Ransom My Heart (35 page)

Laroche laughed, but gently. “You plead so eloquently for a life not your own. I am not so interested, I confess, in the boy's death, as in yours. His claim is far shakier than any progeny
you
might yet birth. And yet, 'tis necessary to kill you both, to secure what should be mine.” Laroche nodded, as if to himself, and rose to his full height. “Yes. That will be the way of it, then. Peter, find some of that rope we used to keep the boy from escaping. We will dispatch the Lady Finnula at once, the way the hangman would have, had she ever stood trial.”

Finnula stared, completely taken aback. She had not supposed that they would kill her with so much swiftness—and coldness. She fretted more over killing a stag than this man did over killing a woman. She knew then that Jamie stood no more chance of surviving capture than a fatted suckling pig.

Suddenly Isabella's face filled her field of vision, as the older girl peered down at her, gloating. “Little fool,” she said, and laughed at Finnula scornfully. “To think my father would let one of your husband's bastards go free! He'd have killed him long ago if your husband's pathetic squire hadn't put up such a fuss about it.”

Finnula shot a glance at Peter, to see how he bore this statement. He would not meet her gaze.

“Is that why Lord Hugo had to marry you?” Isabella demanded. “Because you're carrying another one of his bastards?

Fool! Now you will hang and the boy will die and I will take my place as chatelaine of Stephensgate Manor. And a more proper lady I make than
you
ever did,” she sneered, “with your orange hair and leather braies and wild ways!”

Isabella ought to have known better than to taunt someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose. Or, at least, she ought to have waited until Finnula's wrists were bound before insulting her. Instead, Isabella found a fist launched in her direction that she was not agile enough to duck. Finnula's knuckles connected solidly with Isabella's nose, making a highly satisfying crunching noise that nearly drowned out a great crashing of bracken that occurred in the woods just beyond the clearing where the cave rose. Horses whinnied, and Finnula, drawing back a throbbing fist, heard Gros Louis's bark, and her own name bellowed in a voice she knew only too well.

“Finnula!”

Her jaw slack with disbelief, Finnula turned at the very moment that Skinner, bearing a pale but very resolute Hugo, leaped into the clearing.

N
o amount of cajoling, pleading, or threats on John de Brissac's part had any effect whatsoever on Hugo's resolve to join in the search for his wife. The Earl of Stephensgate was dressed and mounted upon his horse before the sheriff could even summon his men. Impatient to be on his way, Hugo did not wait for the sheriff's entourage, and headed into the woods, armed with only his sword and a grim determination to shake Finnula silly when he got his hands on her.

Not that he blamed her for taking action when all around her seemed wallowing in confusion. It had become clear to him, those days he'd spent upon his back, how it was that a man like Reginald Laroche could abuse his power for so long, without a single person rising up to say nay. All it took was one man, just
one, to declare that something was not right, and others would follow.

But Finnula had been the sole dissenter in a village of over a hundred people, and because she was a woman, her dissension meant nothing…or rather, it pegged her for an eccentric, and when next came the time to blame someone for something, her former dissension was now used as proof against her.

But the Mayor Hillyards and Reginald Laroches of the world were exactly the sort of people against whom Hugo had been fighting all his life, in one form or another. The time for him to lay down his sword and live in peace had not yet come.

But when he entered the dark woods where, according to de Brissac, Jamie's scent had been lost, he was suddenly seized with a certainty as to the boy's location. The boy had gone to Wolf Cave, that desolate place, the one place every boy in the village had been forbidden to explore. Hugo and his brother had climbed those monstrous rocks many a time, though had never worked up the courage actually to enter the dark cave. Of course…if the Laroches were looking to hide somewhere in the area where no one would think to look, Wolf Cave was the logical place.

And Finnula certainly knew these woods well enough to have figured that out. Like Hugo, she'd need neither moonlight nor a torch to find her way to that place.

But what she'd had to guide her infallibly was Gros Louis. And when Hugo saw that massive beast streaking toward him in the pinkening light of predawn, barking his alarm, his heart had nearly exploded in sudden fear. Why was the dog alone, and why was he running
from
his mistress? Unless, of course, she had ordered him to do so…

Hugo shouted a command, and the dog halted, looking up at him with a face that bore a great deal more intelligence than
Hugo had ever credited any animal before. His tail wagging energetically, Gros Louis turned and began streaking back in the direction from which he'd come, not even looking behind him to assure himself that Hugo followed. This fact, more than any other, struck Hugo as peculiar, and he spurred Skinner into a gallop, though with low-lying branches and unsteady footing, the horse moved with a slowness that, to Hugo, was maddening.

He did not know what he'd envisioned he'd find when he reached the clearing in which the cave was situated. He certainly expected to find Finnula, though in what state, he hardly dared guess. But when Skinner broke through the last of the brambles and pines and burst upon the unsuspecting participants in what looked to Hugo to be a scene straight out of a Greek tragedy, lit by the lavender light of an early dawn, he could only gawk.

