at the trees, looking for the telltale flash of a slipper or gown, but he doubted that she would try the same trick. While his eyes flicked over the surrounding area, he tried to make himself think along the convoluted lines that the lady’s mind followed.
She would not just walk through the woods; she had proved that before. Would she double back and sneak around the wagons? Was she, even now, on the other side of the roadway? No, Dunstan swore his men would not be that remiss. He had placed guards all around the perimeter of the camp, and she would truly have to be a witch to weave her way among them.
With the swift judgment that was his ally in battle, Dunstan decided his course and moved deeper into the forest as quietly as possible. He was certain that he would find her somewhere up ahead, but he was just as certain that she would use her wiles to try to hide from any pursuit.
Dunstan’s long strides ate up the ground, giving him an advantage, if only she did not veer off in another direction. A straight, fast walk carried him through a dry riverbed where a broken branch made him smile grimly. He was on her trail, all right, and would soon overtake her.
He was surprised by the strange thrill of victory that rushed through him at the knowledge. It was as if he had won a skirmish through strategy alone, and yet there was something more to it, an unknown component that added heady pleasure to his triumph. Ignoring the strange pulsing of his blood, Dunstan concentrated on the ground, which ended abruptly in a great outcropping of rock. It rose before him, barring his way and forcing him to choose a new path.
Cedric came up behind him, breathing fast, but saying nothing while Dunstan surveyed the landscape. In a glance, he took in the surface of the stone, and rather than strike left or right, Dunstan continued on, moving closer to the face. Slowly, he began to walk along in front of the ridge, a sly smile lifting his mouth just as a certain suspicion entered his mind.
“Caves. There must be caves here,” he murmured.
“Caves?” Cedric echoed.
“Aye. There will be caves,” Dunstan said. And she will be in one of them. Knowing what he did of the lady, he suspected this was just the sort of trick she would try. Dunstan moved forward, his practiced gaze running along the rock until he found the branches of a bush that had obviously been disturbed, with the deep black of a telltale hole behind it. “There,” he said softly to a dumbfounded Cedric. “She will be there.”
Pushing the growth aside, Dunstan stooped to peer into the darkness, but he could see nothing. The foolish chit, to crawl around in there without even a light! Caves could be dangerous places, liable to drop off into fathomless caverns without warning, not to mention the vermin, vipers and beasts that might be harbored there. Dunstan shut out a sudden vision of the little wren lying broken or mauled upon the cold stone.
“Make me a torch,” Dunstan ordered curtly, and Cedric quickly gathered a fistful of rushes and bound them together. While Dunstan peered into the hole, the squire produced a piece of flint from the supplies at his belt and struck a spark against the steel of his dagger.
“Lady Warenne?” Dunstan shouted into the space. Nothing greeted him but silence. With a grimace, he took the makeshift light from his squire and pushed aside the bush.
“Wait here,” he told Cedric over his shoulder. “If I do not return, summon Walter, but do not follow me.” He thrust the fire inside the cave and saw that the floor was solid. “Lady Warenne, I am coming in after you,” he announced. Stepping inside, Dunstan finally heard a sound ahead, and he moved toward it impatiently, determined to beat the woman soundly when he found her.
“Dunstan! Watch out for the—” Smiling grimly as he recognized her voice, Dunstan lunged forward, banging his forehead firmly against a jagged ledge. “Overhang,” Lady Warenne finished lamely.
Dunstan staggered back a moment, fury blazing as pain shot through his head. He would kill her. He was going to kill her. Righting himself, he stretched out an arm to lean against the cave wall and tried to contain his rage. He had never lifted his hand to a woman in his life, had never even been tempted, but Lady Warenne was something else entirely. “Come here now,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I am sorry, Dunstan, but I cannot,” she answered, her voice musical in the enclosed chamber.
He counted to ten, something he had not done since he had lived at home and his younger brothers’ pranks had driven him beyond endurance. “Why not?” he growled.
“I am afraid that I have twisted my ankle and cannot walk very well. I suppose I could crawl...” Her words trailed off forlornly just as though she were put upon, and Dunstan let astonishment wash over him for a moment before he swallowed the worst of his ire.
With a grunt, he stepped forward, stooping until he was nearly bent double and all the time cursing her under his breath. The cave dipped and turned and then there she was, a huddled heap in the glow of the torch, only a few yards from the entrance really, but hidden by the twist of the tunnel. She was seated upon the floor of the cave backed up against the wall, looking pale and anxious, and Dunstan felt more of his anger slip away.
For a moment, he considered handing her the fire, but something told him that she would probably set his hair ablaze—accidentally, of course—should she gain possession of it. Giving the tight quarters one last look, Dunstan dropped the flame and reached for her. She was light and warm in his arms, like a wounded bird.
He was surprised to feel the wild beating of her heart, which gave away her distress even though her manner did not. So, the lady was not so calm as she pretended! That discovery did something to Dunstan’s insides, but he ignored it, and, crouching low, made his way the short distance back to the entrance, remembering to duck especially deeply at the outcropping.
Fighting past the bushy growth, Dunstan finally straightened, glad to see the light of day once more.
Without sparing a glance at his squire, he pulled the form in his arms up closer to his chest and studied her with a fierce glare. She looked perfectly composed, if a bit dusty, and she had the gall to assess him in return.
Before he could launch into a diatribe about reckless, runaway women, her gaze lifted to his brow. “You are injured!” she cried softly. He felt her fingers, infinitely gentle, against his skin, and without thought, Dunstan leaned into the touch. Her face was but inches from his own, her huge eyes fixed on his forehead, her wide mouth parted, and Dunstan felt an ache that had nothing to do with his injury.
He noticed the curve of her cheek and the way her pale skin glowed with a slight rosy flush. Only when she lifted up her cloak to dab at the blood, did Dunstan realize he was staring. “‘Tis but a scratch,” he grunted.
“Nay. You must let me tend it,” she protested. Her voice was low and melodious, like the purr of a kitten he had once held as a boy, and Dunstan was drawn by it. The hood of her cloak had fallen, revealing that wild riot of dark curls as a perfect frame for a heart-shaped face that was so vivid, so remarkable.... She is not beautiful, he told himself.
Or was she? Dunstan found her as intoxicating as spiced wine, an interesting mixture of sweet and tangy and heady. He pulled her closer, enjoying the soft roundness of her small body, and saw her take in a sharp breath in response. Her eyes flew to his own, the concern in them changing to surprise, then something dark and alluring, like wanting.... He pressed her hip against his groin, where he had grown suddenly hard, and watched her gaze drop to his lips. Day of God!
Some sound from Cedric drew Dunstan out of his daze, and he deposited the lady on the ground just as though she were a thorny
