Judith E. French by Moon Dancer Page A

warning, Wolf Shadow stopped. Too exhausted to think of the consequences, Fiona dropped to her knees and sucked in deep gulps of air. He let go of her wrist, and she stared up at him in confusion. Why had he changed from the hero who had rescued her to a madman? Why had he butchered the mule and started this mad dash through an endless forest? She had seen nothing, heard nothing that could cause him to take leave of his senses!
    “Stay where you are,” he ordered. “Don’t move.”
    She watched as he began to step backward in his own tracks, retracing their path for a hundred feet or more. Then he seized an overhanging cedar branch and pulled himself up into the tree. Astonished, Fiona waited, not daring to move from her spot.
    There was a slight dusting of snow as Wolf Shadow made his way up into the cedar, and then the movement of the boughs showed him coming down. He lowered himself feetfirst from a branch and dropped to the ground. As he came toward her, Fiona could see that he had left the pack and one of the muskets behind in the tree.
    He approached, and she noticed that he was still carefully walking in his own footprints. When he reached her, he offered his hand. It had been wiped free of blood. “Come. We must go.”
    “Why?” she dared.
    He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Can you run?”
    She swallowed hard and nodded. “I can run.”
    They started at a lope and steadily increased their speed, always downhill. This time, when Fiona’s legs began to fail her, Wolf Shadow caught her around the waist and slung her over his shoulder.
    He ran, carrying her, for what seemed to be another mile before the ground dropped away into a sluggish, ice-encrusted marshy area. There he slowed to a walk, carefully stepping on the patches of frozen ground.
    “Put me down,” she insisted. She pushed away from him, but a heavily muscled arm pinned her to his shoulder with such force that it squeezed the breath from her lungs.
    Beyond the shrub willows were more rocks, and below that a rushing creek about six yards wide. Her captor didn’t hesitate; he broke through the ice on the shore and waded into the frigid water. He turned right and walked upstream, still balancing her on his shoulder. The water was up to his thighs, and Fiona shuddered at the thought of the cold he must be feeling.
    “Where are you taking me?” she asked. “Why are—”
    “Quiet.”
    His hair hung across her face. She drew in his unique musky scent with every breath—not an unpleasant smell, but totally alien, like nothing she had ever known. “Put me down, please,” she whispered. “I can walk.” Even as she said it, she knew she lied. She couldn’t walk in this icy water. No human could.
    “Must I bind your mouth?” he demanded. “Do not speak.”
    The stream grew ever rockier. The sound of the rushing water filled her head, making her even colder. Once, he slipped, nearly plunging them both under. Against her will, she clung tightly to him. Then, without warning, he lowered her into the stream. She gasped in shock as the water closed over her feet and legs, weighing on her heavy woolen skirts.
    “Hurry,” he said, pulling her toward what looked like an impenetrable wall of wind-sculpted ice. Teeth chattering, she forced her feet to obey, stumbling over the slippery rocks. He led her within an arm’s length of the ice barrier, then turned right and pointed out a gap between solid rock and what she now realized was a frozen waterfall. Catching her around the waist, he pushed her into the narrow space. It was too low to stand. She crouched, her back against the cold stone, the curtain of glistening ice only inches from her face.
    “Make a sound and you will die,” he whispered. “Wait for me, and pray to your Christian God.” He removed his wolfskin cloak and tucked it around her, then slid one of his two remaining muskets along the wall at her back. “Trust me, Irish.” His features softened, and he gave her a quick