His Captive (2 page)
Authors: Diana J. Cosby
A wild sob built in her throat as he called her bluff. As if payment would ever be sent. Griffin was on the run and their coffers barren. “You cannot take me, I—”
He put his finger over her lips, forestalling further protest. “I can. Not a word,” he warned. “If you care about your brother’s life, you will not scream.”
Her heart slammed against her chest. He’d kill Griffin? She had to do something. But what? If she screamed, he’d tie a gag around her mouth and end any chance to cry for help.
At her silence, he lifted her against his chest and strode toward the door.
Nichola fought to pry free. The blackguard would soon learn his outlandish abduction would fail. Before he could make it outside the castle, her guards would seize him and toss him into the dungeon where he belonged.
Except her abductor didn’t head toward the main entry. He strode toward the secret door.
Saint’s breath! How did he know about this passageway? It mattered not. Griffin had secured the exit when he’d left.
With arrogant confidence, her abductor pressed his fingers against the almost invisible indentation and pulled.
With smug satisfaction, Nichola awaited his frustrated curse.
The door swung open.
And she understood. Her servants hadn’t escorted the Scot to the solar. When she’d stood by the panels of glass, lost in thought, he must have slipped into the chamber through the secret door.
Griffin!
No, her brother was safe. Why else would the Scot have asked his whereabouts? By some miracle, as her brother had made his hasty departure, in the labyrinth of tunnels woven within Rothfield Castle, he must have missed the Scot.
Her abductor stepped toward the entry.
She couldn’t let him enter. If he made it inside the tunnel with her and closed the door, little hope existed for her escape. Nichola planted her foot against the wall and shoved hard.
The Scot caught her legs and pried them free.
Nichola screamed.
He clamped a hand over her mouth as he glared at her with a scowl as fierce as the devil’s own. “Cease! I gave my word you will not be harmed.”
Images of the violence a man of such build could bestow upon her terrorized her mind.
“I do not lie,” he said. “Do not scream again.”
She shot him a furious glare. Most men lie. ’Twas their reasons for doing so that varied.
With her caught in his grasp, he stepped through the opening and secured the panel behind them.
Stale air enveloped Nichola and a sense of doom settled over her. Her captor removed his hand from her mouth. Why wouldn’t he? His unorthodox arrival into the solar proved him familiar with the maze of tunnels woven throughout Rothfield Castle. He would know the interconnected passageways had been built to ensure a safe and quiet escape.
If she screamed, no one would hear her.
The Scot removed a torch from a nearby sconce and held it before them. Wavering light illuminated the dismal, but sturdily built tunnel. Cobwebs cluttered the shadows, dust coated the hewn stones and agedoak beams lay overhead. Somewhere in the distance the steady drip of water echoed with a somber plop.
Nichola remained still against her captor’s solid chest, but beneath her lashes, she searched for anything to use as a weapon. Not even a loose stone was within reach. She drew in a slow breath, at odds with her pounding heart. To panic now would only make the situation worse.
As the Scot strode down the torch-lit tunnel, she peered through half-open lashes at his face; the hard slash of his cheekbones as unforgiving as his mouth. The cleft in his chin as if carved by an angry god. The scar running down the left side of his face giving his appearance a dangerous edge. She wouldn’t call it a cruel face, but that of a man seasoned by war. A man who, when he gave an order, would expect to be obeyed.
How long would her captor allow her to live when he discovered the truth—that they were impoverished? She shuddered. The answer was simple.
He wouldn’t.
The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her. Because of her efforts to keep the myth of a happy and prosperous home alive, her abductor believed he would be well paid.
The deception she had so desperately nurtured would seal her own fate.
Shards of torchlight punctured the blackness. The firm slap of his steps echoed around her.
Nichola glanced back as the secret door faded into darkness. She couldn’t give up. Maybe she couldn’t overpower the Scot, but she’d bide her time, gather her strength, and pray for an opportunity to escape. It would come.
She refused to believe otherwise.
For now, she would pretend to faint in his arms. He would believe she’d succumbed to fear. With a silent prayer that her tactic would work, she closed her eyes and relaxed.
The alluring woman in Alexander’s arms went limp, then her breathing slowed. She’d passed out. From a mix of fear and exhaustion, he imagined. He grimaced. He’d not meant to scare the lass, but the matter could not be helped.
