‘I’ll try, the rope is very tight.’
He let out a short laugh. ‘My hands have lost all feeling.’
‘Like your heart,’ she murmured.
‘What’s that?’
Colouring, she bent over his bonds. ‘You warned me that you could never feel affection, but I never thought you’d go as far as this in your efforts to deny it. I can only wonder why you bothered to come after me.’ She tugged and pulled at the ropes. ‘There, it’s coming loose, only a moment...’
The rope fell away and briskly he shook his hands. The blood flowed back, bringing pain in its wake. Wincing, he flexed his fingers. She watched him from under her eyelashes.
‘We’re lovers then,’ he shot at random.
Her nose lifted, she looked away.
He grinned. ‘I see I found the mark with that. Well, I’ve learned one thing about myself – I know a good woman when I see one.’
She huffed out a breath. ‘Oliver, this is no laughing matter. We’re held by a mob of Angevin rebels who seem likely to cut our throats.’
‘Angevin rebels? Are you sure? I seem to recall something.’ He rubbed his temples. ‘Hell and damnation, the pain cripples all thought.’
Her eyes were huge in the lamplight. Her chest heaved. ‘Saints, I do believe you’re telling the truth. You really can’t remember.’
‘Finally, she believes me.’
‘I believe you.’ The hut door rattled and she went white. Oliver flicked the lantern shut, plunging them into sooty blackness. ‘It’s best our jailors think I’m out of it.’
‘Your hands,’ she breathed. ‘They’re bound to notice.’
‘Shield me. Stay close.’ Pulling her down beside him, he lightened his tone. ‘Lord, Rosamund, the feel of you. Later, you’ll have to refresh my memory on certain...er...aspects of our relationship.’
The door grated. Someone was creeping towards them.
‘Wake up, girl.’ A harsh voice cut through the dark like a knife. ‘Wulfric’s here.’
Rosamund went rigid, she couldn’t help it. She clung to Oliver and his arms tightened about her. She could hear the thudding of his heart. He wouldn’t let the outlaw take her – he might have lost his memory but his nature wouldn’t have changed. He would protect her.
‘Hey, lass, come here. Get away from that dog.’ A hard boot thudded into her thigh.
‘Is he armed?’ Oliver muttered, soft as a sigh.
She nodded. ‘A sword and a dagger,’ she murmured. Oliver’s sword and dagger, if he did but know it.
‘Lead him on.’ Oliver’s breath warmed her ear and his arms fell away. ‘He must be disarmed. Mind you stay close.’
Her skin crawled, though she knew this was a chance they had to take. She stirred and stretched as though waking from sleep. ‘Wulfric?
A skin-shrivelling hand found her waist. She allowed the outlaw to roll her onto her back, almost gagging at the sour stink of his sweat. Her hands came up to fend him off before she’d thought to stop them.
‘You want it rough?’ Slapping her hands aside, the man caught her by the hair, using it to pin her to the ground. Tears started to her eyes. He was fumbling at her breasts – clumsy, bruising, sickening caresses. As she tried to jerk out of reach his nails dug into her, gouging her skin through the stuff of her gown. Panting, she held back a moan. She couldn’t endure this much longer. He was pushing up her skirts, moving over her...
‘No!’
A hard hand cracked against her cheek. ‘You do want it rough.’
She caught the sound of a sharply indrawn breath. Not Wulfric’s. Nudging Oliver with her foot, she fought for calm.
‘Wulfric, I won’t fight you, but you must be gentle. And do, pray, remove your sword – the hilt’s digging holes in my hip.’ She squirmed, praying that Oliver had enough sense left in his head to follow her lead. Wulfric was suffocating her. He stank. She was about to be sick...
Wulfric grunted and eased away. She felt him twitch and a strangled cry came at her through the dark.
‘Oliver?’
She heard a choking gasp – someone was fighting for air. It couldn’t be Oliver, for he’d had surprise on his side. Wits in turmoil, praying she was right, she strained her ears.
Panting. Threshing. Grunts...
The lamp – where was the lamp?
They crashed into her, knocking the breath from her body. Rolling away, she scrabbled desperately for the lantern. The noises were chilling but muted – thuds, groans, gasps. A sickening drumming sound. She was cold to the bone.
What’s happening?
She found the lantern and wrenched open the shutter. Oliver sat astride Wulfric, who had a rope round his neck. Rosamund stared, frozen with horror, as Wulfric clawed frenziedly at the rope. His face was purple and the veins in his neck engorged. He was kicking like a madman.