He was delirious from fever, Amanda realized, and breathed a little easier. Plainly weakened by whatever it was that afflicted him, he surely couldn’t do her any harm. All she had to do was to disengage her hair-gently-and run to fetch the authorities. She doubted that he would try to escape before she was able to lead them back here. He was clearly in no condition to run away; he probably couldn’t even stand.
Those silvery eyes were still fixed on her. She could feel the hand that trapped her hair shaking convulsively. Her eyes never leaving his, she reached out tentatively to touch that hand. Her movements were as gentle and unalarming as she could make them as she sought to unclench the fist that held her prisoner. His flesh was burning hot to the touch; his long limbs were racked by tremors. Unfortunately he seemed to have no intention of letting her go-if he even knew he was holding her. From the glassy blankness of his eyes, she questioned whether he did.
Amanda was afraid to be too forceful in her attempts to free herself, afraid that any careless movement on her part might provoke him into violence: he had already killed half a dozen people that she knew of.
“I’m cold,” he said suddenly, conversationally, sounding so normal that Amanda jumped. Inching a little farther away from him, as far as she could get without snapping her neck, she eyed him nervously. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes seem more aware than they had a moment ago?
“If you let me go, I’ll… I’ll fetch you a blanket,” she promised with sudden cunning. He frowned, seeming to understand and consider her words.
“Will you?” He sounded doubtful.
“Y-yes.” Amanda was willing to promise anything that might induce him to let her go. “I promise.”
“They were going to hang me, you know.”
Now, what on earth could she say to that? If he was even the least bit aware, and she let on that she recognized him, her fate was as good as sealed. He would kill her. He certainly couldn’t let her go; even she could see that. She would immediately run to the authorities, as he must realize as soon as he regained his senses. She said nothing, her eyes wide in the pale oval of her face as she stared at him.
“But I escaped.” He chuckled hollowly. “By God, I escaped. But they shot me, and then that damned horse went lame and I had to walk, and I fell, and then it rained. God, it rained. Does the sun never shine on this wretched country?” He lapsed momentarily into incoherent muttering. With his black hair straggling in wet curls all around his face, his thick beard bristling at her, and his eyes wild and staring, he looked out of his mind. And not just with fever. Amanda tugged despairingly at her hair, wishing vainly that she had a pair of scissors with her. She would gladly have cut the whole mane off if it would have freed her from this madman.
“Who are you?” His eyes were suddenly sharp on her face, and his voice was demanding. Amanda swallowed. He looked extremely fearsome, glaring at her as he was. And she was very much afraid that he had just regained his senses, if in fact he had ever lost them.
“My… my name’s Amanda. Amanda Rose Culver.” Then, desperately, she added in what she hoped was a confidence-inspiring voice, “And I’m going to help you.”
“You know who I am.” It was not a question. The words rang like a doomsday bell in her ears. She felt her muscles tense in horrible anticipation. Denial would be useless, she saw, staring wretchedly down into his set face, even if she could have found the right words and forced them from her lips.
“I-I can help you,” she said again, weakly. His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace; his hand tightened painfully on her hair. Amanda cringed away from him.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice harsh. His fingers, embedded in her hair, dragged her closer, so that her face was just inches from his. “I’m not stupid.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured frantically as he glared at her. His teeth were bared in what she could only think of as a snarl, and he looked like a dreadful beast bent on devouring her. Amanda shuddered. He must have seen the convulsive movement or correctly interpreted the fear in her eyes, because he relaxed his grip a little, a faintly satisfied expression flitting across his face.
For a moment neither said anything, the man seemingly bent on recouping his strength and his senses at the same time, and Amanda thinking furiously.
“Could you please let me go?” she ventured at last in a small voice. “You’re hurting.”
It wasn’t much, but this appeal to any latent chivalry he might still possess was all she could come up with. As she had expected, it won her nothing but a grunt and a scornful look. But after a moment, to her surprise, his hand did readjust itself so that it was not pulling quite so hard on her hair.
