Stuart, Elizabeth (11 page)

The
thought of the girl brought his spinning thoughts into focus.
Kick... kick
harder!
The darkness above him was gradually growing light.
Fight...
fight upward toward the light!
His head unexpectedly broke the surface, and
he sucked great, choking gulps of air into his burning lungs.

Richard
shoved a mass of streaming hair from his eyes, glancing frantically around. No
bobbing chestnut head met his gaze. Damn! She could be dead by now in this icy
pool! He cursed himself for keeping her bound on such a treacherous trail,
suddenly realizing he would sooner see the girl free than dead at the bottom of
this black devil's hole.

All
at once, she surfaced some six or eight yards to his right, coughing and
choking as she tried to catch her breath. He set out to reach her with long,
powerful strokes, grabbing her shoulder as she went under again. She kicked at
him, but he grabbed her heavy braid, ruthlessly dragging her with him toward a
tiny crescent of beach where the pool narrowed to become a rushing river again.

Moments
later, his feet struck the gray slate lining the river bottom. He clambered out
of the tugging current onto the coarse shingle of the beach, dragging the
girl's limp body with him. Her skin was cold as ice and she didn't appear to be
breathing. Cursing Elen and all her race, Richard caught a fistful of the
sodden wool of her tunic, rolled her onto her belly and pressed firmly against
her back to force the water from her lungs. Nothing.

He
redoubled his efforts. She wouldn't die, damn it! Not after all this trouble.

Then
she began to cough. He eased the pressure on her back, holding her with hands
that were suddenly gentle. With great heaving gasps, she choked and retched as
if reluctantly giving up the quantities of water she had swallowed. Then with a
last trembling gasp, she lay still.

Moving
her onto the coarse gravel of the beach, Richard felt for a heartbeat. The
rapid thudding beneath his hand was reassuring though her skin was cold and
gray, her breathing ragged and shallow. He sank back on his heels, watching
anxiously. For the first time he became aware of the chill wind whistling up
the chasm and of the fact that he was cold... very cold. Pray God they didn't
both take the fever and clotted lungs that carried off so many after a cold
dunking.

He
squinted up toward the summit of the falls. He could see his men moving about
on the ledge. Giles was already directing placement of several scaling ropes
over the cliff's edge. Someone would be down here soon with blankets and a tent
to cut this cursed wind.

Glancing
back at the motionless girl, Richard brushed a hand across her forehead. Her
dark braid had come unbound and loose, wet hair now coiled about her shoulders
past her waist.

He
stroked the dripping hair back from her face. Cold... she was cold as death,
and he was shaking like a leaf himself. He prayed to God his men got here soon.

***

A
short time later Richard stood inside the protection of his hastily erected
tent. Simon draped a blanket about his bare shoulders, then knelt, untying
Richard's cross-garters and tugging the soaked woolen chausses down his
master's shivering limbs.

Richard
clutched the warm folds of the blanket gratefully about him. "Ah... that's
better already, lad. By the time Giles gets here with the rest of the men and
horses we can be on our way."

Simon
nodded, rising to add another blanket to the one already warming his master. He
glanced at the girl, lying in a sodden, unconscious heap a few feet away.
"What about her?"

Richard
frowned. "We must get her dried and warm. She's too important to let her
take her death of a fever. Even if that is what she deserves."

Simon
gazed back at him, wide blue eyes mirroring a mixture of adult anticipation and
boyish unease. Richard grinned. "Out," he ordered, jerking his head
toward the tent entrance. "Just see that you fetch me in a half hour
should I chance to fall asleep."

As
the boy exited the tent, Richard caught hold of Elen's soaked tunic, tugging it
over her head. Her sodden clothing would only hold the icy wet against her skin
and keep her from getting warm. He removed her linen shift, leaving her slender
young body naked.

His
gaze narrowed appreciatively. She was painfully thin from a long, hungry
winter, but her body was perfectly formed. Her small, girlish breasts were high
and firm above a narrow waist, her hips gently curving into slender thighs and
long, shapely legs.

His
gaze lingered for a moment on the soft vee of dark auburn hair curling between
her thighs. She was young, yes, but not too young for bedding, as the Welsh Fox
must have discovered.

Dragging
his eyes from the pleasurable sight, he caught her wrist and began briskly
rubbing her hands and arms with a firm, downward motion to send her blood
stirring. Methodically, he moved across her body and down her long legs. He
stopped at last, with an anxious frown. Perhaps her skin had a bit more color.
At least it didn't feel quite so cold and lifeless now.

With
a heavy sigh he stretched out beside her, drawing her unresisting body full
length against his. He was trembling from cold and exhaustion, but he smiled a
little at the immediate stirring of his own blood with the feel of her against
him. It had been a while since he'd had a woman.

Tugging
the blankets snugly about them, he warmed Elen's cold flesh with his own. She
would probably want to kill him for this, but sharing their combined warmth now
would help them both. He tucked her damp head beneath his chin and wrapped his
arms about her, finally giving in to the oblivion of exhaustion.

Elen
awoke from dreams shrouded with lingering mists of terror and death. She
shifted her head, struggling to throw off the half-remembered fear of a
blackness so cold and deep it had no end and of an echoing, watery silence so
vast it terrified her. "Owain," she murmured, calling for the man who
had soothed her fears since she was a babe. "Owain," she whimpered
again, attempting to sit up.

At
once a powerful arm tightened around her waist, drawing her back against a
broad chest in an embrace of comforting warmth. For a few seconds she relished
the radiating heat of a bare body molding the contours of hers, of a muscular
arm wrapped protectively about her waist. There had been water, so much water,
and the frightening sensation of falling, she remembered, trying to focus her
spinning thoughts. Then it had been cold... incredibly cold.

Opening
her eyes, Elen stared at her surroundings in astonishment. She seemed to be
lying on the floor of a tent, of all things.

Suddenly,
she came fully and furiously awake.
Richard!

"No!"
she hissed, twisting in her enemy's embrace. She dug her nails into his arm,
striving to pry it away from her body. "How dare you!" she spat,
jerking her knee up to get more leverage between their naked forms.

In
a single quick movement that spoke of years of experience, Richard flattened
her on her back, pinning her arms uselessly above her head while his powerful
thighs captured her flailing legs between them. His weight pressed her down,
but she continued to struggle, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of
subduing her so easily.

"Look
at me," he commanded, leaning over her so that his tanned face was a scant
few inches from hers.

Panting
slightly from her effort to break free, Elen stared helplessly into a pair of
riveting emerald eyes blazing with flecks of dancing gold fire. The heat of his
gaze took her breath. She had seen that look of wanting in Enion's dark eyes,
but then it had been tempered by love and respect. Richard's look was tempered
by nothing.

She
could already feel the swell of his manhood against her leg, the urging of his
taut body against hers. In a surge of desperation, she renewed her frantic
struggle.

"Stop
it, Elen! Lie still now, very still—unless you've a desire to start something
between us I'm willing and able to finish," Richard bit out.

She
caught her breath on a tiny sob of fear, immediately going limp at the threat
in his voice. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she shivered at the look of
naked desire on his hard face.

"I'm
going to let you go now and get up, and I don't want you moving an inch in
either direction," he warned, his voice harsh with the effort to speak
around his uneven breathing. "Do you understand? Not an inch!"

Their
eyes met and held. Elen felt the rapid beating of his heart against her breast,
the brush of his breath against her ear. Her enemy obviously wanted her, but he
planned to take his time in using her. Choking back a furious retort, she
nodded obediently, buying herself a few more moments to think.

Richard
released her wrists, then rolled away and sat up, running a hand through his
tousled blond hair. Turning his back to her, he gazed irritably at the lowered
flaps of his tent, then back to her. "Don't move," he repeated,
rising on well-muscled legs to walk to the entrance. He jerked back a flap.
"Simon! Giles!" he called out.

Elen
scrambled for the tangled blanket beneath her, jerking its frayed length to
cover her bare body. The lewd comments of Richard's knights echoed in her
thoughts. Holy Mary! Surely he wasn't summoning help to restrain her!

At
her hasty movement, Richard sent her a dark scowl. Wordlessly turning back to
the entrance, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently
waiting for his men.

When
his back was toward her, Elen quickly scrutinized her adversary, hoping for
some sign of weakness of mind or body. But she found little comfort in the
stiff expanse of Richard's back. Powerful muscles broadened already broad
shoulders and textured the long graceful curve of his back to his narrow waist.
Richard of Kent certainly had nothing to fear from her wiry strength.

Feeling
her eyes on him, Richard half turned toward her and cast a wary glance in her
direction. To Elen's surprise, he wasn't nearly so hairy as the dark Welshmen
she was familiar with. A light whorl of golden hair dusted the center of his
chest, narrowing to a thin line that darkened in color as it descended his flat
abdomen, finally losing itself in the dark bush between his muscular thighs.
Only the slight puckering of an old battle scar running from waist to hip along
one side marred the golden perfection of Richard's body. The Wolf of Kent was a
magnificent animal, she admitted grudgingly.

Elen
dragged the blanket closer around her shoulders, fighting the instinctive urge
to cower in a corner of the tent. A man's naked form was no oddity to her. From
the time she was seven, she had helped her mother bathe and tend the honored
male guests that visited Teifi. It had only been in the last three years that
her father had excluded her from the customary duties performed by the ladies
of the keep. More than one noble visitor had been embarrassed by his
uncontrollable reaction to Aldwyn's lovely daughter.

No,
Elen was no stranger to the sight of an aroused male, but the natural animal
instinct that was merely amusing in the safety of Teifi Keep was something
vastly different in the tent of her enemy. A shudder of revulsion swept her at
the thought of a forced coupling with Richard, and she shifted her gaze from
his intimidating body to the ground.

Moments
later, Giles ducked into the tent. Elen clutched the blanket to her breast, her
face burning with fury and humiliation as the dark knight took in her
disheveled appearance with one appraising glance. "So you're both
awake," he commented without preamble. "We've trout cooked and
waiting for your dinner from the glut the men trapped in the shallows."

"Trout?"
Richard repeated incredulously. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Just
over three hours."

Richard
began to curse in an impressive mixture of both English and French.

"The
men needed food and sleep. They cannot drive themselves as you do,
Richard," Giles remarked, interrupting his commander's tirade. "And
don't rail at Simon," he added quickly. "It was by my order he didn't
return to dress you on the half hour as you bade him. You're exhausted, hungry,
wounded, and now like to take your death from that cold soaking you had."
He frowned. "What will it profit Edward if you fall ill from fever and
exhaustion?"

"I'm
never sick!" Richard snapped. "And what will it profit Edward if the
Welsh Fox overtakes us with men fresh and eager to avenge our raid? Christ,
Giles, do you realize what you've done? If they can but outstrip us a half
hour's march, they can easily slaughter us in an ambush on this cursed narrow
trail. We'll never make Beaufort by nightfall now."

"One
of the Welsh guides claims to know a rough path that will get us to Beaufort
more quickly. It won't take us past the old keep where our armor is hidden, but
he says we can make the castle by nightfall or soon thereafter."

Richard
sighed and rubbed his beard-stubbled chin, the anger in his eyes slowly fading.
"I suppose we could send a troop for the armor later. The important thing
is reaching Beaufort. Do you believe the man speaks the truth?"