Part 7 (1/2)
Nodding curtly, she swung away, leading them to a corroded section of the inner bailey wall, an easy ascent of some eight feet. Gripping the loose, crumbling footholds, she scrambled up. A small stream of rubble broke loose, and she went sliding halfway back down the wall.
Finian stopped her with his shoulders and arms. They froze, holding their breaths, completely still, his hands firm and warm on her ribs, her b.u.t.tocks resting on one of his shoulders. She tried to ignore the startling rush of heat his touch brought to her face and other, less moonlit regions of her body. Nothing moved in the night. She looked down, he looked up, then he cupped her bottom with both hands and pushed her the rest of the way up the wall.
Flinging herself to the top, she spun and crouched down, hand extended. Finian leapt up without effort and without touching her hand. He smiled as he came up, just the slightest all-knowing, roguish lift to the corner of his mouth. That That was about how he'd touched her when he hoisted her up the wall. She ignored it and turned, still in a crouch, to peer over the other side. was about how he'd touched her when he hoisted her up the wall. She ignored it and turned, still in a crouch, to peer over the other side.
He crouched beside her, his body hot and strong. Ten feet below was a small pile of clippings from the castle garden. Ten feet was nigh on two of her.
”'Tis a long way down,” she whispered tautly.
He turned in her direction. His face was shadowed. ”Not so far, la.s.s.”
”Far enough.” Could he hear panic in her voice? It had frozen her fingers to the lip of the wall.
He nodded slowly. ”It seems far.”
”I don't think I can.” Shameful, shameful fear. Was she to crouch here on the bailey wall then, until someone spotted them?
”Would it help if I pushed ye?”
She almost laughed. ”Aye, that would help immen-”
He put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her off the wall. She didn't have time to scream or even feel scared, before she landed with a soft b.u.mp on the mound of rotting flora. She scrambled to her feet just as he dropped down beside her.
”You've lost your wits,” she hissed.
In a flash, he towered above her. The heat from his powerful torso s.h.i.+mmered between them, hovering at the edges of her tunic. Senna threw her head back, startled.
”Mistress, I'm fairly certain ye're a few stones shy of a full load yerself.” He lightly touched her upper arm for emphasis. ”Now, hush.”
She s.h.i.+vered at the rush of something something his fingers created. She could not rip her eyes from the sight of him, so close. His torso was long and lean but st.u.r.dy, wide shoulders tapered in clean, muscular lines to trim hips and powerful thighs. Corded muscles in his neck and arms were defined by the moonlight, and tangled black hair spilled down past his shoulders. His face was carved in moonlit angles, his chin square and firm. The growth of hair on his face made him appear rough-hewn and wild, but then there was that heart-stopping smile. his fingers created. She could not rip her eyes from the sight of him, so close. His torso was long and lean but st.u.r.dy, wide shoulders tapered in clean, muscular lines to trim hips and powerful thighs. Corded muscles in his neck and arms were defined by the moonlight, and tangled black hair spilled down past his shoulders. His face was carved in moonlit angles, his chin square and firm. The growth of hair on his face made him appear rough-hewn and wild, but then there was that heart-stopping smile.
The Irishman was sinfully handsome.
Her breathing grew shallow, but the rush of heat to her face was simply a result of the drama of the escape. Surely.
It was the rush of heat to her loins that was so bewildering.
His dark eyes flicked back to hers in question. ”Which way?”
She looked around. The castle grounds, while tumbling into disrepair, were enormous, built over the years into a veritable village within the castle walls, filled with twisting turns and dead ends. Keeping an eye on the b.u.t.tressed main gate was only minimally helpful, because they could not take a straight path toward it, across the wide-open training fields. They must keep to shadows and corners.
A series of low, thatched buildings ran in a fairly straight line away from them just now, and would provide some concealment. But beyond that dubious shelter, there could be anything. Guards, swords, battle.
”This way,” she said firmly, starting off, then hesitated. ”I think.”
His eyes gleamed in the moonlit dark. ”As ye say.”
”But I am not certain-”
”Ye've a better sense of the keep than I,” he said shortly. ”Do not doubt yerself.”
She marched off. ”You'd best be alert, Irishman, for I've no idea to what end I lead us.”
”I am ever alert. There is no need to caution me in that.” His soft voice wafted through her hair, and her skin p.r.i.c.kled in unwelcome response.
Soon the main gate loomed before them, black and bone-like. Finian gripped her arm and, to ensure her silence, put his finger over her lips. She inhaled sharply at the touch. His eyes darted to hers. He shook his head in silent warning. Her head dipped in a nod.
He disappeared for a few moments, then his hunched form reemerged out of the darkness. ”The sloth of the guards is inconsistent. The gate is occupied, although perhaps not guarded too well.” She looked at him. ”There is a fine argument brewing. Something about gambling. And a woman. They are drinking.”
”A fight and liquor will bring even more puppets to the gatehouse,” she predicted glumly.
”Well, then,” he murmured, ”let us have a hope they are all as inept as their lord.”
That was a dim hope. These were the baron's men, fed on his evil, and while they might not be bright, they did not need to be particularly accomplished in their wits to notice two people slinking around the castle gates long after Lauds had rung. Especially not when one was a six-foot Irishman who was supposed to be shackled in the baron's prisons.
The cloud of gloom beginning to billow over her must have been noticeable even through the darkness, because Finian considered her a moment, then leaned close.
”Courage,” he murmured.
”I haven't a bit of it,” she whispered in reply.
”Ye're made of it.”
She almost laughed. ”Hardly. What I am is reckless and headstrong and I don't listen particularly well-”
His arm wrapped around her shoulders. ”I don't need to be told those things, la.s.s,” he whispered directly into her ear. ”Ye're the candle at night, nothing to hide. Ye also talk a great deal, and were ye to find it in yer heart to save a poor Irishman's life, please do so now by shutting yer lush mouth a few moments.”
Her tongue was nailed to the roof of her mouth as she stared into the dark Irish eyes inches from her own.
Just then the outline of the two patrolling soldiers walked by in a circuit around the castle walls. Finian froze. The weight of his muscular arm, slung over her shoulders, was oddly comforting. They heard a rough laugh, then there was silence.
Senna inhaled a shaky breath and her life slowed to the pace of a languid breath of air on a hot summer day. She wanted to stand just as they were for a very long time. She wanted his hand to dangle, just as it was, barely brus.h.i.+ng against nipples grown tingling hard.
How odd and strange everything was. Here she was, in a foreign land, fleeing a man who wanted to force her into marriage. Here she stood, s.h.i.+vering outside a prison wall, tucked under the arm of an Irish warrior, her body behaving as it never had before.
Strangest of all, this didn't seem strange.
He removed his arm. She s.h.i.+vered, suddenly noticing the chill. They started for the gate, only to hurl themselves against the side of a building a moment later when a clamor of shouts and curses rang out. The two guards ran back to the guard tower, now ablaze with lights. Out on the rampart stood several dark figures.
”b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,” came a hushed, almost reverent whisper, at odds with the crude curse. The penitent was bowed almost in half over the edge of the stone tower, gazing into the shadows below.
”By your b.a.l.l.s indeed,” another agreed, his harsh voice bouncing down the ramparts to them. ”The p.r.i.c.ker threw Dalton right over the battlement!”
The shouts grew louder. Finian and Senna looked at each other.
”Break it up,” one voice broke through the melee. Balffe, the huge captain of the guard, waded through the mess evident at the top of the tower and stared over the wall. ”Christ Almighty, Molyneux, you've killed him dead.” He looked back up and glared at the perpetrator. Hairy forearms folded over his chest as he waited for the pathetic explanation.