The Elusive Bride. Deborah Hale

I have to get as far away from them as I can.”

      “Let me come with you then.”

      She hesitated, and for an instant Rowan could see his own doubt, suspicion and intrigue mirrored in her face. Her searching gaze weighed him in the balance. He shrank from the prospect that she might find him wanting.

      “Very…well,” she said at last, with audible reluctance. “You might be of some use. Only, try not to slow me down.”

      Slow her down? Rowan almost snorted with contempt at the notion. Never had a woman challenged him so. Yet he sensed it was no idle boast. This strange, compelling creature might well put a man to the test.

      Rowan stirred from his musings only to realize that his companion had turned away and widened the gap between them. By the time he closed it, he was panting so hard he could scarcely gasp out the first of many questions that piqued him.

      “Since…we’re…going to be…traveling together…don’t you think you should…tell me your name?”

      As they scrambled onto the riverbank and set off through more woods, the girl cast him a sidelong glance in which he read amusement mingled with exasperation. “I’ve come to your aid twice now, sir. The forest garth at Wenwith Priory, in case you’ve forgotten.”

      Forget her? Rowan could scarcely imagine it.

      “If one of us owes the other an introduction,” she continued, “I believe it is you.”

      Though his pride bristled at her suggestion, he had to admit the justice of it. “Very well.” He drew a long breath. Could he trust such a creature with the truth of his identity? One minute posing as a nun, the next a thief. Pursued by figures of some authority—to what end?

      “My name is…John.”

      Perhaps she recognized his hesitation for a lie. “John of Shrewsbury?” Jesting skepticism textured her words.

      For reasons not fully clear to him, Rowan felt he owed her something nearer the truth. “John FitzCourtenay of Ravensridge.”

      The girl stopped so abruptly, Rowan was several steps past before he realized it.

      “Then…you are kin to Lord…Rowan DeCourtenay?”

      The sound of his name on her tongue sent a shiver through Rowan. He dismissed the idea as nonsense. Surely it was no more than the cool dampness of his clothes.

      “Aye. His bastard half brother.” The outrageous claim almost made Rowan laugh aloud. The bones of his haughty, pious father must be twirling in their tomb! “Do you know him?”

      The girl grinned ruefully and set off walking again. “I shall soon know him very well. My name is Cecily Tyrell. By Empress Maud’s command, I am Lord DeCourtenay’s intended bride.”

      Rowan walked smack into a tree.

      The impact stunned him less than Cecily Tyrell’s revelation.

      “Have a care!” she scolded. “If you injure yourself, I shall have no choice but to leave you behind.”

      “It’s nothing. I’m…I’m fine.” And so he was. Apart from the wild dance his heart jigged in his chest. Apart from the pulse singing in his ears like a chorus of a thousand bees.

      Apart from the all-but-forgotten sensations that stirred in his loins. “You took me by surprise, Lady Cecily.”

      Inwardly, Rowan chided himself for not guessing earlier. They’d scarcely met, yet already Cecily Tyrell wreaked havoc with his wits!

      “So you know about me! Did his lordship send you to Brantham to fetch me?”

      “Yes.” Rowan grasped the suggestion like a lifeline. “I…he spoke with Empress Maud at the Devizes. I was sent to bring you to Ravensridge for the wedding.”

      Cecily Tyrell swiftly crossed herself. “Our Lady must be looking out for me. This is the best of good fortune that we should meet.”

      Strangely, Rowan found his own spirit resonating to her words. For all she turned his world on end, meeting up with her at this time and in this place did feel like good fortune. “I thought…that is, I wondered if…you might have run away to avoid marrying…my brother.”

      “I might have, if it would have done the least good.”

      Her disarming candor made Rowan choke with laughter.

      “Please don’t tell him I said that. Men are such proud creatures. The fact is, I’m in terrible trouble and I need your brother’s help. If I have to wed him to get it—” she shrugged “—then I will, that’s all.”

      The thick, moss-covered trunk of a fallen oak blocked their path. Rowan clasped Cecily’s hand as she scrambled over. Even as he released it again, a faint prickling sensation traveled up his arm. Rowan frowned. His body was behaving in the queerest fashion of late. Once they reached Ravensridge, he would purge himself with a good physic.

      Until then, he tried to distract himself by satisfying his curiosity. “This trouble you’re in—does it involve those men who gave us chase?”

      Without breaking stride, or wasting breath to reply, she nodded. Then, perhaps deciding she owed him a fuller explanation, she said, “One of my old suitors came calling when he found out I’d fallen heir to Brantham. Instead of posies and courting gifts, he brought an army to secure my hand. The men who chased us are his. No doubt he’s discovered me gone by now. He’ll soon have his people scouring the country for me.”

      “How did you manage to get away?”

      She stopped then, and Rowan stopped as well, to catch his breath. By her look of intense concentration, he could tell Cecily was listening for sounds of pursuit. She appeared heartened by what she did not hear. When she set off again at a somewhat slower pace, Rowan fell in step with her.

      “I made it a condition of Brantham’s surrender that Fulke allow a band of refugee lepers to depart unmolested. I donned the robes of a dead leper and went out with them.”

      Rowan shook his head in disbelief. Though he could not help but admire her audacity, there could be no question of his marrying such a woman. He’d partially reconciled himself to the notion of a meek, biddable wife. Those two words were the last he would ever use to describe this unbridled hoyden.

      He would take her to Ravensridge, then do everything in his power to help her recover her keep. But marriage? That was clearly out of the question, Empress or no Empress.

      Something compelled him to ask, “This suitor of yours—were you fond of him before the war? Do you spurn him now simply because he is Stephen’s man?”

      “I liked him very little before.” The aversion in her tone grew harder and colder with each word she spoke. “After the outrage he committed today, there is not a soul in Christendom I detest above Fulke DeBoissard.”

      Rowan collided with another tree. This time it rocked him so violently that he fell to the ground, ears ringing.

      They rang with Cecily Tyrell’s last words to him. There is not a soul in Christendom I detest above Fulke DeBoissard.

      On that point, Rowan decided as he staggered to his feet, they were in complete agreement.

      Cecily shook her head. “You must watch where you’re going. Can you go on? We’re almost to the hills. I know some caves where we can hide until nightfall.”

      “Lead on, lady. I promise to watch my step from now on.”

      When Cecily glanced back, she could see John FitzCourtenay weaving on his feet. She tried to stifle an exasperated sigh. Men could be such a hindrance at times. At least this one wasn’t swaggering and pressing his masculine authority to take the lead. Something about his dogged persistence laid claim to her sympathy.

      Dropping back several paces, she took his arm. “Lean on me until you get your balance back.”