Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (10 page)

Someone came up behind her. Steeling herself, she did not turn to see who it was, because she did not want to have anything to do with anyone on this ship, not even the Gascon.

DeFrouchette came around to face her, his warrior’s body blocking out the sight of the ruins. He had something made of cloth in his hands, which he held out to her. “Put this on. You need to be wearing more than that shift and a blanket.”

Once again controlling her fear, she curled her lip and regarded him with scorn. “How kind of you to think of my modesty.”

“It is not your modesty that concerns me. It is your safety.”

“If you were truly so concerned with my safety, you should have left me safely at home.”

He took a step closer and glare met glare, his bright blue gleaming like sapphires in torchlight. “Don’t argue with me about this, my lady. The men who guard this place are not known for their restraint.”

She refused to be cowed. “Unlike you?”

“I am as gentle as a sparrow compared to them.”

“You are a lustful lout who could never have been a chivalrous knight.”

“Even a knight has desires, my lady, as you should know. Did not desire for you compel your husband to forget his vow of chivalry? He wooed and loved another man’s betrothed.”

“I may have agreed to wed your father,” she replied, answering as she was sure Allis would, “but he didn’t care for me, except that I was to be the means for him to gain control of my family’s estate and sate his base desires. So I chose another.”

DeFrouchette’s face reddened. “I think you are wrong, my lady. He did care for you. He didn’t care for my mother or me, but you … why else did my father wait for your hand in marriage all those years?”

“It would have been better for me and my family if he had not,” she retorted, flushing, “and whatever was between your father and me, that did not give you leave to kiss me.”

DeFrouchette’s face resumed its normal stoic calm, and he tilted his head in a mocking little bow. “I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“Humble is one of the last things I would ever call you.”

His lips curved up into a little smile that filled her with annoyance. “What would be the first?”

“Tempting though it may be, I am too much of a lady to use the words that would best express what I think of you.”

Challenge flashed in his sapphire orbs. “Try.”

Challenge was infinitely better than condescension, but she was in no humor to bandy insults. “I will not bring myself down to your level.”

“Giving up?”

“You bloody bastard!” she hissed so that only he would hear.

His infuriating smile grew. “Oh, come, surely you can do better than that and call me worse. The boys of my village could, and they were much younger than you.”

She snatched the tunic from him, then waited for him to leave. He didn’t. “Do you intend to stand there and watch me dress?”

Again, their gazes met, stare for stare.

Then he ran a slow, measuring gaze over her. As he studied her, something strong and primitive began to throb through her body, something unwelcome but undeniable. It had to be a weakness caused by fatigue. Whatever it was, it was wrong and she would not acknowledge it.

She shifted the blanket so that it was wrapped around her breasts, leaving her shoulders and arms free, tucking in one end so that it would stay. She pulled on his tunic, which smelled of horse and leather and him, as she well recalled from when he had held her on the gelding. She would probably never forget how it felt to be clasped in his powerful arms then, or when he had embraced her and forced his hot kiss upon her.

Or when they had been on the ground, his body pressing against hers, his lips sliding across her mouth and his hands moving with slow, sure leisure over her. Her heart had pounded and her whole body had been hot with fear.

As he stood here now, her heart began to pound and her body to warm just the same, but she was not afraid. She could not name the feeling coursing through her as she inhaled his scent, the memory of his strength and passion coming to her whether she willed it or not.

She told herself to attend to her task, and forget that he was there.

The tunic fell to mid-thigh and the sleeves covered her hands. She tied the lacing at the neck, which nonetheless hung low enough to expose the tops of her breasts. She could roll up the sleeves, and as for the length....

She reached up under the tunic and pulled the blanket loose, then retucked it about her waist, so that it became a long skirt. “Now that I am more decently attired, you may go.”

He frowned and made no move to leave. “I should have guessed it wouldn’t matter what you wear. Your beauty has nothing to do with the clothes on your back.”

A strange feeling stole over Isabelle and, flushing, she looked away. Other men had told her she was beautiful, other men with rich, deep voices and warriors’ bodies. Why was it, then, that this time—for the first time—she truly believed that in a man’s eyes she was beautiful?

Perhaps it was his annoyance.

“I hope you’re not intending to put me back in that sack,” she said, determined to forget his compliment, such as it was.

The corner of his lips lifted. “There’s a thought.”

“I nearly suffocated.”

“It wouldn’t be for long.”

She crossed her arms and prepared to denounce him, until she saw what looked suspiciously like mischief in his blue eyes. “You aren’t, are you?”

“It’s tempting, but I don’t think I could make it up the bluff with you over my shoulder.”

“Thank God! Now go away.”

He bowed with a mocking—and unexpected—elegance. “As you command, my lady, I obey.”

She sniffed and didn’t look to see where he went or to whom he spoke; it was enough that he had left her alone.

She didn’t want to be anywhere near him and his disconcerting eyes or full lips. She wanted to be as far away from him as possible.

She wanted to be home, where most men—except Connor—treated her like an overgrown child.

Ingar shouted, and the Norsemen who were awake roused their companions. Together, with the same unexpected brisk efficiency they had demonstrated before, the crew began to disassemble the yard and mast.

As the Norsemen went about their task, Isabelle kept her eyes on the shore, even when she heard DeFrouchette return. She tensed, ready to maintain her air of haughty defiance.

It wasn’t DeFrouchette. Regardless of whether or not he was in the way, Osburn picked his way to the prow, nearly tripping over a large coil of thick rope before he turned to lean his back on the curving wooden decoration. His face was deathly pale, and tinged with green, whether from the effects of the wine or the rocking motion of the ship, she wasn’t sure. His brown eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his fine clothing wrinkled and his blond hair disheveled.

