basis.
“What do you know about soldiers?” he hissed.
“Nothing,” she squeaked. “I don’t know anything. They come and they run about and fire their weapons and then they go home.”
“How many?” he growled.
He was in her face, so close she could have counted the scars marking his brow. So close, she could feel his breath against her skin. It wasn’t pleasant, wasn’t meant to be. She tried to pull back further, but he restrained her with ease, making no effort to conceal the menace in his expression. Whatever he was, whoever he was, he was dangerous. She didn’t think it wise to reveal that hundreds of squaddies regularly played soldier on the moors.
“You’re scaring me,” she said finally. She pulled away with considerable effort and put what little distance she could, between them. Knowing full well, he could have snapped her back against him in an instant and snapped her neck just as easily.
“Good, it’s about time. How many?” He cocked his head, curled his lip slyly and waited.
“Three or four...” hundred she added silently. She sent out a silent prayer in the hope that a whole battalion in full battle dress, would appear. She avoided his eyes, looked at her hands and twisted them nervously.
“Where did you see them?”
“I didn’t see anyone, I just heard them. In the wood before we...met.”
He stood in the stirrups narrowed his eyes against the glare from the snow and scanned the terrain. There were no soldiers to be seen in the vast, snowy wasteland. He shot her a suspicious look and let the silence between them grow. The horse pawed at the ground restlessly, the jingling harness and the soft wicker of the impatient beast, the only sounds in the vast emptiness. And still he waited silently as if considering his next move.
The snow began to fall again, softly at first in gossamer flurries, then thicker with gathering momentum. Grace pulled the cloak more securely around her shoulders, the hood over her head.
“How long will it take to get to Wildewood ?” she asked eventually, desperate to dispel the sudden weirdness.
Miles gave her a slow, thoughtful look, the sly grin, gradually replaced by an altogether more charming countenance as if he’d finally arrived at a decision which pleased him. “We should be there by nightfall if we push the horses.” He gave a final scan of the moor before kicking the horse on. “If this snow gets worse we may have to shelter and delay our journey. Are you cold?”
Grace shook her head. She was cold but that was the least of her problems. Deep inside her stomach churned with anxiety. She could play the fearless, couldn’t care less charade for only so long. She’d made a mistake in admitting he’d scared her and couldn’t afford to make that mistake again. The ache in her leg provided her with a well needed distraction. She concentrated on the pain, willing it to continue for the remainder of the journey, so she wouldn’t forget what he’d done to her. Or what he was capable of.
If Miles felt the slump in her shoulders, her spirit, he gave no indication. Grace conceded , her frame of mind would be of little interest to him. He had a ransom to think about. As long as he kept her alive he would collect, that didn’t mean he had to keep her happy. She was therefore surprised and more than a little apprehensive when he tugged her back against him. Wrapping both arms around her, he provided much needed protection from the wind. Despite her resolve, she settled against his warmth. With brisk commands in a language she didn’t even try to understand, he urged the horse on at a faster pace. As the snow continued to thicken and the wind increased, he held her closer and she finally succumbed to the pain and futility of her situation, closed her eyes and laid her head gently against his chest.
* * *
By mid- afternoon it became apparent they could go no further. The wind was cruel, the snow unrelenting and the girl frozen
“What do you know about soldiers?” he hissed.
“Nothing,” she squeaked. “I don’t know anything. They come and they run about and fire their weapons and then they go home.”
“How many?” he growled.
He was in her face, so close she could have counted the scars marking his brow. So close, she could feel his breath against her skin. It wasn’t pleasant, wasn’t meant to be. She tried to pull back further, but he restrained her with ease, making no effort to conceal the menace in his expression. Whatever he was, whoever he was, he was dangerous. She didn’t think it wise to reveal that hundreds of squaddies regularly played soldier on the moors.
“You’re scaring me,” she said finally. She pulled away with considerable effort and put what little distance she could, between them. Knowing full well, he could have snapped her back against him in an instant and snapped her neck just as easily.
“Good, it’s about time. How many?” He cocked his head, curled his lip slyly and waited.
“Three or four...” hundred she added silently. She sent out a silent prayer in the hope that a whole battalion in full battle dress, would appear. She avoided his eyes, looked at her hands and twisted them nervously.
“Where did you see them?”
“I didn’t see anyone, I just heard them. In the wood before we...met.”
He stood in the stirrups narrowed his eyes against the glare from the snow and scanned the terrain. There were no soldiers to be seen in the vast, snowy wasteland. He shot her a suspicious look and let the silence between them grow. The horse pawed at the ground restlessly, the jingling harness and the soft wicker of the impatient beast, the only sounds in the vast emptiness. And still he waited silently as if considering his next move.
The snow began to fall again, softly at first in gossamer flurries, then thicker with gathering momentum. Grace pulled the cloak more securely around her shoulders, the hood over her head.
“How long will it take to get to Wildewood ?” she asked eventually, desperate to dispel the sudden weirdness.
Miles gave her a slow, thoughtful look, the sly grin, gradually replaced by an altogether more charming countenance as if he’d finally arrived at a decision which pleased him. “We should be there by nightfall if we push the horses.” He gave a final scan of the moor before kicking the horse on. “If this snow gets worse we may have to shelter and delay our journey. Are you cold?”
Grace shook her head. She was cold but that was the least of her problems. Deep inside her stomach churned with anxiety. She could play the fearless, couldn’t care less charade for only so long. She’d made a mistake in admitting he’d scared her and couldn’t afford to make that mistake again. The ache in her leg provided her with a well needed distraction. She concentrated on the pain, willing it to continue for the remainder of the journey, so she wouldn’t forget what he’d done to her. Or what he was capable of.
If Miles felt the slump in her shoulders, her spirit, he gave no indication. Grace conceded , her frame of mind would be of little interest to him. He had a ransom to think about. As long as he kept her alive he would collect, that didn’t mean he had to keep her happy. She was therefore surprised and more than a little apprehensive when he tugged her back against him. Wrapping both arms around her, he provided much needed protection from the wind. Despite her resolve, she settled against his warmth. With brisk commands in a language she didn’t even try to understand, he urged the horse on at a faster pace. As the snow continued to thicken and the wind increased, he held her closer and she finally succumbed to the pain and futility of her situation, closed her eyes and laid her head gently against his chest.
* * *
By mid- afternoon it became apparent they could go no further. The wind was cruel, the snow unrelenting and the girl frozen
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