The Elusive Bride

While Cecily Tyrell snatched a short, fitful sleep, Rowan kept watch from the mouth of the cave. The sour taste of the apple lingered on his tongue, as did the faint brine of Cecily’s fingertips. It whetted a hunger in him far more ravenous than the one in his empty belly.

To make matters worse, when he’d gruffly bidden her to get some rest before moonrise, she’d urged him to lie down with her and do the same. Knowing such closeness would make him more restive, not less, he’d used the excuse of keeping watch to put as much distance as possible between them.

Not that it mattered.

Their bodies might be apart, but his thoughts flocked to her at every unguarded moment. As impossible to ignore as the throbbing of his wounded arm. He could scarcely believe he’d known her for less than a day. From the instant he’d spied her in that forest-hemmed garden at the priory, something about Cecily Tyrell had drawn him. The unorthodox manner of their second meeting and the long, intense hours of their better acquaintance had only sharpened his response.

Since Jacquetta’s death he had never made a conscious effort to guard his heart. No woman had appealed to him in more than a passing carnal way. Sometimes he’d resisted those urges in a fit of martyrdom. Other times he’d given in to his lust—why not, if he was damned anyway? Always, after the momentary flush of pleasure, he’d repented. Adding another measure to the staggering weight of guilt he would carry to his grave.

What was it about this woman that intrigued him so? Her uncanny beauty, perhaps. That improbable melding of delicacy and strength, like the wild hind. Or was it her bracing forthrightness, a trait he admired in other men, but had seldom encountered in a woman? Both of those, surely, but something more.

Rowan struggled to frame the notion. There was a freshness about her that went beyond mere innocence. An untamed quality outside the limited bounds of morals or propriety. For all that, a deep goodness that beckoned him even as it roused his worst suspicions.

Jacquetta had damned him. Might Cecily be his last chance at salvation? Or might she only make it worse? Rowan was not sure he dared answer that question. But suddenly he understood the ecstatic, suicidal force that must drive a moth to immolate itself within the vibrant, beautiful menace of the flame.

“Cecily. Mistress Tyrell.”

For the second time that day someone roused her from her dreams. Dreams, once again, of a stranger in a garden. Once again, Cecily parted from them reluctantly.

“Wake up now. The moon has risen. It’s time we were away.” There was a sense of urgency in the whispered words, but that was not what lured Cecily awake.

It was the voice. His voice.

Her eyelids fluttered open. In the darkness of the cave she could see only a shadow, backlit by the pale rays of a full moon. Somehow she sensed the force of John FitzCourtenay’s presence. She had never met a man with one so potent.

His scent mingled with the damp, chalky odor of the cave and the lingering musk of some animal that made its winter home there. It felt so right, being close to him in the darkness. A warm, lazy ache pulsed through her.

“Cecily,” he whispered again, louder this time. He must not realize she was awake.

Gingerly, he prodded her. His hand brushed her thigh, perilously close to the crux of that sweet ache.

Before she could stop herself, Cecily gasped.

He pulled back. “I beg your pardon if I startled you, but the moon is up and we must go. You’re harder to rouse than a bear in winter.”

She opened her mouth to say that he roused her far too well. Fortunately, her mouth was dry as dust. All that emerged from her parched throat was a rusty croak. By the time she cleared it with a cough, her tardy self-control had caught up with her.

“Any sign of Fulke’s men while you kept watch?” She sat up and stretched her limbs. Concentrating on their immediate peril might keep her disquieting urges at bay.

“I heard dogs not long ago.” He backed toward the mouth of the cave. “Sounded like they were retracing their path.”

“Let’s hope they’ll all sleep soundly after the chase you led them today.” Slapping the dust off her cloak, Cecily emerged from the cave, into the uncanny warmth of the night.

Moonbeams frosted the countryside with silver. In the black velvet sky, swaths of stars glittered a spectral enchantment. If ever a night belonged to the fairies, this was it.

Before she could think to restrain herself, she reached for John FitzCourtenay’s hand. It was firm and strong, with a reassuring warmth. The touch of it sent an answering spasm of heat pulsing through her.

“Have you ever seen such beauty?” she breathed.

He stiffened. “I’m not apt to notice such things.”

Lifting her face to the night sky, Cecily soaked in the mild breeze that wafted the perfume of ripe fruit and dew. “I pity you, Master John. If ever I doubted divine grace, a night like this would restore my faith.”

“If we stay here much longer, we run the risk of capture,” he reminded her in a voice hard as flint. “Then you’ll need every scrap of grace you can muster. Pray, lead on.”

For some reason his severity struck her as comical.

“At your service, master,” she answered in a tone of good-natured mockery. “Let us head this way. I can marvel at the beauty of the night just as well while I walk. Perhaps better.”