Part 7 (2/2)
His patience was not tested. ”He lost the wager and wouldn't pay up.” The murderer's voice lifted and fell unevenly, clear evidence of his overindulgence.
”And you've got more b.a.l.l.s than wits or not enough of either, and I'll not be paying for it. Go get him,” Balffe ordered, unfolding his beefy arms and striding forward, a mountain in motion.
”What?” The guard hooted and staggered backward out of the captain's reach. ”And be made into mutton by the Irish who stalk the castle walls?”
”Which would make you a sheep, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.” The mountain took a step closer. ”I don't care if the G.o.dforsaken Saracens have left the Holy Lands and landed in Ireland.” He took another step forward. ”I don't care of they're sharpening their scimitars and grinning at you, you rotting piece of dung-you're going out there.”
Grabbing the man's gambeson and mail covering between his thick fingers, Balffe hauled him up to eye level, a not average feat of strength. ”You drag his body back inside, now, now, or I'll hang you by your b.a.l.l.s.” He flung the hapless guard down and pointed to several others. ”You, and you, and you,” he ordered, ”go with him.” or I'll hang you by your b.a.l.l.s.” He flung the hapless guard down and pointed to several others. ”You, and you, and you,” he ordered, ”go with him.”
Muted curses followed the reluctant volunteers down the winding staircase.
”Come,” Finian whispered in her ear.
He gripped her wrist and tugged her to hover in the shadows by the crenellated barbican tower as the monstrous portcullis was raised. Creaking chains sounded and a dog barked. The men hauling the gate up grumbled contentiously-night duty was supposed to carry its own rewards, most notably an absence of tasks requiring attention.
The iron grate was finally high enough for the four men to pa.s.s under it and over the lowered wooden draw. What with their grumbling and cursing, and the gory interest in their morbid task from those above, neither the soldiers nor the watchers from atop the tower noticed the two hunched and hooded figures who glided out behind them. Nor did they espy the shadowy shapes as they turned away and dropped into a dry but remarkably noisome defensive ditch.
Senna felt Finian's hand on the back of her head, pus.h.i.+ng her down the side of the drop-off. She fell flat on her stomach. He dropped on top, covering her body with his.
”Hummphh,” she groaned as all the air was pressed out of her.
”Silence,” came his hissed reply.
”I can be nothing but, as you are lying on top of me-”
His hand snaked under her, sliding over parts of her body in the most startling ways, and came up by her mouth, which he overlaid with a broad palm.
She lay quietly as, above them, the soldiers grumbled in their efforts to retrieve the dead man. Grasping an extremity in hand, the foursome carted the mangled body over the draw and into the castle. The creak of heavy chains sounded again, and the barred gate clanged back into place. Silence descended.
”Up. Now, before their attention turns back.” Finian knelt between her legs and looked down at her flattened body, half submerged in the dirt. He pulled her out and turned her over.
Her face was covered with a fine film of dirt, her nose and cheeks red and creased. She was so covered with grime that the front of her tunic was barely distinguishable from the ground beneath her.
”That was close,” she whispered.
Finian held out his hand to help her rise. ”Quite.”
He stood beneath, pus.h.i.+ng her up over the side of the ditch. She finally curled her body over the lip. ”Next time, all I ask is that I be on top.”
Finian, with one thigh thrown over the top, his arms flexed to support his weight, froze. An enormous grin spread over his features as he hauled himself up.
”As ye wish it, angel.”
Their hunched figures were but small, dark spots on the darker landscape as they crawled away from the castle. Finian led her to the edge of the road and they sped away into the night, disappearing into the vast Irish wildside.
Chapter 12.
They halted briefly an hour later beside a wide, rus.h.i.+ng stream, a tributary of a larger, more riotous river flowing some fifty steps away, behind a long, narrow copse of trees.
Finian knelt at the water's edge and adjusted his tunic. His arms burned from the effort of lifting them overhead. By chance, his eye caught Senna. She was staring, her lips slightly parted.
”Ye might want to turn away, la.s.s,” he suggested quietly.
She spun so quickly her braid lifted in the air, then thumped against her back. The curls poking out at the bottom bounced in small, ruddy ringlets at the dip of her spine. He looked at them a moment, then turned back to the river.
”I'll need but a trice.”
”Take all the time you need. And I've seen men before,” she added sharply.
”Umm.”
He tore off his leine, leine, the traditional knee-length tunic, and tossed it over the boulder beside him, then waded into the frigid stream. Kneeling, he gave his body a rough but thorough scrub with the small, sand-like pebbles that covered the riverbed, was.h.i.+ng away the stink of the prisons. His skin rippled p.r.i.c.kly-hot at the freezing temperatures, and he dunked his head under the water. Coming up again, he shook himself like a dog, spraying water droplets. With the palm of his hand, he flipped his hair off his forehead and turned. the traditional knee-length tunic, and tossed it over the boulder beside him, then waded into the frigid stream. Kneeling, he gave his body a rough but thorough scrub with the small, sand-like pebbles that covered the riverbed, was.h.i.+ng away the stink of the prisons. His skin rippled p.r.i.c.kly-hot at the freezing temperatures, and he dunked his head under the water. Coming up again, he shook himself like a dog, spraying water droplets. With the palm of his hand, he flipped his hair off his forehead and turned.
A tunic and pair of leggings came sailing over and landed on his face. He dragged them off. Senna's back was still conspicuously toward the river, as if she were aiming it at him. But her head was turned in his direction slightly, so that her chin sat on her shoulder.
”You'll want something clean and English-looking to put on,” she mumbled.
”My thanks.”
”And in any event, I didn't have one of”-her hand waved vaguely in the direction of his hips-”those.”
Even from this distance, even through the moonlight, he could see her cheeks flush pink. And he did not have to see anything at all to know this was due the fact she was not fully turned away. She'd been watching him.
He pulled the tunic over his head. Once his leggings were on and laced, she turned. Her gaze didn't quite meet his.
”Are we quite ready?” she asked in an imperious voice.
”I am ever ready, Senna. Why don't you take off yer skirts?”
Her jaw dropped. Everything about her shone in the moonlight. Her bright, wide eyes, her lower lip, now wet as her tongue slipped along its fullness. That long, chestnut brown braid, which trapped the wild, rampant curls.
”M-my gown?”
He stepped closer. ”Ye have leggings on under? And a short tunic? Aye. Then, off with it.”
Her cheeks flushed so brightly he could see it through the moonlight, but she was already pulling it over her head, huffing something incomprehensible while under its folds. He took it and threw it away, next to his leine, leine, halfway behind a large rock on the streambed. It looked as if the clothes had been hidden, but poorly. halfway behind a large rock on the streambed. It looked as if the clothes had been hidden, but poorly.
Quickly he took a head-to-toe appraisal of her-it was impossible not to, with leggings that skimmed her thighs so snugly-then he turned away and shouldered his pack again. But in the time it took to make the visual sweep of her body, he heard a small, quick breath slip out from between her parted lips.
”Let's go, then,” he said.
She spun on her heel, took her very pink cheeks, and stalked away down the path they'd been following for the past hour.
”This way, Senna,” he called out softly, turning back the way they'd come.
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