In the soft flickers of light, her ivory face framed by her auburn tresses radiated innocence. Her full lips, the color of sun-ripened berries drenched in dew, caused him to linger on them. He wondered at their softness. And taste.
Irritated by his attraction to the woman in his arms, Alexander returned his attention to the tunnel.
By the saints, what was he doing? However tempting her slender frame, her auburn hair that flowed down to spill across full breasts, and a voice that slid through him like warmed honey, he could never forget she was English—a people he despised.
On his father’s grave he’d pledged his life to war. To serve his people. To protect their freedom. Avow no woman would make him break.
Pleasures of the flesh were brief, unattached, and at his choosing.
He’d tolerate her presence and no more. Alexander turned his thoughts to her brother. Where was the baron? He, his brothers, and their informant had mapped out the baron’s abduction in detail. Nothing should have gone wrong.
But it had.
Used to making quick decisions, however much it vexed him to involve a woman, Alexander had abducted the baron’s sister instead. With the rebels urgent need for coin to buy arms, and Alexander’s awareness of the siblings’ tight bond, her brother would pay a hearty ransom for her return.
Far from appeased at the change in plans, Alexander retraced his path through the intricately woven passageways. He followed each turn and twist that would take him to a field on the outer edge of the castle, a route explained by the laird who’d resided here before the English had seized the stronghold.
As he moved with confidence, the scent of woman, mixed with the fragrance of lavender, teased at his senses. Irritated he’d noticed, he pushed himself harder.
Fresh air, rich with the scent of water, alerted him that they neared the exit. He lengthened his stride. The steady churn of the current grew into a low rumble as he turned a corner. Moonlight carved through the blackness up ahead.
Alexander extinguished the torch, threw it aside and stepped out of the small rock opening onto the moor.
Cool night air greeted him as he studied their surroundings. Beneath the moon’s glow, the water flowed down the burn like a silken ribbon. Light wind rippled across a nearby field of rye in a slow caress. Beyond that stood a cluster of elm and oak where he’d hidden his steed.
He’d begun his journey with a second mount, but last night it had gone lame and he’d left it behind. He’d planned to steal another horse, but having taken Lord Monceaux’s sister instead of the baron, she was light enough to ride with him.
Alexander noted beneath the half-moon of her auburn lashes, the slight movement of her eyelids. She was coming to. He needed to hurry before she fully awoke.
Through the cover of trees, Alexander turned and scanned the castle walls that rose above a stand of low pines less than a league away.
After assuring himself no guard could see them, he began to pick his way across the fragments of rock jutting above the shallow burn.
Halfway, without warning, the unconscious woman in his arms exploded into action, twisting against him.
“Let go of me!” Her voice echoed in the crisp August night.
Blast it. He covered her mouth with his hand and stifled another scream. “Be still!”
Her wriggling increased.
In her surprise bid for freedom, she’d managed to free her lower body from his hold. He grabbed for her legs at the same instant that she kicked out, throwing him off balance. He lost his foothold.
Cold water erupted around them as they landed in the burn, soaking them both.
His captive sputtered in the knee-deep water as she sat there wet, bedraggled, her eyes glittering with defiance.
From the satisfaction on her face, she had planned this sabotage all along. A part of him was irritated she found delight in besting him, another part admired her courage to try.
Maybe her bravado came from the blue blood pouring through her veins. Or from her classic beauty that she doubtlessly wielded like the finest swordsman to bend men to her will.
He narrowed his eyes on her face. She would soon learn any attempt to defy him, however sweetly delivered, would fail.
The current rumbled around them as Alexander hauled her onto her tiptoes before him. “It is a bold one you are,” he said with a fierce scowl, “but I will not—” She gasped, and he made the mistake of looking down.
Her chest heaved against his, her sodden-wool gown clung against her slim figure to outline her full breasts. Doused with cold water, her nipples had puckered into hard peaks.
Lust speared straight through him with a brutal aim the stoutest marksman would admire. His body burned with need. He clenched his teeth. Though raping and pillaging was common, he found distaste in overpowering a woman.
