Amanda Rose Read online

  “Hurt yerself, did ye, missy?” he asked gruffly as they progressed with maddening slowness down the beach. His rifle was slung negligently under the arm away from her, Amanda noticed with relief as she leaned heavily against him and limped for all she was worth. Clearly she had managed to allay his suspicions to the point where he no longer suspected that a source of danger might still lurk in the shadows. “Heard ye screechin’. Thought for a minute that it was one of my ewes—dogs been after ’em.”

  Amanda held back a giggle with some difficulty. Of course that was why Mr. Llewellyn had come running down to the beach, rifle at the ready: he had thought one of his precious sheep was being threatened. Although he had no doubt been informed of the manhunt—she would be surprised if anyone in the whole of England had not—the thought that he might encounter the bloodthirsty object of that search here on their own little bit of Land’s End had plainly never entered his head. Just as it had never entered hers—until a little more than an hour ago.

  “I came down to admire the sunrise—Sister Mary Joseph is always telling us that there is nothing so godly as a sunrise—and I got so caught up in watching what was happening in heaven that I forgot to watch where I put my feet.” Was she laying it on a bit thick? Amanda wondered with a sidelong look at Mr. Llewellyn. But she could not detect the faintest hint of skepticism in his expression. “I tripped over a rock—I must have turned my ankle.”

  “Aye,” was all he said. Amanda was afraid to risk another look at him, afraid that her guilt would show in her eyes. She hated to lie. She had never been any good at it; the few times she had tried when she was younger, she had invariably been found out, and felt shame down to her toes. Not that she had been punished for it then. Her mother used to say that Amanda’s own guilty conscience was punishment enough, and she was right.

  “Think you can manage, missy?” They had reached the base of the path that sliced up the rocky face to the top of the cliffs. It was little more than a sheep trail, steep and treacherous with a sheer drop to the rock-strewn beach on one side and the unyielding gray stone of the cliff itself on the other. Even vegetation was scarce: only a few small scrub bushes dared to try cling to the rock.

  “I can carry you, pig-a-back.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I can make it.” Amanda hastened to get the words out. Not for anything would she allow him to bear her on his back during that arduous climb, not when she was perfectly healthy.

  It was awkward, trying to climb and limp at the same time, but Amanda did her best. Mr. Llewellyn stayed just behind her, the better to break her fall if she should slip, which aided her efforts considerably. To spare her modesty, he was forced to keep his eyes turned down to the path. There was no way to clamber up such a trail without revealing a great deal more of her legs than was proper. Despite his rough appearance, Mr. Llewellyn had the soul of a gentleman. Amanda was grateful, both because it allowed her to concentrate more on climbing and less on limping, and because it kept Mr. Llewellyn from looking out over the beach. Amanda had no such restrictions, and she had discovered to her horror that their lofty vantage point afforded an excellent view of every little nook and cranny of the curved shoreline. It was possible to make out Matthew Grayson’s long body as he lay close against the rocks where she had left him. From such a height she didn’t think that anyone who didn’t know he was there would be able to discern that the dark form against the lighter gray shale was a man; he looked more like a large log. But, still, if Mr. Llewellyn should chance to glance that way, he might be moved to investigate.

  By the time they reached the top of the cliff Amanda’s heart was pounding furiously—and not from exertion. Helping a wanted felon to avoid the law was going to be a hair-raising business, she was just becoming aware. But for now, just for this moment, she had to put that thought out of her mind and turn her efforts to ridding herself of her self-appointed escort. And then she still had to get back down to the beach . . .

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Llewellyn.” Amanda turned to the man and smiled with a radiance that owed less to gratitude than to the fact that she had just discovered that the cliff overhang now hid Matthew Grayson from view. “I don’t know what I would have done if you had not come along. Probably I’d have been down there on the beach all day.”

  “The sisters would’ve got up a search party, soon or late.”

