Ransom My Heart (14 page)

She wasn't at all certain she'd want to stop him. And then where would she be? In the same spot of trouble as Mellana.

Looking down at her gloved fingertips, Finnula shrugged, and lied with as much bravado as she could muster, “You? You don't frighten me a bit.”

Hugo said, “Good,” and suddenly, he'd left his horse's stall and come round to where she leaned. Placing a hand on either side of her waist, he gripped the frame of the stall door against which she leaned, entrapping her within the confines of his arms but not touching her. Not at all.

“Because I think I know of a way we can both sleep in relative warmth and comfort tonight, without ruining your reputation, or Brother Robert finding out,” he went on, his breath warm.

Finnula tried to act nonchalant, as if his close proximity did not affect her in the least, though she did have to tilt her chin at a considerable angle to look up at him.

“Oh?” Fortunately, her voice did not tremble. It was better, she decided, to curtail her syllables while he was standing so near.

“Yes. It's fairly simple, really.” He smiled at her, and she noticed that his teeth were fairly even and quite white. Nice teeth, really, to be hidden beneath that tangle of a beard.

“Everyone at the Hearth and Hare knows Finnula Crais,” he
said. “But no one here knows me. And no one here knows my wife.”

Finnula stared up at him, her mouth suddenly dry. “
Wife?
” she echoed.

“Aye, my wife.”

Not understanding the grin he was giving her, Finnula continued to stare, feeling suddenly—and ridiculously—like crying.

“B-but…” she stammered. “But when I asked you yesterday, at the spring, you said you hadn't any wife—”

“And I haven't,” Hugo said, his grin turning into a delighted smile. “But the proprietors and patrons of the Hearth and Hare don't know that, do they?”

Finnula couldn't stop staring at him. She found herself unable to decide whether he'd finally slipped over the edge into insanity, or if she was the one the being incredibly dense. He must have seen her incomprehension, because he let go of the stall door and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Don't you see, Finnula?” he asked, still wearing that crooked grin. When she mutely shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, he let go of her and went to the low wall where she'd thrown her saddle. “Here,” he said, “let me show you.”

And without another word, he opened her saddlebags, withdrawing first her hair comb and pins, and then the spare kirtle she always carried with her. “The folk at the Hearth and Hare know the Fair Finn, in her leather braies and braid,” Hugo said, giving the kirtle a hearty shaking, so that the worst of the creases in it snapped. “But if I'm not mistaken, they've never met my wife, the Lady…” He paused. “Lady what?”

Comprehension dawned, and Finnula was quick to put out both her hands. “No,” was all she said.

“Why not?” Hugo looked down at the gown in his hands. “If they're used to seeing you in braies, they'll never recognize you
in this. With your hair up, and a hood over your head, they'll just think you're Sir Hugh Fitzwilliam's modest lady bride—”

“I said no,” Finnula reminded him. “How many times do I have to repeat it before you listen? No, no, no—”

Hugo shook a finger at her. “I thought you said you weren't afraid of me.”

Finnula stuck her chin out again. “And I'm not. But—”

“I thought you said the only thing you were afraid of was Brother Robert finding out.”

“I did, but—”

“Perhaps,” Hugo said, looking mournfully at the cream-colored gown, “the Fair Finn is not as courageous as I've been led to believe.”

“I am,” Finnula insisted. “It's just that—”

“Just that what?” Those bright green eyes were upon her, mocking her. One of his tawny eyebrows had lifted skeptically, and Finnula knew, with a sinking feeling, that she'd lost.

“Oh,
all right
,” she snapped peevishly, stalking forward and ripping the kirtle from his hands. “But wait outside while I change.”

“I shall do better than that,” Hugo declared, awarding her a gracious smile that she didn't feel she deserved. “I shall go and secure the room, and baths for the both of us. I will be back momentarily to escort you, Lady…er…” He looked at her, his eyebrow raised quizzically now, rather than dubiously, and said, “Well, I'll think of it upon my return.”

“Just get out,” Finnula ordered, and he complied with a laugh.

