Authors: Diana J. Cosby
His Captive (5 page)
Alexander emerged from the darkened ruins. He gave a sharp nod toward the decaying structure. “It will do for the night.”
Raindrops splattered against her face as she stared at him. Her breath wavered as she turned toward the ruins. “It is unstable.”
“And has stood so for more than a decade.” He held out his hand. “Come.”
She hesitated, wanting to refuse, but the warning in his eyes assured her—he would make her comply, willing or not. She dismissed telling him that since her parents’ death she feared the dark, more so during a storm. He already held too much power over her.
Catching the length of her dress with her fingers at each side, she lifted the hem above the fallen rock and walked forward. As she passed him, he tensed. Gathering her courage, Nichola hurried inside the murky opening.
Age mixed with the cool taste of rain greeted her, but the faintest scent of myrrh lingered as well. Her heart pounded as her eyes slowly adjusted to the candlelit interior. One wall was ready to collapse, but the remainder of the small enclosure remained sturdy and proud.
Near the farthest wall stood the decaying remnants of an altar, but she could envision the adornments that would have decorated the humble church: woven tapestries edged with gold thread, finely crafted goblets, carved figures of saints proudly displayed, and other, simpler offerings.
Thunder rumbled in the heavens above.
Nerves had her glancing up. In the wilting light, the gnarled beams shifted into ominous shadows. A shiver stole through her, and she crossed her arms against her chest.
Images of the accident with her parents flashed in her mind. The screams. The pain. The unbearable grief.
Please. Not now. She fought to quell the panic that a thunderstorm evoked.
On her next breath, she focused on the three large cracks near the battered entry; crevices where the rain would be able to slip inside.
Alexander’s footsteps halted behind her. His breath, warm and steady, whispered against her neck. “Nichola?”
The strength of his presence lured her to lean against him, to allow him to shelter her from her fears. By sheer will, she resisted his invisible pull. To allow him knowledge of her weakness would be a grave error.
She gathered her composure and turned to face him.
He studied her a moment with a shrewd eye. “The horse is bedded down in another part of the ruins. With the storm upon us, we will remain here for the night.”
Until dawn she would be confined within the aged stone walls with Alexander. A thought that did little to ease her nerves. “It is too early to sleep.” But however tired, sleep would evade her this night.
“Aye, it is.” He walked past her with the bedroll in his hands, his muscled frame at odds with the decay surrounding him. Near the sidewall, he knelt and brushed away any loose pebbles, then spread out a woolen blanket.
She didn’t want to sleep within inches of him, but she had little choice if she wanted to stay warm on this dreary night.
Another blast of thunder sounded, and she jumped. The steady beat of rain increased.
Sweat beaded her brow. Fighting for calm, Nichola walked to the entry. In the waning light, water streamed down the pile of rocks to spill onto a fallen pillar covered by moss. Hard, steady pounding sheets that saturated the earth. Wind ripped at the leaves, tossing saplings to and fro as if shaken by God himself.
Lightning severed the sky in a jagged streak. Thunder rumbled, this time closer. It took every shred of willpower not to curl up into a ball and cry.
Nichola hated the gnawing fear, but she couldn’t prevent another shudder, or the all too vivid images of another time during such a thunderstorm; the rain had battered the ground and smeared pools of blood. The raw cries of terror had mingled with those of death.
“Lass?”
She whirled to find Alexander behind her. “You startled me,” she said, barely quelling the urge to scream.
Alexander studied her. Startled mayhap, but as she’d stared at the rain pouring down, her face had grown deathly pale. Whatever memories she struggled against, they were far more than those that left one merely startled.
“You are upset,” he said, keeping his voice as soft as he would be to a frightened mare.
“Do you expect any other?” she challenged, tinges of fear breaking through her voice. “I am held hostage in a foreign land, wear a gown I would not allow my maid to glance upon, and stand within a hovel that might crumble before the morn.”
“Your concerns are valid, but that is not what is bothering you, is it?”
Her finger rubbed at the locket hanging from her neck. “Do you always pry into people’s lives?”
“Is that what I am doing?”
Nichola turned toward the downpour, her shoulders as rigid as a sentinel. “I would rather not speak of it.”
With the falling rain curtaining the entry, her composure faltered, and he understood. “You do not like the rain?” His question was whispered between them with unexpected tenderness.
She skimmed her fingers along the damp, pitted stone; her shallow breaths audible. “At least the water is not running inside. The floor will remain dry.”
He should leave her alone, but her avoidance of his question piqued his curiosity. “What happened?”
Nichola shook her head, but her body began to shudder, betraying the truth of her reaction.
Alexander stepped up behind her. He clasped her shoulders gently. “I know the way of grief, of a hurt so cutting you pray for death.” Shaken he’d betrayed such a personal fact, he released her and stepped back.
Never had he revealed the anguish he’d lived through after his father’s death to anyone before. How could he admit such a thing, especially to an Englishwoman?
She turned. Grief-stricken eyes searched his with sympathy.
By God’s eyes he needed nothing from her! He turned on his heel and started across the chamber. Her ragged exhalation stopped him. He curled his hand around his dagger, torn between duty and compassion.
Compassion won.
Alexander spun on his heel to face her. “Tell me what troubles you!”
A sad smile touched her lips. “Must you always have answers?”
“Not always.”
“Is it not enough that you have taken me from my home?”
The soft accusation struck true. She was his hostage, a stranger whose life was opposed to his. “Aye, ’tis enough.” He wanted no more and turned to put distance between them.