“The land is not much to look at, is it?” he asked over the orders and curses of the Norsemen, as if they were any two passengers on a journey.

“What land is it?” she asked, wondering how guarded he would be in his answers.

“Wales.”

It was even farther from Bellevoire than she thought, and she fought to hide her dismay.

Obviously she was not successful, for Osburn smiled. “I share your distaste for the place, my lady. I’ve done my best to make it comfortable, and I hope my company will make up for any deprivations you might feel.”

“Do you honestly believe I could ever be comfortable anywhere when I have been abducted?” she demanded incredulously. “Do you think I want to spend any time at all with you? If you were the only man left in England—Europe—the world!—I would not. Even if I were not here against my will, I would say the same.”

His eyes flickered with annoyance, but he kept smiling his awful smile. “You had best have a care how you speak to me, my lady, and act toward me, too. We’re not going to be alone there, you know. I have a garrison to guard you. The Brabancons won’t be nearly as forgiving and patient as I.”

New and even more consuming fear gripped her as she stared at him. She was going to be guarded by Brabancons, the most reviled, cruel, rapacious mercenaries in Europe?

Suddenly, DeFrouchette’s words made sense, for he might indeed seem as gentle as a sparrow compared to the Brabancon. Her gaze flicked to the center of the ship. He wasn’t there. She quickly scanned the vessel and saw him and his friend in the stern near Ingar.

No wonder now that DeFrouchette had offered her his tunic. He would want his prize better covered against the lustful eyes of the Brabancons so he wouldn’t have to exert himself to fight them off.

“I see you’ve heard of the Brabancons,” Osburn observed, coming closer. “If your husband doesn’t pay the ransom, first I’ll be repaid for all my trouble and having to live in such a dismal place by enjoying your favors, then I’ll turn you over to the Brabancons to do with as they will.” He smiled with genuine, sickening pleasure. “And after they’ve had their sport of you, I’ll send you home. Will your doting husband love you so well when he hears what has happened to you, do you think?”

She gripped the gunwale, tempted to jump again. “You’re a monster!”

While Osburn laughed at her epithet as if it both pleased and amused him, out of the corner of her eye, she saw DeFrouchette rise. If she did jump, he would be right behind her.

“There’s no need for such harsh words, my lady,” Osburn said. “If your husband pays, you’ll be safe enough. I’ve already warned the Brabancons not to touch you, and I’ll set DeFrouchette to guard you, like a big hound, for as long as he is here.”

As long as he was there? He was leaving? He did seem the lesser of several evils, which no doubt explained her dismay.

“After your little escapade last night, I’m sure he’ll keep a careful watch while he can. He’ll not want to lose the five thousand marks he has been promised for his part in our scheme.”

Five thousand marks?
Connor could not possibly raise such a sum!

Osburn’s smile grew, and he sidled a little closer. “Perhaps I shouldn’t upset you more by saying this is merely a quarter of what we will demand to guarantee your safe return.”

Oh, God! Connor was not wealthy enough to afford such a sum. If he managed to borrow it, he and Allis would be indebted for life.

“Why look so worried, my sweet? If your husband loves you as much as I hear, he’ll find it somehow. Borrow some from Richard perhaps—oh!” Osburn’s eyes gleamed with evil mischief as he covered his mouth with his fingertips. “I forgot. All Richard’s money is going to his new fortress in France.” The gleam crystallized into something hard and cold as he lowered his hand. “Your husband had better find it somehow, or you may find yourself very intimately acquainted with several Brabancons.”

A wail of anguish rose up in Isabelle. Death sounded preferable to the fate Osburn described. Yet even then, her will told her she must live. If she died, there would be no one to give evidence against Osburn, and Lord Oswald, and all those involved in this despicable crime. If she gave in to despair, they might never be brought to justice. She had to believe that Connor would capture them all eventually. If she could survive whatever they did to her, she would see that they were punished.

So she must be strong and find some way to escape, no matter how hopeless it seemed.

“A very interesting plan to dispose of me, Osburn,” she said, her decision giving new strength to her voice.

As she spoke, she noticed DeFrouchette approaching, skirting the Norsemen as they finished laying the mast down the keel of the ship.

Osburn threatened her; DeFrouchette claimed she was to be treated as an honored guest. It was obvious DeFrouchette did not have a very high opinion of Lord Oswald’s son. Why not sow a little more dissent?

“You must have come up with this plan all by yourself,” she said to Osburn, her tone mocking and loud enough for all to hear as they sat on their chests and prepared to out oars. “I know it cannot be your father’s because, unfortunately, there is no denying that he is a clever man. A clever man would know that to rape the wife of any lord will turn all the nobility against him, even those few secret allies he may have left. A clever man would know that if he did that to me, my husband would hunt him—and all his band of outlaws—down like the dogs they are and gladly send them straight to hell. A clever man would know I would happily drown in a bog rather than spend a moment in his arms, no matter what fate he threatens me with.”

His face growing purple with rage, Osburn’s hand went to his jeweled dagger.

“Will you make some more useless threats, Osburn? Why not spare yourself the effort and go back to your wine?”

He yanked the dagger from his belt.

“Will you strike me dead, Osburn?” she jeered. “I will believe it when you do it.”

As she had anticipated, DeFrouchette came around her and grabbed Osburn’s wrist before he could strike. His gaze darted from Osburn’s red and furious face to Isabelle’s. A shrewd, appraising look appeared in the bright blue orbs as he regarded her, and then he loosened his grip on Osburn. “Will you let her goad you ?”

“I wasn’t going to kill her,” Osburn mumbled as he shoved his dagger back in his belt.