Shana Abe (9 page)

It was an inequity she had learned to adjust to. She formulated her questions carefully, posing them in the most ridiculously complicated terms she could think of. But she never fully escaped the superior looks of the men who taught her. And after all, she always tried to learn from her mistakes.

Therefore it was not hard to fool these soldiers into thinking she was nothing more than a simple, weak woman, lost and confused. She picked at her food, she kept her expression sour, and she knew the natural pale ivory of her skin would aid her. It wasn’t hard to look pallid.

She probably should have cried at some point, she thought, but then knew she could not have gone that far convincingly. She had never been one to cry easily. What she had accomplished would be enough, she told herself. It would have to be. She had demonstrated to them that she was frail and scared, fatigued easily and was most likely in ill health. Fine.

There was no doubt in her mind that she would not be able to escape without her horse. And there had been no way to take Auster from the group of steeds last night without alerting the guards assigned to keep watch over the horses, and, of course, those other six men. That simply meant she had to be mounted already when the time came. And it would be soon now.

She wasn’t silly enough to think she would be able to suddenly
discover a clear path that branched off from the one they were on. That would be too much to ask for. All she was looking for now was a hint of the proper circumstances to help her.

There was only her one, true enemy to watch out for. Something told her he would not be fooled as easily as the rest.

Lord Strathmore stayed close to her as they rode, keeping his horse within an arm’s reach of hers. She had not expected anything less from him. Every now and then she moved her head casually to catch a look at him from the corner of her vision. He rode bareheaded, shunning the heavy chain mail headpiece, which might, she supposed, dampen his hearing further than it was already by the fog. Very prudent, she silently approved.

But the shifting layers of mist could not disguise the grim set of his mouth, nor the hawklike sharpness of his gaze. He maintained a constant vigilance, keeping his sword ready. Even through the murky whiteness she could easily identify the golden-brown hair, the rather massive build of him, and once, when he caught her looking at him, the vibrant turquoise of his eyes, a burst of warmth amid the coolness.

He had smiled at her then, as if to reassure her, and she had instinctively smiled back, because she had wanted to, because he had a smile that made her want to trace his lips with her fingers to feel that graceful joy for herself.

Kyla caught herself and turned away again. She had to keep her head about her. She could not make a mistake now. He was handsome and charming, and he was her nemesis. It would not do to forget that.

The warmth from his look lingered, a gentle ghost in the blankness around her.

“Ho,” came a distant call, a disembodied voice from far ahead in the line.

“Ho,” echoed someone else, the call repeated down the column of men to Kyla and Roland, each one growing louder and more distinct. The horses were slowing.

With an almost casual ease Kyla turned Auster to her left,
where the soldier guarding her had drawn ahead just enough to allow her to slip behind his horse’s haunches and off the forest path. She didn’t dare look behind her, she made no overt noise or movement, merely pulling lightly at the reins to indicate where she wanted to go. Auster willingly obeyed. She maintained the walk that had been keeping pace with the others and hoped the mist had swallowed them without a sign of their passage.

Her mouth was dry, her heartbeat thudded in her ears and she had to strain to listen to the sounds of the men behind her. Nothing yet. She bent as low as she could in the saddle and urged Auster on.

Now came the raised voices, a commotion of sound with no visible origin. She heard her name being shouted, repeated.

Quickly she slipped to the ground and led Auster on foot, not willing to run in the obscurity of the fog. She was betting they would not risk their mounts to run in pursuit. Tangles of black branches materialized suddenly out of the whiteness, grabbing and catching at her. She bent them back as best she could for Auster, still walking, fighting the urge to run.

The soldiers were coming. They were not bothering to be quiet about it. She could clearly make out Lord Strathmore’s voice, calling her name. There was a resignation there that affected her more deeply than anger would have. Resignation suggested that he was sure she would only be caught again. She was merely delaying her fate, not escaping it.

“Lady Kyla! You don’t want to make this more difficult!” The cool assurance that carried to her as he called out was far more frightening than his wrath would have been.

Her throat closed.
I am not afraid
, she told herself firmly.

She remembered his look, friendly, consoling, and felt a small jump within herself, a shock from the memory.

A pair of gnarled branches caught and held her hair, yanking her painfully backward and almost causing her to fall. Her hands shook as she broke off the ends, leaving them snarled in the mat of her hair. Precious seconds flew by.

She had to think. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know the direction she was headed. All she knew was
that only a few dear feet separated her from Strathmore, and London, and the Tower. She had to preserve her advantage.

The fog was making her hair cling to her neck and face in damp, cold curls. The bliaut melted to her form, dragging at the leaves and twigs around her. And still they came behind her, edging closer, not slowed by preposterous things like long hair or skirts.

Every now and then a whirling sweep of air would clear the ground ahead of her, highlighting the brown earth, the clumping bushes, an ancient tree or two.

That was bad. If the fog was lifting, she might as well give up now. She heard the muttered cursings of the soldiers, the sounds traveling to her clearly now.

“Blasted woman,” said someone, and others growled agreement.

“Blasted witch,” another amended, and got a louder round of approval.

She needed to loop around them. She needed to be somewhere they would not think to look right away. She needed to turn back toward them.

Leading Auster abruptly left, Kyla prayed she had enough time to cross their path before the soldiers were upon her. She began moving at a half run on her toes, squinting, bending low, keeping one hand up in front of her to ward off the dangerous branches and limbs, letting her arm take the brunt of the blows.

