Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (156 page)

Once the fervor over her ill-thought-out speech died down, Elisande put the unplanned-for stratagem into action. She crept along the secondary passage toward the kitchens, avoiding the main corridor. Beleaguered servants, their platters stacked with milk-fed kid, loaves of manchet, hedgehog roasts, flagons of juniper beer and currant wine, took little notice as she entered the overheated kitchen. She scrutinized Cook hunched over a low stool. Her skilled fingers plucked a swan in preparation for tomorrow’s wedding feast. Elisande skirted her way around the deaf woman, crossed to the far wall, and slipped through the one door that stood ajar.

• • •

“Find her!”

Warford’s roar ignited a well-orchestrated flurry of activity in the manor’s side yard. Cadby servants lit torches and handed off lanthorns to the mounted yeoman, who accepted sword, dagger, and longbow from another servant. Fine wisps of dust coated the air when the riders struck out in pairs. She observed the rout crouched behind a barrel near the pigsty. Undecided, she glanced behind her at the postern gate. Could she make her father see reason before Warford discovered her and locked her in her bedchamber, or, was he so enamored of his new wife he’d believe any lie she spewed?

A trio emerged. Lady Cadby clung to the arm of a clergyman. Elisande shrank back in horror as the old man’s identity became clear.

“Dear God, he summoned the madman. He truly means to see me through the ritual,” she whispered, terrified.

Any vestige of love she harbored for the man who sired her withered and died the moment he embraced the purificator. That he should permit the torture of his only child on the hearsay of his second wife aggrieved her. She never believed anything could devastate her more when he sold her to the sadistic beast, Warford, in order to preserve ownership of Cadby Hall. Tears long denied blurred her vision as she bade a silent farewell to her home. Her decision made, she sprang to her feet, bolted through the gate, and plunged into the darkened forest. With the agility of a fox, she ducked under low-hanging branches entwined around skinny poplars and sidestepped nettle-bushes without hesitation and headed north.

After a while, a cramp seized her leg and forced her to an abrupt halt amidst a crowded blackthorn grove. She lowered onto a stout, lichen-covered log and massaged the back of her thigh. The loamy fragrance of the moss-laden air calmed and comforted her. A sad smile curved her lips. Being unaccompanied in the wilderness should cause acute anxiety, but her senses were inured to the night clatter and nocturnal creatures. Years of seeking refuge from Warford’s unwelcome advances cured her of real or imagined worries in a trice.

Tonight, however, the forest appeared oddly quiet. The churring trill of the Nightjar remained noticeably absent. Alarmed, she listened for any peculiar noises and imagined faint whispers on the air. She curbed her breathing and, when a few tense moments passed without incident, she deemed it safe to continue on. Still a bit apprehensive, she started on a downward descent made more treacherous by an overshadowed moon. At the bottom of the path, an exposed tree root snagged the toe of her worn ankle bootie and catapulted her like a boulder from a trebuchet toward the rock-studded basin. Powerless to meet her fate wide-eyed, her lids slammed shut and both hands thrust out to brace for a violent impact. If not for the man’s swift reflexes, she would have landed face down in the dirt instead of against the inflexible musculature of a broad chest.

Light-headed, she tried to draw breath just as a hand clamped over her mouth. Panicked, she bit down on the fleshy part. To her immense satisfaction, a string of profanity flowed from her assailant. His other hand slipped around her midriff as he lifted her off the ground. She lashed out, legs and arms flailing. One hand connected with a solid, bare thigh, and she pulled back, shocked. Horrified he might be nude, she reached back and clutched a handful of thick hair and yanked to loosen his grip on her.

“Cease your struggles, ya little heller,” a strained voice rasped near her ear.

She disregarded the terse command and pulled harder.

In a flash, broad hands flipped her long ways across an equally broad upper body. To him, she weighed no more than if he toted a sack of goose feathers. Fear and anger churned inside her, and she struggled harder until hot breath hissed in her ear.

“I am sent by your aunt, Lady Onora Maxwell.”

Chapter Two

Once she relaxed, he set her on the ground, although his large palm stayed in place.

