Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  Wicked thoughts, when she was a maiden and still very much his foe.

  “Lord Seabrook.”

  He straightened in the chair. “Mmm?”

  “All is well?”

  Heat stung his cheekbones; he hadn’t meant to let his mind wander. “I was thinking over some matters.”

  She studied her folded hands. “I do apologize for speaking boldly moments ago. I did not mean to be disrespectful. ’Tis just….”

  “You are excited about the tunnel.”

  She nodded, her eager gaze shifting to him. “Can I help you explore it?”

  “Need I remind you that you are injured?”

  “I could manage with crutches.”

  Osric shook his head. “There is the greater concern of getting you safely down into the tunnel.” God forbid she fell again and suffered broken bones. For letting his daughter come to such harm, Lord Molineaux would declare war on Osric for certain.

  “We can surely find a way.”

  Damnation, but she looked so endearing. “’Tis not as simple as just getting you belowground.”

  “But—?”

  “The tunnel might be unstable, or may have collapsed in places. Would your family want you putting yourself in jeopardy?”

  She gnawed her bottom lip. Hunger stirred within him again, and he abruptly rose from the chair, determined to mentally snuff his craving. He strode to the trestle table for more wine.

  “Milord, I cannot just sit by and wait to hear what you find.”

  Wine trickled into his goblet. “You might have to.”

  “Nay. I will not miss out on the adventure.”

  She’d spoken like a lady berating a peasant. Annoyance simmered as he put down the jug. “You are growing bold again, love.”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Osric crossed to the panel and drew it open. Holding her basket, Shelley stood outside. A manservant, with the writing supplies Osric had ordered, stood a few steps down the passageway.

  Osric motioned for the healer to enter then took the writing implements from the servant and set them on the trestle table.

  Shelley approached the bedside. ’Twould be best to let her tend to Violetta’s injuries without distraction. Meanwhile, Osric would glean the latest news on Violetta’s disappearance.

  “I will return soon, Lettie,” he said. “We will write your letter then.”

  ~ * ~

  With an uncompromising click, the door shut behind Osric.

  Violetta released a pent-up breath.

  Shelley tsked and set the basket on the end of the bed. “Do not lose patience with his lordship.”

  “He is a difficult man.”

  “’Tis not entirely his fault. He was a sensitive boy and had a troubled childhood.” Even as Violetta wondered how Shelley knew so much about Osric, the healer added: “He did not have to help you, as he has done.”

  Violetta scowled. “He is a knight of the realm. He took vows to help women in distress.”

  The healer gently pushed the bedding away from Violetta’s leg and started untying the linen bandages around her ankle. “His late father was a knight, too. He would not have treated you with such compassion.”

  A chill crawled through Violetta. She’d only seen the man on a couple of instances, many years ago and from afar, but she’d heard stories of his temper. “Did you know the late Lord Seabrook well?”

  The older woman nodded. “I have lived at this keep for over fifty years. I studied the treatment of wounds and how to use herbs alongside my mother, and when she got too old, I became the castle healer. I have seen and heard a great deal within the walls of this fortress.”

  “You do not believe the late Lord Seabrook would have helped an injured woman found on his lands?”

  “Unlike his son, his lordship was not a pleasant man—not unless it benefited him in some way to be so.” Shelley cast Violetta a knowing glance. “Quite apart from that, we both know you are not just any woman, milady.”

  Panic flared. “My name is Lettie. I am not—”

  “You will accomplish naught, Lady Molineaux, by lying to me.”

  The sense of panic lodged deep within Violetta. “H-how did you know?”

  Air cooled Violetta’s skin as the bandages fell away. Shelley carefully touched the ankle, her age-spotted fingers pressing here and there. The swelling did appear to have lessened somewhat. “I knew,” the older woman murmured, “from the quality of your skin and refined manner. If I had only caught a glimpse of your face, though, I would have known.”

  Violetta winced as the healer touched a tender spot. “I do not understand.”

  “Has no one ever told you that you look like your grandmother, Jacqueline?”

  Astonishment rippled through Violetta. “My parents have indeed said that. How did you know my grandmother?”

  Shelley selected a pot from her basket, opened it then rubbed ointment onto Violetta’s ankle. “I wish I could tell you, but I cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  The healer smiled wistfully and smoothed the unguent across Violetta’s lower limb with both hands. “Long ago, I made a promise. One I intend to keep.”

  “What kind of promise?”

  “One made for true love.”

  Shelley’s words were becoming more and more puzzling.

  “To whom did you make this promise?” Violetta asked.

  The healer chuckled. “So many questions.”

  “Ones I hope you will answer with the truth.”

  Shelley was silent a long moment and began to retie the wound. Violetta grimaced, for not only did her ankle throb, but she’d developed a headache, either from the treatment of her wound or the unsettling realization that the healer could easily betray her.

  “Are you going to tell Osric who I am?” Violetta asked quietly.

  “Are you certain he does not already know?”

  “He does not. If he did know, he would have confronted me by now. He would also have locked me in the dungeon and made me a hostage, not a guest.”