“Alexander.”
At her familiar use of his name, awareness slid through him. And something else he barely recognized, a flicker of hope. “Aye?”
“I . . . Will you look at me?”
Rain eased outside, the slap of water against the stone quieting to a slow, steady thrum. Inside him, ’twas as if a storm brewed. He drew in a deep breath of air until it was as if his chest was on fire.
The soft scrape of slippers on dirt sounded in his wake.
Go away
.
.
“Please,” she whispered.
Tension hummed through his body as he slowly exhaled. He wouldn’t ask again of her sorrows; already he’d trod on a personal path he had no right to take. He turned.
A tear slipping down her cheek had Alexander drawing her into his arms.
She splayed her hands against his chest and tried to push him away. “Do not.”
He ignored her command. Tremors rippled through her slender frame as he held her close. Although she’d deny it, if only for this moment, she needed him.
“I want to help you,” Alexander said, damning the truth of his words; but finding with her, he was helpless to do otherwise. He rested his chin against her brow. An unexpected softness coiled within him, filling him with a peace he’d not experienced since his father’s death. The thrum of rain echoed around them and for this one moment, everything seemed right.
“This once,” he said, “trust me.”
“I do not think—”
“Then do not.” The pounding of her heart slowed as he held her; pleasing him. Then, like a rose unfurling its petals, the tension within her body eased until she lay within his arms in acceptance.
How long they remained standing together as the storm unleashed its fury upon the land he didn’t know. Or care. He ran his fingers through her hair and murmured encouragement, damning whoever had hurt this part of her. And whoever had left her distrusting men.
The warmth of her tears traced down his tunic. Alexander realized he wanted her trust and more. A bond that never could be. For the moment they’d found common ground, but it was far outweighed by the reality of their countries at war; of his vow to his father; and of the fact that he’d abducted her.
But he’d not worry about issues out of his reach. Not now when she was within his arms.
Alexander tucked her head against his shoulder as he would a frightened child. “They say that when the rain falls, it is a fairy’s favorite time,” he murmured, his hand threading through her hair to the end, only to begin again. “They dance on the puddles, and frolic on the beads of water as the raindrops cascade to the earth.”
Thick, auburn lashes lifted to reveal the aftermath of tears, and doubt wedged in her gaze. “Fairies?”
“Aye,” he said. A lock of her silk strands slid across his cheek. “The wee folk who live in fairy hills scattered about Scotland.” He arched a surprised brow. “Do not tell me you have never heard of them?”
She paused as if trying to decide if she should believe him, then shook her head. “No . . . I . . .” Nichola looked down, but Alexander caught her chin with his finger and gently lifted her face toward him.
“Did your mother never tell you stories afore bed? Tales to fill your dreams as you slept?”
Her lower lip trembled. “She died when I was six.”
He gave her a gentle hug, remembering the loss of his own mother at the birthing of his youngest brother, Duncan. Of his inconsolable grief. And that of his family. “I am sorry.”
“My thanks, but many years have passed since.”
Maybe, but by the ache in her words she still grieved her mother’s death. “And your father?”
“They died together.”
Her quiet admission broke his heart. “You lost so much.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“But the emptiness within you still exists.” A lesson he’d learned first hand. Years eased the aches of your heart, but time never truly healed the grief. “Your brother raised you?”
“Yes.”
That would account for their close bond. “He is a man lauded by King Edward. A man that takes care of his own.”
She stiffened in his arms. “Wealthy you mean.” Suspicion coated her gaze. Though only a hand’s breadth apart, it may as well have been a league.
Mention of her brother had brought back the reality of how much separated them. Alexander released her and stepped back, ignoring the twinge of regret. ’Twas for the best.
She looked off into the distance. “When are you going to send the ransom demand to my brother?”
No reason existed to keep the information from her. “When we reach my home, Lochshire Castle.”
Nichola turned toward him. “And how long will that be?”
“Three, four days at most.”
“How long until we are on Scottish soil?”
“We crossed into my homeland late this morning.” He nodded. “The church we are in is Scottish. It was destroyed during a skirmish many years ago by the English.”
“I see.”
At her cold tone, he bristled. “I have made little secret of our destination.”
Nichola laid her hand upon a stone pillar etched with time-worn cracks; her fingers trembled. “No, you have been truthful from the start.”
Though she hadn’t declared it with words, she again viewed him as the enemy; a man she could never turn to, nor lean upon for strength.
“I will be retrieving food from the pack.” Alexander strode outside. Rain pelted his tunic and trews. In seconds his body was soaking wet and with each step his boots sank deeper into the mud. As if he bloody cared about his sodden state. Or Nichola’s opinion of him.
But he did.
Furious that she could make him care, he whirled to face the ruins of the church. Never before had a woman caused him to have doubts over a decision made. Never before had he needed a woman this much.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. But clearing his lungs did little to unclog the turmoil inside. Shaken, he stared at the rain, which continued to fall: heavy drops that offered no forgiveness.
Seated before Alexander as he guided his mount around a bog, Nichola chided herself at her actions yesterday within the ruins of the church. How could she have turned to Alexander, allowed him to hold her as if he was someone she could trust?
A tight ache built in her chest as she remembered leaning against his muscled frame, seeking support. And if she was honest, wanting more. To taste his kiss, to feel his hands gentle upon her skin. How with a mere touch, he could make her forget her fears and think only of her needs. She shivered. Thank Mary he’d spoken of her brother.
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