Alexander caught her shoulders, nevertheless yanking her against him for effect. “Hear me now, lass. I am not a patient man and you have exhausted what little I had. I have promised not to harm you. What you believe,” he said with icy precision, “or not, is your own choosing. Do not cross me again.”
As if sensing how close he was to losing control, fear flashed in her eyes, then she lowered her gaze.
Believing he’d quelled the last of her resistance, Alexander stood. Water sluiced down his tunic as he lifted her up with him. He reached down. A loud rip sounded as he tore a strip from the bottom of her gown.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Though fear battered her voice, she stood her ground. His respect for her increased. “What I should have done from the first.” Before she could balk, he secured a strip over her mouth. As she struggled anew, her eyes skewering him with loathing, he used another to bind her hands before her.
Without further incident, he carried her from the burn. He crossed a field thick with heather, then slipped into the protective cover of trees. Out of view, he thrust her onto his horse, swinging up behind her.
She stiffened, her slender body snug against his muscled frame.
He tried not to notice how well she fit, or her sweep of wet auburn hair inches from his mouth. Beneath the moonlight, he followed a rivulet of water as it slid down the side of her neck to disappear beneath her gown.
Gritting his teeth, he caught the reins. He refused to allow temptation to sway him from his purpose. Holding her for ransom was the rebels only hope.
But with the lass wedged against him, his blood pounding hot, ’twould seem his decision to abduct her would issue its own consequence. With grim resolve, Alexander turned his mount north and kicked him into a gallop.
And for the first time, he wondered if his abduction of the baron’s sister would be something he’d come to regret.
Chapter Two
An owl’s cry slipped through the fragments of Nichola’s dream. She squeezed her eyes tighter. She didn’t want to wake up. Not yet. The pounding of horse’s hooves was soothing. The solid heat at her back felt so warm and inviting.
She burrowed closer.
A shaft of pain shot through her and she moaned. She tried to lift her arms to work out the hurt. They didn’t budge. Why couldn’t she move her arms?
The thickness clouding her mind faded. Nichola flicked open her eyes. A strong muscled arm was wrapped around her waist. Another held reins as they rode. Mary’s will, the hard, lean warmth she rested against was her captor!
She stiffened, jerking upright. Another bolt of pain struck. Her breath came hard and fast through her gag, but she couldn’t move. Her hands were still bound before her.
“You are awake then,” the Scot said, so close that his breath stirred the hair against her neck. “We will be riding for several more hours yet. Fighting your bindings will only cause your muscles to ache more.”
A few more hours. Then what? Would he turn her over to rebels awaiting their arrival, or, remembering the lust in his eyes when he had stared at her back at the stream, would he pleasure himself at her expense?
Her ties chafed, her mouth was dry, and she wanted to cry out in frustration. Instead, Nichola steadied herself against the pain. She refused to give up. In a slow sweep, she examined her surroundings in hopes of recognizing a landmark.
Sheets of fog as thin as unleavened bread floated in ghostly slivers around them. A forest, darkened with night-blackened trees, embraced the field they rode through. Shimmers of rolling hills peeked above the canopy of leaves.
She recognized nothing. But, from the position of the disappearing moon, they were headed north—to Scotland.
Fear had her closing her eyes, but determination forced them back open. The thickness weighing down the Scot’s burr was evidence of his fatigue. And, by daring to abduct her on English soil, his arrogance. After dealing with her brother, his scoundrel friends, and her ex-fiancé, this was a characteristic she understood well. Before long, confident of his success, her abductor would let down his guard.
And she would make good her escape.
Hours later, when the first pale streaks of sun crept into the eastern sky, her abductor finally drew his mount to a halt. Without comment, he dismounted, his fine English garb now wrinkled and in a sad state. The Scot lifted her from the saddle and set her before him without releasing her.
Nichola’s legs were so weak she was forced to grip his arm for support. After riding throughout the night, it was little wonder. She looked down.
A dagger glinted in his hand.
Nichola screamed against the gag and tried to wrench herself free.
“Be still!”
She dove to the left, but his hand caught her wrists and yanked her back. A sharp snap sounded as he cut her bindings, swearing all the while. Her hands fell away.
At the freedom, blood rushed through her arms and made them throb like frozen hands exposed to heat.