  The healer frowned, as though she disagreed with what Violetta had said, but continued her work. “Are you here to spy on him for your father?”

  “Of course not! I do not even want to be here, but have no choice, with my hurt ankle.”

  Shelley finished tying the wound. “’Tis the truth, milady?”

  “Aye, ’tis the truth!”

  “Forgive me if I have caused any offense. But, I will always consider his lordship the son I never had.” Her expression softened with affection. “I helped with his birth, and when he was a boy, we became close.”

  “Close?”

  Shelley’s gaze turned troubled. “More than once, I hid him in the infirmary, when he was desperate to avoid his father. When Osric would finally come out of hiding, I would dry his tears, hug him, and tell him….” She shook her head. “I will say no more. If he wants you to know of his childhood, he will tell you himself.”

  Violetta’s mind raced. Had the late Lord Seabrook’s fiery temper ever been turned on his son? She truly hoped not…but that might have explained Osric’s misery the afternoon they’d first met.

  The healer drew the blanket over Violetta’s limb again and then carried her basket to the bedside table. Misgiving settled within Violetta, for Shelley had managed to avoid answering the most important of Violetta’s questions.

  “Please. Are you going to reveal my identity to his lordship?”

  The older woman pulled the cork out of an earthenware flask. “I see no reason to tell him.” She poured a yellowish concoction into a small mug and handed it to Violetta. “For your pain.”

  The liquid looked vile, but if it helped her to heal, she must drink it. Violetta downed the contents of the mug and handed it back.

  “Osric was always a clever lad,” Shelley said. “Even if neither of us says a word, he will discover who you are.”

  ~ * ~

  Osric descended the stairs leading from the keep’s u
pper level to the great hall. In readiness for the midday meal, maidservants were setting jugs of ale and wooden boards heaped with slices of bread, ham, and cheese on rows of trestle tables.

  Crawford was speaking with a young woman near the hearth; she was brushing off her hands after adding logs to the fire. Upon seeing Osric, the steward crossed to him. “Milord.”

  “Any news?” Osric gestured across the hall to the entrance to the forebuilding, and the steward strode alongside him while delivering his report.

  “—and the search for Lady Molineaux continues in the town.” Light and shadow played over Crawford’s face as they entered the forebuilding’s torch-lit stairwell and headed down to the door at the bottom of the stone steps.

  “Did you write the letter I asked?”

  “I did. ’Tis ready to send whenever you wish.”

  “I would like to review it first.”

  The steward’s expression tinged with resentment, but he nodded then quickened his pace to reach the door first and draw it open for Osric to stride through.

  In the bailey, grooms were cleaning tack. Children played with kittens that had been born in the stable weeks ago. Over by the well, maidservants were rinsing tubs of linens and hanging them on lines to dry.

  Far enough away from the other folk to keep from being overhead, Osric halted to face the steward. “The letter,” he said.

  “I have come to learn what you expect in your correspondence, milord.”

  “That may be so, but this letter is particularly important.”

  “Your father did not feel the need to review missives he instructed me to write.”

  “As I have said before, I am not my father.”

  The steward was clearly displeased. His indignation was not entirely a bad thing, for it showed he cared about his work. Coltingstow was Osric’s castle now, though; he would have final say in all matters, especially when it concerned Molineaux.

  Osric half expected Crawford to further protest, but the man reached to his belt and retrieved a rolled parchment. It hadn’t yet been sealed with wax. Osric fought not to smile, for judging by the lack of a seal, the steward had anticipated Osric might want to review the letter before ’twas sent.

  He read the few lines neatly penned in black ink:

  Lord Molineaux,

  ’Tis my sincerest hope that this missive will ease your concerns regarding Violetta. She is safe at my castle and being treated well. At your earliest convenience, we should discuss how best to return her to you, since she has suffered a sprained ankle.

  With utmost respect,

  Osric Seabrook

  “Well done.” He handed back the missive.

  The steward sniffed. “I hope one day soon, you will have faith in my skills.”

  “’Tis not just a matter of skill,” Osric answered. “I have no desire to provoke war with Molineaux over his daughter.”

  Crawford’s eyes glinted. “If you did, I vow you could defeat him. Your sire insisted on a well-stocked armory—”

  “—which will be used if necessary. However, Violetta’s stay here gives us an opportunity to reassess the enmity between our families.”

  “Reassess?” The steward sounded appalled. “Need I remind you—?”

  “I have not forgotten the past.”

  “I should hope not.”

  Sometimes, when speaking with Crawford, Osric felt like a young boy again, who could never do anything right.

  “When should I send the letter, milord?”

  “As soon as possible. When Molineaux replies, I wish to be informed right away.”

  Chapter 5

  Violetta woke with a start. Lying on her back, she blinked several times, the shadowed fuzziness of what was above her focusing to become rough-hewn lengths of timber. She’d been dreaming of her grandmother; she and Jacqueline had been sitting by an open window, sunlight streaming in as they embroidered blue roses onto linen pillowcases.

  As Violetta fought the grief that stirred whenever she thought of her grandparent, she recalled that the ceilings at Darringsleigh Keep were whitewashed, not unpainted beams.

