the sky was clearer. She glanced behind her, but saw no sign of pursuit. She had succeeded in slowing him down, but she doubted her rock barrage would hinder him for long. She hadn’t injured him, had she? She had to fight a perverse desire to return and make sure he wasn't badly hurt. She hesitated at the cavern entrance. The various parts of her were still pulling in opposite directions. You'd better hope he's badly hurt, she screamed at this weaker side of herself.

Moving cautiously along the treacherous ledge, she set herself on the path that would lead her back down to level ground. The fog had lifted, making it easier to find her way as she careened down the track. When she reached the spot where Roger had left Jacky with the horses, she was annoyed to find both the boy and the horses gone. So much for Roger's clever way with underlings. Jacky's fears had apparently proved stronger than his pride or even his greed for another coin.

For the next several minutes Alexandra thought of nothing but escape. She knew she would not feel safe until the gates of Westmor Abbey closed behind her. When she reached the bottom of Thorncroft Overhang, she avoided the main track and plunged directly into the woody undergrowth. The going would be harder, but the way was more direct.

Her panic eased a little in the thickness of the forest. It was darker here, under the thick canopy, but she knew the woodland well. She didn’t think he would follow her this way, particularly if he were hurt. If he had any sense, he would not follow her at all. He would turn and flee the region. Go to London with Francis Lacklin and pursue their treasonous schemes. Now that Ned had been silenced, there were no eye-witnesses to Will’s death, and nobody was likely to care about the death of the village halfwit, particularly since it had been arranged to resemble self-slaughter. As for her, she had no real evidence against him. Since he hadn’t managed to get rid of her easily, it was probably less dangerous for him to leave her alive than it would be to kill her. Murders were messy. Make a mistake, and you risked betraying yourself.

She moved quickly through the undergrowth, checking her progress every now and then by the sight of a familiar tree, but in the near-darkness she found the trek harder than usual. Cold and weary, she moved clumsily, leaving broken branches and trampled bushes in her wake. Her body seemed to be aching all over. Had he been right? Maybe her fever was back?

Her way ran beside the lake where Merwynna lived. She considered seeking refuge with the wisewoman, but the witch's cottage was on the far side of the lake, and she would lose precious time tramping around. Besides, what protection could Merwynna offer if Roger did pursue her? She possessed no weapons and there was no place in the cottage to hide. No, Westmor Abbey was the only place where she would truly be safe.

She was alongside the lake when she heard a shout. She stopped, panting. The darkness seemed to gather around her, and there were wisps of fog floating along the ground. She recalled all the legends of demons and spirits who dwelt in the forest, and despite her familiarity with the woodland, she felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle.

There it was again, a faint cry. Merciful heavens. It sounded like Alan.

Her mind circled blankly for a moment. Alan was, in all likelihood, safe at Whitcombe. Roger's tale about his horse coming back without its rider had been a ruse to get her out alone. Hadn’t it?

But the cry came again, moaning, fainter now. Alexandra turned toward the sound. She had a sudden vision of Roger leaping at the corpse hanging in the cave, his anguished voice calling out Alan's name. She remembered his anger, his denials, his insistence that her wits were addled. What if she'd been mistaken? What if he hadn't meant to harm her at all?

Her head was throbbing. "Where are you?" she screamed to the moaner. She was going out of her way now, nearer to the rocky shore of the lake, risking the loss of precious minutes if Roger was chasing her, but she tried to put these considerations out of her mind. Whoever it was in the undergrowth, he was hurt and needed her help.

Five minutes later, Alexandra stumbled over a man's body under a tree, one of his legs twisted under him in an unnatural position. He opened his eyes, grabbing for her hands. "Alix," he whispered, tears of pain and terror running down his cheeks.

It was indeed Alan.

"Merciful heavens, what happened to you?" she cried as she dropped to her knees beside him and hugged him close. He was cold and wet and in too much pain to talk very much. He had been trying to get to Merwynna, he told her. He knew he couldn't make it back to Whitcombe.

"I thought I was going to die," he managed. "During the last few minutes, I truly believed it. I've never been so glad to see anybody in my life. How did you find me?"

A quick examination revealed that his left leg was broken. "What happened? Did Roger do this to you?"

"Roger?" His voice wounded vague, as if he were just barely conscious. "No, I fell off my horse. Just like Will."

She shivered at the image this evoked. "Did you ever meet up with Roger?" she asked as she endeavored to make him more comfortable. She no longer had her knapsack with her medicaments; she must have left it in the cave. She would have to get him to Merwynna. The question was, how?

"Aye, I met him. I had to get away from him. The things he's planning, the things he’s done. And the way he mocked me! I rode off in a temper, not paying attention to where I was going. I think a branch swept me off my horse's back, and I crawled here."

"What things has he done? Was it something to do with Ned?"

"Ned?"

"He's dead. Roger killed him."

There was a short silence; then Alan whispered, "Are you certain? Why would Roger kill Ned? You never explained that to me."

"What happened between you and Roger? It's important. He might be coming after us now."

But Alan proved unexpectedly stubborn. "I can’t tell you. I swore to keep silence. Alix? I think I might faint."

"Alan!" She shook him, but he was too weak to answer her. Damnation! She wished she had something to cover him with, but her cloak was also back in the cave. Her wet doublet would do more harm than good. She would have to go to Merwynna for help; she could not move him alone. "Can you hear me? I'm going for help to Merwynna. She's not far, just on the other side of the lake. I'll be back directly, I swear. But, Alan—this is important—don't call out or moan again if you can help it. Just be silent. Do you understand? I'll be right back with help."