“Thank you.” Amanda couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of her voice. He made no reply, only stared up at her in a considering way that chilled her more than the wind. He was probably wondering how, with his small store of strength, he could kill her, and where he could hide the body…
“What do you have on under that dress?” Whatever she had expected him to say, it certainly hadn’t been that. She stared at him, her eyes going suddenly enormous.
“Well?” He sounded impatient. Amanda wet her lips before replying.
“A petticoat,” she whispered. She was not going to describe her underclothing in any more detail than that.
“Is it clean?” he demanded.
“Of course,” Amanda retorted, stung, before she remembered her situation and hastily subsided.
“Take it off.”
Amanda blanched. Oh, dear God, surely he didn’t mean to… to ravish her? Sheltered as she had been, she knew that low men sometimes forced women to perform indecent acts, and a murderer was about as low as one could go. She stared fearfully at him. He was eyeing her, his expression unreadable, his teeth clenched against the spasms that racked him, as they seemed to periodically.
“No. Please,” she breathed, knowing it was useless to beg but not willing to resort to physical resistance unless she had no choice. Incapacitated as he was, she had little doubt that he was still considerably stronger than she, and she was afraid of putting her assumption to the test unless and until it became absolutely necessary.
At her whispered plea, his eyes raked her from head to toe as she crouched beside him, her head bent with the weight of his hand in her hair. Although she did not know it, her small, slender body looked very young-and very vulnerable. His mouth twisted sardonically.
“Despite anything you may have heard to the contrary, I’m not in the habit of raping children,” he rasped. “You’re perfectly safe from that particular fate, I assure you. Now, are you going to take off that damned petticoat-or do you need help?”
That threat, plus his assurance that he had no intention of raping her-which, oddly enough, she believed-sent her fumbling under her skirt for the tapes to her petticoat. But with his eyes watching her every move, and obviously noting with interest the slender, white-stockinged ankles that she could not help but reveal, she could not seem to untie the knot, and her awkward position made it doubly difficult.
“Hurry up,” he said through his teeth. Amanda thought that he looked quite fierce as his eyes moved from her ankles to her face. She did her best to comply with his order, then swallowed nervously.
“If you would close your eyes-and let me stand up,” she tacked on hopefully, “it would help.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, but he did close his eyes. Amanda guessed that she would have to be content with that concession; she hadn’t really thought that he would let go of her hair so that she could stand up. Moving as quickly as she could, wanting to get the business done before he could open his eyes and catch her with her skirts up around her knees, she at last managed to loosen the tapes of the petticoat. The white linen garment crumpled into a heap around her feet. His lashes flicked up just as she kicked free of it. Seeing his eyes on her fallen undergarment, she felt sudden color heat her cheeks.
“Tear a couple of strips off it,” he directed. Amanda, thankful not to be told to remove anything else, obediently picked up the petticoat and proceeded to try to do as he bade her. It was, however, easier said than done. Finally she had to resort to chewing the edge of the linen between her teeth. When at last the material gave with a loud rip, she felt a small spurt of satisfaction as she tore several long strips out of the skirt. She looked up to find his eyes on her.
“I took a bullet in the hip,” he said abruptly. “It’s basically just a flesh wound, the bullet went on through, but it’s been bleeding like be-damned. I want you to bandage it for me.”
His fingers slid beneath the tails of his tattered, once-white shirt to unfasten the buttons of his rusty-looking breeches as he spoke. Amanda stared, horror-stricken, at the movement of that hand, then jerked her eyes back up to his face. He surely was not intending to remove his breeches in front of her?
He saw the frantic expression in her eyes and had no trouble interpreting it. One corner of his mouth turned down in an expression of pure disgust.