Still they came closer. Hadn’t she reached the end of their line yet? She and Strathmore had been almost at the end of the column when she turned off. She wouldn’t have believed they could organize and fan out so quickly.

She was heading right for them. Their horses were snorting and stumbling through the haze. She could clearly hear the steady
clink, clink
of the men’s chain mail against their shields and armor once more. It was a nightmare coming true, faceless monsters come to hunt her down, they were going to get her.…

She wasn’t going to make it.

In a heartbeat she turned Auster around, away from the
soldiers, and let go of the reins. He didn’t move, just stood placidly as the others approached. Kyla pushed at him, put both hands against his mighty shoulder and shoved. He still didn’t move.

In desperation she slapped him lightly on the flank, then pushed again. The stallion turned his head and looked at her reproachfully.

Please
, she thought,
oh, please, my friend, go now.…

And the horse had looked away from her and ambled on, almost immediately invisible behind the curtain of the fog.

The moisture clinging to her face now was mingled with salty perspiration, but Kyla rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of the gown and began to stumble on, running on a straight path that crossed the line of men.

But she still wasn’t going to make it.

To her left she thought she saw the shadow of a horse, but then it vanished again, lost in the mist. The soldiers were talking to one another in lower tones now. They had abandoned the notion that calling her name would bring her back, she guessed, and so they were keeping track of one another, cursing and noting markers when they saw one. She did not hear Lord Strathmore anymore.

And then the shadow beside her took shape and she saw that it really was a horse, with a real man atop him, and Kyla whirled around and darted ahead. There was no call to halt or to follow her. Maybe she had not been seen? That horseman would be between two others, and they were too close now for her to circle around them. It was only a matter of seconds before they spotted her.

Just ahead rose one of the many thick tree trunks, blessedly not an oak—a barren, long-trunked oak—but instead a heavy old pine, and without a second thought Kyla was on it, grabbing at her skirts and climbing faster than she would have thought possible.

The sap stuck to her skin, collecting pieces of bark and needles, which dug into her palms. It didn’t matter. She was only a few feet off the ground when they passed her. She froze, flattening herself against the trunk.

“Waste of bloody time,” one man was saying, slapping his thigh for emphasis. “Ought to leave her out here for the wolves.”

“Go on, then,” said his companion, riding to his right. “And I’ll takes that fat reward for her m’self.”

As they passed by she could make out their heads and torsos through the pine needles and the mist, both men dark-haired and large, mounted. They were exactly at eye level to her. If they turned their heads toward her even a fraction, she would be caught.

They moved so slowly. She was afraid to breathe, her body was screaming to move, to run in panic, and she had to close her eyes to erase the sight of them, pressing her cheek against the roughness of the bark. She heard one of the horses snort in alarm, and had to bite her lip to fight the whimper that wanted to come out.

“Here now,” said the man on the horse, “what’s gotten to you, boy?”

She opened her eyes and the soldier was close beside her. And he was turning to look around.

“Her horse!”

The cry came from far ahead, bless Auster, and immediately drew the attention of both of the men.

“What was that? Did he say he found her horse?”

“Aye, that’s what it sounded like to me.”

As if to confirm it, the call came again, and then more cries from the soldiers scattered about. The two men pushed ahead into the fog, leaving her alone again in the whiteness.

The whimper came out now, unbidden, this time signaling relief. She waited, listening carefully, but all the sounds were up ahead, where they should have been. She began to climb down the tree, one step, then another, searching carefully with her foot for the next hold.

“Where would you have gone, I wonder, if you had escaped?”

She couldn’t stop the little scream that came out; her hand missed its grip on the branch she had been reaching for, plunging her off-balance. It was too late to stop herself from falling.

The branches bent or broke beneath her, scratching her, ripping her clothing, and then she landed hard on something that grunted and collapsed to the ground under her.

A shower of pine needles drifted down in her wake, a pin-sharp snowfall.

Her wind was gone, her head was spinning. She couldn’t move as Lord Strathmore grunted again and shifted her off of him. He leaned over into her line of vision, examining her curiously. The memory of the turquoise look merged with the present, only now his eyes were brighter, and almost laughing. None of the anger she might have expected was reflected in that look. Instead a sort of mischief glittered there, the end result of that resignation she had heard before, an I-told-you-so boyishness. A lock of his golden hair curled down against her neck.

Kyla blinked to get the spots out of her vision.

“Well,” Roland said, slowly breaking into a smile. “We seem fated to keep meeting under the most unusual of circumstances, my lady.”

And then he lowered his lips to hers.

Chapter Five

H
er lips were soft and succulent, even better than he had imagined them to be, and he had been imagining quite a bit since he met her.

She tasted warm and spicy, yet the mist had cooled her skin, a delightful contradiction that pleased him in some whimsical way. He reached up a hand and cradled her cheek, marveling at the smoothness, rubbing his thumb through the thin film of moisture left by the fog.

She seemed stunned, immobile, those gray eyes large and startled as she looked up at him. He drew back his hand slightly and passed it over her eyes, gently, just enough so she would close them. Then he closed his own, deepening the kiss this time.

Her mouth opened beneath his. Perhaps she was just jolted from the fall, but he took advantage of it and touched his tongue against hers, and now she did gasp—but he used his other hand to stroke her hair, running his fingers through the silkiness of it, encountering the leaves and twigs left from her run, smoothing around them to find the line of her neck, her jaw.