  Amanda had intended her words as dismissal, but Mr. Llewellyn refused to be dismissed. Plainly he was determined to see her safely back to the convent. There was nothing for it but to allow him to escort her to where the gray stone walls—made of rocks carved from the cliffs centuries ago—rose from the brown grass like silent sentinels. On the way, it occurred to Amanda that she was faced with another problem: if Mr. Llewellyn mentioned this morning’s encounter to the nuns, as he undoubtedly would, if only to inquire about the progress on her nonexistent injury, the fat would be in the fire and she would be in for a grilling indeed. And the sisters were, for good or ill, considerably more suspicious than Mr. Llewellyn—and considerably more familiar with Amanda and her high jinks.

  “Mr. Llewellyn,” she began uncomfortably as they halted outside the small oak door that led into the convent’s gardens and through which Amanda had presumably exited. He turned an inquiring eye to her. “I wonder if you would . . . That is, I would appreciate it very much if you would not . . .” Her voice trailed off, and hot color rose to her cheeks as she looked up at him appealingly.

  “Ye’ll be wantin’ me to keep a still tongue in me head about this,” he said, eyeing her with a twinkle. “I didn’t have four girls for naught, missy. Many’s the time I’ve helped them pull the wool over their mam’s eyes. Don’t fret. I won’t tell the holy sisters on ye—this time. But ye must promise me to stay safe inside yon walls from now on, at least until the sun’s good and woke up.” This last was said with some severity, softened by the twinkle that still lurked in his eyes.

  “I promise,” Amanda said fervently. “Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn.”

  She smiled at him and stood waiting for him to go. But he didn’t move, seemingly planted in the ground before her as solidly as a hundred-year-old oak. Amanda realized he was waiting for her to get safe inside the convent walls. Taking a deep breath, praying that the door was unlocked, she turned and tried the latch. To her relief it lifted, and she slipped through the door. Then she turned to smile at Mr. Llewellyn and watch thankfully as he took himself off in the direction of his farm. By the time he was out of sight, and she felt it was safe to retrace her steps, the crimson sun was just beginning to appear over the horizon. If she was to make it back to her room before her absence was discovered, she had to hurry.

  When she was once again on the beach, it took her only a moment to rush back to where she had left Matthew Grayson. He was not there. She stared blankly at the spot where he had been, then started half walking, half running along the beach, keeping close to the cliffs, as she guessed he would try to stay out of the open as much as possible. Finally she saw him and heaved a small sigh of relief. She had been afraid that someone else had come along and discovered him in her absence.

  He was leaning back against the face of the cliff, his long legs sprawled out before him, his eyes closed. He looked totally exhausted. Amanda approached him slowly, feeling suddenly wary, and stopped while she was still some feet away. After all, what assurance had she that he would not suddenly grab her again.

  She looked at him critically, wondering for the first time if she was insane to have done what she had. A horrible, sneaking suspicion lurked in the back of her mind that she could get arrested for helping him—if he didn’t kill her himself. Which he very well might: he was a convicted murderer . . .

  She must have made some slight sound because at last he opened his eyes. Across the few feet of rocky beach that separated them, their eyes locked. For a long moment they stared at each other warily. He broke the silence first.

  “Why did you do that?” He sounded genuinely curious.
r />   Amanda glared at him. “I have trouble swatting wasps, too,” she answered with more than a hint of bite. He grinned a little at that, seeming to relax as one corner of his mouth tilted up lopsidedly. Then he grimaced, his hand moving to press against his hip. Amanda saw that his breeches were wet with blood.

  “I’m grateful,” he muttered.

  “You should be.” Amanda’s reply was tart. “I must be as crazy as you are.” She hadn’t meant to say that last aloud. Biting her hip, she eyed him.

  “Yes.” He didn’t seem particularly offended. In fact, he was smiling faintly as those silvery eyes met hers. “I won’t hurt you, you know. You’re perfectly safe with me—I give you my word.”