“I have neither the inclination nor the strength to pander to your girlish modesty,” he said coldly. “I’ve been shot in the hip, and the wound is bleeding and needs to be bandaged. If I could do it myself, I would. But I can’t. You, however, can-and you will. I’ve already told you that I have no intention of raping you. You’ll be perfectly safe-as long as you do as I say.”
His eyes were hard, his expression stony as he stared at her. Amanda swallowed, then nodded slightly. Of course, tending the sick was the Christian thing to do-the nuns did it all the time. The mere fact that he was male, and his body was therefore strange to her, should have no effect on her as his nurse. But still… She couldn’t prevent the fiery scarlet color that spread from her neck all the way to her hairline.
The breeches were unbuttoned now, and he was lifting his hips from the shale, trying to pull the garment down with one hand. As Amanda watched, mesmerized, he winced and fell back against the ground. His eyes closed for an instant, his pain obvious. Then they opened again, faintly cloudy as they met hers.
“You’ll have to help me,” he muttered. “Pull these damn things down so that you can get to the wound. And don’t worry-it’s pretty high on my hip. You should be able to bandage it without swooning.”
This last was said with such a sardonic inflection that Amanda bit her lip. But, she thought hotly, her confusion was very natural under the circumstances. No gently reared young lady could be expected not to feel some trepidation at the prospect of looking at an unclothed male body… He was glaring at her. Amanda closed her eyes, sent a brief SOS to God, and did as he’d told her. The material of his breeches was coarse and cold and wet under her hands; the furred, tautly muscled flesh beneath was fiery hot in contrast. He wore no underdrawers, Amanda noted with embarrassment as she eased the breeches down over his hips. The sight of a neat, round navel cozily nestled beneath a covering of curling black hair brought more color flooding to her cheeks. She averted her eyes abruptly, looking at the sky, the sea, anything except him. He groaned a little, bringing her eyes swinging back around, first to his face, which had paled, and then to his now-bared abdomen. She had uncovered the wound. It was, as he had said, fairly high up on his hip, a jagged gash plowed perhaps a half inch deep into his side. The edges of the wound did not mesh properly, which was probably why blood continued to ooze sluggishly through the opening, which was about six inches long. Dried crusts of blood here and there attested to the fact that the bleeding had stopped several times, only to start again. In order for the flesh to heal properly, she guessed, he would have to remain quiet for some time.
“What are you trying to do, memorize it?” he demanded testily. “Bandage the thing and have done with it.”
Amanda flushed at the thought that he might imagine her to have been staring at his body, and reluctantly set to work. Folding a scrap of petticoat into a pad, she laid it over the wound. Then she picked up the strips that would bind the pad in place.
“Lift yourself up, please,” she said faintly, trying and failing to achieve a fair imitation of Sister Agnes’s no-nonsense voice. Sister Agnes was a weathered, salt-and-pepper-haired former fisherwoman who had taken the veil ten years before after losing her husband and two sons, fishermen all, in a sudden off-shore squall. Her keen eyes and brisk efficiency, to say nothing of her sharp tongue when provoked by slow or incompetent helpers, had won her the respect of every resident of the convent and, indeed, of the entire village. She had a knack for healing-Amanda often wondered if it didn’t have a great deal to do with the fact that the sick were simply afraid not to get better when she ministered to them-and had taken on the role of lay doctor to half the population of the county. Amanda, whose unprecedented refusal to swoon or get sick when presented with a gruesome injury had won the old woman’s curtly nodded approval, was often called upon to assist her. With females and children, of course. Sister Agnes tended to the needs of the men and boys herself.
