Rexanne Becnel (12 page)

She wiped at her eye as a tear trickled down her cheek and sniffed back any further hint of tears. Crying did no good—she’d learned that lesson many years before. Yet she was hard-pressed to stifle the anguished sob that caught in her throat. She was cold, soaked to the skin, and the prisoner of a ruthless blackguard. Her future was indeed bleak, but she would never let
him
see her despair.

With that firm resolve her only comfort, she peered around her with reluctant curiosity. The sea continued to rise; the wind roared across the little island, bending trees and bushes low with its fury, and pushing the rain in almost horizontal sheets before it. Protected by the wide trunk of the oak, Joanna stared out at the storm and felt an odd kinship with it.
Howl for me,
she thought.
Cry and moan and beat the world down.

Then from the corner of her eye she detected a movement, and her gaze sharpened. Across the churning stretch of water and farther down the opposite shore several riders appeared. They were hunched against the storm and struggling to control their unhappy horses.

Rylan’s henchmen, she realized at once. Were they looking only for her, or had they realized that their erstwhile leader was missing as well? In an instinctive move of self-preservation she eased herself behind the tree. Though the wind buffeted her there and the huge raindrops stung her back and arms, she did not care. She only watched the men as they continued up the beach.

There were three—and she singled out the last one as Kell. Slowly they moved nearer the place where the causeway lay, covered now by the sea. Did they know the Isle Sacré? she wondered. Would they suspect that she and Rylan were there? Apparently not, she realized minutes later as they continued past, sparing the island only a cursory glance. And if they did not know, she reasoned, their search might take them elsewhere so that, by the time the storm departed and the tide receded, she might still have a chance to escape. Of course, there was still Rylan, she thought sourly. But he was just one man and he could not stay alert forever.

Fortified by that knowledge, she looked back over her shoulder toward the dark growth of oaks and willows that covered the island. He was there somewhere with his horse, and eventually she would have to deal with him. But for now she would stay out of his way. Let him wonder where she was and what she was up to, she decided. Besides, he was so angry right now, there was no telling what he might do. One angry blow from his hand would very likely kill her.

But as she sought a quiet secluded place to hide, Joanna knew that, more than his angry blow, she feared the violent passion he’d shown her last night. Both his and her own.

She made her way cautiously down a narrow trail littered with leaves and branches. She knew there was a retreat house and a small chapel on the island. Also a rather large cemetery. Isle Sacré had been considered hallowed ground since before recorded memory. The cemetery was an odd rambling affair with markers that ranged from crude stones to carved masterpieces, as well as mature specimen trees planted in memoriam. The graves were the final resting places of all manner of folk, from the most common to titled nobility. But they all had in common a distinct trait. They had each lived saintly lives—pious, sacrificing, and good. And though they were not recognized by the church as saints, those whose lives they’d touched honored them by this choice of a resting place.

When Joanna reached the broad clearing that marked the cemetery, she made a fervent sign of the cross and lowered herself to her knees.
Help me find a way,
she prayed to the souls whose bodies reposed beyond her.
Intercede with the Lord for me and show me the path I must take.
Then she pushed her wet hair behind her shoulders and looked around.

There was still no sign of the beastly Lord Blaecston. Would to God the wind had blown him away! But she held out no hope for that. She shivered at a particularly harsh blast of wind. More than anything she needed to find shelter—to dry her clothes and rest until the rain stopped. Then she would have to find something to eat.

Although she did not know precisely where it was, after only a short search she discovered the chapel. It was set on the seaward side of the island, on a rise that provided a generous view and was protected from the weather only by three towering elms. The Holy Trinity, she remembered the trees being called. The biggest was the Father, the seaward one was the Son, and the third—the broadest branching of the three—was the Holy Ghost.

Bending low against the thrust of the unrestrained storm, holding her skirts in one hand and her hair with the other, she fought her way toward the chapel, then nearly collapsed when she reached the sturdy back wall. She was trembling from the chill bite of the wind as well as from her exhaustion. Too much had happened to her in the past two days. Yet Joanna knew she must not give in to the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. So far the storm had aided her. If not for the wind and rain, she would by now be entrapped in that horrid man’s castle.

