‘You need to relax, Jude. Please try to relax.’ She slid forwardon her belly towards the last of the firm ground before it gave way to the bog, her reaching hand barely visible in the dark. ‘Take my hand.’
His fingers brushed her wrist, slipping off before he could get a firm grip.
Gold leapt in his peripherals. Jude shoved it back with all his strength as Maeve shimmied forward, both arms extended towards him now. Her hands scrabbled up his arm, against his neck and down around the collar of his jumper, searching for purchase. Rain sheeted between them in a veil of silver, obscuring everything that wasn’t the vivid red staining her cheeks and her frantic dark eyes.
With a grunt, Jude freed his right arm from the mud. He reached both hands towards her, securing them around her wrists. His magic jumped eagerly to the surface. He loosened a half-scream, half-groan from between his teeth as he tried to fight it back.
Her memories flooded his mind before he could stop them.
Gold hazed the room in a rush of fine powder. High above, a portrait watched her with knowing eyes. The paint was dry – fully dry in mere seconds. How? How had he done it?
Maeve gripped both his wrists tightly and paused. She blinked rapidly, tipping her head like she was clearing water from her ears. Gritting his teeth, Jude finally succeeded in leashing his magic.
Abruptly, her eyes cleared as the memory left his mind and returned to hers. He squinted against the final strains of gold.
Maeve’s hands convulsed around his wrists. ‘Okay,’ she panted. ‘Okay. Start with your legs. Try to loosen the muscles.’
He tried to do as she said, to view his body as separate from his panic-strewn mind. He’d done it before. He could do it again. He focused on his ankles, his calves, his knees, up to his hips. Soon, the lower half of his body felt as weightless as if he was floating.
Slowly, the mud loosened its grip.
‘That’s it,’ Maeve praised. She pulled on his arms, sliding herself backwards. She grimaced, pain flashing across her face as she worked them both backwards. ‘Just stay still.’
His torso cleared the bog first. He saw Maeve fully now. She was lying partially on a fallen tree, one leg hooked over a protruding branch to lever Jude out of the bog. Her dress was torn to mid-thigh, exposing a black stocking and a slash of vivid red halfway up her leg.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he gritted out, the words coming out angrier than he’d meant.
Maeve shook her head dismissively and pulled harder.
All at once, the bog released him. He slid out enough to catch his knee on the edge of the solid ground, pushing himself the rest of the way out. The peat was blessedly firm under him. Maeve released his wrists and rolled off the tree and onto her back. They lay there panting, mud-stained and soaked with rain.
‘How,’ she gasped. ‘Do you find yourself in abog?’
‘It found me,’ Jude muttered, scraping his clean hand over his face. ‘Thought you’d be more grateful that it didn’t find you instead. You’re welcome for that, by the way.’
To his surprise, Maeve laughed. Clear and bright and louder than he expected. He turned to look at her, catching the edge of her smile. Something deep in him shuddered.
He shakily sat up.
Every part of him ached. He’d lost a boot, his sock halfway off and heavy with mud. He pulled it free with a sigh. He’d liked those boots.
Maeve extended one leg, gingerly pulling back her sodden skirt. Her stocking was pushed down around her ankle. Blood streaked down her inner thigh in muddy, blotchy rivulets.
His eyes fixed on the jagged gash. ‘Does that hurt?’ he asked uselessly.
She gently prodded the edge of the cut. Already, the bloodhad stopped. ‘I think it’s from the tree branch. I probably shouldn’t have anchored myself so… aggressively.’ She tried for a laugh.
Jude didn’t find it remotely funny. Up close, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, barely more than a scrape, butstill— ‘You shouldn’t have got hurt at all.’
Maeve met his gaze. ‘What, no thank you for saving your life?’
‘Not at the cost of your own.’
Surprisingly, he found the words rang true. He wanted her gone, yes… but dead? Perhaps not.
‘Jude,’ she replied firmly, catching him still glaring at the blood on her leg. ‘It’s a scratch. It will heal in a few days. Your life is far more important.’
Slowly, he extended his hand and brushed the smooth skin around the cut with the back of a knuckle, careful to keep his writhing magic in check.