“Yes, ma’am.” There was a spark of humor in his voice that sent her eyes flying up to meet his. She must have been mistaken, she decided, meeting those stony eyes and seeing the hard, unrelenting set of his mouth, which was just barely visible through the bristly beard. Her eyes dropped back to her work; with commendable efficiency she wound the strips of petticoat around him, trying to make as little contact with his bare skin as she could. She couldn’t help but notice that, from the feel of it at least, the lower part of his back was not covered with hair like his belly and chest. The pattern of hair on his front side was very interesting, she decided almost subconsciously as she knotted the ends of the bandage directly over the pad. His shirt was pulled up around his ribs, leaving bare the lower part of his chest and abdomen to where the breeches rested low on his hips. There seemed to be a thick growth of hair on his chest-at least, what she could see of it-that narrowed until it was hardly more than a silky trail once it got past his navel. From there the trail began to widen again down the center of his abdomen until the breeches abruptly cut off her view. She wondered how much hair he had lower down-and was horrified at the thought. This time her blush was almost painful. To hide her confusion, she quickly pulled the breeches back up over the bandage, apparently hurting him in her haste because he grunted. But he didn’t say anything, and she sat back with a feeling of relief, leaving him to fasten the buttons himself, which he did one-handed. His other hand showed no signs of releasing its tether hold on her hair.
“Good job,” he said approvingly as he fastened the last of the buttons. “Now see if you can dry my hair. It feels like it’s turning into icicles around my ears.”
It took Amanda an instant to realize that he meant for her to use what was left of her petticoat for that purpose. Hesitating only a moment, she picked up the ragged garment and, inching closer to his head, began rather gingerly to dry his hair. The icy wetness of the curling black strands soon penetrated the thin linen of her petticoat, chilling her fingers. He was soaked to the skin; she could feel the muscles of his neck and shoulders trembling with cold. If she hadn’t been so afraid that he meant to murder her at any minute, she would almost have felt sorry for him. After all, she wouldn’t have been able to stand seeing even a mad dog in his condition without wanting to do what she could to alleviate its suffering. But, then, a crazed murderer, sick or well, was a different proposition from even a mad dog…
Finally his hair was as dry as she could get it, and she sank back onto her heels, eyeing him, the petticoat in her lap.
“Wrap that thing around me as well as you can, will you?” he requested next, and it was a request, not an order, despite the gruffness of his tone. Amanda did as he told her, spreading the damp linen over his chest and tucking it in around his shoulders and neck. It covered perhaps a third of his body, leaving his hips and long legs protected from the wind only by the raggedy breeches. The petticoat could not have provided much comfort, but he snuggled into it as if it were the woolliest of blankets.
“What did you say your name was? Amanda? Amanda Rose?”
Amanda nodded, slowly backing away from him as she did so, eyeing him warily. Now that she had seen to his comfort to the best of her ability, would he decide her usefulness was at an end and wrap those long, strong fingers around her neck?
“What are you doing wandering around in the dark, Amanda Rose? Did you sneak out to meet someone? A man, perhaps?”
“Yes.” Her voice must have been a shade too eager, because he looked at her silently for an instant before slowly shaking his head.
“Don’t lie, Amanda.” It was surprising how formidable he could sound, even lying flat on his back with his body racked by tremors and his shoulders huddling into her torn petticoat.
“I’m not,” she began, then gave it up. She had always been a dreadful liar anyway; it was no wonder he could see through her clumsy attempts at subterfuge. “I often walk on the beach before the sun comes up. I… like to be alone.”
“So you weren’t looking for me?”
“No.” She spoke so fervently that his lips moved in the semblance of a wry smile. Amanda stared at the crooked twist of those lips, thinking that it made him seem suddenly so much more human. Maybe he wasn’t totally evil after all, she thought. Maybe, just maybe, he had done what he had out of sincere political convictions. If so, it meant that he was that much less likely to murder her out of hand… she hoped.
“No, I suppose not.” He forced the words out through teeth that were clenched suddenly to stop them from chattering. The ghost of a smile vanished as suddenly as it had come, and for a moment he closed his eyes. Amanda watched him hopefully. If she was lucky, he might pass out…
“I presume your family has a house somewhere nearby?” His eyes were open again, but Amanda thought his voice sounded a bit weaker.
“N-no,” she answered, then as he looked at her sharply her tone became defensive. “It’s the truth. I live in the convent at the top of the cliff. I’m a pupil there.”
