Judith E French (28 page)

Anne opened her eyes and looked into the seamed face of an old woman. Golden hoop earrings and thinning snow-white hair peeked from under a flowered silk scarf. The woman’s eyes were black and bright as wrinkled currants, and she smelled of cloves. “I . . . I . . .” Anne began.

“Shhh,” the woman ordered. She laid a leathery hand over Anne’s eyes. “Shhh.”

Anne sighed and closed her eyes. It was too much trouble to argue. It was easier to lie still, to let the sway of the bed rock her back to sleep. To let the darkness pull her down again. She was warm . . . warm . . .

The old woman was humming a strange tune. From far off, Anne thought she heard the plaintive notes of a violin. The ghost music soothed her, and she surrendered to fitful sleep.

 

 

“Anne. Anne, open your eyes, hinney.”

A face loomed above hers. Not the old woman’s but a man’s. Anne sucked in a sharp breath. It was that devil of a Scotsman—the barbarian who’d kidnapped her from her own wedding. “You,” she murmured. Her throat felt raw and scratchy, and she ached all over. She stared past the outlaw to the curved red roof above. “Where . . . where are we?”

He sighed a sigh of relief and grinned. “With friends, sweeting.”

Anne swallowed and moved her hands restlessly over the covers. She was lying in a bed, but the bed—the house—was moving. Confused, she closed her eyes again and tried to remember. “The Thames,” she whispered. “We fell into the Thames.”

“Fell, hell!” he exclaimed. “We jumped. I couldn’t see any other way to get shut of that popinjay you were about to marry. A lot he thinks of you if he was willing to set his dogs on us. A crossbow isn’t particular. He could have killed you as easily as me. The bastards shot my horse.”

“Is he—”

“It was only a flesh wound, no thanks to your bridegroom.” He squeezed her hand. “You gave me a fright, hinney. You must have swallowed half the river.”

Anne touched the wall beside her built-in bed. The narrow wooden boards were carved and painted in bright red and blue and yellow flowers. The room was tiny, lit by a hanging brass lantern and packed full of barrels and baskets. Kettles and pots and a polished violin and bow hung suspended from hooks in the curved ceiling. With every breath Anne took, she drew in the heady odor of drying herbs. “What place is this?” she asked weakly.

“Not to worry, lass,” Ross replied. “You’ll come to no harm here.”

The room jolted to one side, righted itself, and bounced on. Anne heard the distinct squeak of a wheel. She remembered the soothing sound of wheels from her dream . . . or was it a dream? “We’re in some kind of a wagon, aren’t we?”

“Aye,” he admitted. “Some kind o’ wagon.” He placed his scarred, callused palm across her forehead. “Ye were feverish before, talking out of your head, but you’re cool enough now.”

Anne moistened her lips. “I . . . I want to know where we are.”

“A half day’s journey from London on the Colchester Highway, if ye insist.”

“But what is this? What kind of a . . .” She trailed off, intimidated by his insolent grin.

Ross leaned back on his heels, crossed his arms over his broad chest and began to sing: