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Shattered Vows(58)

By:Carol Townend


‘Psst!’

Rosamund’s head snapped round. A hawthorn rustled.

‘Psst!’ Someone gave a hiss of indrawn breath. ‘Blast these spikes!’

The man’s accent was foreign, but Rosamund had heard that voice before. She struggled to place him, and his face danced out of reach.

More splashing pulled her gaze back to the crossing point. Lance wouldn’t need the stepping stones, by now he would surely be across...

‘Psst!’ The man hissed again. ‘You want to get away?’

She hesitated, whoever he was, he was shrouded by leaves and shadows. ‘Who are you? How do I know I can trust you?’ She found herself backing towards the river – Oliver, even when in a rage, was preferable to a nameless, faceless man.

She heard a short laugh. ‘It’s Father Eadric. Daughter, have you forgot so soon the priest who wed you?’

‘Father? What are you doing?’

‘Trying to save your immortal soul. I’ve been watching you. You’re trying to escape your noble lover. I doubt you’ll outrun him on this road.’ The bushes parted and a cowled figure stepped onto the track. He flung back his cowl and the moonlight played over his face. It was indeed Father Eadric.

Her breath came out in a rush. ‘Father! Thank God.’

‘Amen to that,’ Father Eadric replied, voice dry.

‘Father?’

‘Come, my child. Follow me.’

He melted into the bushes with scarcely a rustle and she plunged after him. Hawthorns snatched at her damp skirts and she jerked them free. She was beyond caring about rips and snags in the pink fabric.

‘No horse will get through the scrub,’ the priest said. ‘I doubt your lover’s seen you, but if he has, he’ll have to dismount. Keep to the path. It winds by the river, heading west. You’ll be safe. When you reach the bridge, join the road to the moor at the crossroads.’

Rosamund came to a dead stop. Something felt wrong. Father Eadric seemed to have everything mapped out and all she had was questions. Was he really going to leave her?

‘Can’t you show me the way? Father, if the moon goes in, I’m bound to get lost. And what-?’

‘God be with you, my child.’ The priest sketched the sign of the cross in the air, and she bent her head as she crossed herself.

When she looked up again, Father Eadric had gone. The scent of hawthorn hung in the air. The branches were still swaying where he had pushed them aside. What an odd man. She was alone. Standing by the river bank, quite alone.

Except...she wasn’t quite alone, there was a crashing in the bushes behind her.

‘Rosamund!’ It was Oliver. He sounded furious. ‘Rosamund!’

How had he found her? He couldn’t have seen her coming this way, for he’d not left the bank when she’d followed the priest. Yet here he was at her heels.

Turning, she fled down the track, her hair unravelling as she went. Desperately, she shoved it over her shoulder. Thorns and nettles bit through her stockings. Her cloak caught on a branch and the clasp – already weakened by Aeffe – gave way with a pop. Her cloak fell away. There was no time to collect it, Oliver was gaining on her, she could hear him. She could visualise that well-honed warrior’s body tearing grimly along behind her.

‘Rosamund! For God’s sake, stop!’

Her stride broke, he wasn’t angry, he sounded desperate. When he used that tone, she could almost imagine him pleading with her, asking her to stay...

‘Rosamund!’

She faltered. She hated herself for being so weak, but he did sound desperate and she wasn’t made of stone. Slowly, she turned, and there he was – closing the distance between them, pausing only to snatch up her cloak. Chest heaving, he stood before her and his flurried breath fanned her cheeks. His eyes glittered. Ruthless and predatory. Lord, he was livid, she shouldn’t have stopped.

He dropped her cloak. As if waking from a trance, she made to run, but she was too slow. Strong fingers bit into her shoulders and caught in her hair.

‘That hurts!’ Her breath was as uneven as his and her hair was an untidy cascade about her face. Intentionally or not, he was pulling on it.

His grip eased, but he didn’t release her.

‘Oliver, I had to go. Don’t you see? I made my vows to Alfwold and I must speak to him. I’m not free and I won’t be damned for a man who can’t love me!’

‘Mon Dieu, you’re a honey trap!’ With a bitter laugh, Oliver gave her a hair-tangling shake. ‘You knew I’d follow you! You witch, you knew they’d be waiting. You knew from the start!’

His voice was so filled with loathing it was almost unrecognisable. As for his face – she was blinking up at a stranger.