Seize The Dawn (10 page)

She stood very still, keenly aware of the dark blue intensity of his eyes as he stared down at her. "Thank God," she murmured, "that I am the hostage of a man who hates me." "Hates you?" he repeated. "Nay, lady. You hate us. I don't hate you." "I ... I cried for mercy, remember? And then—" "I don't hate you. Did I want vengeance? Definitely! But hate you ... not at all. You taught me an incredible lesson, my lady. Never, ever, be swayed by an image of innocence or beauty. Therein lies the most deadly of all danger! Mercy, ah ... would I be so foolish as to offer it again? Most unlikely. And mercy, to you, my lady? Never!" he voiced very softly. His fingers just stroked the length of her hair. For a moment, his eyes made the most idle journey over her face, her throat, her breasts. He offered her a grim smile. ' 'Wallace, you see, is a man of his word, not a monster at all. As to the rest of us ... we have learned from our tormentors. But you will excuse me, of course? Duty does call."

He turned then and left her. And that time, when the door closed, the bolt slid as well. And when it did, she realized that she had just stood there, still as a frozen doe, as he had mocked her, touched her. She trembled, and not from the cold. She raced to the bunk, and curled there in the depths of the blankets. She waited, her heart hammering. He was angry. He had been taunted. She was his prisoner. He would come back. Hours passed. He did not come back. And as she had every night aboard the ship, at last, she slept. And lay undisturbed.

Chapter 5

Eric had taken the helm himself; Brendan sat with de Longueville and Wallace, listening again to the pirate's story. "You know nothing of the man who approached you?" Brendan persisted once again, sipping the Frenchman's wine from a slender glass. It was excellent—deep, rich, red—yet he had to admit to a preference for clear, cool ale. But the pirate was, interestingly enough, a man of refined tastes, and he was eager that they share what he considered his finest cache of
^k
wine—taken from an English ship whose noble passenger had just made the purchase of the wine in Bordeaux.

"I did not take the request too seriously at first," de Longueville told him. "We slipped into the port—under a false flag, of course, but it is a poor place to berth, and filled with cutthroats and thieves—a place, I'm certain, King Edward would demolish, if he ever had the time or energy left over from his battles in Scotland and abroad! As it is, his barons refuse him service, and he must rage in silence and twist what he says, or else bring down a bloodbath upon his own country. But why do I go on? We are in agreement here that the English king is swine!" He made a clicking sound with his tongue. "There are those who know I dare the port so close to mortal enemies when I am in need of water. They are aware of the talents of my crew with their knives, and aware as well that I reward my men richly who turn their gaze aside when I am present. There is a tavern there, and a whore I know well; she introduced a drunkard to me as I was imbibing a fair share of ale myself. This drunkard set down a purse before me and said that there would be an English ship leaving the following day—from a more reputable port, naturally—and that it would carry Lady Eleanor, Countess of Clarin, and that she was a worthy morsel, a rich prize in her simple being, and should be plucked from the sea. There would be a hearty ransom for her, reward in itself, yet a richer ransom could be gained back at the same port—if she were just to disappear. I thought little of the fellow's words, but when he was gone, I opened the purse, and I had been left a modest sum. Prepayment, I assumed, for what might be acquired if the lady were to be stopped."

"She was to be murdered?" Brendan said, frowning, and casting his gaze toward Wallace. "That wasn't specified. The word used was 'disappear.' There are many ways for a woman to disappear, monsieur." "So there are." ' 'To the south, below our Christian countries, there is a slave trade that seeks just such treasures." Brendan leaned back, wondering how he could feel so enraged on his hostage's behalf. "And you would have sold her so?'' he inquired. The Frenchman shrugged. "Not so easily, I assure you. With interest, I inquired about the woman. Indeed, she was a countess, and indeed, scheduled to sail out to meet with Count Alain de Lacville in Paris, where they were to be married. The lady herself, is not so rich—landed, and with a pedigree near to kings, but alas, enwrapped in poverty, due to the war-tom devastation of her hereditary lands. The arrangements for her marriage were made by a cousin who guards the property in her stead. I found the assignment to waylay her rather curious, despite the fact that her death would give the property over to other kin. The property is in desperate need of new income, and the marriage is necessary for Count de Lacville's wealth to restore the property to any hope for the future."