  You are still at Coltingstow, a guest of Osric Seabrook.

  A sharp breath rushing from her, she pushed up to sitting; the blanket that someone had draped over her while she slept tumbled down to puddle at her waist.

  She reached to draw the blanket aside and heard a muffled snore. Near the hearth, Osric sprawled in the chair that had previously been at her bedside, his legs spread out before him.

  Enticed by his masculine beauty, she studied the man she’d been destined to hate; she’d never dare to be so brazen if he was awake. Eyes closed, he appeared sound asleep, his chin propped on his right hand, his elbow braced on the chair arm, his dark, unruly hair brushing his cheek.

  Even relaxed in slumber and cast in the golden glow of firelight, he looked a formidable warrior, an opponent she’d be wise to elude, no matter how hospitable he’d been so far.

  She slid her legs over the bed. When she looked to the chamber door, mentally gauging how many steps ’twould take to reach it, she spied the set of crutches leaning against the wall. How kind of Osric to have acquired them for her. But, he wouldn’t have done so if he’d known who she truly was.

  Gripping the oak side table with her left hand, she rose. The bed ropes creaked slightly. Hopefully the noise hadn’t woken Osric.

  Lifting up her right foot, she readied to hop forward—

  “Hold.”

  She startled, wobbling on one leg.

  Osric’s heavy-lidded gaze locked with hers. Either he was a light sleeper or he’d been pretending to be in a sound slumber.

  He stood and crossed to her, his footfalls loud on the planks. He halted in front of her, near enough that she caught his masculine scent: a blend of rosemary, likely from soap he’d used to wash; horse; and fresh summer air. A wildness stirred within her.

  “What are you doing?” His voice was little more than a growl.

  “Stretching my legs. I mean, leg,” she corrected.

  “Why?”

  “I…was tired of lying abed, milord.”

  “You are healing. Rest is—”

  “—something I can do once I am home.” Her voice wavered on the word home, and she silently cursed that she’d betrayed such vulnerability.

  “I see. So, if I have this right, you were going to get the crutches, use them to make your way out of the castle and across the drawbridge then through the field until you reached your home, which is somewhere in the town.”

  “I was.”

  “Without even saying goodbye.”

  Oh.

  Guilt tugged at her. “You were sound asleep. Snoring.”

  “I do not snore.”

  “You do. I heard at least one very distinct snort.” When he frowned, she swiftly added: “I did not want to wake you.”

  He chortled, a harsh sound that intensified her guilt.

  She sighed. “I was taught that a sleeping lord should not be disturbed, unless there is a matter of vital importance that requires his attention. Thus, I decided not to bother you.”

  He reached up and tucked hair back behind her right ear, his touch incredibly tender. “I would rather have been woken than slept on only to find out later that you had come to harm while journeying home.”

  His gentle tone sent shivers racing through her. “Surely you do not care so much about me.”

  “You are my guest.”

  “I am…no one of importance.”

  He smiled. “I disagree, love.”

  Warning tingled at the back of her skull. Before she could reply, Osric’s left arm slid around her waist, and he pulled her in against his warm, muscled body.

  Her stunned gaze flickered up to meet his. “Lord Seabrook—”

  “I am only trying to help,” he murmured, “since you are supporting all of your weight on one leg.”

  How did she tell him she could barely breathe, being so shockingly close to him?<
br />
  “T-thank you,” she said.

  “You can thank me by promising you will not try to get home on your own.”

  Violetta averted her gaze. Now she was staring at his mouth. Of all treacherous things, she couldn’t help wondering what ’twould be like to kiss him. No doubt he’d be good at kissing. He had a fine mouth, with full and pleasingly formed lips. If he tasted even half as delicious as he smelled—

  “Lettie.”

  Right. The promise he wanted. She couldn’t make such a vow, but she could answer in a way ’twould satisfy him for now. “I promise that if faced with such a situation again, I will wake you. And, I will say goodbye.”

  His arm around her tightened a fraction. She tried to resist the pull of his embrace, but standing on only one leg, ’twas impossible. She gave in, to press flush against him. Her breasts crushed against his rock-hard torso, the brazen contact both thrilling and intimidating.

  “Milord—”

  “Mmm?”

  “Your arm around me—”

  Mischief glinted in his eyes. “’Tis hurting you?”

  “Not at all, but….” She could hardly say ’twas improper for a lord to hold an unwed lady so intimately. To him, she was a commoner with whom he could do as he liked.

  “My embrace makes you uncomfortable, then?”

  She could lie and say nay, but lying in this instance would gain her naught, and she’d already told more falsehoods in the past day than she had in her entire life. “In truth, it does.”

  His arm remained around her. “If I may be so bold, are you unsettled because you are frightened of me, or because you have limited experience with men?”

  Holy Mother Mary.

  Violetta’s mouth gaped.

  He laughed, a brazen sound. “I have shocked you.”

  Shock didn’t at all encompass what she was feeling. “Why do you ask me such questions?”

  He shrugged, and his chest muscles shifted and flexed against her with a most tantalizing friction. “I am merely curious.”