Atop the rock lip that led to the cave's opening crouched Isabella Laroche, clutching her nose, from which blood was flowing freely. Fists cocked, above her stood none other than Finnula, her red hair flying about her head like an aurora. Lying prone beneath her was Hugo's squire and would-be assassin, Peter, looking very much as if he'd just been kicked in the chest, and not far from him, holding a length of rope that he'd tied into the semblance of a noose, stood a very startled Reginald Laroche. Slumped some few feet away lay a small bundle that Hugo could only assume was the boy Jamie.

All five people gaped at Hugo, who, his sword having already been drawn sometime back, stared at them with the blade aloft, uncertain as to whom he ought to cut down first. He ought to have known that Finnula, weaponless, would have already gained the upper hand. Now he felt a ridiculous and almost overwhelming desire to burst out laughing.

The impulse died immediately, however, when Laroche, the first to recover from his astonishment, leaped onto the outcropping and flung an arm around Finnula's slender neck, dragging her toward him.

“Good evening, Lord Hugo,” the older man quipped, the point of his jeweled dagger aimed at the hollow of Finnula's throat. “What a pleasant surprise. If we'd known you intended to pay us a call, we'd have put on our finery, would we not, Isabella?”

Isabella only moaned, ineffectually trying to stanch the flow of blood from her nose with the hem of her bed robe.

“Hugo,” Finnula said, her voice a rasp thanks to the pressure Laroche was exerting upon it. “Hugo, what are you doing here? You oughtn't be out of bed. You're not well!”

Hugo smiled at his wife's scolding. It had been some time since she'd last chastised him. “Well enough,” Hugo replied mildly. “And the sheriff and his men follow me. They will be upon us anon.”

“Precisely what your wife said.” Laroche chuckled. “You two are naught but a pair of liars. You deserve one another. How touching that you shall die together!”

Hugo cleared his throat. “As I was saying, the sheriff and his men will be upon us anon, and will undoubtedly arrest you, Laroche, which will deprive me of the pleasure of slitting your throat myself. So I suggest you release my wife and take up a sword, since I intend to kill you now.”

“You think me a fool, cousin?” Laroche's grip on Finnula tightened, and she was no longer capable of speech. Her gray eyes, however, spoke volumes, as they flashed angrily in the firelight. “I know there are few handier with a blade than yourself. You are as good a swordsman as this one is a markswoman—”

“Think you so? Even with a wounded shoulder in my sword
arm?” Hugo turned so that the bandage beneath his white shirt was obvious. “Look, even now, blood is soaking through the padding. I am a wounded man, Laroche, and yet you are too cowardly to fight me?”

“I shan't fight you, wounded or no. I know you won't dare lay a hand on me while I hold such precious cargo, and so I beg your leave to depart—”

“Fight him, Father,” Isabella begged, through her blood-soaked fingers. “Do fight him. He insulted me most grievously! Peter will help you, won't you, Peter?”

Peter, still trying to draw breath from having been evidently kicked in the chest by Finnula, gasped, “No.”

Isabella threw him a startled glance, her dark eyes wide with astonishment. “
What?
”

“I said no.” Peter, to Hugo's surprise, was glaring at Laroche. “Let her go, monsieur. This has gone far enough.”

Laroche swung around to stare at the boy. “
What?
” he blurted out, in an unconscious imitation of his daughter. “Have you lost your mind, boy?”

“No.” Peter shook his head, his blond hair falling over one eye. He swept the lock back impatiently. “I've only just regained it. This isn't right. None of this is right. I believed you, monsieur, when you told me Lord Hugo was naught but an uneducated second son, who through sheer luck rose to the title of earl. I believed you when you said you'd make a far better Lord of Stephensgate than he ever would, with his coddling of peasants and the highly unsuitable woman he took as wife. But I know that Lord Hugo would not kill a woman in cold blood. And I know that Lord Hugo would not murder a child. In your cousin, monsieur, I have a found a man of true refinement and chivalry, and 'tis to my shame I did not recognize it before.” To Hugo, Peter
said, his eyes glittering brightly with unshed tears, “My lord, I have erred greatly. I am more sorry than I can ever say—”

“You should be.” Hugo grunted. He kicked his feet free from the stirrups and dismounted, wincing as the action jarred his injured shoulder. “For I intend to thrash you, young one, within an inch of your life, for what you did to my wife.”

“To your wife?” Peter's mouth fell open. “But I tried to convince them to spare her life, my lord! What did I ever do to your wife?”

“Nearly broke her rib, for one thing, the day we met her,” was Hugo's calm explanation. “But I'd have forgiven you that if you hadn't then proceeded to see her blamed for crimes which you yourself committed.”

Peter bent his head in shame. “Very well, then, my lord. I will await your punishment.”

