Rexanne Becnel (10 page)

His hand moved from her derriere up to the nape of her neck while his other pressed her intimately close. When his mouth moved from her lips to her cheek, and then to her ear, she was trembling in his arms.

“Sweet, sweet Joanna,” he murmured hoarsely in her ear as he gasped for breath. “I would have more of this sweetness …”

He found her mouth once more, but gently this time, exploring and enticing her. His tongue stroked the corners of her mouth; his teeth tugged at her full lower lip. Then when a faint moan escaped her, he kissed her deeply once more, finding her unschooled tongue with his own and eliciting such frightening feelings from her that she jerked back in alarm.

In the dark, dripping forest they stood that way. His arms were still around her, but they no longer kissed. His steady stare, however, seemed almost as intimate as everything that had gone before, and Joanna averted her eyes in utter confusion as he lowered her feet to the ground.

Dear God, but this was madness! Yet there was a warmth in her belly that belied the horror she felt. When she backed out of his embrace, trembling with inexplicable emotions, he let her go. For an instant longer they stared at each other in silence. Then, appalled by what had just passed between them, Joanna turned and fled toward the faintly flickering fire.

J
OANNA LAY ON A
thick bed of leaves, wrapped in the
chape à pluie.
It was still dark; the fire had been banked and only the pale mauve on the eastern horizon gave a hint of the impending dawn. Around her the faint stirrings of the forest sounded—some small creature scurried beyond the trees; an owl swooped low with an almost-silent rush of wind through its outstretched wings; the erratic breeze shook drops from the trees. But Joanna hardly noticed those sounds. Instead she concentrated on the steady breathing of the men who slept in the small clearing. That, and the distant sounds of the sea.

Somehow the presence of the sea seemed a salvation. The sea could direct her home, even if she had to walk up the coast alone. And then there was Isle Sacré.

In the long hours of the night, unable to sleep and unable to escape the watchful gaze of the guard, she had struggled to find a way to elude her horrible captor. Although she was certain she could find her way back to St. Theresa’s, she knew it would be almost impossible to avoid being hunted down once more. She needed a safe place to hide. They would naturally expect her to flee to Hornsea. But what if she were to seek refuge on Isle Sacré?

She had only been there once, and that was so long ago she had almost forgotten about the small island retreat. But she remembered that it was near the village of Hornsea. If only she could manage to escape and then sneak out to the island when the tide was out. Once the tide came in, he would never be able to find her. It was unlikely he would know of the little island and the safe passage to be had only at low tide. And even if the tide wasn’t out, she would rather take her chance with the sea than with the devil who threatened her now.

At the thought of him she turned her head sharply away. How she hated him. How she thoroughly despised him. He was cruel and vile. A wretch of the worst sort with absolutely no feelings whatsoever.

Yet what incredible feelings he had roused in her.

A small cry of anguish escaped her at that painful admission. No matter how desperately she wished to deny it, she could not pretend otherwise. He had kissed her and she had responded. Like the devil, he had lured her with the temptations of the flesh—the temptations she’d heard so much about but never understood. And like one of the fallen angels, she had followed his wicked lead.

“Oh, God,” she pleaded in a faint whisper. “Please help me. Help me …”

As if in answer—or more properly, denial—an arm came across her stomach and a hand curved around her waist, and she was immediately pulled against the chest of the very man she sought to escape.

“No!” she cried as she jerked violently away from his drowsy grasp. She scrambled to her feet in a panic, all her fears galvanized by his one electrifying touch. Without regard to her path, she stumbled back, tripping over someone’s outstretched feet and nearly treading in the smoldering fire. Had it not been for Rylan’s lightning reaction, her skirt might have caught fire in the hot embers.

But Joanna did not see his sudden hold on her as a blessing. It was more a damnation, for once again she was in his clutches with no chance for escape.

“Keep your hands off of me!” she shouted, unconcerned that she sounded like a shrew in the quiet of the forest dawn. But no matter how hard she jerked against the hand that held her wrist, he would not relent.

“Behave yourself,” he growled, as he pushed his long hair back from his brow.