"Very curious," Wallace murmured. He looked at Brendan. "The English sell one another right and left; cunning and greed and espionage are all about, while we are fixed on one goal and one obsession. Our goal remains so distant because we battle among ourselves in Scotland as well. It is amazing that any man lives out a decent life on his own land, tending his family, or loving his wife."

The sound of Wallace's bitterness was startling to Brendan; he faced the knowledge that the barons did not truly accept him in victory, much less defeat, yet he still looked to the future for his country. He sounded weary now. The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "You will not be monsters! That is your choice; for me, I am glad of the peace I will make. For now. In the end, I will sail back to Scotland with you, I think." "Really?" Brendan queried, amused by the man who had a strange sense of scruples—and indignation.

"I will lift my sword for the nobility of a higher cause— and for land, should that cause ever be won," he added. He looked at Wallace and grinned. "I will earn a place to live out a better life, to tend a family. And love a wife. For the moment ... I would not be so noble. She is sent out to wed for the glory of French wealth! Yet someone would see her dead. My wicked ways would surely be more kind than what her family has intended, and the lady is a rich morsel in herself, as I was told." "Take care, pirate—" Brendan warned softly. Again, the Frenchman threw up his hands. "Aye, she is in your command. A pity. She has more than youth and great beauty; she has life, spirit—"

"And quite a tongue on her as well. She would lead a husband on a merry chase," Wallace said, drinking more wine. He had a palate for the wine and seemed to appreciate it well enough. "We wage war against the English, and that is our pursuit in France, and in life," Brendan said suddenly. "She is a part of England, so much so that she donned armor and rode to war." "Shall I sell her to an Arab emir then?" the Frenchman inquired. "She would fetch a pretty, pretty price!" "Despite the things said about me, I've yet to make war on women," Wallace said.

"She took arms against you," de Longueville reminded them, amused by the situation. Brendan rose, amazed at the way his teeth clenched and his fists balled at his sides. "We are not on the battlefield now. The quest is far greater than the fate of any woman. We have her, and Philip will want her. she is in our custody, but we need the French king's help. We will bring her to the French court." "The emirs would keep her alive, and treasure her at that!" de Longueville muttered.

"De Longueville," Wallace said quietly, "not even you can imagine the blood I have on my hands, and the things I have seen to want vengeance to such an extent. Brendan knows the truth of it; Lady Eleanor must be turned over to the French king. It is the only diplomatic possibility. Her marriage has been arranged; there is nothing cruel or unusual in such matters—" "Aye, heiresses are bought and sold in marriage each day. But someone wanted this heiress to disappear,'' de Longueville reminded them. "I have met this man to whom she is promised," Brendan said. "He ordered no murders, and he will protect her. I will, in fact, suggest that he keep her in France for a time, and watch for those around him."

He left the cabin, aware that both the pirate and Wallace were watching him, each with his own thoughts. He returned then to the cabin. She slept. Yet it appeared that it had taken her some time to do so. Usually, the bedcovers were pulled to her ears, as if she would disappear within the ship's bunk. Tonight the covers were all about. She was curled to a side, as if she'd tossed and turned. The length of her hair fell in a gossamer of gold about her face. He held a candle near her. A mistake. The light fell upon the thin linen of her gown, and delved beneath it. The shape and form of the lady were delineated. Not that he wasn't aware of the graceful curve and supple beauty of his hostage. He was. Had been. But memory could be exalted. Could be. He had taken no liberties with his mind's eye. So few years ago ... he had been betrayed at her hands. He had sworn justice—not justice, but revenge. He had been duped, taken, humiliated, nearly killed, but he had survived. Survivors thirsted for vengeance. They lived for it. Here was the moment. But his enemy was completely vulnerable, and a far more worthy opponent than he had ever imagined. Unable to resist, he set the candle on the ledge of Norse pine at the head of the bed, and reached out to smooth tendrils of hair from her face.

This lady did not need enemies. She gave her heart, soul, and loyalty to a family willing to sell her to the highest bidder. Her skin was achingly soft to his touch. And with what the candlelight did to her body ... He turned away from her, blowing out the candle. He stood in the darkness, muscles taut, pained, rigid from head to toe. She was his prisoner. His. Whatever should befall her was well deserved. There was a greater goal! He reminded himself. Hard to remember such lofty—and often hopeless—ideals, when the flesh seemed to burn, the body to quake. Yet, equally, he had never allowed the slaughter of innocents. Never attacked a man from behind, even in the insanity of the battlefield with blades flying all around him.