“I see.” He was silent for a moment, apparently digesting the information. When he spoke again, she knew she was not imagining the weakening of his voice. “Are there any outbuildings? A place where I could rest-out of the cold and this damned wind?”
Amanda thought quickly. The only outbuilding the convent possessed was a small tool shed well within the grounds. If she could get him up there, all she would have to do was scream and the entire population of the convent-eleven girls and twenty nuns-would be out upon them in a matter of seconds. And he couldn’t possibly kill thirty-odd females. She didn’t think he had a weapon.
“Yes,” she said at last, but again she must have hesitated too long because he eyed her with some suspicion.
“If you’re lying to me…” He let his voice trail off, but the threat was unmistakable. Amanda shivered. When he spoke like that, she had no difficulty believing that he was capable-more than capable-of cold-blooded murder.
“I’m not.” Desperately she tried to infuse her voice with conviction. In an effort to persuade him further, she added eagerly, “Our gardener sleeps there sometimes. There’s a cot, with blankets. And I could get you some food.”
He groaned, and his eyes closed. “I haven’t eaten in three days,” he admitted under his breath. Then his eyes popped open to stare at her warily. “You know that I’ll hang if I’m caught?”
Amanda returned his look just as warily. Then she nodded.
“Then you know that I don’t have anything to lose if I kill you. And if you cross me…” His voice trailed off, but his eyes spoke for him. Amanda shivered. If she crossed him, he would kill her. Did she dare even to try? Looking into those silvery eyes that glittered so coldly back at her, she knew she had no choice. Even if she did everything he said, he would kill her eventually. She had to take the first chance of escape that presented itself, no matter what the risk.
“Is that understood?” He meant to have an answer. Amanda looked at him and nodded jerkily. She prayed that he wouldn’t read her intentions in her eyes.
“Then I’ll ask you again, and I want the truth: is there some place up there at that convent of yours where I can rest-without being found?”
For a barely perceptible instant Amanda hesitated, thinking of the nuns and the other girls-people she had grown to care for-who were sleeping so peacefully in their beds. What guarantee did she have that he couldn’t somehow manage to kill everyone who came to her aid? After all, he had had some experience in mass murder. But then she thought of the path up the cliffs. It would be almost impossible for him to make the climb in his present condition; surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to get away from him on the steep, narrow path…
“Yes.” She was proud of herself. This time her voice was just right: steady and confident.
“Good. Then you can help me to stand up. And remember what I told you: I don’t have anything to lose.” This last was growled so menacingly that Amanda shrank back.
“I-I’ll remember.” At the moment she didn’t think it would be possible ever to think of anything else. Sheer fright was causing her hands to shake almost as much as his were. Why did she never do as she was bid? If she had listened to the sisters, she would be safely tucked up in her bed now, not trapped in a living nightmare with a man who could easily take it into his head to kill her at any minute.
“Are you asleep?” There was a note of exasperation in that gravelly voice. “I told you to help me up.”
Thus adjured, Amanda made a hasty, abortive attempt to get to her feet, only to be brought up short with a whimper of pain as a sudden, sharp agony shot through the part of her scalp that was attached to the hank of hair wrapped around his hand. Damn. She had forgotten just for an instant that he still had a grip on her hair.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, swiveling his head so that he could look at her as she rocked back on her heels. One of her hands rubbed at her tender scalp.
“I told you-you’re hurting me.” Her tone was resentful. Then, as a thought occurred to her, she continued carefully, “If you want me to help you, you’ll have to let go of my hair. You must see that I can’t do anything while you’re holding me like this.”
He looked at her consideringly. Amanda returned his look, her expression as innocent as she could make it.
“And as soon as I let go of your hair, you’ll be off like a little doe,” he said, sneering. “I told you before, I’m not stupid. You’ll just have to manage to get up and get me on my feet the best way you can. And considering the consequences if you don’t, I’m sure you’ll contrive something.”