Blaecston, she fumed. Black fortress indeed! Where else would one expect such a black-hearted rogue knight to dwell?

As the wind howled and the three elms groaned and creaked in the powerful blasts, Joanna summoned the very last of her energy. Around the corner of the chapel she edged, closing her eyes to the biting strength of the storm. With head bent low and her hand against the mud infill of the cruckwork structure, she felt her way to the chapel door.

But instead of providing her entrance to her sanctuary, the simple wood door became one more obstacle. For the wind held it firmly closed, and no matter how she tugged at it, it was far too heavy.

“By the blood of St. Theresa!” she cried in frustration as she edged the door open only to have it slam closed again at a particularly strong gust of wind.

“Allow me.”

Joanna gasped in alarm as a strong hand closed over hers. With one jerk Rylan forced the door open, sheltering her from the wind with his tall frame as he did so.

Joanna was too panicked by his sudden appearance to react. She only stood there, sandwiched between him and the stout door frame, staring up at him with her mouth agape. Then she realized his hand still covered hers, and all her battered emotions came alive.

“Get away from me, you … you huge oaf!” She tried to yank her hand from beneath his to no avail.

“Don’t be a fool!” he bit back. With one foot he propped the door open. Then he grabbed her elbow, pushed her past the doorway, and followed her inside.

The door slammed with an ominous thud, and for a moment everything was black. Joanna was conscious of his hand still gripping her arm; that, and the fierce pounding of her heart. Sweet Mary, was nothing to ever go right for her again?

As her eyes slowly adjusted to the small chapel, she realized that four high windows made of rare glass panes instead of thin scraped hides did admit some light. But her quick glance around the holy place did not promise any escape. Once more she was in his vile clutches.

But to her surprise it was Rylan who released her arm, almost as if he could not bear to touch her. Joanna, however, did not pause to ponder his reaction. She only scurried away from him, backing around the simple slab altar so that there was something between her and her hateful captor.

She watched with wary eyes as he moved leisurely around the dim chapel. But though his movements were casual, she could not mistake his tension. His eyes were sharp and narrow, and she was certain he fought to slow his breathing. Then he turned to face her and she took an involuntary step backward. Oh, he was tense, all right. He was filled with a fury that was barely contained. When he crossed the small space with three long strides, then placed both hands on the altar and leaned forward over it, she resolved to be extremely cautious with her words, for he appeared fully capable of murdering her.

“You, madame, are the most bothersome wench I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet!”

“Me!” Joanna’s vow of caution flew right out of her head at his harsh words. “Me! Why you—you—”

“I have had more than enough of your willfulness. ’Tis clear now why your father sent you to that priory. Had he been forced to deal with you on a daily basis, he would no doubt have been moved to throttle you!”

At the mention of her father, Joanna’s fury turned to an icy rage. “As ever, you speak of things far beyond your knowledge. Only a foolish woman, with neither heart nor brains to commend her, would consent to your foul plan without dissent.”

“You call running off into the forest at night—when any number of beasts are out—mere dissent? You call flinging yourself into a raging flood and trying to swim a storm-plagued sea mere dissent?” he bellowed. “Of all the foolishness—” He broke off and forced himself to lean back from the altar. But his glittering stare never left her face. “God preserve me from the madness of women!”

Joanna laughed, a shrill unnatural sound in such a holy place. She was perilously close to hysteria, pushed beyond endurance by the glowering man who pursued her so doggedly.

“As I wish to God He would rescue me from the sordid likes of men like you!” Unwelcome tears started in her eyes and she whirled away from him, refusing to let him see any weakness in her. Spying a niche with a statue of the Virgin Mary in it, she fell to her knees before it, bowed her head, and began fervently to pray.

Strike him dead. Drown him in the sea. Cast him blind and dumb! Just please, please preserve me from the arrogance and madness of all men.

