so acute that when a second arrow streaked through the darkness to strike the same archway, one could almost swear to have heard the resonant twang of the bowstring.
Like magic, the tableau dissolved. The men and women resumed their conversations and their tasks at hand. Servanne, having once again buried her face in the protective thickness of the wolf pelts, felt a pair of gentle hands pry her loose.
“We use the double signal to ensure the men coming in are our own,” the Wolf explained. “Even those who possess limitless courage have been known to give away the deepest of secrets under expert torture, and, since it is not inconceivable to assume the sheriff has sent his pack of hounds out after us, we have arranged different signals for each day.”
“Bah! Old Noddypeak should have chased his tail into a fine tangle by now,” Sparrow chuckled, materializing out of nowhere. “Especially since he was sent chasing it in ten different directions.”
“I should think Sigurd will be bringing news of a new hound in the forest,” the Wolf mused thoughtfully. “One whose nose is tuned to a sweeter scent.”
Wardieu, Servanne realized, the excitement flaring within her like a sudden flame. Lord Lucien Wardieu was in the forest, come to rescue her from this … this …
With a start, she became aware of how close she was standing to her tormentor. Her fingers were curled around shanks of gleaming black fur; his hands were still resting on her shoulders, the intimacy of the contact hidden from view by the flowing mass of her hair, but one that was felt most disconcertingly throughout every inch of her trembling flesh.
His potent maleness was unsettling; more so when a vivid picture of him flashed into her mind and remained there—a picture of him standing naked in the knee-deep water of the Silent Pool, his flesh steaming, his muscles rippling beneath the sheath of taut skin.
Conscious of the fact that he seemed to have little difficulty in reading her thoughts, Servanne quickly lowered her lashes and extricated herself from his embrace. As before, she missed the flicker of colour that came and went in his eyes, nor did she see the way his fingers curled and hoarded the distinct, tingling memory of her warmth.
“I would like to return to my chamber now,” she said.
“Whereas I would enjoy your company beside me at the table again.”
“I am not hungry.”
“I am. And unless you would care to see my appetite roused for more than food, you would be wise not to attempt to defy me in this.”
Servanne looked up. The promise was there for a blind man to see, as was the disturbing realization it had only been by the slenderest thread of chance she had awakened alone in her bed.
“I … should at least like to make myself more presentable,” she said tremulously, reaching up with an unsteady hand to smooth the flown wisps of her hair.
“You are more than presentable just the way you are,” he insisted, extending an arm in a mockingly gallant gesture.
Servanne doubted she could touch him again and come away unscathed. She gathered the folds of her skirt and cloak in her hands to lift them clear of the fouled rushes on the floor, and, with as much indifference as she could put into the tilt of her chin, preceded him to the raised dais.
The meal progressed as it had the previous evening, the exception being that Servanne shared her settings with the outlaw leader rather than with Sparrow. The latter, happily taking on a joint of mutton almost as large as he was, kept the conversation light and easy, but though he tried his valiant best, failed to win a smile from their silvery-haired hostage. He assumed it was because she had overheard Sigurd’s report, delivered halfway through the meal, that there was indeed a new player in the game of hide and seek. While he was not far wrong in his guess, he was not exactly right, either. For every one thought Servanne had concerning the whereabouts of the Baron de Gournay, she had three for the man who sat on her right-hand side—the man who met her gaze each time without a hint of shame, or guilt, or regret; just the infuriatingly smug self-assurance of someone who believes his way is the only way.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly. “Why have you come to Lincoln?”