Megan Frampton (11 page)

“It is altogether too tigh—oh,” Mary said, clamping her lips together. When she spoke again, it was in a subdued tone. “I promise, as best I can, my lord.”

“That is all we can ever do,” he replied. Mary felt his body relax behind her, and his breathing grow deeper.

It sounded like he was falling asleep, and Mary reached out and slid the reins between her fingers, just in case he did, and she had to steer. Or herd. Or whatever one did with a horse.

They rode on for another fifteen minutes, and Mary was wondering if it was safe to turn toward the north when she heard a sound. A thumping, galloping sound increasing in volume behind them.

She shot her elbow back into Alasdair. “Wake up,” she whispered. “I think someone is behind us.”

Alasdair pulled on Primrose’s reins and turned her abruptly to the right. A cluster of trees grew behind a low, jagged fence. He guided the horse behind the fence and jumped off, then pulled Mary off as well, and none too gently. He slapped Primrose on
the shanks and she trotted off about a hundred yards, before pausing to nibble on some grass.

“What now?” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “We wait for whomever it is to come find us?”

He reached out and took her left hand. “Of course not, love.” He strode toward the trees, dragging her behind him, then stopped short right in front of the largest tree.

Its leaves were just beginning to unfurl, so Mary could see glimpses of the sky through the branches.

“We’re going up there,” Alasdair said, leaning down and making a basket of his hands. “Step up.”

“You’re not serious.” The galloping was getting louder. He glared at her, picked her up around the waist and swung her up onto the lowest branch.

“Climb,” he ordered, grasping a branch and lifting himself up next to her. When she didn’t move, he shoved her with his hand. “Climb,” he repeated. She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it again when she saw his expression.

She climbed. Luckily, the tree was sturdy, and there were plenty of branches; actually, she felt less likely to fall here than she had on Primrose.

“As far as you can,” he commanded when she slowed.

She sighed and continued, stopping only when it was clear the topmost branches were too thin to support her weight.

“What now?” she whispered as he came up to sit beside her. “Won’t they see us? They’re aren’t that many leaves yet.”

“People seldom look up,” Alasdair said.

“You’ve had a lot of experience escaping by clambering up trees, then, I suppose?” Mary said sarcastically.

“Yes.” His voice was grim.

“Oh, well then. So why are we hid—”

“Shh.” He put his hand over her mouth and nodded toward the road. Three horses came into sight and Mary had little trouble recognizing Alasdair’s cousin. He looked furious. The doctor and Matthias followed behind, and Mary’s heart got lodged somewhere in her throat.

If there was just one more of them, she could envision them as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse her father had preached about.

Alasdair’s hand was still pressed against her mouth, and she inhaled his particular scent of musk and leather and a faint hint of something sweet. He removed his fingers slowly, catching her eye and signifying that she shouldn’t speak. She rolled her eyes at him to indicate that of course she wouldn’t.

The men stopped as they caught sight of Primrose. “They must be close by,” Alasdair’s cousin snarled. “Get off and look.”

The doctor responded in an aggrieved tone. “I am not a Bow Street runner, my lord. I am here to take especial care of your cousin. Get the wench’s brother here to look around.”

Hugh turned to Matthias. “You heard what he said. Get off and look.”

“He’s your damned responsibility. She’s the one I’m after,” Matthias grumbled. “Why would he want to hang on to her anyway? He’s gotten what he paid for.” His words were accompanied by a nasty snort of derision.

Matthias was stomping the ground only about fifty feet away from their tree, and Mary held her breath as he glanced around. As Alasdair had predicted, however, her brother kept his eyes on the ground and didn’t spot them. “They’re not here.”

“I can see that myself,” Alasdair’s cousin said with obvious disgust. “Let’s be off, they can’t have gotten too far.”

It took Matthias at least five minutes to hoist himself back up onto his horse, during which time Mary tried not to move a muscle, even though a leaf was tickling her neck, and her leg had gotten a good scrape on the way up.

After a lifetime—or only a few more minutes—the horses rode off. Mary brushed the leaf from her neck and examined the cuts on her leg. “Is it safe to get down now?” she asked. “And why,” she asked, “didn’t they take Primrose? They must have known she was our horse.”

