“Of Scotland,” the rogue in question explained, giving her a half bow as he rode toward her. “And as for you, Lady Laurien d’Amboise…” He reached down with one brawny arm to lift her onto his saddle again. “For the next fortnight, you are mine.”
Chapter 2
“Yours?” Laurien exclaimed as they quickly left the clearing behind, riding through the dark woods. “What do you mean, I am yours? Mercy of Mary, you have come all the way from Scotland to abduct me?”
“All will be explained when—”
“And you are a nobleman?”
“I will try not to be insulted by your surprise,” he said dryly.
“You are a knight?”
“You repeat yourself, milady. Aye, a knight. A nobleman. With rather a great deal of land, several castles, and all that comes with it.”
“But how can… I thought you were an outlaw! But you are an outlaw! Why have you abducted me? What is it you want, if not ransom?”
“I will explain after we reach our destination.” He held Laurien firmly in front of him, riding slightly behind and to the right of his companion as they cantered at a swift pace through the trees. “For now, all you need know is that you will come to no harm while you are in my care.”
“What destination? What do you want with me?”
She received no answers to her flurry of questions—and all at once, she realized that she should be using her breath for a much more useful purpose. She inhaled deeply.
And screamed as loud as she could. “Help! Help me! Someone he—”
A large hand covered her mouth and the Scotsman muttered what sounded like a curse in his language.
An instant later, she found another length of cloth wrapped around her mouth and knotted behind her head.
Which did not stop her from protesting further, her words muffled. “Mmph umhm nmh mmpht!”
“Lady Laurien,” the Scotsman said in a deep, annoyed voice. “I give you my word of honor—as a nobleman—that I am not going to hurt you. While you are my hostage, I intend to keep you safe.”
She did not find that the least bit reassuring. It was common enough for lawless men to take hostages from wealthy families, in the hopes of securing rich ransoms. But she had never heard of anyone traveling so far to do so.
And the mention of money had made these two men laugh.
The rogue did not bother to blindfold her, not that it made any difference. They took so many turns and backtracks in the forest that, even if she had been in her native region of Touraine, she would have been thoroughly lost.
His right hand moved from her waist to the sword on his back at the slightest sound, but when Laurien made any attempt to slip from the horse, she found her captor’s unyielding arm locked around her instantly.
Several times he stopped to peer into the darkness behind them. Laurien peered as well, certain at one point that she saw the shape of a rider melting into the trees. Her heart leaped with hope. It might be a rescuer. It might even be Henri.
But would her brother try to save her?
And what if it were de Villiers’s men? Which was better: to go back to that violent brute or to take her chances with the brigands who held her captive?
It seemed as if they had been riding for hours by the time they finally left the twisting forest pathways and ventured onto a narrow road. The sun had set on her left more than an hour ago, so she knew they were heading north. The two men slowed their mounts to a trot as they left the forest, a full moon casting eerie shadows through the branches.
A short time later, the older Scotsman reined in and gestured to a broken-down building that loomed out of the darkness at a fork in the road ahead.
Sir Darach drew to a halt beside him. “The Front de Boeuf?”
“Aye. No lord nor lady would dare set a slipper through that door. None but knaves and cutpurses inside.”
Laurien felt her captor’s tense muscles relax. “Good. Just my kind.”
She hoped he was only making a jest. But she noticed the men had spoken in French—so they clearly wanted her to know what they were saying.
They rode around to the back of the inn, where a ramshackle lean-to served as a stable. The Scotsman leaped to the ground and reached up for her. As he lifted her from the saddle, Laurien felt uncomfortably aware of the strength in his arms, the warmth of his powerful hands at her waist. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she tried to break free of him.
Which only made him pull her against his chest. “Do not try anything, I warn you.” His voice was a low rumble. “The nearest town is a great distance, and you will find no help inside these doors.”
Her heart thrummed wildly. She would much prefer to spend a night alone in the forest than a night in this place with him. She would tell him as much, she thought with bravery she did not quite feel, were her mouth not gagged.
He relaxed his hold slightly. “For your own safety, milady, you would be wise to stay near me.” Leaving his friend to see to the horses, Sir Darach headed for the inn’s rear door, keeping her close at his side.
The door opened onto a tiny cooking area filled with smoke from an open firepit and the smell of hot broth. Strips of dried cod and venison hung from the rafters. A red-haired serving girl looked up, startled, nearly dropping the emaciated chicken she had been plucking.
“Good eventide,” the Scotsman said politely, holding Laurien fast. “Have you a chamber for milady?”
The maid could not tear her attention from Laurien’s expensive gown and fur-lined mantle. Laurien tried to catch her gaze, silently pleading for help, but the girl pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room. Looking at the gag in Laurien’s mouth, she held out her hand. “Un argent.”
Sir Darach reached into his tunic and tossed her a silver coin. “Indeed there are thieves here,” he muttered under his breath. “Merci.” He bowed and pulled out another coin. The girl grabbed for it, but he snatched it back. “On a cold night such as this, there would be travelers warming themselves within?”
The serving maid nodded, her eyes on the gleaming circle of metal.
