ON THE RUN
Arabella looked around, her horror giving way to a strange wonderment. She was in the darkness in the woodlands, an outcast from her home. She was wearing a tanner's apron, her face streaked with grime, her feet clad in slippers that were almost torn to ribbons. Her hair was damp and knotty, and bruises flowered on her arm, cheek and temple.
Her hand was in the hand of a man she was falling in love with. His touch made her shiver. They walked on into the woods.
Here, the trees grew close and a sort of silence hung over the woodlands. The silence had a scent she recognized: a fresh, cool smell that spoke of moss and damp and memories.
“The brook's this way,” she whispered.
“The brook?”
“Aye. It runs past the fortress. Feeds the lake and the moat.”
“Oh.”
Arabella nodded to Richard as his eyes brightened and she knew he was thinking what she was thinking: if they crossed it, the dogs would lose their scent. They walked together to the bank.
Richard hesitated.
“It's quite wide.” He looked down at the silvery, whispering water where it coiled between the banks, making a sound like whispers as it ran.
“It's easy, though,” Arabella countered. She lifted the trailing under-shift and stepped into the water. Richard, not to be outplayed, followed her in. Together, they emerged on the other side. Arabella gritted her teeth to stop them chattering. The brook was icy and the night, though a summer one, was cold.
“I...just think...we should stop somewhere, soon.” She forced the words out through teeth that chattered. Richard frowned with concern.
“Here,” he said. He was wearing a plaid – part of the rather unconvincing musician disguise – and now he removed it and draped it round her shoulders.
“Thanks,” Arabella muttered, feeling warmth seep into her as she pulled its rough-spun comfort round her torso. It seemed to help instantly.
Together, they walked on through the woods.
“Woodsmen,” she said.
“What?” Richard asked, bending down to listen closer.
“Woodsmen,” Arabella said loudly.
“Where?”
She sighed, cheek lifting in a pallid smile. “Nowhere yet,” she murmured. “That's the point. We need some.”
“Won't they detain us?” Richard asked, frowning. He looked down at them and Arabella took in at a glance what he meant – with his soiled kilt on, his shirt torn at the sleeve and clearly too small for his powerfully built body, and she in her stained silk shift, they could have been a painting of runaways.
“Well, no,” she said, smiling. “They like me.”
“Milady!” he breathed, horrified. “You can't risk your true identity.”
“I can – they knew me from when I was a child,” she insisted, knowing it to be true. “They like me, my brother and sister. Not our father – not so much.”
Richard raised a brow and she nodded.
“My mother was the lady of this place. She married an outsider and they have long memories here. Besides,” she added, grinning, “we played here with their children, too. They like us.”
Richard shrugged uneasily. “If you say so.”
“I do. Now come. Let's go and find them.”
Richard followed her, though Arabella could tell he didn't like it. He was hanging back, his steps slowing as they neared a path. In the dark, it was impossible to tell where to go. Though she'd known this forest all her life, Arabella wasn't sure of the direction. She knew it must be somewhere ahead, the woodsmen's cottages, but as to where she wasn't sure.
“Breathe,” she said.
“Milady?”
“I said, take a good breath in. Smell smoke. If you do, we're close.”
She did what she'd suggested and heard Richard do likewise. Together, sniffing theatrically, they walked on down the path. Arabella laughed.
“Richard, you're making me laugh. You'll inhale half the forest, like as not. Hush, now.”
She saw him grin. “I will not!” he said, smilingly. “I would need a snout on me like a truffle-pig to get even halfway close.”
“A truffle-pig!” They were both laughing helplessly, which was why, presumably, the man on the path heard them coming. Arabella jumped as he spoke out harshly.
“Who's that?”
“It's the lady Arabella,” Arabella said with complete authority. “And I need your assistance.”
Her voice fell into absolute silence. Beside her, she felt Richard tense.
Together, they watched as the man – tall, with a wild mass of curly hair and a vast chest – squint mistrustfully down at her. She swallowed hard as his eyes narrowed and he seemed to be thinking hard.
Maybe this was a stupid idea, she thought a little desperately, heart thumping, hair prickling on her scalp as the man studied them both a long while. What was he planning? Would he alert the others? Capture them? Call the guard?
As she glanced at Richard, planning to run, he cleared his throat.
“Milady!” the fellow said, astounded. “It is you! Bless me! What are you doing in that dress? Come on! Get on with you! Let's get out of this cold.”
As he marched ahead, muttering about crazy youths and what they got up to, Arabella took Richard's hand. Together they followed the man into the darkness. They walked to his house.
“Och, milady! Get yerself by the fire now!” the man demanded as soon as they were inside. Arabella grinned at his peremptory speech and then grinned more widely at Richard's astonished expression.