Around them the men were stirring, roused by the commotion in their midst. But Joanna’s attention was focused solely on the man who still held her fast. Across the meager distance of their outstretched arms she glared at him, willing every bit of her hatred for him into her expression. But she could not ignore the warm strength of his hand, nor the sudden increase in her pulse. Unaware she did so, her eyes slipped from his sleep-flushed face down to his lips. They were full, well-shaped lips, she thought. Not nearly so rigid and hard as she would have guessed. Then she stiffened in horror as she realized how reprehensible such thoughts were.

It was at that moment he let go of her then arched his back and stretched. “Good morning, Lady Joanna,” he said in an excessively polite tone, meant, she was certain, only to mock her. “I hope you were able to rest, despite our mean accommodations.”

Joanna could not answer. She averted her eyes from his too-discerning ones and only stood there, trembling in the cool morning air. Around her the other men sat up, donning their boots and gathering their few possessions. One man stirred the fire and added more wood, but she did not move from her place.

She was undone, the thought echoed back and forth in her mind. She was undone and in the most unimaginable manner. A painful shudder ripped through her, and in self-preservation she turned away from him. Who would have thought she could turn out like Winna, she who had never cared for men—who had indeed spurned them all, and willingly? Yet let but one of them touch her—let but the most wicked of them kiss her!—and she had succumbed. She shook her head in abject misery, unwilling to believe it, yet unable as well to deny the truth. Last night this arrogant black-hearted knight had kissed her, and like a pitiful wooden palisade, her defenses had gone up in a fiery inferno. Even now the memory of his lips on hers conjured up that same coiling heat in her belly.

Joanna took a sharp breath, willing away the tears that lay so near the surface of her eyes. She had never wanted a man. She still did not, at least not in her heart and soul. Yet her body seemed to have a will of its own in this one instance. Slowly she turned her head to see him, forcing herself to be calm. Whatever she felt, he need not know, she told herself. Everyone made mistakes—people were sinners all, and she was no better or worse than the rest. Her most serious mistake had been believing that she was immune to the temptations of the flesh. God had punished her for her pride and had shown her the error of her ways. But now she knew, and now she repented. If she prayed hard enough and denied these wicked feelings, surely God would approve.

Her spirits lifted a fraction as she contemplated her circumstances. God often tested His people, and this was undoubtedly her test. God tempted her and waited to see if she could resist the temptation to sin. It was up to her to prove she could. And as she glanced around her, she knew that, more than ever, escape was the only way.

“There’s bread and raisins, milady,” one of the men offered her in a reasonably friendly manner.

“Thank you, no.” Joanna scanned the clearing with a new, more observant gaze. “Is there a place where I may wash?”

“I’ll fetch you some water,” he answered, clearly eager to placate her.

Joanna shot a glare toward Rylan who was watching her as he fastened his sword belt around his waist. “I shall need a moment of privacy as well,” she stated, a note of challenge in her voice.

Rylan’s mouth lifted in an almost imperceptible grin, but Joanna was instantly aware of his mocking intent, and her jaw clenched furiously. Somehow she would make him pay for this humiliation!

“Kell. My Lady Joanna requires a few moments of privacy. Guard her well, for I would not have her lost in these thick woods.”

Joanna did not wait for the big Norseman to respond, but turned and strode imperiously from Sir Rylan’s amused presence. Clod! she fumed as her pulse beat an angry tattoo in her head. Cretin! Any hope she had for escape disappeared when the giant Kell appeared at her side. Though he was silent and not so prone to provoking her, his very presence nonetheless infuriated her. She made a hasty toilette while he waited at a little distance, his back turned. Then she quickly studied the forest around her.

“Is there a stream?” she addressed him in a stiff voice.

“Down this knoll.” He gestured to her right.

Joanna did not wait for his permission. She would have a good washing, whether Rylan Kempe liked it or not. This brute guard of his could do no worse to her than his master had done. Indeed, as she strode angrily down the hill through the wet underbrush of the still-shadowy forest, she almost wished he would try to stop her, for in her present mood she would not have hesitated to turn her consuming fury upon him.

