Shattered Vows (22 page)

‘Angevin rebels? Are you sure? I seem to recall something.’ He rubbed his temples. ‘Hell and damnation, the pain cripples all thought.’

Her eyes were huge in the lamplight. Her chest heaved. ‘Saints, I do believe you’re telling the truth. You really can’t remember.’

‘Finally, she believes me.’

‘I believe you.’ The hut door rattled and she went white. Oliver flicked the lantern shut, plunging them into sooty blackness. ‘It’s best our jailors think I’m out of it.’

‘Your hands,’ she breathed. ‘They’re bound to notice.’

‘Shield me. Stay close.’ Pulling her down beside him, he lightened his tone. ‘Lord, Rosamund, the feel of you. Later, you’ll have to refresh my memory on certain...er...aspects of our relationship.’

The door grated. Someone was creeping towards them.

‘Wake up, girl.’ A harsh voice cut through the dark like a knife. ‘Wulfric’s here.’

Rosamund went rigid, she couldn’t help it. She clung to Oliver and his arms tightened about her. She could hear the thudding of his heart. He wouldn’t let the outlaw take her – he might have lost his memory but his nature wouldn’t have changed. He would protect her.

‘Hey, lass, come here. Get away from that dog.’ A hard boot thudded into her thigh.

‘Is he armed?’ Oliver muttered, soft as a sigh.

She nodded. ‘A sword and a dagger,’ she murmured. Oliver’s sword and dagger, if he did but know it.

‘Lead him on.’ Oliver’s breath warmed her ear and his arms fell away. ‘He must be disarmed. Mind you stay close.’

Her skin crawled, though she knew this was a chance they had to take. She stirred and stretched as though waking from sleep. ‘Wulfric?

A skin-shrivelling hand found her waist. She allowed the outlaw to roll her onto her back, almost gagging at the sour stink of his sweat. Her hands came up to fend him off before she’d thought to stop them.

‘You want it rough?’ Slapping her hands aside, the man caught her by the hair, using it to pin her to the ground. Tears started to her eyes. He was fumbling at her breasts – clumsy, bruising, sickening caresses. As she tried to jerk out of reach his nails dug into her, gouging her skin through the stuff of her gown. Panting, she held back a moan. She couldn’t endure this much longer. He was pushing up her skirts, moving over her...

‘No!’

A hard hand cracked against her cheek. ‘You do want it rough.’

She caught the sound of a sharply indrawn breath. Not Wulfric’s. Nudging Oliver with her foot, she fought for calm.

‘Wulfric, I won’t fight you, but you must be gentle. And do, pray, remove your sword – the hilt’s digging holes in my hip.’ She squirmed, praying that Oliver had enough sense left in his head to follow her lead. Wulfric was suffocating her. He stank. She was about to be sick...

Wulfric grunted and eased away. She felt him twitch and a strangled cry came at her through the dark.

‘Oliver?’

She heard a choking gasp – someone was fighting for air. It couldn’t be Oliver, for he’d had surprise on his side. Wits in turmoil, praying she was right, she strained her ears.

Panting. Threshing. Grunts...

The lamp – where was the lamp?

They crashed into her, knocking the breath from her body. Rolling away, she scrabbled desperately for the lantern. The noises were chilling but muted – thuds, groans, gasps. A sickening drumming sound. She was cold to the bone.

What’s happening?

She found the lantern and wrenched open the shutter. Oliver sat astride Wulfric, who had a rope round his neck. Rosamund stared, frozen with horror, as Wulfric clawed frenziedly at the rope. His face was purple and the veins in his neck engorged. He was kicking like a madman.

Shaking inside, she staggered to the central beam and covered her face with her hands. The dreadful choking stopped and someone touched her gently on the shoulder. She flinched and the hand was removed. Oliver was beside her, sword firm in his grasp. His legs were free of the tether.

‘Is...is he dead?’

He made an impatient sound. ‘You can’t be sorry for that animal. You know what he’d have done to you if I’d been unconscious?’

‘I know, but...’ her voice wavered ‘...but to die for it?’

Oliver’s eyes were sombre. He trailed a finger down her cheek and she was startled to see that it wasn’t quite steady. ‘He’s not dead. Though I’m angry enough to murder an army. You must indeed be close to my heart to arouse such a fury – the thought of him molesting you almost drove me berserk.’

Rosamund stared. Never in a thousand years had she expected Oliver to make such an admission. And he was looking at her in such a way...