Alone in the stable with only horses and a lone cow to watch her disrobe, Finnula sighed to herself. How she got herself into these situations, she couldn't fathom. Here she was, the Fair Finn, stripping off her soaked shirt and braies so that she could slip into a kirtle she hadn't worn since—well, she didn't like to
think of the last time she'd donned it—and pose as a strange man's wife, all so that she could spend the night in an inn with that same strange man…

It was too much. This adventure was by far the most complicated she'd ever encountered. She blamed Mellana for it, then amended that decision, and blamed Jack Mallory instead. If Jack Mallory hadn't seduced her innocent sister, getting her with child, then Finnula would not be disrobing in a stable, preparing to spend the night with a man she hardly knew.

Not that she'd really be spending the night with him. She would be spending the night in the same room with him, but certainly she wouldn't be sharing his bed. If it came to that, she'd sleep in a chair. Or on the hearth, as he'd suggested. Oh, no, if she'd learned anything in the past few days, it was that the worst possible thing in the world was to be in Mellana's position, unwed and pregnant. Almost, she thought, as she peeled off her braies, as bad as being
wed
and pregnant.

Not that Finnula had anything against the institution of marriage. But when Hugo had teased her about her husband the blacksmith, he hadn't been far wrong in his picture of domestic felicity: the wife fat with another pregnancy, the husband drunk and demanding his supper. Most marriages, Finnula thought, turned out not unlike that picture, her own sisters' perhaps notwithstanding. But her sisters were all clever, and had chosen husbands whom they could bully. Finnula did not think she could respect a man whom she could bully.

But the alternative, to marry a man who bullied
her
, was equally as unappealing.

And how could she ride and hunt with a child forever in her belly? It wouldn't be seemly. So what would she do for nine months? She couldn't sew, and despised housework. She could cook a little, but infinitely preferred catching the game to preparing it.

No, better to avoid the entire situation, she decided.

Standing in the chilly stable in only her boots and bandage, for she wore no underthings beneath her shirt and braies, she flung the soft kirtle over her head and squirmed into the close-fitting garment. The sleeves were tight and descended halfway down her palm, the waist nipped in closely to follow her womanly curves. The skirt was so long that she had to lift it to keep the hem from dragging in the stable muck, but when she had to use both hands to tackle her hair, she resorted to tying the ends of the skirt into a loose knot at her knees.

Her hair was a disaster, wet and full of tangles, and in the end, Finnula gave up, wringing it out and then piling the sodden curls on top of her head and jamming wooden pins in it, willy-nilly. She had no mirror, so she couldn't judge the effects of her new coiffure, but when Hugo returned to the stable a few moments later, the cheerful tune he'd been whistling quickly died on his lips when he saw her, so she knew she must look very bad indeed.

As she turned quickly at his entrance, her hands flew instinctually to the place where, had she owned one, a girdle of braided leather or chained metal would have sat. But since her gown was a simple one, of ivory linen without ornamentation of any kind, save his emerald, which she still wore upon its black cord, she had to satisfy herself with smoothing the wrinkled fabric over her flat belly.

It was cold in the stable, though warmer than outside, and without her cloak, Finnula felt the chill, especially on the back of her long neck, bared now to the elements. She was distinctly aware, even before Hugo's gaze dropped there, of her rebellious nipples, which had sprung fully erect from her nervousness and the damp cold. The thin linen did nothing to hide them, the bodice being tight-fitting and meant to mold itself over all her attributes, bringing them fully to the attention of any who watched her.

Only Finnula would have given a lot if her attributes had been just a little better covered, for Hugo's gaze was bold, and a hot blush sprang to her cheeks before she could dive for her cloak, seeking what meager protection the damp wool could afford her from that searching gaze.

But Hugo, recovering himself from whatever had afflicted him a moment before, was faster, whipping off his own cloak and laying it gently over her shoulders.

“Mine's a bit dryer,” he said, by way of explanation of the chivalrous gesture. He had to clear his throat, as something appeared to have become momentarily lodged in it.

Finnula clutched the heavy garment gratefully with one hand, holding up the train of her gown with the other. Sir Hugh's cloak was indeed dryer than her own, and richer, as well, the fur lining thicker and more plentiful than on her own well-used cape. Hugo folded that garment across his arm, and held out his arm the way Finnula had seen courtiers at the Dorchester Fair hold out their arms to ladies.