They were men. Seeking a dream, a people, a nation, freedom. They were not monsters. The darkness settled. He listened to her breathe. At last he walked away. Eleanor awoke to the sound of splashing water. Opening her eyes cautiously, she saw that he was across the cabin from her. She could see his back as he bent over a washbowl on the stand against the opposite wall; his back bare. She looked downward, her view half-hidden by the desk between them. Bare ... how far? Why was she looking? Knowledge, simple knowledge, of course. He was broad in the shoulders, flesh sleek. Muscles taut and tense. His waist was narrow and trim. And below that...

He turned suddenly, drying his face. She closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. There was no movement, no sound, nothing. She opened her eyes. She gasped. He was almost on top of her, standing by the bunk, studying her face with rich amusement. "Sleeping, my lady? Resting well?" "I was—" "And Wallace claims that there is virtue in your honesty!" he exclaimed. "I was sleeping—" "You're a liar!" "Obviously, sir, now I am awake." "Ah." He had a linen towel in his hand. He was still drying his neck and shoulders. He stepped back. She closed her eyes. Almost completely. But he wasn't naked. He had stripped his leggings, but he was wearing the tartan wrapped around his lower half, and only his calves and bare feet were visible.

She started, giving away the fact that she was watching, when he took a step toward her. "Well? Were you enjoying the seascape?" "The seascape?" "The view, m'lady. You were watching me." "I wasn't watching—" "But you were." "Perhaps I was certain that you were hiding horns and a tail, as a good beast or devil would do." "Such a liar!" he exclaimed, tossing the towel toward the washbowl and taking a seat by the side of the bunk. She quickly eased herself up, her back against the wall of the bunk, as she watched him with a breathlessness more alarming to her sanity than any simple fear.

"I try to be alert any time you are in the room," she said coolly. "Then you fail miserably. You sleep with an irritating ease, most of the time." "Oh? Do you stare at me through the hours of each night to know such a thing?" He grinned. "M'lady, I do not need to. I come in, and you are as still as an angel at rest. You scarcely stir. This morning, however, you lay awake. And watched." "As I said, I expected a tail." "Alas, you were disappointed." "Oh, no. I do believe it is there. Along with the horns. Somewhere." His grin deepened for a moment. For once his eyes danced with rich, cobalt amusement. ' 'Be truthful, Lady Eleanor. You lay awake. Watching." "It was amazement—that a Scot should bathe." "Ah, a cruel slur. Extremely cruel. What else?"

She caught her breath for a moment, her eyes wedded to his. "What else? It is evident you practice your craft of dealing death very well. You have fashioned your arms into weapons and your flesh is covered with scars." "That it is," he said after a moment. She nearly shrieked when he reached out for her hand, but she swallowed back the scream she would have released as he forced her to touch a thin white line on his shoulder. "That,
Santa Lenora,
was the first I was to receive. From an Englishman who assaulted the home of the kinsman where I lived. His pregnant wife was butchered, among other atrocities practiced that day. And this ... defending a border castle ..." He laid her hand flat against his chest. She felt the deep thunder of his heart, and the rigor of muscle tissue as he moved. "This—the battle of Stirling Bridge. And here ... well, this one ..." He drew her hand inexorably toward the top of his head, "this one, you can't really see, unless you part the hair. It's the one I received at Falkirk. But you, lass, ah, you walked away without a scratch!"

She jerked her hand back. "Oh? How can you be so sure of that?" "M'lady, I am sure of everything about you." "And how is that?" Her eyes narrowed sharply and her heart seemed to skip a beat. "You watched as I bathed?" "You admit to watching me?" he queried. "No—but you, you—" "I was there, m'lady, when you were near to perishing of a fever, brought on by a plunge into an ocean, followed by a night in soaking cold clothing. I helped strip you, bathe you, dry you, and get you into bed." "Oh!" she gasped, fists clenched at her side, a fever seeming to race through her. She was so angry she slammed her knotted fists against his bare chest, and was barely aware when he captured them both. "How could you, you—bastard! You and your Wallace sit here and talk about courtesy and the fact that you're not monsters, but you—you—"