Rexanne Becnel by Dove at Midnight Page B

rise. There was no sign of any town or village nearby, but she knew she was near the sea. Instead of searching out the sheriff at Hornsea, she might be safer making her way directly to Isle Sacré. She could cut through the woods, careful to avoid being seen. Once the tide was low enough, she would dash across the sandy spit of land and hide herself on the wooded island. Only when she was certain Lord Blaecston and his men had departed would she venture back to the mainland to begin the trek home to St. Theresa’s.
    When they didn’t find her, they would probably imagine that she had been washed out to sea and drowned, she thought with considerable glee. But her elation was squelched when she heard the first distant sounds of pursuit. As she scurried up the hill, searching desperately for a hiding place, she recognized one of the voices.
    “… until she is found—not before! And a gold coin to the man who brings her to me!”
    Joanna was so unnerved by the dark threat in Rylan’s voice that she struck her shin painfully on a fallen log. “Christ and bedamned!” she muttered as tears of pain started in her eyes, then she immediately cringed at such a profanity. Those were his words, taken directly from his blasphemous lips. How was it they had sprung so readily to her own?
    But Joanna had no time to dwell on that unpleasant thought, for the crashing of horses through the underbrush gave evidence that her pursuers were drawing ever nearer. Searching wildly for a hiding place, she spied a gaping hole at the base of the very tree she had stumbled over. The roots lifted above the space like gnarled fingers warding off any threat, and though Joanna normally would have been too squeamish to secrete herself into such a dark, dirty place, she had no time to hesitate. She backed into the hole, her now-bare feet and legs sliding in the wet mud. Then when she was as far down as she could fit, she drew several nearby branches and piles of leaves over her. Though her heart was pounding like a drum, she tried not to think of snakes or worms but only resigned herself to wait.
    It wasn’t long. In a matter of minutes she heard horses moving slowly through the wooded area nearer the streambed.
    “I’ll take this hill,” one man called to the others.
    Joanna’s heart nearly sank at his words. He would find her—she knew he would!
    But then, as if in answer to her unsaid prayers, it began to rain. At first the droplets caught in the high branches of the trees, but before long the big drops were plummeting through, filling the forest with sound and movement, and thereby providing her with another layer of protection.
    She heard a foul oath—something about the king and women in general—but it was muffled by the storm, and she felt her first glimmer of hope. They might search all morning for her, but she suddenly was certain they would not find her. Not now.
    The search moved past her and then beyond, out to the meadow and farther into the woods, judging by what she could hear. Slowly her heart ceased its thundering and her breathing became more normal. But as the pressing fear of capture wore off, Joanna became more and more conscious of her dank hiding place. Rainwater flowed in a steady rivulet through the mud and down her left leg. Something moved at her elbow and she jumped, willing herself to believe it only more of the runoff rain. But she knew she could not stay where she was much longer.
    Then there was a sudden scurrying sound just behind her head, and when she turned to see she let out a short scream.
    The poor hare who sought its burrow was far more frightened than she, and it dashed madly away from the wide-eyed creature who’d taken over its home. However, Joanna could not concern herself with the terrified rabbit. In a rush all her worst imaginings rose to torture her, and she was certain a nest of snakes squirmed around her legs. With a cry of terror she lurched up from her hideout, scrabbling with hands and knees