Authors: Julianne Lee
Tags: #Kidnapping, #Science Fiction, #Fantasy fiction, #Married people, #Scotland, #General, #Fantasy, #Children - Crimes against, #Fighter pilots, #Fiction, #Time travel
Knight's Blood (27 page)
“I assure you he does not, for that is a task he would have given me. I would have known everything about you when we met, which I certainly did not.” Fingers of doubt touched her spine, and she stared at him. “Surely it was the Bhrochan who took him. They’re heathens and it’s their way.”
Again Lindsay reined her horse around, but this time, before she was out of earshot, Reubair said, “You realize, of course, had I known anything at all of your baby, I would have ransomed him to you for your hand.” Lindsay reined back around and gaped at him. He continued. “Or at the very least for your quim. I aught but wish I had the son you so desire, to give him to you so you would give me one in return.”
God help her, he was absolutely right. If he’d had something she wanted that much, he would certainly have used it against her. So would Nemed have. Sudden tears of obliterated hope surged and spilled, so inexorable she could only choke on them. With that single stroke, Reubair had laid to waste all she’d done in her quest for her son. Now she was seven hundred years from help or hope, and had not the faintest idea what to do or where to go from there. The realizations tumbled over her like stones from a ruined castle, crushing her.
An Reubair kneed his mount and went to her. “Ally yourself with me. I’ll help you find your son.”
With a panicky hand she wiped her face and looked away to the horizon. “You don’t know any more than I do. You have proven that to me.”
“The Bhrochan must have him. Those little madmen are a menace for young ones. They do it because it amuses them to see humans fret for their children. Despicable creatures.” It was astonishing to find a streak in this man that almost resembled morality. Frightening that there was someone even he found disgusting.
Lindsay opened her mouth to tell him the baby must still be in the future, and she’d come through time for nothing, but then shut it, unwilling to blurt that story as well. She didn’t want him to know her past with Nemed and how much she hated him. And if Reubair were to learn Alex was not in this century . . . She asked, “How can you make the Bhrochan tell where he is?”
“Och, I’ve lands in Ireland and a long history with those folks. They are not the most intelligent of beings. I know how to make them dance on a string the way they would have the rest of the world do for them. I can find your son. Or at least let you know of his fate.”
“You would do that?”
“In return I would expect your hand. Marry me. Then we’ll search for the baby to raise as ours among the ones we would make.”
Of course it was too much to ask that he bargain for something besides her freedom. More panic tried to claim Lindsay. Marry An Reubair? Make babies for him? The thought was repugnant. But she couldn’t say no. She wanted to laugh in his face, maybe even spit in it, but she couldn’t say no. She choked back more tears and scanned the horizon again as if looking for someone to save her. There was no rescuing cavalry, and though chivalry was popular in theory, it rarely resembled itself in practice. Finally she said, “Allow me to consider your offer with the care it deserves. Marriage is a thing not to be taken lightly under any circumstances, and especially under unusual ones such as these.”
That brought a smile more wide than Lindsay thought appropriate for the enthusiasm she offered him. He said, “Aye. Think carefully. I’ll await your reply with high anticipation.” He nodded toward the column of riders, who had passed them and were beginning to move away. “Take your place among the men and think hard on what I’ve told you.” Then he reined around and returned to his column.
CHAPTER 14
For the next several days it seemed An Reubair might have been wrong about the men. Lindsay ate with them, rode alongside them, and slept undisturbed among them. She hoped Reubair’s unwelcome offer would slip by the way-side and not be addressed again, but that hope died when she noted him watching her, gazing from a distance at what she would do, and she knew he would never let it go. He appeared to be counting the days until she would give him a reply, and surely would come to her again soon. An answer would then be required.
Worse, the men began to prove him right. It was the night after the next raid that things began to shift in an ugly direction. Lindsay had fought well and come away with a fair amount of property that day. Spirits were high, and she was as pleased with herself as the men were with themselves. She felt well off, and as the evening’s food and drink eased into her corners to make her feel comfortable and nearly sleepy, she listened to the talk around the fire with a sense of satisfaction. It brought to mind the days of sitting around with fellow reporters over ale in London, and some evenings the nostalgia was sharp enough to cut away some of the longing for Alex.
Simon was telling a story about the last girl he’d found willing to bed him, who had brought along her senile mother, for there had been nobody else to watch the old lady while they socialized. Lindsay laughed with the others over all the talking the woman had done while Simon had his way with her daughter. He declared the mother had been more of a distraction to him than the girl, whose amorous cries nearly drowned out the mother’s conversation. They were a noisy pair. Simon insisted it was because of his immense prowess as a lover the girl had been able to ignore the prattling, for she was in paroxysms of ecstasy while the other woman rattled on about her dead husband. Certainly the girl had been entirely taken with him, and he suspected the mother would have liked to partake as well. Again Lindsay laughed with the others, picturing the scene in Simon’s tent, the noisy girl with her oblivious mother reminiscing at full voice and him struggling to get his jollies in the midst of it. Simon glanced at her and said, “You laugh, but I would prove it to ye.”
Lindsay laughed again, a bit louder than necessary as apprehension crept in.
“No, in earnest. I would prove to you I am the most exciting lover you could have.”
“Not interested.” Her voice went flat and all the humor left her.
“Oh, but one kiss should convince you. Just one kiss, and you’ll be begging for more.” There was chuckling among the others, and Simon seemed to take that as encouragement, a wide grin on his face.
“No.”
“Just one.” Simon scooted over toward her and leaned in as if to receive an offered kiss. Lindsay leaned away but kept her seat lest she be forced to leave the fire. Retreat was never a good idea among these men.
Her voice went even more firm. “I said, no.”
But Simon only laughed and lunged at her, and his sloppy mouth sought her lips. She jerked away and scrambled to her feet.
“Back off!” Before he could climb to his own feet, she hauled off and tried to kick him in the head. But he grabbed her foot and toppled her, then leapt onto her to deliver a hard, slobbery wet kiss on her closed mouth.
She yanked her head sideways and gave a cry of disgust, then pushed him off. Laughing, having made his score, he acquiesced and went back to his own seat. Again the others chuckled.
Now Lindsay was forced to decide how to react. She could kill him, but he’d not harmed her physically and it might be taken badly by the others if she indulged in such an extreme response over one kiss. No, her dagger needed to stay in her belt this time. Instead she stepped over to Simon where he sat on the ground, feinted a kick with her right foot, then gave a hop as he went for it and clobbered his face with her left. Simon fell flat on his back with a bloody nose.
A murmur of consternation rose from the men, and alarm skittered through Lindsay. They sounded more concerned for Simon’s nose than the assault on her. Simon dabbed at the trickle and looked at her as if she’d sucker punched him.
One of the men muttered, “Och. There was no need to break his nose.”
Lindsay turned, appalled, and said, “I told you all that I would not tolerate any man to lay a hand on me.”
“It was only in fun.” Simon spoke with closed sinuses, as if he had a bad cold, and held one nostril closed with his finger. Had he received the broken nose in battle, he would have ignored it entirely and let the blood pour down his face. But now his voice was petulant and surprised. His whining made her want to kick him again.
“You fellows can have that sort of fun with each other, but not with me.” A nervous chuckle came from someone near the wall at the thought of any of them kissing each other. Her gaze swept the room. “Anyone who would try that again will find himself kissing my dagger. Am I making myself clear?”
There was no response but silence. It was a sullen silence of disagreement, and Lindsay looked around at her fellow reivers.
“I said, am I making myself clear?”
Alex’s lieutenant voice echoed in her mind and she shook her head to clear it of him.
Alex’s lieutenant voice echoed in her mind and she shook her head to clear it of him.