“If you'll allow me,” he said, and though Finnula looked for it, she could find no trace of mockery in his features.

Uncomfortable with this change in Sir Hugh's attitude toward her, Finnula laid her hand upon his arm, but gave him a wary look as she did so. He didn't appear to notice it. Instead, he hefted the shoulder bags, and, guiding her around the many piles of manure that lined the stable floor, he led her back out into the rain and across the courtyard to the inn.

Finnula had been in the main room at the Hearth and Hare so many times that she could hardly count them, but it wasn't until she walked into it on the arm of a knight that she'd ever seen a hush fall over the crowded dining room. All her old friends were there, including the innkeeper, Mr. Pitt, operating the taps on the kegs, as were most of the men whom she'd once
drunk under the table one Saturday, on a dare. Even the village prostitutes, Mary Alice and Kate, were leaning against the bar, eyeing her with open hostility. Normally, they treated Finnula with friendly ease. What had happened to turn that companionship to animosity?

What had happened was that no one recognized her. None of them had ever seen Finnula in a gown before, and with her face hooded, she looked, as Sir Hugh had assured her she would, like the modest young bride of a wealthy knight. She had doubted him, thinking that her friends would recognize her under any circumstances, but now she saw that he'd been correct. There wasn't a reason in the world that any of them should have suspected that it was the Fair Finn beneath that cloak, and, accordingly, none of them did.

Mistress Pitt, the proprietor's wife, was the first to break the spell Finnula's presence seemed to have cast over everyone. The portly woman rushed from the back of the inn, where, from the floury appearance of her apron and hands, she'd apparently been rolling dough. Brushing loose tendrils of dark hair from her plump face, she bobbed a curtsy at Finnula.

“Oh, m'lady, come in, won't you, out of that nasty rain—” Mistress Pitt, who had always heartily disapproved of Finnula's leather chausses and who'd once threatened to burn them if she ever happened to come across an opportunity to do so, was all solicitous concern for the well-being of the wealthy knight's young wife.

“I've got a nice 'ot bath for you steamin' in me own chamber—your 'usband says as 'ow you'd be wantin' a nice soak after the dunkin' you received on the road, and I can't says as I blames you. What you need is a nice 'ot bath and a good warm supper, and then to bed. I've got the supper on the stove, and I'll be bringin'
it up to your room so's you can enjoy it in front of your very own fire, after your bath—”

Finnula, the hood of Sir Hugh's cloak drawn so far over her face that she could hardly see where she was going, tilted her head so that she could deliver a baleful glare in his direction, but he only grinned and said, “Lady Fitzwilliam is most grateful for your kind attentions, Mistress Pitt. You'll have to excuse her if she seems a bit on the quiet side, but we're newlyweds, you see, and she's quite shy—”

“Poor lamb,” Mistress Pitt cooed, patting Finnula's shoulder. She had once called Finnula a spawn of Satan for tracking deer blood over her newly scrubbed kitchen floor. It was interesting that now she was a poor lamb, where previously she'd been a child of the devil.

“You come with me—No, never fear, Sir Hugh, she's in good 'ands. There's 'ot water waitin' for you, too, sir, upstairs.” Taking hold of Finnula's cold, slim hand, Mistress Pitt began steering her down a short corridor, back to the private section of her inn. “I'll return 'er to you presently, sir, warm and scrubbed—”

In the entire history of the Hearth and Hare, Finnula could not imagine that there'd ever been an occasion for the Pitts to prepare two separate baths on the same night, and she wondered exactly how much Sir Hugh had been forced to pay them to receive this kind of servile attention.

She was conducted by the still prattling innkeeper's wife to a pleasant bedchamber with a well-lived-in look, in the center of which a crude wooden tub had been placed. That then, Finnula realized, was her luxurious bath. But upon closer examination, she saw that the water was clean and steaming hot, and that the bath would be deep enough for her to sink into up to her neck. Perhaps it would be luxurious after all. She assumed that it was
Mistress Pitt's own bath, since there was no way such a large amount of water could have been boiled so quickly.