  For what it’s worth, Amanda couldn’t help thinking, but still it was better than nothing. “You promise?” she asked, sounding uncertain all of a sudden. A small part of her still wondered if she shouldn’t go screaming for help.

  “I promise,” he answered gravely.

  Watching him, feeling a ridiculous qualm of conscience as she saw the raw scratches her nails had raked in his cheeks, she gave it up. She was committed now, for better or worse. It was far too late to worry about the possibility of his wrapping those long fingers about her neck and choking the life out of her. To begin with, how could she explain why she had not denounced him at once? Amanda felt faintly sick; with her usual headlong lack of caution—another fault the nuns were always deploring—she had gotten herself into another scrape. And this one was no mere childish peccadillo. It was an out-and-out disaster.

  “We’re going to have to get you off the beach before it gets light.” Amanda was thinking quickly. What couldn’t be cured must be endured, as Sister Mary Joseph was fond of saying. If she was going to help Matthew Grayson—and it seemed as though she was—she had better do it right. She could worry about the moral aspects of the situation later. “There’s a cave not far from here, behind that outcropping of rock.” She pointed; his eyes followed the direction of her hand. “You should be safe enough there until I can think of something better.”

  “What about that gardener’s shed you were telling me about?” He sounded only mildly curious, but his eyes were suddenly keen as they rested on her face. For the life of her, Amanda couldn’t stop herself from feeling—and looking, she had no doubt—extremely guilty.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea anymore,” she mumbled.

  “I see.” She inferred from the tone of his voice that he did—all too accurately. Amanda looked at him warily. Would he fly into a murderous rage now that he guessed what she at first had planned for him? To her relief he continued to look calm. She took heart a little, but her next words were still faintly reluctant.

  “You’d better let me bandage your wound again before you start moving around. You’re bleeding quite badly.”

  He shook his head. “It’s all right—I made a pad out of what was left of your petticoat and tied it up again. I think it’s more urgent that I get off the beach before anyone else decides to come for a morning stroll.

  “Yes,” Amanda agreed slowly. What he said made sense, she knew, but . . . “Do you think you can stand up?”

  He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I feel as weak as a day-old infant. Do you suppose you could . . .”

  “Of course.” Amanda stifled an inward sigh. Well, she had known that she would have to put herself within his reach again. She couldn’t help him from a safe distance, for goodness’ sake. But . . .

  “I really won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice oddly gentle. His eyes were knowing as they watched the emotions that flitted all too plainly across her face. “From a strictly practical standpoint, I would be a fool to, wouldn’t I? Without you I’d be stuck on this damned beach until your friend or some of his cohorts came back and found me—and I’m counting on you to bring me food and a few other necessities, too. Hurting you would be the last thing I’d dream of doing.”

  Amanda thought about that for a moment. It made sense, she realized with a quiver of relief. Feeling a little better, she edged closer until he was once again grasping her hand in his. The feel of those strong fingers locking around hers brought a rush of panic with it. She tugged sharply at her hand, wanting instinctively to be free. He released it at once.

  “See?” he said softly, meeting her eyes. Amanda returned his look for an instant, then nodded. And extended her hand to him again.

  Helping him to his feet, feeling the warmth and strength and life of his body as he leaned heavily against her side, she began to feel a little better about what she was doing. Perhaps he deserved to be captured, deserved to forfeit his life for what he had done—and she knew that most people, the nuns included, would say that there was no perhaps about it—but she didn’t see how his death could really benefit anyone. The people he had killed—as she thought of them she winced—were dead; nothing could bring them back. Matthew Grayson was alive. And whatever he had done, he was a human being and he needed her help. She couldn’t just abandon him to his fate or, worse, turn him over to it herself. It just wasn’t in her, and she knew it.