“Aye,” said Simon, still dabbing his nose and looking at her crossly.
“Good.” She sat back down in her spot and stared at the fire in the silence. Not good. This wasn’t good at all. Her pulse raced. She tried to calm it and appear confident they would obey, but she had no such conviction.
During the next raid she fought with special intensity. Damned if she was going to let her fellow raiders treat her like a blow-up doll. They’d see how she fought, then give her the respect she deserved. She’d make sure of that.
But the next night the talk centered around a knight who had found a cache of silver coins buried in an enclosure, and whenever she opened her mouth to speak someone else overrode her. The respect she’d anticipated—that she knew she required to survive in this group—was gone. She ended the evening rolled in her plaid and thinking hard about what to do.
She also thought hard about Nemed. It was plain now he had nothing to do with the baby’s disappearance, but she still hated the elfin bastard. There was no chance of forgetting what he’d done to her in the past, and she would still kill him if given the chance. Over those weeks she came to realize she was staying with the reivers in hopes of that chance as much as for the hope that Reubair would find a way to retrieve her son from the Bhrochan.
Assuming the very wee folk were the ones who had taken him. For all she knew at this point, the boy might have been taken by an ordinary human from the twenty-first century. Stolen from the hospital nursery like other missing children.
But what of the changeling and his talk of the baby’s fate? If there was something Reubair could find out . . .
But would it be worth her freedom?
Lindsay thought hard, under the gaze of Nemed’s vassal. He wanted her; it was plain in his eyes. She believed him when he said he had high regard for her strength. His hope was for strong children. His offer was straightforward and may even have been free of hidden strings. The face of the deal was bad enough without them. Her freedom in exchange for her son. She would become the property of An Reubair, chattel to live in a faerie land among the Danann.
She wondered what Danu herself would say about this. She still didn’t know the purpose of the gift she’d been given by Danu. Knowing she was descended from the Danann brought new light to it, and Lindsay wished she had the book with her to examine more closely. The psalms had been left at the castle on Eilean Aonarach, and Lindsay wondered whether going there would be the thing to do. Did it carry any power other than inspiration? Could she contact the faerie through it? She had an awful lot of questions, and she could do with a chat.
Once again in the keep near Lochmaben, the men led by An Reubair rested from their forays. Lindsay found herself restless. The others lounged around fires and gossiped, but she had no use for the bragging these days. During the long summer light they sparred with each other, but it was worthless play. Lindsay wanted to return south and continue the resistance against the English. It was like wearing a hair shirt, an irritation embedded in her days. She itched to leave. Her body vibrated with the need. At every opportunity she joined sparring groups and fought seriously, not just to keep her skills sharp but to work off the need to swing her sword. It calmed her. She exhausted herself so she could sleep. So the dreams might stop. The nightmares she feared might not be just a product of her own mind.
Since Reubair’s offer, at night she dreamed of her son, and of Nemed. Once again she held her newborn baby, tiny and sweet, eyes squinting and blinking in the bright hospital light, perfect mouth puckering, his head covered with a little blue knitted cap and a wisp of dark, downy baby hair peeking from under it at his forehead. In the dream she knew she would lose him. Even as she held him, she knew he would be gone the next day and there would be nothing left of him but a photograph. The ache was monstrous. That she’d let him out of her sight so he could be taken was guilt beyond comprehension. It paralyzed her. And there was Nemed, accusing. His hair lifted in the hot draft of the fire in his enormous hearth, and his cruel mouth curled as he spoke. He spoke to her of what would become of the child she hadn’t even named. He told her the baby would be starved and beaten and drugged. He would be ridiculed. The only care he would receive in his life would be from people who did not love him, and it would be her fault. Most mornings she awoke with a face slick with tears, dripping into one ear. The grief brought an ache to her bones and blackness to her heart. It ate at her until the only sanctuary was to not feel at all.
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