Amanda swallowed. He was right; considering the consequences, she would contrive something. She positioned her feet beneath her and then straightened her knees so that she was upright from foot to waist, but still bent over him, anchored to him by her blasted hair.
“Very good,” he said approvingly, and again she thought she detected a touch of humor in his voice. Crossly she wished the fever would come upon him once more, rendering him helpless. Why did nothing ever happen as it should?
After a moment’s thought she reached down to grasp him under his armpits, pulling back with all her might. He barely budged, and she was soon panting as if she had run for miles.
“You’re not very strong, are you?” he said critically at last, his eyes disparaging as they moved over her slender body. Amanda started to stiffen indignantly, remembered just in time his hand in her hair, and contented herself with glaring at him instead.
“You’ll have to help me,” she answered coldly-or as coldly as she could with perspiration beading her forehead and her breathing ragged. “You’re very heavy.”
“Grab my hand and pull,” he instructed, and when she had grasped his proffered hand, he unwound his other hand from her hair. Amanda felt a flood of mingled relief and surprise, and immediately jerked as hard as she could on her imprisoned hand, hoping to yank it free. But she only succeeded in hauling him into a sitting position. His grip was like a vise.
“I knew you could do it.” His voice was faint but the tone sardonic. He was now leaning back against the rock that had sheltered him, and his eyes were closed. Her petticoat had slipped from his shoulders to lie like a crumpled flag of surrender against the dark shale. Amanda waited a second, watching him, then gave another surreptitious tug on her hand. Nothing happened-but his eyes opened.
“Don’t try to run away, Amanda,” he cautioned softly, his voice chilling her blood. “You won’t succeed-except in making me very angry.”
She stopped tugging. He leaned back against the rock again, his eyes closed, his breathing labored. Anchored to his hand as she was, Amanda could not help but be aware of the raging heat of his flesh and of the tremors that shook him. Despite her fear, she felt another of those odd little pangs of pity for him. He was clearly very ill… But there was nothing she could do for him, nothing she would want to do for him if she could. She was not foolish enough to aid, any more than she could help, a man who gave every indication that he planned to kill her sooner or later.
His eyes opened again, touching on her face like a silvery flash of fire before moving on to fix with grim concentration on his feet in their ill-made shoes. Moving slowly, as though it required tremendous effort to do so, he drew his knees up so that his feet were planted as close to his body as he could get them. Watching, Amanda saw his muscles tense as he braced his back against the rock.
“All right. Now see if you can help me stand up,” he ordered. Amanda looked at him briefly, then did as he told her, pulling on the hand that imprisoned hers with all her might. To her mingled relief and dismay, he inched slowly upright until at last he was on his feet, leaning against the rock, his face as pale as a corpse’s and his breath rattling in his throat in a way that made Amanda wince just to hear it. Throughout, he had never slackened his grip on her hand.
He stayed like that for several minutes, catching his breath, and then he looked at Amanda again.
“Come closer,” he said, pulling on her hand to enforce his words. Amanda hung back, not liking to get too near him now that he was on his feet. His sheer size frightened her. He was huge, tall and broad-shouldered, easily dwarfing her own petite frame so that she felt like a little child beside him. Despite his leanness, the muscles that were clearly visible through his ragged clothes were corded and strong-looking. She was no longer left with even a shred of doubt about who would emerge the victor in any contest of physical strength between them.
“Amanda.” His voice was a chill warning. Not knowing what else to do, Amanda reluctantly moved nearer, flinching as he drew her close to his side. He positioned her so that she was under his left armpit and he could lean on her. When his arm had clamped firmly around her shoulders-his fingers tangling in a strand of her hair again for extra insurance-he let go of her hand. Amanda could have sobbed with frustration. He was taking no chances on losing her.