  It took a little time and quite a lot of effort, but they managed to traverse the eighth mile of beach that separated them from the outcropping of rock that hid the entrance to the cave. The opening itself was just a narrow fissure running sideways through the hard stone of the cliff, barely wide enough for a grown man to slide through sideways. It was nearly impossible to see from the beach unless one knew it was there. In the old days—and still upon occasion, as Amanda knew full well—it was used by smugglers; as far as she was aware, she and the smugglers were the only ones who remembered its existence. And with the nightly patrol on the beach, she doubted that the smugglers would be using it anytime in the near future. She had to grin at that. How the smugglers must be cursing Matthew Grayson. He had undoubtedly put a severe crimp in their usual operations, not only here but along the entire English coast.

  “Something funny?” He sounded faintly put out, and, glancing up at him, Amanda didn’t blame him. Sweat was rolling freely down his face; he was pale and obviously in pain while she was grinning like a hyena. The thought made her grin again, wider than before, and he rewarded her with a sour look.

  “Share the joke, why don’t you? I could use a good laugh.”

  So Amanda did. He didn’t appear to find it overwhelmingly amusing, but it did help to take his mind off the pain he must have suffered as he squeezed through the narrow opening. Once inside, it was so dark that Amanda couldn’t even see his face as he stood right next to her. If it hadn’t been for the weight of him leaning against her, and the feel of his hard arm wrapped around her shoulders, she might have thought she had imagined everything.

  The cave was as cool and damp and dark as a grave. Before they could proceed any farther, they had to have a light. The candle Amanda always left inside was just to the left of the entrance, but before she could find it, she had to free herself of his crushing weight.

  She stretched out her hand to feel for the stone wall behind them. It was cold and moist to the touch.

  “Can you lean against the wall for a moment?” she asked, her voice sounding almost unnaturally loud in the tomblike quiet. “I have to light a candle.”

  “A candle?” He sounded surprised, but he obligingly allowed her to ease him against the wall; when he was reasonably secure, he released his grip on her shoulders. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Amanda Rose? Do you always carry candles about in your pockets, or did you just have a feeling you might need one this morning?”

  She thought she detected humor in his voice. When she struck a match from the box she always left beside the candle and touched it to the wick so that the flame caught and flared, she was sure of it. The flickering light made him look pale and drawn—and huge; his shadow crawled up the side of the cave like that of a dark giant—but a grin crooked his mouth and his eyes were whimsical.

  “Are you a witch, Amanda? Or my guardian angel come to
life? Although I must admit I never would have guessed that angels came with hair of such a devilish red. Or are you a hallucination? You’re certainly too good to be true.”

  Amanda straightened, the movement slow and cautious, and eyed him uneasily. She was almost sure that he had been out of his head when she had first come upon him, and when he had first mistaken her for an angel. Was he going out of his head again? The thought alarmed her. A rational murderer was bad enough. An irrational one . . . She must have looked as nervous as she felt because his grin widened, and she could have sworn that his eyes teased her.

  “Come on,” she said, hoping that cold practicality would restore his possibly wandering senses. Candle in hand, she moved toward him, a little apprehensive about letting him touch her if he was going out of his mind. Perhaps he killed only during fits of insanity . . . But it was too late to worry about that now, she told herself, and fatalistically took his arm and draped it over her shoulder again. “It’s not very far now, and then you can rest.”

  “Perhaps you’re one of the devil’s angels,” he continued musingly as she urged him forward. “If the devil has angels, which I’m sure he must. He sounds like a smart old fellow. Perhaps he’s sent you to tempt me down to hell. Ah, well, lead on. At this point even hell sounds good. At least it’s warm. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Amanda threw another anxious look up at him as they staggered along the worn stone passage that led deep into the cave. His eyes were very bright—with fever?—and his skin was so white beneath the scraggly beard and smears of blood that it frightened her. He looked as if he might faint at any moment. Standing so close to him, with his arm around her shoulders and his big body pressed hard against her side, she could feel the unnatural warmth of him even through the wet chill of his clothes. He radiated heat like a stove. He needed a doctor, she thought, but she knew it would be impossible for him to be seen by one. He would have to live or die on her ministrations alone—and his own strength.