Her breath stopped. The warmth in his eyes...the old Oliver wouldn’t dream of looking at her like that. She stepped towards him and laid her head against his broad chest. At once, his arms enfolded her, pulling her tight against him. Their bodies touched from chest to thigh. She sighed and raised her head. ‘I knew you’d save me.’

He touched her brow with his lips. ‘Even though I do not know you?’ His voice was teasing.

‘Your head might have forgotten me, but your heart has not.’

He shrugged. ‘Possibly.’

Her spirits rose.

‘Rosamund? Why the smile?’

‘No reason.’

He kissed her nose and her fingers curled into his tunic. ‘Do you mind a man without a memory kissing you?’

‘Not if it’s you,’ she laughed. ‘In truth, I’m thankful you’ve lost your memory.’

‘Thankful?’

She tipped her head to one side. ‘Do you think it’s best to win a man’s head or his heart? I think his heart is worth most, don’t you?’

‘You make no sense.’ He glanced at the unconscious man. ‘We have to get out of here. First, we free you, then I shall gag and bind our friend over there.’

Oliver knelt before her. His sword flashed and he began slicing through the rope at her ankle. She rested a hand on his shoulder as he worked, talking to the top of his dark head.

‘Which is best, Oliver? Head or heart?’

He shot her a look which was half exasperated, half tender. ‘I should think it would be best to win a man’s head and his heart, don’t you? Angel, hold still.’

She drew a sharp breath.
He called me angel...he’s remembering...

‘What ails you? Did I hurt you?’

‘You...you called me angel.’

‘What of it?’ His brow cleared. ‘Ah, I have called you that before.’

She nodded. The rope fell from her ankles and Oliver stood, parrying an imaginary thrust with his sword.

‘Good. Maybe my mind will come back to me soon.’ He tossed the dagger at her. ‘Here, you’d best have the man’s dagger, I want you to be able to defend yourself.’

She took the dagger and hunkered down to rub her ankles where the rope had chafed them. When she next glanced across, Wulfric had been bound and Oliver was grinning down at her.

‘Rosamund, watch.’ The sword flashed as it danced through the dark. ‘I may be short on memory, but I know how to wield a sword.’ The sword described another brilliant arc through the dank air. ‘This blade sits well in my hand.’

‘It should do-’ she bit her lip. Both the sword and the dagger were his, but he didn’t yet remember.

‘Go on....’

‘N...nothing...that is...you’re clearly a fine swordsman.’

‘Tell me more. Rosamund, tell me.’

She looked quickly away. His face was so earnest, but she was reluctant to reveal that he was a knight. This new Oliver seemed much kinder than the old one. He was warmer, he was less calculating and she was tempted, more than tempted, to see what other changes she might discover if she kept him ignorant of his true status. It would only be for a little while.

I need to think.

And, in the meantime...

‘Shouldn’t we be going?’ she said, frowning at the man on the ground. ‘Before someone comes to find out what’s keeping him?’

‘You’re right, we can talk later. We’ll break through the wall and make a run for it. This side?’ He gestured at the back wall.

‘Yes.’

He began prising the planking apart and she went to help. The wood was so rotten it took little more than a touch for it to break apart. The night air rushed in.

He touched her arm. ‘Stick as close as a burr.’

‘I will, don’t worry, I can run and my brain’s not been scrambled. Where are we going?’

He stared at her, his face a picture of confusion. ‘Hell burn it, I’ve not the slightest idea. You know the area?’

She nodded.

‘Find us a safe harbour. Is there an abbey where we can take sanctuary until my head clears?’

‘An abbey, yes, indeed-’ she shut her mouth with a snap. Alfwold! Alfwold had gone to the abbey to wait for the abbot to return from York.

They couldn’t go to the abbey! Alfwold would be lodged at the abbey guest house – they’d be sure to bump into him and the whole sorry tale would emerge. Oliver would realise he was a knight; he would remember his ambitions, and that would be the end of her as far as he was concerned. He would remember he was promised to Lady Cecily. Worse, he’d remember that she was married to Alfwold.

Firmly, she shook her head. ‘We can’t go to the abbey.’

‘Why ever not? It would seem the obvious place.’

She thought quickly. ‘Oliver, you may not recall but the leader of these men is a priest, Father Eadric. I don’t know whether he’s a rebel or an outlaw, but there may be others like him at the abbey. I daren’t take us there.’