“I’ll have your promise no’ to scream afore I take my hand away. Nod if you’re in agreement.”

He removed his hand in increments until it hovered a few inches over her mouth. Breathless with fear and rage, she shoved at it and dragged in a lungful of crisp, clean air. She twisted in his one-armed embrace ready to confront him. However, he was preoccupied inspecting his hand.

“Jaysus and Mary, woman, why in hell did you bite me?”

Even in her agitated state, she noted his accent exhibited a curious mixture of exasperation and amusement. Infuriated by his demeanor and ham-fisted tactics, she presented him with an incredulous glare.

“Why wouldn’t I? You almost killed me!”

He snorted. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done so the moment you launched yourself at me.”

“You appear from nowhere, snatch me up, and slap a hand over my mouth in an attempt to leach the air from my chest. You are fortunate I only bit you.”

She enunciated each point with a poke to the bare muscular arm still wound around her midriff.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” He spoke with deceptive calm.

“Will you not cede my point and apologize for your rough manner?”

Miffed she had to ask, her tone might have left him frostbitten.

Amusement flickered in the eyes that met hers. “I will no’ apologize for keeping you from screamin’ out, lass.”

God, she was so tired of arrogant men. In an effort to gain the upper hand, she ordered him out right. “Do not call me lass. As you are in service to my aunt, I expect to be addressed by my proper title.”

Swift as a dervish, his hand snaked out to recapture her wrist. She shriveled a bit at his superior strength, and when he moved in near enough for her to count the whiskers on his chin, she blanched. In stature, she usually stood the equal of men. However, this one loomed a few inches above her.

“You no’ only bit my hand, milady.” His low voice stressed her title.

She regarded him with a cool stare, determined never to allow another man to cow her true nature and jabbed a finger into his hard chest for good measure.

“Now see here, I had no indication you were sent by Onora, therefore, I refuse to feel remorse for your injuries, if you are indeed injured.”

In a surprise move, he seized her finger and pulled her in, until the tip of her nose grazed his. A pleasant foil of horse, leather, and cloves teased her nose, and the sudden intimacy of their situation pervaded her awareness. Compared to Warford, this man’s nearness disturbed her decency in an entirely different manner. Right away, she noticed the excessive amount of heat his body produced as it easily penetrated her thin layer of dress. An unwelcome hotness crept into her cheeks as the hand on her stomach shifted upward. How in the world could she even contemplate such things when he all but assaulted her? Well, maybe assault was a bit of an exaggeration. If she took a moment to step outside her reaction, she acknowledged that he hadn’t really harmed her, except to possibly cause premature gray hair to take root. Still, she decided it for the best not to concede anything. The amused arrogance of his tone deserved no such consideration. During her inward reflection, she became conscious the silence had stretched to an intolerable degree. To cover her embarrassment she pretended a sneeze.

“Bless you, my lady,” he drawled.

“Thank you,” she gave him a tight smile. “Now, unhand me, ’tisn’t decent.”

“Neither is biting the hand of the man sent to your aid,” he murmured dryly.

Gradually, a break in the cloud cover afforded her a clear view of his mocking expression, well-illuminated by the full moon, and her banked temper flared anew.

“You might explain why you manhandled me, knowing full well whom it was you manhandled, unless you are used to women dropping into your lap like acorns from an oak tree.”

The accusation came out in an unintelligible garble, but she elected to care naught. He knew her meaning.

An edge of impatience tinged his voice. “You were on the verge of a scream, and we’re not far from Cadby Hall. Be thankful I only placed my hand over your gob … my lady.”

Taken aback by the threat, she gasped, “As opposed to what, pray tell?”

“As opposed to gagging you, throwing a sack over your head, and tossing you over my shoulder like so much grain.”

Contrary to his threat, he unwound his arm from her waist and put enough space between them to stable a horse. To mask her confusion, she palmed the loose balls of hair hanging in clumps around her shoulders. Aware of her dishevelment, and his unruffled appearance, she sent him a peevish glare and searched for the whale pins buried under the heavy tangle. Not that she worried he supposed her hideous, she thought, and sent him another hostile glare. Annoyed for the reasons behind her sudden vanity, she fashioned the unruly mop into a lopsided plait and secured the inelegant mess in the back of her head. An uncomfortable silence ensued while he examined her handiwork. A flash of humor crossed his face and he pressed his lips tight, barely covering his amusement. Maddened by his ungentleman-like behavior, she folded her arms and adopted a posture that dared him to voice his opinion.