Alasdair shrugged. “They probably think I am lying in a ditch somewhere, and you’ve run off with the money.”

“That doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t take the horse,” Mary said, beginning to inch her way down the tree.

“Hugh doesn’t clean up his own messes, and he probably thinks it would be too messy to take responsibility for Primrose.” Alasdair grabbed her around the waist and held her close to his body. “Careful, love, it’s a long drop down, and you’ve had as much practice climbing trees as you have riding horses.”

He slid her down his body until she was only a few feet off the ground. “All right, now, drop,” he said, and she slipped to the ground, rolling onto the soft earth. Within seconds, he had dropped down next to her and spread himself out on the ground as if he were about to make a snow angel.

Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Alasdair leaned over her and captured her mouth, literally taking her breath away.

For a moment, Mary was too startled to react.
He was kissing her—again! After he’d promised not to!
And then she felt a languor steal over her body, a heavy warmth that spread from her core toward her chest and all the way down to her feet.

She pressed up into his chest and threaded her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, drawing his mouth closer. Their tongues were tangled, and his hand rested on her stomach, keeping her still.

He plundered her mouth, licking and sucking until the only thing she knew was that she wanted more. More of him, more of this, more of … just more.

Until there was less, and he lifted his mouth from hers.

She was going to have to have a serious talk with Amelia. Why hadn’t she warned her it was like this? That she’d be so defenseless against the ache this closeness inspired?

“He’s gone now,” he said, his eyes shifting from left to right.

“Gone?” Her head was spinning, and she knew she was missing something crucial.

“Yes,” he said, rolling off her. “He stayed behind for a moment to take a last look around, just in case we were foolish enough to reveal ourselves.”

Mary sat up, wiping her mouth where it was wet from his kiss. “Who’s he?”

He looked at her, an amused grin lighting his face. “Your brother, of course. I saw you were about to speak, so I …” He gestured toward her and grinned wider.

He’d kissed her just to keep her quiet. The indignity of it slammed through her like a slap to the face.

Thus far he’d only kissed her while in the throes of fever, or in fear of discovery. Not quite how she’d dreamed her first kisses would be.

She rose, brushing the grass and dirt from the skirt of her gown. “Very clever of you,” she said in a distant voice.

“Yes, wasn’t it? I thought breaking my promise was better than having to break your brother’s other wrist.”

“Half brother.”

He shot her another wry smile and stood also, walking over to Primrose, who was still cropping the grass. “We’d best get moving.” He slid the reins over Primrose’s head and led her to where Mary stood, still shaking from his kiss. And his motives.

“Are you coming?” he asked, an impatient tone to his voice.

She scowled and took his hand, clambering back up onto Primrose’s back. She was already sore from riding, and she didn’t think he would allow them to stop soon, not when they had to backtrack and head north.

He got up behind her and wrapped his arms around her again, taking up the reins and tapping them gently on Primrose’s back. “Go on, then,” he said in a gentle voice.

The horse moved, slowly, and he edged closer to Mary’s body, his chest pressed against her back. She tried not to be completely and totally aware of his long legs cradling hers, his strong inner thighs holding her stationary on the horse.

Hours later, Mary wasn’t aware of anything but the pain she was in; her muscles ached, her head hurt, and she was tired and hungry. At least, she thought to herself, she wasn’t cold.

Alasdair was still cradled up against her, and their shared body warmth was the only source of comfort in an otherwise miserable day. It was dark now, and Mary wondered through the mist of pain if they would stop soon.

And then they did stop. Right in front of a dense thicket of evergreen trees. Not an inn in sight. Alasdair leapt off Primrose’s back and held his hands out for Mary. “Here we are,” he announced.

She dismounted, her legs buckling under her. He supported her under the arms and pulled her up to lean on his chest. “Where is here?” she asked, her face muffled by his coat.

“Our shelter.”

“Here?
In the trees?
” Mary asked, horrified. She stepped away from him and stared in his eyes, looking for a sign that it was all a huge joke.