Rubbing the numbness from her wrists, Nichola stared up at the powerful man with distrust. Exhaustion carved deep lines across the hard angles of his face, but it didn’t diminish the intelligence in his eyes or the determination. That of a predator.
His cobalt eyes narrowed on hers.
Awareness shivered through her, a slow pull that stole her breath. Shaken by her reaction, she looked away. No, she felt nothing toward him but fear.
The Scot stowed his dagger.
Relief poured through her.
“You will be sore, but the stiffness will ease soon enough.” He rummaged through the roll tied upon the horse’s back and withdrew a garment. “Change into this.” It wasn’t a request. The Scot tugged her gag free, but he left the limp cloth hanging around her neck. His eyes held a warning. “It stays where it is for now. I will not be replacing the gag or the bond upon your hands unless you give me reason.”
“Such twisted nobility that allows you to tie and kidnap a helpless woman,” she charged, her voice hoarse from misuse.
He grunted. “Aye, helpless enough to douse us both in the burn.” Her abductor handed her the clothes and pointed toward a dense clump of brambles. “Change in that thicket. And be quick.”
She hesitated. He’d not taken any gown from her home. “Where did you find this?”
Satisfaction glinted in his eyes. “I stole it. Move.”
Weak from the lengthy ride, her legs threatened to give as she did his bidding. Once behind a dense cluster of shrubs, she leaned against a tree for support. All she wanted was to be curled in her bed away from this outlaw who would steal her from her home.
More emotion welled up in her throat. And what of Griffin? Had he returned to Rothfield Castle? Did he even know she was missing? Or was he at this moment imprisoned and charged with the murder of Lord James?
“It is too quiet in there, lass.” The Scot’s harsh warning cut through the night.
She tore off her gown and snapped back, “It is poor manners of me not to know of a drinking song to offer for your entertainment.”
A muffled laugh echoed through the brush.
With a grimace, she pulled on the simple linen gown he’d given her, ignoring its fit and cut. What did it matter how she was dressed? Unless she found a way to escape, once he received word that no ransom would be forthcoming, she would be dead.
Nichola stepped out from behind the bushes to find her captor had changed as well. Gone were the trappings of an English gentleman. Now he wore snug trews that emphasized his well-muscled legs, a broadcloth tunic, a claymore secured behind his back in a leather sheath, and his dagger secured to the belt at his waist.
Oddly, the garb suited his rough strength better than English trappings.
The Scot waved her forward. “Come here.”
His quiet burr rippled across her skin. Her body tightened in response. Shame filled her that her abductor could coax such unchaste yearnings for him.
Though he was fair to gaze upon, she understood a man’s promises—and the lies to follow. Her betrothed had taught her well the extent of a man’s deception. While he beguiled her with his honeyed words, his intent was to gain access to her dowry. A fact she’d overheard when he’d not known she was near. And a fact he’d rued when she’d called off their engagement.
She drew in a steadying breath as she stared at the Scot. No, she wasn’t tempted by him. ’Twas fatigue that played tricks upon her mind.
“Lass.” When she remained still, he stepped toward her with a determined gait. He halted a pace away, close enough to touch her if he chose. His gaze slid over her with male appreciation, then rose to her chest where it lingered. “Your garb should do well enough.”
She glanced down. In the first rays of morning light, she took in the simple peasant gown. The neckline plunged daringly low and exposed the swell of her breasts almost to her nipples. She looked like a whore!
Nichola lifted her gaze. At the naked longing in his eyes, she stumbled back.
The Scot caught her hand. “Calm yourself. I gave you my word you would not be harmed,” he said gruffly as he pulled her toward his steed.
But she’d seen the heat in his eyes, desire that smoldered like kindling ready to flare. How could she trust him? The answer was simple. She couldn’t.
He held out the water pouch. “You will be thirsty.”
With reserve, she took a drink, then handed it back to him.
The Scot mounted his horse and pulled her to sit before him. His body was rigid against hers; his male warmth enveloping her. She tried to ignore him, and failed miserably.
He nudged his steed into a canter. They traveled throughout the day, and the easy flow of hill to field slowly transformed into more rugged terrain.
The hard travel sapped her of strength. Her body screamed for mercy, but except for several brief stops to water his mount, and eat cheese and bread washed down with warm wine, they continued on.