“If you were to entertain them, mayhap dance for them, I would be most grateful.” He slipped the silver onto the feather-covered table where she sat. “And this would be here when you finished.”
Smiling, the girl stood and smoothed her ragged skirts, pulled at her bodice to reveal more of her considerable bosom, and ambled out. The Scotsman waited until the sound of a stringed instrument reached them. Then he raised his hood to conceal his face, did the same for Laurien, and hurried toward the door.
The inn’s main room hosted only a handful of travelers, and by this hour, all were well into their cups. Some sat with their heads on the tables, snoring, hands still cradling their tankards. The rest were engaged in grabbing at the serving maid as she spun to a tune played on a lute that was obviously missing a few strings. None of the bleary eyes took particular notice of the unusual pair making their way up the stairs.
Sir Darach quickly chose a room at the end of the hall, opened the door, and led her inside. Shutting the door behind them, he released her and crossed to open the shutters of the room’s only window. Moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating their surroundings.
The chamber was strewn with rushes that looked as if they hadn’t been changed since the inn had been built. A hand-hewn pallet bed filled one corner, and a small hearth took up the adjacent wall. The only other furniture was a three-legged stool.
The Scotsman knelt by the hearth, where the innkeeper had stacked a small supply of firewood, along with flint and iron.
Laurien looked out at the moon and shivered despite her fur-lined mantle. Now that her captor finally had his back to her, she began to fumble with the gag knotted behind her head. She tried to judge the distance to the open window, wondering how far it might be to the ground below.
It could not be that high, she decided. From outside, the inn had looked like a squat little building. And the Scotsm
an might have lied: there might very well be a town nearby where she could seek help—and set out for Tours.
If she could get to the stables…
As the fire crackled to life in the hearth, her abductor stood and turned toward her, pulling a knife from his right boot. Laurien backed into the wall behind her, fear making her stumble. So much for his promise as a nobleman not to harm her! For an instant she thought of her own little knife, but quickly discarded the idea when she marked the size of his wicked-looking blade.
But she would not stand still and be raped at knifepoint.
Without warning, she darted to one side, slipped under his arm as he reached for her—and scrambled out the window before he could catch her.
She heard an oath behind her as she hit the thatched roof of the first level and slid off, clutching two handfuls of straw. She slammed into the ground on her side and sucked in her breath at the pain.
For a squat little building, the inn was awfully tall.
Staggering to her feet and hitching up her voluminous skirts, she ran for the stables. She heard the Scotsman hit the ground behind her, swearing.
She had barely cleared the corner when she ran straight into Sir Malcolm, tumbling them both to the ground.
“A thighearna!” he choked out.
Laurien didn’t even have time to untangle herself. A now-familiar arm looped around her waist and she felt herself lifted into the air.
She caught only a glimpse of angry blue eyes as Sir Darach tossed her onto his shoulder.
Sir Malcolm pushed himself up to a sitting position. “God above, how did she escape so quickly?”
“She leaped out the accursed window!” The blond knight carried her into the stable, limping slightly, favoring his right leg.
Laurien tried to twist free, remembering what she had suffered at the hands of de Villiers this morning—and not wanting to imagine what punishment the heavily muscled Scotsman might mete out for her attempted escape.
Still sitting in the dirt, Sir Malcolm chuckled as he dusted himself off. “That slip of a lass leaped out a window? Saints protect us, what a handful!”
Sir Darach did not seem amused. He grabbed a length of rope from one of the stalls, turned on his heel, and limped back past his laughing companion. “I need some ale after this day, morair.”
Laurien was still pounding on his back as they reentered the inn. He shrugged to the two or three revelers who looked their way this time. “Bashful bride.”
The comment sent a wave of laughter through the place. One man gave him a drunken salute with a spoon.
When he reached their room, the Scotsman opened the door with his shoulder, crossed the chamber in two strides, and lowered her onto the pallet bed. Pinning her with his weight, he pulled out his knife again.
“Milady, you have naught to fear from me. And if you call out, you will get no help from those below.”
She felt the cold metal against her cheek as he cut away her gag.
Laurien moved her jaw, the muscles sore and strained. Her breathing was ragged, her heart pounding, but she glared into the ice-blue eyes just inches from her own. “I-I do not fear you, I despise you, you knave!” She struggled to throw him off but he kept her still easily, ignoring her angry words.
“It is a miracle you did not break your pretty neck.” He pulled aside her mantle and probed her ribs. “Does this hurt?”
The touch of his fingers through the silk of her gown startled her. Laurien felt an unfamiliar heat tingle through her as his hand moved gently down her side. She inhaled a sharp breath, not from pain, but from surprise at the sensation. Never had any man touched her in such an intimate way.
“I cannot breathe!” she lied. He sat up, and in a single, desperate motion, she pushed off the bed and snatched the little knife from her aumoniere. The green jewel glimmered in the firelight. “If it is rape you intend, you will find me prepared to fight to defend my honor!”
