Ransom My Heart

by Meg Cabot

  “Come, my lord,” Peter cried, excitedly. “She can’t have got far. Let me run after her—”

  Hugo caught the boy by the arm, nearly yanking him off his feet. “You’ll do nothing of the kind. Go and fetch the horses. We’re leaving this place posthaste.”

  Peter stamped his booted foot. He had gotten over the scare the giant had given him, and had looked forward to an exchange of pleasantries with the pert little maid in the leather chausses, the like of which even he, used to every type of woman London could afford, from nearly naked dancers to princesses of the blood, had never before encountered. But the girl had run away, and his master, in a fit of churlish pique, would not allow him to search for her.

  “She wouldn’t be hard to find,” Peter grumbled. “A redheaded lass in braies is sure to be noticed wherever she goes. I wager we could find her in less than an hour. And we owe her our lives, my lord. Or at least a purse—”

  Hugo’s only response was to growl again.

  “What ails you, my lord?” Peter demanded, unwisely. He could not, for the life of him, fathom why His Lordship wouldn’t want to look for their rescuer. “Think you the maid a sorceress, that you run so feverishly from her?”

  Hugo glowered down at the impertinent lad, his own gaze every bit as piercing as the maid’s, though Hugo’s eyes were a changeable hazel that even now glinted gold with anger.

  “Nay,” he snapped, taking long strides toward the public stables. “But she showed overmuch interest in us, a wandering knight, returning from the Crusades, and his raw squire.”

  “Aye,” Peter readily agreed. “And I was enjoying her interest mightily.”

  “I could see that.” Hugo’s tone was sardonic, although the humor in his voice was not reflected on his stern features. “But of what interest could either of us be to so comely a maid, who is surely spoken for by some village smithy or local knight?”

  Peter would have liked to reply that he himself would quite obviously be of romantic interest to any maid, however comely, but he didn’t like to pass himself off as a braggart. He was quite certain that it was he, and not his master, that interested the auburntressed maid. Why would any girl be interested in a thickly bearded fellow likely twice her age, and dressed quite scruffily in spite of his fortune and title? Whereas Peter himself wore the shiniest gold necklace at his throat, and an expensive velvet tunic that, though not exactly suited to sleeping outdoors, clearly indicated his elevated rank of royal squire. What did it matter that both items had been purchased for him by his new lord? The girl didn’t have to know that.

  But now his master was speaking again, in that deep, rumbling voice that Peter alternately envied and feared.

  “I do not wish us to attract undue attention,” Hugo explained, in a tone he hoped did not sound condescending. Curse and rot his vassal for falling to that scimitar, and leaving him saddled with this pup! “Though any hope of that has been dashed by those men back there. Still, we’d best leave the girl be, since there is no attention worse than that of the father or brother of a virgin maid—”

  “Ah,” Peter said slyly. “Like that dancing girl what you had in London last fortnight, my lord? The one who called her procurer when you—”

  Hugo glared down at the boy, his eyes tawny with impatience. “Nay, not like her, lad,” he growled, but would not elaborate. Instead, he again bade Peter fetch the horses.

  As he stood on the cobblestones, his hazel eyes alert for a glimpse of auburn, all of Hugo’s thoughts centered on the rounded derriere of the fetching Finnula. How had the girl learned to use a bow like that? And why had she taken it upon herself to save him? Women had certainly changed since Hugo had last been in England. Now they not only gadded about by themselves in boy’s clothing, but slung quivers over their backs and arbitrarily shot at footpads. Although, Hugo thought, Lord knew that any woman who was going to dress like that needed to defend herself…most particularly from men like Hugo.

  Trying hard to turn his mind to a higher plane, Hugo forced himself to think not of Finnula Crais’s backside, but of Stephensgate Manor, and all the work that would be required of him to put right what his father had no doubt torn hopelessly asunder, as was his foolish wont. Still, those mist-gray eyes plagued him, even after he’d mounted his steed and urged the stallion forward. Had he looked back once more he’d have seen those very eyes boring a veritable hole into his back, as Finnula made some swift mental calculations of her own.

  Chapter Three

  Finnula knew what it was she had to do. She had chosen her quarry, had protected it from being had by another, and now she would lay her trap. But she set about her task with a heavy heart—not out of pity for her prey, but out of anger at herself…and, though she’d be loath to admit it, at Mellana.

  She knew she ought never to have agreed to this ridiculous undertaking. If Robert heard of it, and he was bound to, he really might wear a hole in the seat of her chausses, as he’d always threatened…or at least he’d attempt to catch her to try. Finnula was not some common-born milkmaid that she could act with such caprice and not expect the censure of her family. Though they were not titled or landed, the Crais family had operated the Earl of Stephensgate’s mill for many a generation, and were one of the most respected families in the community. For a daughter of Phillip and Helene Crais to take part in something so…common…was unthinkable. Why, what would people think?

  And Mellana’s insistence that “all the maids in Stephensgate” were engaging in man-napping in order to buy ingredients for ale brewing was small comfort. Finnula hadn’t the slightest regard for the maids of Stephensgate, who seemed to have little on their minds save collecting hair ribbons and husbands. And, of course, there was the small matter of the church, which expressly frowned upon the practice, a fact Finnula had pointed out to Mellana, that day in the kitchen.

  “Mellana, you’ve taken leave of your senses,” Finnula had declared tartly. “The fact that all of Stephensgate takes part in so pagan a practice means naught to me—”

  “’Tis not a pagan practice.” Mellana sniffed indignantly. “Isabella Laroche has done it dozens of times, and she—”

  “Isabella Laroche is a trollop and a fool.” Finnula’s patience was wearing thin. “Don’t you dare deny, Mellana, that she will lift her skirts for anything in chausses. God’s teeth, she’s mistaken me for a youth many a time and asked me into the manor house for a drop of ale. Of course a woman like that would think nothing of abducting a man and holding him for ransom. But you know as well as I that during his last sermon, Father Edward decried the practice most energetically—”

  “And you know as well as I that Father Edward seeks his pleasure with Fat Maude in the village,” hissed Mellana.

  Finnula conceded the fact with an uncomfortable shrug of her shoulders. She had not known that Mellana was aware of such matters and wondered who’d told the girl. That damned Isabella, no doubt. That the priest was a hypocrite, Finnula would be the first to agree. But he was basically a good man, doing what he could with a poor parish and a manor that had been lordless for over a year. Seeing that none of her arguments bore any weight with her suddenly willful sister, Finnula accepted her fate with ill grace.

  “All right,” she grumbled. “I’ll capture a man for you, and bring him here, and you can hold him for ransom and use the cursed gilt you get for him for hops or a dowry or whatever will you. Just don’t, I beg you, Mellana, let Robert find out.” Finnula shook her head. “He’ll kill us both.”

  Mellana, her sapphire eyes sparkling with jubilation over her victory, chose to treat her younger sister magnanimously. “Oh, you exaggerate. Robert loves you best of all his sisters, sweet Finn. He lets you walk all over him.”

  “You didn’t see him after the sheriff’s visit.” Sighing, Finnula looked down at her hands, which, despite the calluses on her fingertips, were quite slim and beautiful. “I’m well-used to trapping dumb animals, Mellana, but how am I ever to snare a man?”

  Mellana,
having gained her way, had lost interest in the details of the matter. “Lord, I don’t know,” she declared, fluffing out her hair so that she could join the rest of the family in their merrymaking in the room next door. “Just make sure he isn’t from Stephensgate.”

  “What?” Finnula looked up, her large gray eyes filled with dismay. “Not from Stephensgate? You want me to abduct a stranger?”

  “Well, of course. Isabella has already ransomed every man in the village at least once. And Shrewsbury and Dorchester, too. Their families won’t pay a second time. The practice does lose its charm if overused—”

  Finnula let loose some of her finest expletives, and Mellana, genuinely shocked, huffed away, leaving her younger sister glaring at the flagstones.

  To abduct a stranger, Finnula fretted to herself, she’d have to travel the two days’ distance to the nearest large village. She was a frequent visitor to Leesbury, of course, since her poaching forays sometimes took her in that direction, and Patricia’s brother-in-law, Simon, ran the inn there and he wasn’t stingy with the ale, but she didn’t have much faith that the residents of the slightly more cosmopolitan village would find the practice of man-trapping amusing. Their parish priest wasn’t nearly so liberal as her own, and might very well frown upon what in Stephensgate and Dorchester was considered a piquant custom.

  But when Finnula saw the gold coin that the bearded traveler had thrown to Simon at the Fox and Hare, she knew that she’d found the ideal quarry. Obviously not from Leesbury, the tall man had both purse and a manservant, and, she soon saw, with just a little investigation, a fine destrier for a mount. Here was a man well-placed in life.

  That she sparked an interest in the man equal to the one he sparked in her, she saw at once, though she knew it was for entirely different reasons. Finnula did not consider herself at all beautiful. No, Mellana, with her voluptuous figure and blond curls was the beauty in the family.

  But Finnula couldn’t help noticing that of late, she’d been attracting more and more masculine stares, and the fact was the cause of no little discomfort to her. Indeed, the change her passage from lanky girlhood into graceful womanhood had wrought on her looks was a primary source of irritation for her. It had, after all, caused the disaster that had been her short-lived marriage, and proven quite a hindrance during her pursuit of game: She was constantly being admonished by well-meaning husbandmen that she ought not to roam the countryside in chausses, and that it was a needle, not a bow, she ought to be wielding.

  But conversely, her newfound attractiveness to the opposite sex had proven useful at times. She had all but charmed the shire reeve into overlooking her various violations of poaching laws. And there wasn’t a merchant in the village who wasn’t paying more handsomely than ever for the legally obtained game she sold them, and boasting to his customers that the fowl had been shot by none other than the Fair Finn. Like Diana and Artemis, the pagan huntress goddesses of old, Finnula’s reputation as a lovely archer did not harm as much as help in her endeavor to feed the hungry of Stephensgate.

  And of course, now that she had gotten herself into the man-hunting business, she intended to use her own winsome beauty as bait.

  That the tall, bearded stranger might not rise to the lure never crossed Finnula’s mind. She had seen the way his eyes had raked her when she’d entered the inn. There was hunger in his glance, though she’d seen caution there, too. Not enough of the latter, since he’d managed to get himself into that scrape with that pair of footpads. Still, perhaps he’d learned from his mistake: When she’d followed him apace, she saw with approval that he steered clear of main thoroughfares.

  His cautiousness, however, would be his undoing, because by sticking to sheep trails instead of the road, he’d be drawn directly into her most heavily hunted territory, the hills surrounding Stephensgate, and in particular, the earl’s demesnes.

  When the tall man and his boy set off in such haste from Leesbury, they unknowingly picked up a third member to their party. Finnula followed at a discreet distance, keeping to the shelter of the trees and allowing a slack rein to her mount, an unremarkable-looking mare she’d had since childhood that was nevertheless as highly trained as any knight’s destrier. The horse, whom Finnula had named Violet in an unguarded moment of ten-year-old fancy, had learned to tread quietly over forest bracken and to stand as still as stone while her mistress was in pursuit of quarry, and also knew enough to amble back to the millhouse when Finnula set her in the right direction and whacked her on the rump. In all, the two made an awe-inspiring team, working together as well as any partners in crime.

  Finnula watched the pair of travelers with keen interest, taking in as many details about them as she could. The man, the one she sought, was carefully dressed to reveal as little as possible about himself. Like the thick, tawny beard that hid his features, the untrimmed cloak, shapeless tunic, and plain chausses revealed nothing about the size of the purse carried upon his belt. There was no disguising his size, however, which was impressive. Why, he was probably taller than Robert, who stood over six feet tall.

  The boy, however, hardly looked a challenge. Of medium height, he aped his better by overdressing in a velvet tunic and brightly colored hose. He, she thought, would definitely benefit from a treetop snare. The man, though. The man would require more finesse.

  Unlike many hunters she knew, it was the pursuit, not the kill, that Finnula most enjoyed. The game she shot, she shot because she knew of families without meat on their tables. The good Lord had seen fit to give her unerring aim and a steady arm, so she felt it her duty to see those less fortunate well-fed.

  But she didn’t enjoy killing, and did so only when strictly necessary. Stalking prey was much more to her tastes, and trapping it in her own nonlethal traps even more satisfying. That she invariably released the animals she trapped few people knew, and even fewer were aware of the number of animals that, finding them in the traps of others, she also set free. She particularly disliked the cruel metal traps that the earl’s woodsman set out to catch wolves, and whenever she encountered one, she quickly buried it where she knew old Tom would never find it again.

  But there was something to be said for the chase, for the stalking, and though she never would have admitted it to Mellana, Finnula thought there was a chance that she might just enjoy pursuing this particular quarry. How much more interesting to hunt an opponent of some intelligence, and not some dumb animal. Of course, he was a man, which automatically made him her intellectual inferior, since Finnula had never encountered a man whose wit rivaled her own—and that included her now-deceased husband. But still, it would be a challenge worthy of the Fair Finn, and it was with a happily thumping heart that she trailed him.

  But when it became apparent to Finnula that the stranger seemed to know the countryside and was heading toward Stephensgate, she realized with a sinking feeling what she was going to have to do. She was loath to try it, since the last time it had produced such dreadful consequences. But if she didn’t act soon, she’d lose her prey, and who knew when she’d find another so promising? She couldn’t let Mellana down, not after she’d promised. Besides, she was a year older and wiser now. And this time, she would be in control. She’d be expecting him, and she’d be prepared.

  Taking up Violet’s reins, she urged the mare well ahead of the traveler and his servant, and hastily, but with practiced care, made the preparations.

  Chapter Four

  Hugo wasn’t certain how much longer he was going to be able to abide his squire’s incessant whining. First about the girl in the inn, and now the fact that his horse didn’t have the strength of Hugo’s and needed a rest. Hugo himself had selected Peter’s mount, and knew that the animal was as sturdy as his own, though not as highly trained. No, it was Peter who wanted to rest, though it was only just past midday and the weather fine, and they had been riding for only a few hours. What had Hugo done in this life to deserve the torment this sniveling youth was putting him through? Couldn’t the lad kee
p his mouth shut and let them ride in peace?

  “My lord,” the boy called, from some distance behind. “My lord, hold up. We haven’t had a bite to eat since Leesbury and I’m near faint with hunger—”

  Hugo rolled his eyes. The boy’s appetite, like his love of chatter, was insatiable.

  “There’s bread and bacon in your pack,” Hugo growled, in his most menacing manner. “Gnaw on that awhile.” Hopefully, the youth’s mouth would be too full for conversation. Or, Hugo considered, brightening a bit, he might choke to death—

  But they were entering familiar ground at last, and Hugo could not stay irritated long. Here was the grove where he had bagged his first stag some twenty years earlier, there the copse where he’d first laid Fat Maude, some ten years later. They were still a good two days’ ride from the manor house, but it was two days of territory that was as familiar to Hugo as the back of his own hand. Ah! It felt strangely good to be home after a decade of fairly aimless wandering.

  When they came to the turn in the sheep track that led to the rock formation that towered above the Spring of St. Elias, Hugo hesitated. The spring was a delightful place for a dip. Many a boyhood summer had been spent hunting in these hills, and the spring was where Hugo and his brother had bathed, learning to swim in the deep pool, and learning to dive from the towering rock outcroppings above the spring.

  No longer tended by the church, St. Elias having fallen out of favor some fifty years back when water from his spring failed to cure a single leper, the pool was overgrown and desolately beautiful in its remoteness. Wildflowers flourished in the crevices of the gorge, and the branches of the trees that grew twistedly out of the rock skimmed the water’s surface. It was a perfect place for a swim after a hot and dusty ride—and that’s precisely what Hugo decided his charge needed.