Dangerous to Kiss (9 page)

“Watch for the knight,” repeated Mrs. Farmer’s Wife. “On the clock, you know.”

“Now, Mavis, don’t spoil things for the little lady.”

The not unkindly voice belonged to a gentleman with the look of a prosperous farmer. They appeared to be ordinary, decent folk who were happy with their lot. She envied them. Her fate had cast her in a more exalted role, but it had not brought her happiness.

Mavis either did not hear her husband or she affected to be deaf. “The knight is struck down. Watch the clock, dearie.”

Deborah’s eyes fixed on the clock, but she was excruciatingly
aware that Lord Kendal and his companion were systematically combing the north and south aisles under the Gothic arches. She could trace their progress by the sound of their spurs. They jangled lewdly in that hallowed silence. Gentlemen did not wear spurs in church. These men evidently thought themselves above the common decencies.

A bell tinkled.

“Ah, here he comes,” said Mavis.

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a miniature knight exited a little door above the face of the clock. Deborah had stopped breathing. Lord Kendal had suddenly appeared at the entrance of the transept and his eagle eyes were scanning every face. By judiciously bending her knees, she managed to knock several inches off her height, giving the appearance, she hoped, that she was little more than a child.

“I told you he would be struck down,” said Mavis with all the satisfaction of a seer whose prophecy has come to pass.

There was a round of applause. The cleric was not amused. Pinning Mavis with an intimidating stare, he embarked on his rehearsed discourse. “The clock dates back to the fourteenth century. Be pleased to note the little doors above the clock face.”

As his voice droned on, Deborah bobbed her head, as though listening to every word, but all the while she was aware of Lord Kendal signaling to his friend, upon which he passed beneath the scissor arch and into one of the chancel aisles, becoming lost to view. The dark-haired man, meantime, strode to the west wall where he took up a position as sentry at the exits. Two things were becoming clear to her. They must be very sure that she was still in the cathedral, and Lord Kendal seemed to know his way around.

But all was not yet lost. One step into the chancel aisle and a quick left turn and she would reach her object. Beneath the Chapter House and the Vicars’ Hall were a warren of small rooms. Moreover, this part of the cathedral was not open to the public and would make an excellent hiding place.

Deborah bided her time in quaking silence. When the cleric’s discourse was at an end, and he led the way to the stone pulpit, she made her move. Taking a deep breath, she stepped boldly into the chancel aisle. There was nary a sign of that hateful man. She was beginning her turn when, to her horror, from the corner of her eye, she spied him coming out of the chancel. She ruthlessly checked the almost overwhelming impulse to take to her heels. Trusting that the dim light and the changes she had made in her appearance would deceive him, she completed her turn.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Gray, advancing toward her.

Taking a leaf out of Mavis’s book, Deborah gave no indication that she had heard him. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the door ahead.

“Sir, you cannot go in there.” That was the cleric’s voice.

“The devil I can’t!” That was Gray’s. “Deborah? I know it’s you.”

Her nerve broke and she made a dash for it.

“Deborah!” roared Gray.

There could be no chance now of finding a hiding place, no time to think out a plan of action. It was do or die. As she flung herself at the stairs to the Chapter House, a body of divines descended. Papers and books went flying in her frantic haste to get by them. It slowed her progress but not half as much as it slowed Gray’s. More clerics were descending, choking the staircase and small corridor. She could hear Gray cursing at them, and the obsequious apologies of the bishops and priests as they “lordshiped” him all over the place. It made her sick.

Heart pounding, chest burning, she pushed on, through the Chain Gate and into the open air. There was no mist now to conceal her from her pursuers, no shops, no taverns where she could slip in the front door and out through the back. She was in one of the cathedral closes, a row of medieval cottages with thatched roofs and little walled gardens that seemed to go on forever. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Either the priests
were at their prayers or they were the ones she had encountered at the Chapter House. Though it registered in some part of her brain that she had lost, the will to go on was stronger. She bolted up that narrow close as if she were running the race of her life.

There was no sound of pursuit. Chancing a quick look back, she saw that Lord Kendal and his dark-haired companion had somehow got hold of two horses. They were tightening girths and making ready to mount up. There was no haste to their movements, indicating that they were very sure now that they could run her down. Fear gave her a strength she had not known she possessed. Her feet flew over the cobblestones, and she dashed into the main thoroughfare as if she were crossing a finishing line.

Then she saw him. He was on his great roan, and he was coming toward her. As he advanced, she fell back, shaking her head, unable to believe her eyes.
He was following her.
She knew that he was following her. She turned her head and focused on the two riders who were walking their horses toward her. Not Lord Kendal, then, but someone who looked very like him, a brother or twin. Now there were three of them. She whipped back to face him as the sound of horseshoes on cobblestones struck an ominous note. Edging away, she retreated, falling farther back into the close. He was herding her toward his companions. In another moment, they would be upon her. He had her in a vise.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and she hardly recognized him. There was no sign now of her nice Mr. Gray. His eyes were cold and hard. His features were set like granite. He rode his horse with all the grace and arrogance of the lord of the manor. He was a man who knew his own worth. But he did not know where Quentin was, or there would have been no need for all this playacting.

He leaned down, offering her his hand. “You have run your race,” he said. “Don’t make this hard on yourself. Come, Deborah, give me your hand. We shall ride together.”

She could playact as well as he. Lowering her eyes, she began to weep copiously.

“Deborah,” he said, and she detected a softening in him.

She groped in her pocket as if searching for a handkerchief. “Please,” she warbled, “please.”