When at last she was situated to his liking, he took a tentative step away from the rock, leaning heavily on Amanda, who staggered. He staggered with her, and for a moment she thought they were both going to fall on the rock-studded beach. But miraculously they managed to stay upright, although he was none too steady on his feet. They advanced a step, and then another-and then he stumbled over something, perhaps a jutting rock or even his own feet. Whatever the cause, he fell heavily, his arm slipping away from Amanda’s shoulder and his hand wrenching the lock of hair he had held captive from her scalp. The pain made Amanda’s eyes water. She clapped an instinctive hand to her head, rubbing vigorously in an effort to ease the ache as he crashed to the shale. His curses turned the air blue and would have put Amanda to the blush again-if she had stayed around to hear them.
But she did not. As soon as she realized that she was free-free-her feet seemed to sprout wings and she was off like a shot, scrambling away over the beach. She had not gone more than a yard when she heard a murderous growl behind her. Throwing a terrified look over her shoulder, she saw that he had somehow managed to get to his feet and was coming after her. Even as she tried frantically to speed up her escape, he was launching himself toward her in a flying tackle. She screamed as she felt his arms lock around her waist and his weight force her to the ground. The sound was silenced abruptly as the sudden jolt crushed the breath from her lungs. By the time she had recovered her senses enough to be aware of what was happening again, he had turned her onto her back and was leaning over her, his eyes flashing with an unholy light. His lower body crushed her legs into the shale.
“Damn it, you little bitch, I ought to…” What he ought to do she never knew, because his words trailed off in a groan. Throwing himself about like that must have hurt him badly. Trapped beneath him, her breasts heaving with fright and her thighs crushed by his much larger ones, Amanda stared up at him wide-eyed. He was as white as death, and his mouth was set in a furious grimace that struck fear into her soul. He would kill her now, she had no doubt, and terror set her to kicking and hitting at him mindlessly. He cursed and tried to capture her flailing hands. Instinctively they curved into claws, which she raked down his cheeks, feeling savage satisfaction at the bloody furrows her nails left in their wake. He cursed again, viciously, and caught her wrists in a grip that made her fear that he meant to snap the fragile bones. She squirmed and kicked frantically beneath him as he transferred both her hands to one of his; then her eyes widened with fright as he raised his free hand, fist balled to strike her. Her eyes were frantic as she stared at that fist, which was poised to descend upon her face with its delicate bones. He could, and undoubtedly would, beat her to a pulp before he killed her. She screamed with pure animal terror, her eyes locked with his all the while. To her surprise and confusion, she saw an emotion come into his eyes that she would have described as self-disgust in anyone else. Then his fist dropped; she felt his open hand cover her mouth, stifling any further outcry.
“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, effectively quelling her struggles with his body while his hand continued to exert that strangely gentle pressure across her face. “Be still, and I’ll let you go. Only you mustn’t scream, Amanda. Amanda, do you hear me?”
She did hear him, and presently her terror eased, along with her struggles, as the calming note in his voice had its effect. Perhaps he really wasn’t going to kill her. Perhaps he meant the words he was almost whispering to her. Her eyes were still huge and her breathing was fast, but she slowly allowed her tense muscles to relax until she was no longer fighting him.
“That’s right, Amanda,” he murmured soothingly. “Just be still, and everything will be all right. I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth now-only you mustn’t scream again. Do you promise not to scream, Amanda?”
She stared up at him for a moment. His face was very close to hers, his beard tickling her cheek as he muttered in her ear. He raised his head to look at her, waiting for her response, and she saw that his eyes had lost their murderous gleam and looked merely very tired.
“Will you promise not to scream, Amanda?” he repeated, and this time she nodded once. As he had promised, he removed his hand. Instinctively she wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. He watched that tiny movement intently. Then he opened his mouth to speak.
Whatever he was going to say was lost forever as they both heard running footsteps crunching across the shale toward them. Amanda felt his muscles tense against her; as he turned his head to stare in the direction of the sound the look on his face reminded her of nothing so much as the heart-thumping fear of an animal before the hunters close in.