His grin deepened and laughter lurked in his smile. “‘Is no’ much of an improvement if you want my opinion.”

Her hands flew to pat the back of her head. She blinked, then narrowed her eyes.

“I do not require your opinion thank you very much, and if no one amongst your friends has the temerity to tell you, allow me. Your manners are atrocious, sir,” she bit out between thinned lips.

His eyes widened in surprise and then he threw back his head and laughed. “I can no’ say my manners have been much discussed, although my blunt ways only exceed your own.”

Momentarily abashed, she remained silent. There wasn’t much to defend against since the assertion rang true. On the heels of that truth, another popped into her brain. Mayhap she ought to curb her tongue. After all, she had no way to know if the man was a bloodthirsty killer. She pulled a face at the farfetched notion, doubting Onora would send a murderer to procure her safe passage.

Determined to start afresh, since they were forced to tolerate one another’s company for a time, she cleared her throat and kept all expression from her voice when she offered an apology.

“Despite your immediate impression of me, I am not in the habit of trading insults. I do apologize if I gave offense, ’tis not my intent, truly.”

“You can no’ offend me,” he asserted with a shrug, surveying the direction from whence she came.

She gritted her teeth in the wake of his less than generous statement and followed his line of sight wondering what he hoped to see.

In a patronizing tone, he continued, “I expect naught else from the English save the back side of one’s tongue, milady.”

The continuous inflection of her title rankled. Calling his good manners into question had been a mistake. He appeared to be the very worst sort of his kind — quick to take offense, prickly, and bad-tempered. Impatience edged out irritation. And why weren’t they leaving?

“Tell me, does your escape stratagem include Warford’s men catching up to us?”

His nostrils flared with annoyance.

“First you insult my manners, and now you call into question my ability to keep you safe. No matter your relation to Lady Onora, I will no’ tolerate such insolence. We will leave when I say and not afore time. You ken?”

Incapable of concealing her scorn, she persisted.

“Bearing in mind the urgency of our situation, although,” she pursed her lips, “you seem quite at your leisure, when do you suppose might we take our leave?”

Wordless, he clenched his jaw, moved around her and started for the dense undergrowth.

Frustrated by his taciturn nature, she gathered her skirts and chased after him. His only acknowledgment of her was a quick glance and a grunt, whether in approval or disgust, she had no idea. In a neutral tone, she put her question to him. “Shall we meet with Chief Maxwell, soon?”

Careful to sidestep a barbed firethorn bush, she bumped into his broad back when he came to an unexpected stop, turning to stare at her. She couldn’t begin to speculate on the reason for the combination of surprised perplexity etched on his face.

“You expect
me
to take you to Chief Maxwell?”

She canted her head at his odd manner of question. “Did he not make the journey with you? My aunt’s letter indicated Chief Maxwell would be on hand to deliver me to Caeverlark Castle. Is this not true?”

The intensity in his pale eyes unnerved her.

“You are able to read?”

“Yes.” She stated quietly and waited for him to accuse her of walking with the devil.

He remained silent for a beat and then nodded. “If you are so inclined, your skill could be put to use at Caeverlark. Father Pollock wears your aunt’s patience thin with his constant demand for learned scribes.”

“They do not have a man at Caeverlark?”

“Died last spring.”

She waited for him to expound on his pronouncement, but he turned on his heel and continued to steer them farther away from her father’s land until she no longer recognized any landmarks. They walked in silence, giving her time to ponder his reaction to her statement. His easy acceptance of her unladylike skill loosened the tension in her shoulders and she relaxed the rigid hold she maintained on her skirt. She didn’t know what to think, except acknowledge him to be quite unlike the men who kept company with her father. But who this man was to her aunt, she’d no idea. She also realized he never answered her previous question.