Chapter 13 Jude
Jude
Jude followed a flash of pale hair in the twilit distance, grumbling under his breath.
Maeve was perhaps fifty metres ahead, pushing past the gate and heading into the fields beyond.
The last thing he wanted was to chase after her like some sort of dog, but she didn’t know the moors like he did.
They weren’t safe off the path, especially in the dark.
Bogs pitted the heather in unseen patches, crawling roots arching from the earth like fingers.
Never mind the rain sluicing down his face and freezing the air in his lungs.
What was she thinking, leaving the house on a night like this?
Blood pounded furiously in his ears, turning him into a pummelling wave. He would crash against the shore, crash against her, one way or the other. Whether or not she would erode against him or push back remained to be seen.
‘Maeve,’ Jude called. ‘Maeve!’
He moved faster. The scrape of the wind drew tears to his eyes. Rain scoured across the exposed shape of the land, blurring the figure ahead of him.
Finally, she stopped. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of him.
The thought occurred almost lazily – he’d been so preoccupied with ensuring she stayed clear of danger that he’d neglected to watch his own feet.
If he’d stopped for even a breath, he would’ve noticed the distinctive moss, the swampy water licking at his ankles.
If it hadn’t been for the blasted woman in front of him—
Too late.
Water and freezing mud filled his boots and sluiced up the back of his jumper as his left foot sank to the knee. The other jerked forward in an attempt to steady himself. His arms pinwheeled through the air as the mud stopped him in his tracks.
‘Jude!’ Maeve cried.
He barely heard her as razor-sharp panic consumed every thought.
The bog wrapped fingers around both ankles, forbidding all movement.
Soon, the whole lower half of his body was cemented in the mud.
Fear surged through his chest as he clawed at the surrounding reeds.
The more he struggled, the faster he sank.
He desperately searched for anything solid, finding nothing. He was trapped.
Suddenly, Maeve loomed above him.
‘Stop,’ he tried to warn her, his words harsh and fearful. She would slip into the bog with him if she took another step. ‘Don’t come closer. Don’t, Maeve—’
He tried to force himself into stillness and remember what Elden had taught him about escaping the bog’s tenacious grip, but suddenly, her reaching hand was all he could see.
‘Stay still,’ she said, dropping to her knees and crawling forward. ‘You’re making it worse.’
Jude tried. He really did, but the claustrophobia wouldn’t release its hold.
All he could think about was his trapped body and Maeve inching ever nearer. Strands of marshy grass snapped off beneath his grasping fingers. Water brushed his chin as mud hit his tongue. It couldn’t end like this – earth down his throat, water in his lungs.
‘Hold on—’ her voice cut through the panic. He tried to focus on her face as his right arm slid deeper into the muck. He forced the left high above his head. His breathing was a wrenched, choking gasp.
‘You need to relax, Jude. Please try to relax.’ She slid forward on 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 a bog?’
‘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 blood had 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, but still— ‘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.
Maeve shivered at the touch. He pulled back. ‘Because I’m a saint?’ he asked, not looking away from where his hand hovered a hair’s breadth from her skin.
He took his time returning his focus to her face. Her golden hair hung in matted tangles, her eyes huge and softly dark. Her gaze roamed him like she was searching for something hidden, something only she could see.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not because you’re a saint.’
For once, Jude didn’t have a reply.