He arched one brow. “I have no doubt of that.” Looking at her small weapon, he only seemed amused. Still, he made no threatening move, remaining seated on the bed. “But as I have said, milady, I mean to keep you safe, not harm you. And it is not my habit to force myself on unwilling maidens.”
“Aye, pilgrim?” she asked dubiously. “Next you will tell me you are as chaste as a monk.” She backed toward the door.
A grin slowly eased the hard line of his mouth. “I did not say that.” He stood and started toward her, his gaze tracing over every inch of her body, all the way down, and all the way up again. She felt a rush of heat rising in her cheeks at the unspeakably bold appraisal.
When those luminous blue eyes rose to her face, she unwittingly stopped moving away.
With a move so quick she didn’t see it, he caught her hand and wrested the knife from her grasp. The little blade clattered to the floor. He kicked it away into the rushes.
“Never draw a weapon unless you are prepared to kill,” he advised. “And if you intend to kill me, I suggest you find a weapon larger than that tiny sliver.”
He was holding her hand, and that unsettling warmth went through her again, making her breath catch. For a moment, Laurien could not speak—and could not take her gaze from the rough-hewn angles of his face, the scar that stood out vividly against his tanned cheek, the way the moonlight accented the strong lines of his jaw. With his blond hair, tawny beard, and eyes the color of ice, he looked like some Viking warrior risen from ancient flames.
Finally she looked away, perplexed. Never in her life had she found a man’s face or his gaze to be in any way… compelling.
Sir Darach shifted his hold to her arm, taking her with him as he walked to the door to pick up the length of rope he had dropped. Then he led her to the bed.
“Sit.” He pulled up the stool for himself and sat next to the hearth.
He spoke as one accustomed to having his orders obeyed.
Laurien remained standing. “I am not some trained hound who will jump at your every command.”
“I would explain—”
“Why I have been taken against my will, manhandled, dragged on a mad ride through the forest and—”
“If I must gag you again and tie you up to get you to listen, woman…” He held up the rope, letting it dangle from his fingers. “I will.”
Laurien rubbed at her jaw, the muscles sore from having been gagged the better part of the day.
She sat.
Tucking her legs under her on the lumpy straw mattress, she drew her mantle closer around her. She felt a tiny grain of trust that this Scotsman would not harm her. He had certainly had ample opportunity, if that was his intention. But thus far, despite his superior size and strength, he had been surprisingly… gentle. For the most part.
Somehow, that only made her feel even more uneasy.
She folded her hands in her lap. “I am ready to hear your explanation.”
~ ~ ~
Darach glowered at her. Despite her somewhat chastened demeanor, Lady Laurien’s voice still held a measure of defiance. He had not expected a demoiselle raised in a convent to have so much grit and fire. And he had never imagined she might pull a knife on a man his size. “Malcolm was right. You are a handful.”
She shrugged, lifting her gaze to his.
He leaned back against the stone hearth, wincing as he stretched out his aching right leg. Studying her, he tried to decide how much he could risk telling her.
Framed by the silk veil and wimple, her face was a graceful oval, with delicately sculpted lips, a long nose, and the most extraordinary green eyes—warm and bright, the color like midsummer leaves in the sunlight.
She looked every inch a pampered lass, one accustomed to spending her days at naught more demanding than prayer. He reminded himself that she was an innocent, sheltered in a cloister until recently—and unused to the sort of violence she had faced today. Her most pressing concern before now had probably been choosing what color floss to use in her needlework.
He would t
ry to be more patient with her.
“My task,” he began slowly, “is to get us to…” He hesitated. “To where it is we are going as quickly and safely as possible. ’Twill be much easier if I do not have to worry about you leaping out of windows at every opportunity.”
“I see. And so…”
“And so I will tell you why we are doing what we are doing. And you will agree to cooperate.”
She started to utter a retort, but stopped herself. “I will… listen to what you have to say, Sir Darach.”
He nodded in approval. At least she would hear him out. Progress at last. “Milady, my people—the Scottish people—are trying to secure our freedom from the English. Five years ago, the last heir to the Scottish throne died, and Edward I of England insisted he had a feudal right to choose our next king—”
“And he chose John Balliol.” She shook her head in puzzlement. “What has that to do with me?”
He was beginning to realize that she found it difficult to control the bold tongue behind those exquisite lips. “Let me finish. Edward thought Balliol would be naught but a puppet, and we feared the same—but Balliol surprised us all. Edward wanted to garrison English troops in our castles. He demanded that Balliol come to London, and he wanted to tax our people to pay for the English army. But our king refused.”
Darach shifted his gaze to the flames on the hearth. “Instead, Balliol repudiated the homage he had sworn to Edward. He called together a council of trusted noblemen, including myself and Sir Malcolm. We were evenly split—some argued for war, others thought we should form an alliance with France.”
“Our two countries formed an alliance over a hundred years ago—”
“The Auld Alliance, aye,” he said, impressed by her knowledge of history. “But then King Edward sent word that he wanted to negotiate a peace agreement. He asked Balliol to send ten emissaries, unarmed, to a meeting at the border.” He glanced away, clenching his jaw as he remembered another cold autumn night. A desperate ride over rain-soaked roads.
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 4