Her tears splashed on her tightly clasped hands but she dared not wipe them away, for then he would know she wept. She heard the howling of the storm—the steady pounding of the rain against the roof and the constant roar of the sea. The wind rattled the windows and seemed to tear at the sturdy little chapel. But within there was silence.

Joanna had no idea how long she remained on her knees before the unlit niche. But she was aware of the puddle forming around her legs from her soaked gown, and she felt the steady drip of water from her hair and trailing sleeves. Then he exhaled—a loud disgusted sigh—and moved around the altar to her side.

“Come along, Lady Joanna—”

“Don’t touch me! Not ever again!” she shouted as she jerked away from his strong grasp.

“Not ever?” he mocked even as he caught her elbow once more. “That’s rather impractical. We’ve a fire to build and clothes to dry. If we work together it will be much easier.”

“’Tis not my wish to make things ‘easier’ for you,” she spat.

“No, I did not imagine it was,” he replied in an unexpectedly calm voice. “But nonetheless, you will do as I say.”

The very moderation of his tone in the face of her absolute fury was the most devastating blow he could have dealt her, for it drove home to Joanna like nothing else could that her wishes meant nothing to him at all. He would have his way, no matter how she protested or what she did. It was such a bitter realization that all the fight drained from her, to be replaced by a weariness that went bone-deep. She could no longer run; she was unable even to fight his adamant grip on her arm. She simply did not have the strength.

When he pulled her away from the niche, she followed unresistingly. She was only vaguely aware that he now seemed somewhat at a loss. Like an aggravating dog chasing passing carts, he didn’t seem to know precisely what to do with her now that he’d caught her. How appropriate, Joanna thought with an inward grimace.

But he was not at a loss for long. Keeping his hand firmly around her wrist, he peered out through the thick panes of glass.

“As soon as the rain eases we shall make our way to a cottage I found very near here. There’s a fireplace and a small amount of wood. Perhaps we’ll find some food as well, for it appears your reckless flight has stranded us both for the duration of the storm.”

Joanna refused to look at him, although she knew he had turned to stare at her. She kept her gaze fixed on the yellowed image of the trees beyond the window, following their swaying movement in the storm’s onslaught. Yet she could not suppress the odd shiver that went through her—almost as if he were caressing her and not simply studying her. Like a heated finger his eyes slid down from her stubborn profile and tightly clenched jaw to her jutting chin and stiff posture. His hand shifted slightly on her wrist and her heart began to beat faster as his gaze moved lower. She cringed inside when she realized how her soaked gown clung to her breasts and outlined her thighs and derriere.

Oh, but he was the vilest man on earth, she thought, sending him a furious glare. But no matter what he did, she would manage to thwart him. She would never accept some lackey of Rylan Kempe’s as her husband. And somehow—somehow!—she would find a way to escape the grim future he planned for her.

When they left the chapel, Rylan kept his left hand on her wrist and his right arm around her shoulders. Joanna neither wanted nor appreciated his supposed effort to protect her from the storm, for she knew it was just a disguise for his true intent. He wanted only to prevent her from running away from him again.

As if she had anyplace to go, she silently fumed.

Across the cemetery they ran, past newer graves mounded with broken chalk and ancient ones covered now with yellow clematis and wild honeysuckle, until they reached a sheltering grove of birch trees. There stood another cruck structure, a small cottage built of great bent tree trunks filled in with mud and plaster. A chimney protruded from its thatched roof, and a small porch projected beyond the huge bent oak timbers at the gable ends. Rylan yanked the door open, pushed her in before him, then slammed the door on the howling gale outside. Both of them stood on the hard-swept dirt floor, gasping for breath for the first few minutes.

Joanna’s eyes swept the small neat cottage—anything to avoid looking at him. The one time she’d been on the island, she’d only been thirteen. She and the rest of the youngest aspirants had slept in or under the wagons they’d come in. For a week they’d worked in the cemetery and the chapel, clearing and cleaning and generally putting things to right. The three sisters who had accompanied them had slept in this cottage, but Joanna had not even set foot inside it. Now she saw that it was a very plain affair, but nonetheless comfortable. And reasonably clean, as if someone had been there recently.