An owl hooted. Oliver gave her a black look. ‘I’ll have my Judas kiss.’
‘My hair’s caught.’ Vainly, she tried to pull her hair out from under his fingers. ‘You’re hurting.’
‘Hurting? I could kill you for this!’
His head swooped down and his mouth met hers in a kiss utterly unlike any she had ever had. It was all hate. His lips ground against hers. His fingers were curving into her shoulders like talons. A sob rose in her throat, he was bruising her soul and that hurt far more.
As his mouth pressed cruelly against hers, the owl hooted again. He lifted his head. Behind him, a twig cracked and something shifted at the edge of her vision. Her every nerve felt as tight as a bow-string, any tighter and she would snap. The pitiless, silver eyes never left her. Oliver’s lip curled. He seemed to be waiting for something.
The shadows deepened and her breath stopped. ‘Oliver! There’s someone...’
‘I want to see your face,’ he muttered. ‘I want to watch as you see me betrayed.’
He made no sense. His grip on her shoulders tightened. And over there in the dark, a figure was moving. Stealthily. They were being stalked!
She shoved at his chest. ‘Someone’s behind you!’
‘My angel.’ His tone was not loving.
‘Don’t look at me – turn around!’
‘And present you with my back?’ He snorted. ‘I wouldn’t turn my back on you if you were the last person on earth. What price did you set on my capture? A silver penny? Or was it thirty pieces?’
She didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. ‘Holy Mother,’ her voice cracked. ‘Look behind you!’
His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on her. She gripped his arms, the muscles were tense, corded like rope. Why wouldn’t he listen? There was something out there, something malevolent...
She choked down a sob. ‘Oliver, please...’
She thought he winced, but no, it must have been a trick of the light. His face was like marble. Immovable. There was a blur of movement and a heart-sinking thud as something connected with his skull. His body jerked against hers.
‘Oliver!’
‘Judas.’ His eyes, though clouding, were on her.
There was another blur of movement and this time she caught a glimpse of a cudgel. She tried to ward off the second blow. Oliver held her away from him. It flashed into her mind that he might be protecting her.
His body sagged. His groan clawed at her insides. She gripped his arms to give him support, but he was pushing her away. Holy Mother, she realised with dawning horror, far from protecting her, he was keeping her from him. He couldn’t bear to touch her. His eyes closed. As he fell he took her with him.
She scrambled to her knees. ‘Oliver,’ she whispered, though she knew from the way he’d fallen that he couldn’t hear her. He was still as a corpse and his face was a ghostly blur. Dead? Shaking top to toe, she touched a lean cheek and felt his breath.
The undergrowth rustled.
‘Who’s that?’ She wrapped her arms about him, she could see nothing but shrubs outlined against the stars. Oliver’s sword hilt was digging into her thigh. His sword hilt? Her mind raced – if she could but draw it, she’d make his assailant pay a toll for his brutality...
A few yards away the shadows solidified. Four men stood there, silently watching them. Four. Her heart hammered. ‘You shan’t hurt him!’ she said, fumbling for the sword. Her voice trembled. One of the four flung back his hood and the gesture rang a bell in her mind.
‘Father Eadric?’ Her fingers froze on the sword hilt. She couldn’t attack a priest, even if it looked as though he consorted with outlaws.
‘The same. Thank you for your help, my child. You may go, the path you are seeking lies yonder.’ A bony finger pointed upstream.
‘Father?’ She kept one hand on Oliver’s hair, the other closed on his sword hilt.
‘Go, child,’ the priest said softly. ‘You have no business here and the less you know, the better.’
The others edged closer.
‘Go.’
‘I...I don’t understand.’
‘Eadric, get rid of her,’ one of the men said, squatting by Oliver’s feet. He had bushy eyebrows and thick, untidy hair. Leaning forward, he slapped her hand from the sword. Heart in her mouth, she shuffled back, watching as he unbuckled Oliver’s sword belt.
Who were these men? Outlaws? Angevin rebels?
Drawing the sword, the man lifted the blade and moonlight gleamed along it. He whistled with approval. He was so busy with the sword that he hadn’t noticed Oliver’s purse had fallen to the ground when he’d pulled off the belt. Rosamund flicked her skirts over the purse and rushed into speech. ‘Who are you? What are you doing?’