He nodded slowly. “It seems far.”
“I don’t think I can.” Shameful, shameful fear. Was she to crouch here on the bailey wall then, until someone spotted them?
“Would it help if I pushed ye?”
She almost laughed. “Aye, that would help immen—”
He put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her off the wall. She didn’t have time to scream or even feel scared, before she landed with a soft bump on the mound of rotting flora. She scrambled to her feet just as he dropped down beside her.
“You’ve lost your wits,” she hissed.
In a flash, he towered above her. The heat from his powerful torso shimmered between them, hovering at the edges of her tunic. Senna threw her head back, startled.
“Mistress, I’m fairly certain ye’re a few stones shy of a full load yerself.” He lightly touched her upper arm for emphasis. “Now, hush.”
She shivered at the rush of something his fingers created. She could not rip her eyes from the sight of him, so close. His torso was long and lean but sturdy, wide shoulders tapered in clean, muscular lines to trim hips and powerful thighs. Corded muscles in his neck and arms were defined by the moonlight, and tangled black hair spilled down past his shoulders. His face was carved in moonlit angles, his chin square and firm. The growth of hair on his face made him appear rough-hewn and wild, but then there was that heart-stopping smile.
The Irishman was sinfully handsome.
Her breathing grew shallow, but the rush of heat to her face was simply a result of the drama of the escape. Surely.
It was the rush of heat to her loins that was so bewildering.
His dark eyes flicked back to hers in question. “Which way?”
She looked around. The castle grounds, while tumbling into disrepair, were enormous, built over the years into a veritable village within the castle walls, filled with twisting turns and dead ends. Keeping an eye on the buttressed main gate was only minimally helpful, because they could not take a straight path toward it, across the wide-open training fields. They must keep to shadows and corners.
A series of low, thatched buildings ran in a fairly straight line away from them just now, and would provide some concealment. But beyond that dubious shelter, there could be anything. Guards, swords, battle.
“This way,” she said firmly, starting off, then hesitated. “I think.”
His eyes gleamed in the moonlit dark. “As ye say.”
“But I am not certain—”
“Ye’ve a better sense of the keep than I,” he said shortly. “Do not doubt yerself.”
She marched off. “You’d best be alert, Irishman, for I’ve no idea to what end I lead us.”
“I am ever alert. There is no need to caution me in that.” His soft voice wafted through her hair, and her skin prickled in unwelcome response.
Soon the main gate loomed before them, black and bone-like. Finian gripped her arm and, to ensure her silence, put his finger over her lips. She inhaled sharply at the touch. His eyes darted to hers. He shook his head in silent warning. Her head dipped in a nod.
He disappeared for a few moments, then his hunched form reemerged out of the darkness. “The sloth of the guards is inconsistent. The gate is occupied, although perhaps not guarded too well.” She looked at him. “There is a fine argument brewing. Something about gambling. And a woman. They are drinking.”
“A fight and liquor will bring even more puppets to the gatehouse,” she predicted glumly.
“Well, then,” he murmured, “let us have a hope they are all as inept as their lord.”
That was a dim hope. These were the baron’s men, fed on his evil, and while they might not be bright, they did not need to be particularly accomplished in their wits to notice two people slinking around the castle gates long after Lauds had rung. Especially not when one was a six-foot Irishman who was supposed to be shackled in the baron’s prisons.
The cloud of gloom beginning to billow over her must have been noticeable even through the darkness, because Finian considered her a moment, then leaned close.
“Courage,” he murmured.
“I haven’t a bit of it,” she whispered in reply.
“Ye’re made of it.”