“Indeed you will.” Hugo drew off his riding gloves slowly, as if doing so caused him pain. “I took you into my house and home, and in return, you gave me naught but your contempt. 'Twould grieve your father, who was my friend, to hear of this.”

“Thankfully my father is dead,” Peter murmured.

Hugo nodded. “Thankfully, yes. As you will wish you were, when I get through with you. Now, cousin, you will choose your weapon.”

Reginald Laroche's surprise at Peter's defection was so great that his grip had loosened perceptibly upon Finnula, who readily seized the opportunity to send one of her elbows deep into his gullet, and thus remove herself from the man's grasp entirely as he buckled in pain. Throwing herself on top of Jamie, she grabbed the boy, then jumped with him down from the outcropping.

He did not appear to appreciate her rescue attempts overly much, however, when she landed on top of him.

“Oh, Jamie,” Finnula cried, when their bodies collided against each other, in the soft peat. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know.” The boy grunted, blinking up at her. “Could you untie me?”

“Are you mad?” Hugo inquired of his wife, rushing over to stand guard over the two of them. “Truly?”

“No, but I think you are,” she snapped, as she struggled in the semidarkness with the ropes that bound the boy. “You're wounded, and your cousin's desperate, and you intend to fight him? Do
not
—”

“Thank you, my love,” Hugo interrupted, patiently, never taking his eyes from Laroche, who still stood indecisively atop the rock outcropping, trying to regather himself after Finnula's blow. “But I shall have my revenge.”

“Revenge!” Finnula's throaty voice was filled with scorn. “He is not worth it, Hugo! Leave him to the sheriff.”

“He killed my father,” Hugo said. “And he would have killed you, had I not arrived in time.”

“What say you, cousin?” Reginald Laroche, his breath finally caught, leaped down from the rock wall and went to stare up at Hugo, his black mustache twitching. “You challenge me for the seat of Stephensgate?”

“Aye,” Hugo said, flexing his sword arm experimentally. It seemed hale enough. “You beat me, Laroche, and the title is yours.”

“Hugo!” Finnula was horrified.

But Hugo knew that this was the sole incentive with which he could tempt his cousin into an honorable duel. His desire to see the older man's blood flow was so strong that it almost staggered him.

But the man had caused him naught but trouble since he'd set foot in Shropshire, and Hugo would have peace at last.

After a moment's hesitation, Laroche grinned toothily. “You are my witnesses,” he declared, turning to face his daughter and Peter. “You heard what he said. He loses, and the title is mine.”

“Kill him, Father,” Isabella said venomously. “And when you are through, kill the bitch he married as well.” Darting a glance at Peter, she added, “And it wouldn't hurt to kill this traitor as well.”

Reginald Laroche grinned, seemingly pleased by his daughter's bloodthirsty nature, and drew his sword. “Come then, cousin,” he taunted. “Let us see who the next Earl of Stephensgate shall be in truth.”

Hugo, who had been hearing such crashing in the woods behind him as to indicate that de Brissac and his men were on the way, was relieved to have the opportunity to kill Laroche before their arrival. With a reassuring smile at Finnula, whose face looked pale in the steadily growing light of dawn, he stepped forward, ready to intercept his cousin's attack.

Grinning, Reginald Laroche held aloft his blade, and sank into a fencer's stance. Hugo stared at him as if at one demented. Hugo was not a fencer. He was a fighter. His blade was heavy, and he swung it purposefully. There was no feinting in Hugo's technique, no parrying. Thrusting was all he knew, and he did so, aggressively.

But his opponent was not a soldier. Reginald Laroche had trained at swordplay at some faraway French court. The older man was lighter on his feet than Hugo, and faster, too. That much became evident when Hugo, irritated by Laroche's bouncing back and forth upon the balls of his feet, wielded his blade in an arc meant to lop off his opponent's head. Laroche easily ducked the swing, and laughed triumphantly as he danced away from Hugo, unscathed.

“Getting tired, cousin?” Reginald teased.

“Tired of watching you bob about like a puppet on a string,” Hugo growled in response. “Why don't you stand still, Laroche?”

“So you can run me through? I think not.”

Finnula, having unloosed Jamie, stood off to one side of the clearing, watched in a frenzy of anxiety. “Take care, Hugo,” she called occasionally, when Laroche's blade swung too close to her husband's head. She could see that Hugo was tiring already, that it was harder and harder for him to lift his heavy sword. The fool! What could he have been thinking, challenging someone in his condition? 'Twould serve him right to be cut down.

And yet Reginald Laroche's skills with a weapon were nothing compared to Hugo's, war-weary as he was. Had the Earl of Stephensgate not been suffering from that injury to his sword arm, he would have felled the older man in a single blow…or at least, that's what he told himself. As it was, the duel lasted long enough for Sheriff de Brissac and his men to break through the underbrush and arrive in the clearing with considerable confusion.