“He knew me as a babe,” she said to Richard, who sighed.
“I suppose that authorizes him to boss you about,” he said in English. “Myself, I'd box his ears for him.”
“Richard! He's helping us.”
He nodded. “I know. All the same, it chafes at me to hear him talk so to you.”
Arabella smiled as he sat down beside her and together they held their hands to the blaze. She couldn't help the sweet warmth in her heart as she noticed how protective he was. She leaned back a little, conscious of the warmth of his body behind her. The heat flooded into her hands and she felt herself relax even as she heard Richard lean on the stone mantel, turning to face her.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
She turned and grinned at him, feeling a flush warm her face with sweet excitement. “Och, you,” she said dismissively, though she couldn't keep the soft note from her voice. “In this?”
She swept a hand down her body, indicating the tattered remnants of her under-dress, the rough linen apron still girded over the front, vaguely odorous of whatever it was that permeated the tannery.
He reached over and, carefully and deliberately, tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Her body flooded with warmth. His eyes held hers and a sort of melting longing spread up through her being and made her want something she didn't quite understand.
“Arabella,” he said.
She swallowed hard. The longing inside her became slowly stronger and she felt it grow to flood her body. She smiled and lowered her eyes.
“Richard.”
His hand, on the hearth rug, slipped over hers. She let hers lie there, her heart beating so loud she was sure he'd hear it as his fingers stroked her own. Her whole body shivered as he touched her skin, stroking it gently and firmly in a way that thrummed through her. She sighed and made herself open her eyes as she heard someone cross the earthen floor behind them.
“So. Milady, milord,” he added, bowing to Richard as though he'd only just seen him. “It's time for me to go abed. Up with the lark.”
“Yes, Dougal,” Arabella nodded, recalling the old woodsman's name.
“Aye! Thank you, milady,” he added, though she'd done nothing. “Goodnight milady.”
She heard him walk across the floor, his heavy, dragging footsteps first quieting and then disappearing.
Arabella looked at Richard, her heart thumping hard. They were alone together.
Arabella breathed out as his fingers closed on her own. He lifted her hand. Clasped it in his. Very gently, he lifted it to his lips.
She stopped breathing as his lips nibbled at her knuckles, so gentle on her skin. She closed her eyes and he turned her hand over, kissing the palm, then the wrist. It felt as if flames flickered down her body, intense and warm, consuming her, as he kissed down to the tops of her fingers.
“Richard,” she whispered. “Please, don't.”
He let go of her hand. His eyes were haunted. He looked at her with a mix of intensity and pain.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
“No,” Arabella said, feeling the slow heat start to grow inside her again.
He frowned. “No?” he asked.
“No,” she made herself say, though her lips were tense as if they did not want to let the words go through. “There's nothing to forgive.”
He sighed and leaned forward, all the tension going out of him. He closed his eyes, his one hand clasped on the cornice of the fireplace, his head pressed onto it.
“My lady,” he said raggedly. “I am...I should not. With you here, beside me, it's difficult not to...” He stopped. His eyes met hers. Wild and passionate, they held an intensity that she felt, though she could not put it into words.
“Oh, sir,” she whispered. “It is difficult.”
He smiled at her and gently reached out to touch her chin. She sighed and shivered as his touch brushed her neck, stroking the sensitive skin under her chin. She closed her eyes and it was natural, after all, to lean forward just a little so that his hand rested on her shoulder and then, without their planning it, he drew her into an embrace.
He lowered his mouth to hers and she drew in a shaky breath as, tenderly, his tongue pushed apart her lips and softly, gently, tasted her.
She sighed and leaned against him as his tongue brushed against hers, sweet and soft and probing as it pushed against her own. He tasted sweet, and his lips on hers were warm and insistent, pushing against her lips, his mouth exploring hers.
His arms were tight around her now and she held herself against him, the feel of his strong chest pushing against hers making her heart thump faster and her blood warm in her veins as she leaned against him. She wanted him so badly, though she didn't know what it was she wanted. Against her breasts, she felt him tense suddenly.
“My lady,” he said. When he looked at her, his eyes were sightless, his voice tight with longing.
“My lord,” she whispered.
“We mustn't,” he said, shaking his head. “I can't. I am a fool.”
She sighed. Her body was on fire. She knew her life would change forever in this moment, in the wake of the choice she made now. However, if she chose differently, she would have denied something that her very marrow ached for.
“I cannot do that to you,” Richard murmured. “It is not my time.”
His hand was on hers, she looked into his agonized face, and suddenly a sweet realization spread through her, a knowing that whatever she did, her life was already irreparably altered. That, in this moment, as a vagabond, she had the right to choose precisely what she wished to do.
“It is my wedding night,” she said.