Her fingers curled around the lace cap with the hatpin in it. The men at her back were closing in. She could hear their horses’ hooves striking the cobblestones. Lord Kendal had relaxed his grip on the reins, assuming she was beaten.

Suddenly lunging, she drove her hatpin into the roan’s flank. There was a great commotion as the rearing animal bellowed in terror and Gray fought to control it. Deborah did not wait to see the outcome. She ducked beneath flying hooves and hared up the close.

When she came onto the thoroughfare, she turned right. There were vehicles on the road, but these were mostly farmers’ carts coming and going to the market. Her brain had ceased to function. It was blind instinct that kept her going, blind instinct that made her dash into the middle of the road when she heard the thunder of galloping hooves at her back. She heard a shout and twisted her neck. A curricle traveling at breakneck speed was bearing down upon her. Rooted to the spot, she stared in disbelief. Without warning, she was swept off her feet as Gray swooped down from the saddle and carried her safely to the other side.

The ensuing uproar brought Deborah to her senses, and she struggled to free herself.

“I think the lady has fainted,” said Gray.

When she felt his fingers tighten on a sensitive spot at the base of her neck, she opened her mouth to scream. No sound came. Her lungs tightened horribly, as if they would burst, then everything faded, and she slipped into a pit of darkness.

Deborah awoke as if from a drugged sleep. Awareness stole over her gradually. She registered the steady rhythm of the horse beneath her, the soft twilight, the rain, her head pillowed on a man’s shoulder, the solid support of his arms and thighs. Her lashes fluttered and slowly lifted. Mr. Gray, she thought, nestling closer. Suddenly, her mind cleared and she was fighting like a deranged woman. Only then did she discover that her wrists were bound behind her back.

There was a furious curse and the arms supporting her tightened violently. Undaunted, Deborah increased her struggles. She had only one thought in her mind. She was in the arms of a murderer. She had to get away from him. Panting, sobbing with fear, she kicked out with her legs.

Her wild blows missed their target and struck the horse’s neck. Jupiter danced and whinnied, and pranced sideways, but Gray’s sure hand on the reins kept him from bolting. Deborah felt her lungs squeeze tight with the pressure of those unrelenting arms, and her panic increased tenfold. Thrashing, tossing her head, she caught Gray a glancing blow on the chin. The arms around her slackened, the horse reared, and she went tumbling to the ground.

She knew how to take a fall. Twisting so that one shoulder and thigh bore the brunt of the impact, she used her momentum to roll clear of the flailing hooves. Lying in a heap, with all the breath knocked out of her, she could do no more than gasp for air. When she heard the jangle of spurs she found her wind and, scrambling to her knees, twisted to face her abductor. Chest heaving, eyes spitting fire, she rose unsteadily to her feet.

In her panic, she had forgotten that there were three of them. The dark-haired man held the horses’ reins while the other two came at her on foot, circling her with outstretched arms.

“Your wench,” said the younger man, laughing, “is a rare handful, Gray. Somehow, I had the impression she would come quietly. Why does she continue to fight you, when she knows she can’t win?”

Gray was unsmiling. “I don’t know, unless it’s because she is as guilty as hell.”

Deborah glanced around, trying to assess her chances of escape. Against the horizon, she could see the outline of hills. On either side of her were hedgerows, and beyond that, farmers’ fields with neatly stacked hayricks which were drooping under the weight of the rain. The road they were traveling was no more than a farm track and wound its way up between two dense copses. Soon, the darkness would be impenetrable.

Her eyes darted back to the men on foot. When the younger one lunged for her, she turned and ran. Gray was on her before she could clear the hedge. She went sprawling, and as she tried to rise, his knee pressed into the small of her back while his hand caught in her hair and dragged back her head. His other hand was raised threateningly, ready to strike her.

Every nerve in her body tensed for that blow. Her eyes went wide and her lips parted. When the seconds ticked by, she made an involuntary movement to relieve the pressure of his knee on her back, and the hand in her hair tightened, eliciting a sharp cry of pain.

“Yes,” he said, his narrowed gaze wandering over her face, “you would do well to fear me.”

The warning was superfluous. She had never feared
or loathed a man more. Now that she was seeing him in his true colors, everything about him repelled her. He was the antithesis of the man he had pretended to be. He was merciless, brutal, a murdering devil. When her usefulness to him was over, she knew that he would kill her too. Her only hope was to delay the evil hour for as long as possible, and when the right moment presented itself, she must be ready to act.

With a little cry of surrender, she went as limp as a rag doll.

“That’s more like it,” said Gray and yanked her to her feet. “Try anything like that again and I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life.”

“I say, Gray—”

“That’s enough, Nick!”

Deborah kept her eyes blank, but she was conscious of the tension between the two men. She flicked her gaze to the one who was called Nick. He might yet prove to be an ally. It was too soon to say. As she watched, he gave an indifferent shrug and turned aside. The dark-haired man looked as grim as her abductor. She would get no help from that quarter.

She cried out when she was given a shove in the direction of the horses. Concealing the blaze of hatred in her eyes, she stumbled over ruts and mud holes till she stood shivering in front of the huge roan. When Gray was mounted, Nick lifted her onto the saddle. Once again, she could feel the strength of the arms and thighs that cradled her. She could feel more than that. With her hands bound behind her, she was more intimate with him than she wanted to be. Gasping, she jerked forward. He chuckled and pulled her back. “Don’t wriggle or move,” he whispered for her ears only, “or I shall not be able to vouch for my good behavior.”

She half turned to look up at him, her brow drawn in puzzlement. His own brows shot up. Shaking his head, laughing, he clicked his tongue and touched his spurs to his mount’s flanks.