As the sun started to sink in the horizon, they topped a tree-lined ridge. Below, the outline of a small village came into view. A smith’s anvil collided with the sound of a dog barking at their approach.
Nichola owed his blunder in exposing her to her fellow countrymen to exhaustion. How could he not be tired? Since he’d abducted her over a day past, he’d not slept.
The sad state of the earthen homes didn’t diminish her spirits. English subjects lived here. When they realized the Scot held her against her will, they would seize him, truss him up like a goose and cart him to the nearest dungeon.
Her abductor’s fingers worked quickly on the gag still dangling around her neck. Once he’d loosened the tie, he shoved it into the saddle pack and out of sight.
A smile brushed her lips. Further proof that tiredness skewed his mind. He’d nearly forgotten to remove the evidence of her abduction.
“Keep quiet,” he warned. “I will do any talking that needs to be done.”
She remained silent. If the opportunity came, she’d do whatever necessary to gain her freedom.
As they entered narrow, mud-raked village streets, the stench of refuse hit her first. Children, half-clothed, their garments in tatters, ran by. Several women were beating clothes clean in a stream nearby. As they rode past, a few glanced toward them, then quickly averted their gaze.
With the unrest between England and Scotland, especially in light of her abductor’s Scottish garb, why didn’t anyone halt them or at least send a messenger ahead to warn the others of their arrival? Or had they already done so?
Unimpeded, they passed several homes, their thatch roofs patched over and again; walls sturdy yet unkempt. No men came into view to challenge their approach.
Her unease grew. These people would help her, wouldn’t they?
Her captor reined in his mount before a two-story, ramshackle tavern; the walls cracked, the door thick and marred by deep gouges, and a sign so battered she could make out nary a letter.
The Scot dismounted. His devil’s black hair slid backward as he reached up and caught her by the waist. He scowled. “Not a word.”
“What is inside?” she asked, the fear in her voice betraying her outward calm.
Irritation dredged deep lines across his brow. “A room we will be staying in for the night.”
Nichola tried to pry away his hands, but her own were shaking. Her reputation would be in ruins if he shared a room with her overnight. If it wasn’t already. And what was his intent toward her once locked within the chamber?
“Please, let me go. I cannot—”
“Silence.” He lifted her from his mount and tugged her toward the entry.
Her aching legs balked as the Scot opened the door and hurried her inside as if familiar with the decrepit building.
Not a good sign.
Her slippers met with the compacted dirt floor as he tugged her forward. The stench of unwashed bodies made her stomach roil. A few tallow candles scattered about offered meager light and added to the foul smell.
Nauseated, she scanned the crowd. To her horror, unkempt men filled the numerous, roughly crafted tables strewn about. Several of the men’s gazes were fixed upon her.
Saint’s breath. Where had he taken her to, a den of thieves? From the appearance of the scruffy lot, they would most likely rape her, not help her escape.
She tried to step back, but the Scot’s grip tightened on her hand.
At his warning glare, several men nearby turned away. “Stay beside me,” her captor hissed in her ear.
As if she dared do otherwise? Icy prickles of fear stabbed Nichola as she kept tight behind the Scot while he wove through the dangerous men. For the first time since her abduction, she found herself thankful for his presence.
Once they’d reached the opposite side of the room, he led her toward a table in a darkened corner where a bald-headed man lurked. As they neared, the man’s beady eyes skewered her with such carnal intent her skin crawled.
The baron’s sister hesitated, and Alexander gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, but he didn’t slow.
Her eyes widened with surprise at his reassurance.
Alexander leaned close to her. “It will be fine, lass.” He saw the doubts in her eyes and regretted having to bring a lady inside this squalid tavern, but he was exhausted and little choice remained. Out in the wilds, anyone might come upon them while they slept. At least here he could keep an eye on her without worry of her escape.
Smothering a yawn, Alexander stopped before the tavern owner. “We will be needing a room.” He disliked Hammet’s overt interest in his hostage, but Alexander had dealt with the tavern owner enough times to know that for the right price, he would see nothing.
From her simple gown and low-cut neckline, Hammet would believe Lord Monceaux’s sister was Alexander’s mistress; the reason he’d chosen to steal the revealing dress. But earlier, when she’d walked from the bushes with her breasts half-exposed, he’d found himself wishing the story was real.
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