His tone was abrupt and dismissive. “Yes, here in the trees. We cannot afford—in many ways—to wait to find an inn. I don’t know these roads; we could be riding all night. At least these trees will provide us with some measure of protection.”

“But,” Mary said, looking around her, “but there’s nowhere to sleep, and what about—I mean, and—”

His eyebrow rose. “I know what you mean. I will ensure your safety and privacy, I promise.”

“Your promises have not been worth much yet, have they?” she snapped back.

He spanned the small distance between them and reached his hand out to grab her chin. “We have no other choice, love, so we’ll be staying here tonight.” He dropped his hand from her face and turned away, speaking in a soft murmur to Primrose.

Mary glared at his back for a few more seconds, and then heaved an exasperated sigh. “Fine,” she muttered. She stomped to where the trees grew the thickest and removed her coat, spreading it across the damp earth. She regarded it for a moment, and then picked it up and settled it back over her shoulders. It wouldn’t keep her warm that way, and her gown was already dirty. She sat down on the ground and surveyed their surroundings.

From where she was sitting, it was almost impossible to see the road. He did choose a good hiding spot, she admitted grudgingly. And they hadn’t passed anyone on the road for at least an hour, so she knew the chance of their being discovered was slim.

He was walking toward her, the innkeeper’s basket dangling from his left hand. She opened her mouth to admit that she had been wrong, when she noticed his face had that pale cast again, and perspiration beaded his forehead. “You’re not well,” she said, jumping up and taking the basket from him.

He staggered and half fell on her, then dropped to his knees and wavered there in a grotesque attitude of penitence, before flopping onto the ground. “Must not give in,” he said, his body thrashing on the ground. “Promised.”

Mary knelt down beside him and lifted his head to place it on her lap. “Shh,” she said, placing her palm on his forehead. He had a fever. Again.

She stroked the hair back from his face and adjusted herself so she was more comfortable, and more of his upper body was lying on her. He grabbed her hands and placed them on his chest.

She could feel his heart beating rapidly under her fingers, and she leaned closer in to him, wishing she could absorb some of his pain.

“Get the pills,” he said through clenched teeth. “In my coat.” Mary pulled her hands from his and laid him gently on the ground, then bent over his body, hunting through his pockets.

She found the vial she’d seen him take from the doctor’s bag and held it in front of his face. “Are these what you need?” she asked, shaking the bottle.

He nodded, the tendons of his neck straining. She opened the vial and dropped a pill into her hand.

“Open,” she commanded, and he nodded, closing his eyes as he opened his mouth. She slid the pill into his mouth and he crunched it, his face wincing as if it tasted bad.

“Another,” he demanded, his eyes still closed. She shook out another pill and gave it to him, and his body relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, his head lolling to one side.

She sat back on her heels, wondering what to do now.

“Can I rest my head again?” he asked, sounding like a little boy asking for a treat. She scooted toward him and settled her skirts, picking his head up to lay it in her lap again. “Much better,” he said in a sigh.

After about five minutes, Mary saw his face visibly relax, and his eyes begin madly rolling under his eyelids. He must’ve dropped off to sleep, which was good; she knew rest was the best thing for someone who was ill.

But what was he ill with? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a consistent illness.

He’d been fine the whole time they were riding, but then he’d become ill again. Besides influenza, she hadn’t had much experience with treating illness; the most foreign illness any of her father’s parishioners had ever come down with was gout, and the only cure for that was abstinence from fine wine and food.

She didn’t think he was guilty of overindulgence—his body was lean and muscled, and he’d eaten hardly anything in the twenty-four hours they’d been together.

“So lovely,” he crooned. He must be dreaming about the mysterious Judith again, Mary thought. She patted him on the shoulder while glancing up at the sky. It would be completely dark soon, perhaps in a half hour.

She was thinking about getting up to arrange their beds and settle Primrose, when he grabbed hold of her hand, still resting on his shoulder.

He yanked her down so she lay entirely on top of him, his other hand clamped on her backside to hold her still. “So soft,” he said in a whisper. He slid his hands up and down her back in a soothing, gentle motion. Then onto her backside again, which he squeezed with a firm hand.