But Kell did not stop her. He only followed silently behind her, too near for her to try to escape. When they reached the stream, Joanna paused, one hand against a young oak. What was probably a quiet little beck under most circumstances was today a rushing flood. Yesterday’s rains had swollen it into a fierce torrent, and from the looks of the overcast dawn sky, it would be replenished in the same manner again today.

Joanna eyed the flooded stream carefully, trying to judge whether she could safely cross it. But even if she did, she thought glumly, the giant behind her would just as quickly follow her. Unless she could somehow disarm him.

But that seemed completely ludicrous, she decided as she slanted him a look. He was far too big and brawny for her puny strength. Dismayed by her dire predicament, Joanna sighed, then moved nearer the water. At least she could bathe her face and hands, she told herself in resignation.

“Be careful,” Kell warned as she stepped onto a tree trunk that projected out into the frothing stream.

“Why? Because I might get hurt?” she replied curtly. “You’ll forgive me if I doubt the sincerity of your concern.”

She sent a contemptuous glance back over her shoulder, but her expression changed when she saw him. He was not looking at her but at the rushing water. And he had a worried frown on his face.

“Of course,” she added as her pulse began to race with sudden hope, “since your Lord Blaecston is going to all these pains to capture me, you no doubt would come to my aid if I
were
to fall in the water.”

The big man’s face blanched. He looked briefly at her then back at the rushing water. “Back up,” he warned her, taking a step back himself. “’Tis not safe—”

Joanna did not linger to hear the remainder of his words. It was not safe for one who could not swim. However, she could. With a bravery borne of desperation, she flung herself out into the stream, almost certain he was too frightened of the water to come after her. She did not even try to keep her head above water, but only curled up tightly and let the flooded beck carry her away, hoping all along that he would think her drowned—and hoping as well that that did not happen.

When she finally surfaced, spitting and gasping for breath, she was freezing cold, tangled in her skirts and her matted hair. A small branch caught against her as she struggled to keep her head above water in the wild current, swimming as best she could at an angle toward the bank. Beneath a dense canopy of trees the water dragged her along, under overhanging branches and past boulders and tree trunks. Despite her headlong trip down the roiling beck, with every bend and twist of the streambed she nonetheless rejoiced, for she had escaped. She had escaped!

When Joanna at last dragged herself from the water she was trembling from both exhaustion and the cold, but she could not have been more jubilant. The stream was shallower here, and wider. Just beyond her it pushed out of the trees and across a wide grassy meadow before cutting through the dunes to the sea. She gasped for breath as she steadied herself against a willow sapling. Then, unable to trust her shaky legs, she lowered herself to the ground to rest. She was unbearably cold from her icy swim, and she’d suffered innumerable
bumps and scrapes. But Joanna gladly ignored those discomforts. She could hardly believe her reckless plan had worked so well.

What a blessing that the man Kell was so frightened of water. Who would ever have guessed it? For a moment she felt a pang of sympathy for him. Rylan Kempe would be enraged to find out she had escaped from him. She certainly hoped he didn’t punish poor Kell. But that was not her concern, she decided. The Norseman would have to fend for himself against Sir Rylan—just as she had been forced to do.

Somewhat restored by her brief rest, Joanna looked around. She knew it would not be long before they came searching for her. She must hide herself quickly if she hoped not to be recaptured. With an effort she scrambled up the grassy bank and started up a little rise. There was no sign of any town or village nearby, but she knew she was near the sea. Instead of searching out the sheriff at Hornsea, she might be safer making her way directly to Isle Sacré. She could cut through the woods, careful to avoid being seen. Once the tide was low enough, she would dash across the sandy spit of land and hide herself on the wooded island. Only when she was certain Lord Blaecston and his men had departed would she venture back to the mainland to begin the trek home to St. Theresa’s.

When they didn’t find her, they would probably imagine that she had been washed out to sea and drowned, she thought with considerable glee. But her elation was squelched when she heard the first distant sounds of pursuit. As she scurried up the hill, searching desperately for a hiding place, she recognized one of the voices.