He stood there, as she knew he would. She opened her mouth to speak, but he moved quickly, putting his hands through the bars and covering her mouth as he shook his head for silence.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of his skin, absorbing the warmth of his touch. She had gone most of her life without a man’s touch—how had it suddenly come to mean so much? And not any man’s. This man’s hands, scarred and lying.
She turned her face and pressed her mouth against the scarred palm. He moved closer, up against the iron bars, and slid his fingers through her hair, caressing her. The bars were icy cold against her face, his hands were cold as well, and she could see her breath in the shadowy moonlight.
This was one time when she couldn’t count on her knowledge, her wisdom, her years of study. She could only look into her heart. She plastered her body against the iron bars and reached for him.
The feel of his body against hers was heaven. He kissed her, but the bars kept him from deepening the kiss, and she shivered in frustration. It was a silent dance of longing and despair, mute reassurance that she could only take on trust, and he’d given her no reason to trust him.
It didn’t matter. When he drew away he touched her with his elegant, loving hands, and she believed in him. She lay down on the pallet, and he drew the covers tight around her. And then he knelt in the cold, his arms through the bars, and held her, until she slept.
When she awoke the next morning she wondered if she’d dreamed it all. If she’d conjured Simon of Navarre out of thin air in her longing for him. There was no sign he’d been there. The frozen ground behind the wagon left no trace of footprint.
She must have dreamed it.
The guards released her for her morning ablutions, and she stumbled into the woods with Madlen close at her heels to relieve herself. The forest was still and silent, no bird calls sounding in the frosty morning, and even Madlen was grimmer than usual as she led her prisoner to a swift flowing stream.
Alys knelt down and dipped her hands in the icy water, splashing it over her face. She could only hope that, as it washed away the sleep, it would also wash away the treacherous fantasy of the night before. If she was to escape from this current disaster with her life intact she would need all her wits about her, and no sentimental weaknesses to betray her.
She dipped her hands again. Madlen was looking toward the camp, a disgruntled expression on her face, and she’d wandered a few steps away from her captive, obviously believing Alys was too cowed to attempt an escape.
Escape was the foremost thing on Alys’s mind. She looked up, across the narrow stream, trying to judge how fast she could move, whether she had any chance of getting away from her brother and hiding in the forest It was unlikely, but it was the only chance she might have, and she tightened her muscles, getting ready to spring forward across the stream, when she saw a sight that shocked her.
It was a face in the undergrowth. A face she knew and loved. For a moment she thought she was dreaming again, that her hopeless wishes had conjured up the beautiful face of her sister.
Alys cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, but Madlen had wandered farther still, out of earshot but not out of sight, and Alys had no doubt she would move fast enough if her charge ecided to make a run for it. She wasn’t a heartless woman, but she had her own well-being to consider, and her loyalty to her mistress had been easily abandoned. Alys turned back, wondering if Claire’s face would have disappeared once more, but she was still there.
“We’re going to rescue you,” she whispered, the sound barely traveling across the burbling stream.
“We?”
“Thomas is here as well.”
“Run away,” Alys said desperately. “Don’t risk your own safety. I’ll be fine—Richard wouldn’t really hurt me.”
“He’ll kill you,” Claire said flatly. “And we both know it. They have some grand plan to release you but they’re not telling me.” She sounded aggrieved. “Just be ready to flee as soon as you’re given a sign.”
“Who… ?”
But Claire had already faded into the woods, and Madlen stood over Alys, looking stern.
“Who were you talking to, my lady?” she demanded, peering past her into the seemingly uninhabited woods.
“My reflection.”
Madlen’s response was a grim snort. “That’s about the only help you’re going to get,” she said. “Come along, my lady. We’ve a long day ahead of us, and I’m hoping to enjoy myself.”
“Enjoy yourself?”
“There’s a market fair in the next town. Gervaise says we’re to travel right through it on our way to Middleham. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a market fair.”
“Won’t it be difficult to carry my cage through the town?” Alys suggested in a purely practical voice. “What if I screamed for help?”
“No one would listen,” Madlen said flatly, and Alys knew that was the truth of it. “I imagine the monster has some sort of plan for you. Maybe he’ll cast a spell over you to keep you silent.”
He could do that, Alys thought. He could make her do anything he wanted her to.
“I’ll behave myself.”
“I would expect you’d be wise enough to do so, my lady,” Madlen said, leading the way back to the clearing, back to her cage.
It was only as she settled once more against the fur coverlets that she remembered Claire’s disgruntled words. “They have a plan and they’re not telling me,” she said. Who could “they” be?
Sir Thomas, of course. And she knew without question who else would