‘Where then?’ He stole to the door and peered through the crack. ‘Lord, there’s an entire troop out there. Hurry!’

She toyed with the hilt of the dagger. They couldn’t head for the coast. Oliver would see the castle and he’d be sure to ask questions she’d rather not answer. There was also a risk he’d be recognised.

‘When they find us gone, those men will scour the river and outlying land,’ she murmured. ‘We could head for the moors. If we can get to the top of Blue Bank, I have friends there – a shepherd and his wife. They’ll shelter us.’ Her stomach knotted. ‘If we find them.’

Oliver was back at her side, eyes glittering like jet. He folded her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘We’ll find them.’

Rosamund glimpsed his cracked tooth – he saw this as a challenge and he was relishing it. Unlike her. She stared at the ground. ‘I wish this was over, I’m afraid.’

He tilted her chin and dropped a swift kiss on her mouth. ‘Don’t be. We’ll find your friends. With a little luck, it’ll be awhile before these beggars miss us.’

Turning back to the wall, he shoved more wall planks aside. ‘It would be too risky to take the lantern, we’ll have to rely on the moon.’ With a last grin, strong fingers wrapped round her wrist and he dived through the opening. ‘Which way?’

As Rosamund’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight, she glanced at the stars. They would tell her the way. She pointed. ‘We go through the wood, climbing all the time. If we find we’re going downhill, we’ve taken the wrong path. We should come to a waterfall, we can follow the sound of it. And then-’

‘That’s enough for the moment. Remember, tread softly...’

***

Rosamund could no longer tell whether the moon was shining or not. She rather thought not, for black shapes were swimming in and out of her line of vision. Her lungs ached.

‘Keep going,’ Oliver said, forging on up the track. Relentless. Merciless.

The dark trees were losing their individual outlines. Their shapes blurred together, seeming to shift and form a cavernous pit. It was waiting for her to fall into it. She was panting, desperate for breath. Oliver was pitiless. Inhuman. Didn’t the air sear its way into his lungs as it did with her? His breathing sounded laboured, but he was showing no sign of slackening.

His grip on her hand was unyielding. If he would but let go she could pause awhile. She moaned. He checked and she stopped, chest heaving.

‘Listen!’ Frowning, he gave her hand a little shake. ‘Rosamund, listen.’

‘Hmm?’ Spots danced before her eyes.

‘The waterfall, can you hear it?’

‘All I can hear is waves on the beach.’ She groaned and Oliver steadied her. ‘We must have gone the wrong way, they’ll catch us if we head for the sea.’

‘Rosamund!’ His voice sharpened. ‘There’s been no sign of pursuit. Pull yourself together. Listen, can you hear it?’

She listened and realised the swishing wasn’t waves on the beach, it was water cascading down the falls...

‘That’s it – Angel Falls! There’s a pool at the bottom. Keep the water to your right, the path to the moor veers off to the left. It’s a steep climb.’

He turned immediately, tugging her after.

Silly man, he must know she would only slow him down. She jerked her hand free.

‘Rosamund?’ He extended his hand to hers. ‘The more distance we put between us and them the better.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ She dragged in air.

He loured over her. Patches of moon and starlight filtered through the leaves, lighting his broad shoulders, tuning his face into a silver mask.

‘Yes, you can,’ he said, in his hard voice.

‘Oliver, I’m spent. Go on without me, it’s you they want, not me. They’ll leave me alone.’

‘Don’t be naive. You know where the camp is, they’ll want you silenced. You’re coming with me.’

‘I’ll slow you down.’

‘You’re coming.’

She stared up at him, he really did seem concerned.

‘Rosamund?’

‘You’re worried about me.’

Dark eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve told me that we’re lovers and I believe you. Should I not look out for my love?’

She gave him a little push. ‘That blow must have addled your wits. You were not so careful of my welfare before.’

He grinned. ‘Why ever not? Surely a sweet-tempered maid like you would merit my complete devotion?’ He cupped her cheek with his palm. ‘Angel, I need you to take me to your friends. And until my wits return, who better to trust but my love?’

Rosamund’s heart twisted. She had liked the old Oliver far too much, but this open, more loving Oliver was impossibly attractive. In truth, she couldn’t bear to lose him. If only she could keep him. For a little while. Just until his memory returned...

But that would be impossible. She would have to keep him ignorant of his real identity, and she couldn’t do that to him. It would be wrong, very wrong. Even if she persuaded Alfwold to agree to an annulment, it would be impossible...