She pressed her ear to his chest. Nothing. With a sob, she found his mouth and listened again.
A flutter of breath feathered across her cheek. The relief had her sagging against him and for a moment it was enough to kneel at his side and press her head against him. Even when he was unconscious, there was comfort to be drawn from being close to him. Hand resting gently on his head, she inhaled his scent. It was calming. Except, a faint metallic scent caught in her nostrils. Blood. He hadn’t stopped bleeding.
Wishing she could see, she felt for the knots at his wrists. She must free his hands. She began to fumble with the rope, but when she heard a gale of laughter coming from the fire outside, her fingers faltered. Perhaps not. Not until he was awake and could defend them. She didn’t like to think what they might do if they discovered she’d loosed his bonds.
The door rattled and her head shot up. Someone with a lantern was peering through the gap, the weak light threw his face into sharp relief. The bushy eyebrows and shaggy hair were familiar, this was the man who’d stolen Oliver’s sword.
‘Here’s what you asked for,’ he said, stepping inside and depositing several things on the floor – the lantern, a couple of jugs, a bundle... When his mouth twisted, Rosamund saw with a frisson of unease that he was staring at her breasts, her hips. She shifted closer to Oliver and his grin widened.
‘Is there’s anything else you require, little lady? I wouldn’t want a proper ‘lady’ like you to go missing your...’ he sneered at Oliver’s recumbent form ‘...usual comforts.’
Rosamund tightened her grip on Oliver. ‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘I have all I want. You may go now.’
The man’s eyes glittered. ‘You may go now,’ he repeated, sidling towards her. ‘Why thank you, ma dame, for your condescension. I will go, but not before you have thanked me more prettily than that. On your feet, ma dame.’
Her throat went dry. Realising she was clutching at Oliver’s tunic, she forced her fingers to uncurl. ‘If Sir Oliver were awake, you wouldn’t dare to address me in such a manner.’
‘You’d be wrong there, sweetheart.’ Taking her shoulders, he hauled her up. He smelt rank, like a fox. ‘There’s much pleasure to be had in seeing a knight squirm. Doesn’t look quite so fine lying there like a corpse.’ He gave Oliver a sharp kick in the ribs. ‘A corpse.’
‘Don’t hurt him.’ She strained away, trying to break free, trying not to breathe in the rank stink of fox.
‘One little kiss?’ Pointedly, he drew his foot back a second time.
‘If you’ll let him be.’ The bile rose in her throat and she shut her eyes. She wished she were anywhere but here. In the south of England perhaps, where Oliver had come from. But of course she was not in the south, she was in a squalid hovel near the edge of the moors and this...this outlaw had her pressed up against him. His fingers felt like claws and they were scraping across her breasts. She gagged – she was going to be sick.
‘Wulfric!’ Someone called from the campfire. ‘Be sure to lock that door.’
Wulfric swore and his grip slackened. Muttering under his breath, he bent to wrench at Oliver’s bonds, checking they held firm. As he straightened, he gave her a look that made her feel he’d ripped the clothes from her back. When he reached the door, the lamplight turned his hair to fire and he gave her a mocking bow. ‘Until tomorrow, ma dame. When the ransom’s been paid, we’ll see who’s to have you. Eadric owes me and I’ve a mind to collect.’
The door groaned and he was gone.
Quivering inside, Rosamund listened. She didn’t trust him not to come back as soon as she moved away from Oliver. Low-voiced mutterings and unruly bursts of laughter were coming from the fire-pit. Would they really keep her here? Were they talking about what they were going to do with her after Oliver had returned to the castle?
God help her, she was never going to escape them. Father Eadric had tried to warn her. Her nose wrinkled, she could still smell fox. They would never release her, she’d seen too much. Holy Mother, help me.
Oliver! She glanced down, the blood on his tunic looked black in the lamplight. She had to help him. His head...
She examined the supplies. One jug looked as though it held ale – tentatively she sniffed and tasted it. It was ale, sour ale. The other jug held water. It looked and smelt reasonably fresh, but there was nowhere near enough and there were no bandages, not even a cloth. Sighing, she glanced at the door. She must make do with what was here, plainly, she would gain nothing but trouble by complaining.