“Why not?” she whispered, stalling for time as she tried to discern what was directly behind her. A log she would have to leap over, or vines she could smash through?
“Because it would be reckless and foolish,” he said softly.
“Perhaps that is what is called for in this situation.” Log. It was a log behind her.
“You would never get away, Cassia.”
“I might.”
“I would catch you.”
“Then I would be in much the same position I am now.” And behind the log, a suspiciously bright green patch.
Bog. Avoid.
“Not precisely. Because then I would be angry.”
She nodded shakily. He had a point. “Of course, you would have to catch me first.”
“Och, lass, I would catch you,” he said, sounding almost regretful.
Her fingers bit into the gnarled tree bark behind her.
He took a step closer. “What other choice do you have?”
His words rung in her head.
She was weary of having no choices.
She broke and ran.
Panting wildly, darting back and forth, she banged low-lying limbs out of her way with an upraised arm as she ducked beneath them and leapt over downed trees. She could hear nothing but the sound of her own erratic, frantic breathing.
Then, low and distant, came the sound of a set of boots, following behind.
Her heart climbed in her throat. She ran faster, chanting every prayer to every saint of lost causes she could recall. There were a great many of them, and one never knew who was listening this night.
She heard him pursing her, tracking her, which would not be difficult. There were only so many women fleeing through the woods tonight, tearing apart low clouds of mists, shredding them, leaving a trail of broken specters in her wake.
She met a creek and splashed through the middle of it, wetting her skirts to the knees, then clambered up the far, muddy side, and stumbled to a halt. Leaning over, she put her hands on her thighs, panting.
After a moment, she straightened and held her breath, listening.
No sound of pursuit.
She took off running again, cutting sharply to follow the waterway. Flowing water would eventually lead her back to Rose Citadel, or at least to houses and people.
Proof of her theory came when she stumbled onto a dim, barely discernible path, a silvery-brown track in the trickling-down moonlight.
She ran all-out now, her heart and legs pumping, hair flying. Even if she’d wanted to listen for pursuit she couldn’t have; her labored breath was all she heard. She could hardly see, either; her hair was flying all about.
She turned once to look over her shoulder, a wild glance that revealed nothing but the moon-washed thread of a tiny track, unraveling behind her.
She faced forward again, giving her a split second to see the Irishman had somehow got in front of her, and was standing in the middle of the path.
She hurtled directly into him, straight into his armored body and toppled them both over, him backward, her on top.
For a second she was enshrouded in the hard, dark power of him, his cape whirling around them like bat wings, their breathing hard and hot and labored, mingling together.