Branches snapped against Evangeline’s shoulders and scratched her face, the horse ducking low through the gap in the forest. He lunged into a stream that crossed their path and bounded to the other bank.
The masked rider pursued them with vigor, and Evangeline gave Basilisk her heels again. The destrier raced through the shadows, leaping over a fallen tree, avoiding a hole and splashing through a large puddle. His speed was unchecked but a glance back revealed that the masked rider did not relent.
She turned forward again in time to see a broken tree branch, hanging over the path and obstructing their course. Basilisk ducked to pass beneath it and even though Evangeline strove to do the same, the bough was too low. It caught her just below the shoulders and she was flung to the forest floor.
The fall stole the breath from her and she was momentarily dizzy, though she tried to rise to her feet with haste. She had to flee! But the hem of her kirtle was buried in mire and brambles caught at her cloak. She swore and tugged at the restraint, only to find a man’s gloved hand appear before her. Her gaze followed that hand to her attacker’s masked face. She noted the glint of his eyes, and her heart quailed.
It seemed her assailant meant to aid her to her feet.
Or did he invite her to be seized?
Was he a rogue or a gentleman? ’Twas easy to guess.
Evangeline glowered at the villain, hating that she noticed the breadth of his shoulders and his height. He was trim and well-wrought, garbed in dark clothing that would aid his disappearance into the shadows. That length of cloth hid much of his face, while a short dark beard concealed his chin. Her gaze clung to the firm line of his lips. Was he young? She thought as much though she could not be certain.
He wore a boiled leather jerkin and tall boots that rose past his knees. A short cloak hung from his shoulders, the hood drawn over his hair. A number of knives hung from his belt, proof of his violent trade. His horse stamped behind him and nickered, then she heard the sound of other hoofbeats, as if Basilisk returned.
“My lady?” His voice was a low and husky, a voice that might have prompted delight in other circumstance. As it was, Evangeline heard the edge of steel in his tone and knew she could not stand meekly before him.
“A curse upon you,” she said. “’Tis your fault that I am in this wretched situation.” She knew she sounded cross, if not petulant, but it was better than sounding fearful. She tugged her kirtle with impatience and winced when she heard the wool tear.
“You were not compelled to flee,” he noted softly and she bristled.
“Nay, I could have cast myself at your mercy, begging you to avail yourself of all I have to offer.”
“You might have,” he agreed, then dropped to one knee before her. Was there a thread of humor in his tone? She might have kicked him but he was freeing her skirts from the brambles with more care than expected. She stood still instead, telling herself she would flee at first opportunity.
“I would not have declined such an invitation,” he said, eyes gleaming when he glanced up at her.
Their gazes snared and held, giving her a strange sense that she knew him. But she knew no bearded ruffians, certainly not so far from Inverfyre.
Evangeline caught her breath at the intensity of his manner, at the folly of her own response, then braced a hand upon her hip. “Do women customarily swoon at your feet, insisting that you have your way with them?”
Did he chuckle? “Alas, I have not been so fortunate.” He waved to the forest, blocking her path most effectively. She could step into his embrace or choose deeper mud and thicker brambles.
What did it say of her supposed cleverness that she could not immediately dismiss the first option? Perhaps it said more of her yearning for adventure.
His voice was low when he continued and seductive for that. “My circumstance does limit the possibilities, but you might not find my way so onerous as that.” He lifted a hand and caught a tendril of her hair, winding it around his finger.
They both watched his gesture and Evangeline swallowed when he rubbed the gleaming lock of hair between finger and thumb. He met her gaze again, then bent slowly to touch his lips to the trapped hair. Evangeline could not take a breath, nor could she flee. He moved with such deliberation that she wanted to feel his caress upon her skin. Strong and firm, but gentle, perhaps even tender.
Her heart fluttered and her tone sharpened, even as she snatched the tendril of hair from his grasp. “You would deceive me. Bandits who prey upon noblewomen in dark forests seldom have plans advantageous to the lady in question.”
He regarded her, his lips curving into a small. “How many such have you encountered in your time?”
He was a cur not to just see through her words but call her upon their truth.
“None,” she admitted. “But I have heard tales.”
“The ground is drier here.” He offered his hand again, stretching it a little closer to her. Evangeline eyed it for a moment, then chose to put her hand in his. It surely was the lesser of two evils. To stumble as she moved out of the muck would not improve her circumstance.
Or did she simply wish to feel his strong grip close over her hand as it did? Her heart raced and she frowned at her own reaction. She had been known to be reckless in the past, though this was a poor moment to indulge such impulses.
Ahearn had to be coming.
The thief gave her hand a tug but Evangeline’s boots were stuck in the mire as well. She lifted her skirts to eye them and swore softly. Her assailant relinquished her hand, locked his hands around her waist and lifted her out of the brambles and mud with impressive ease. His grip was tight around her and Evangeline felt an utterly inappropriate rush of awareness. She peered at the visible glint of his eyes and wondered whether they truly were blue.
Not that such a detail was of any import at all.
