The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

“Very well. If you attempt to escape me, I will tie you to Fearless and let the two of you sleep close tonight.”

There was one bush, some ten feet away. He waved toward it. “Go.”

He was standing in the same spot when she returned a few minutes later. Slowly, she raised her arm.

He tied the rope around her wrist. “Come,” he said, and pointed to the tent.

The tent was barely large enough for the two of them. He’d spread a blanket on the ground, stacked the supplies at the back to use as pillows. He’d tethered Fearless close by.

Once she was lying on her side, her back to him, he stretched out on his back beside her. With the other end of the rope tied to his wrist, he realized neither of them could move. “Turn toward me.” When she didn’t move, he said, “I won’t rape you. I’m tired. It has been a very long and strange day. I wish to sleep. Do as I tell you.”

She sat up, pulling the rope tight between them. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. It isn’t right. I am a lady.”

“That remains to be see

n. Come here.”

Merryn didn’t want to lie down beside him, touch him, rest her cheek on his shoulder, even though he still wore his tunic. He was a stranger, a young stranger, a young stranger with power and excellent parts. She was afraid of him and yet she wasn’t. It was a conundrum. “What if it starts raining?”

“The tent is sturdy, solid. However, if it rains hard, we will get a bit wet.”

“I know of a small hut just down the way, toward Sennen. We could shelter there.”

“No. I’m tired. I don’t want to take another step tonight.” He jerked on the rope.

She rolled over toward him and very slowly, afraid of touching him, she eased down beside him. She was stiff as the wind that was picking up outside the tent. A hard, dry wind, one that didn’t carry the scent of water. At least not yet. He pressed her face against his shoulder. When he realized she didn’t know what to do with her hand, he merely picked it up and laid it on his chest.

“Go to sleep,” he said. “You are safe from me, unless you start your chanting again.”

“I wasn’t chanting. I was singing. What will you do if I start chanting?”

“Tether you to my horse’s saddle and let you walk behind us.”

She didn’t know him well enough to judge if he would really do something like that. Better not to risk it. “I won’t chant.”

“Good.” He said nothing more. She lay there, thinking she’d never before in her life lain this close to a man. He was big, too big. His heartbeat was steady beneath her palm. She realized that every breath carried his scent. He smelled nice. No, it was more than that. He didn’t smell old. That was it. Merryn closed her eyes. Why had he brought her here? Was he really going to stake her out in the rain?

If it rained.

9

BISHOP WAS A LIGHT SLEEPER, something that had saved his life at least three times. He would awake, instantly alert at the sound of Fearless nickering from a distance of twenty feet. He would awake at the sound of twigs breaking beneath someone’s foot beyond the next hillock. He would awake if someone was breathing ten feet from him.

But this time he hadn’t awakened, hadn’t even stirred, when sometime during the night Merryn had climbed on top of him. He lay there, amazed that this could have happened. She was sprawled, arms and legs spread, just like a blanket, her head pressed under his chin, and every female part of her nicely placed against him, very closely against him.

He forced himself to lie still, get his wits together. He could hear the wind off the sea coming over the cliffs, a light wind, but constant, as it usually was from the sea. He could smell the salt water, but he couldn’t scent any rain in the air.

Not yet. It was too soon for the rain.

As he lay there, he was aware of everything about her, not just the soft body that fit so nicely against his. He could feel her deep, easy breath against his neck, feel her fingertips curled around his shoulder.

How in the name of Saint Malcolm’s hoary palms had she gotten on top of him without him even stirring?

He heard Fearless blowing outside the tent. He pictured his stallion, head to the cliff, the light wind in his face as he bobbed his head up and down, doing a dance with the wind.

She was on top of him, her belly was against him, and he was harder than the ground beneath his back. She was too close, too close. Surely she would wake up soon, surely she would feel him hard against her belly. Surely she would open an eye and be shocked to her toes, toes that he’d caressed. He felt one of her feet lying across the top of one of his.

By Saint Anthony’s wristbone, he could reach his hands down and ease them up her gown, feel those legs of hers. He knew they were long, he’d seen her walk, seen the wind flatten her skirts against those legs of hers, but he wanted to feel them, stroke her flesh. He wanted to hold her foot again, lightly touch her small ears.