by Meg Cabot
“Oh.” Finnula sighed. She supposed it didn’t matter if she bad-mouthed the earl’s relative to this man. Though there was a slight chance that Isabella, who had an uncanny ability to sniff out an eligible bachelor from leagues away, might find a way to wrangle herself an introduction to the knight, it was unlikely Sir Hugh would ever meet her father.
“Reginald Laroche seems to feel that the dues owed to Stephensgate Manor ought to be nearly twice what they were when Lord Geoffrey was alive,” Finnula explained. “So instead of working three days in His Lordship’s fields and four in their own, the peasants are forced to labor six days for Laroche, leaving only one for themselves. But that’s nothing to compare with the tallages Laroche has instituted. I think it’s done, don’t you?”
Hugo had been staring at her intently, his hazel eyes yellow again in the firelight. She had to wave the skewered meat over the flames to get his attention.
“Does this look done to you?”
He tore his gaze from her face and glanced at the roasted rabbit. “Yes, it’s done,” he said, and, taking the stick from Finnula’s hands, Hugo began to blow on the sizzling meat. “The tallages,” he said, between breaths, his eyes, in his thickly bearded face, bright as the stars above. “He’s raised the tallages, has he?”
Finnula wasn’t certain she liked her meat blown on by anyone excepting herself, but she shrugged with good grace and contented herself with another swallow from her prisoner’s flask. She really was feeling much better.
“Aye, raised the tallages by a third, and that, coupled with the extra three days’ labor, well, it’s caused a bit of bad feeling amongst the serfs.” She accepted the hunk of rabbit Hugo passed to her, and, holding it in both hands, took a ravenous bite. “Hmmm,” she said, though the meat was still too hot to eat comfortably. “That’s good.”
“Haven’t the serfs complained to anyone?” Hugo demanded, his own mouth full of roast rabbit.
“Oh, aye, to Sheriff de Brissac. He’s a good man,” she admitted grudgingly, “for all he wants to imprison me, but there’s naught he can do. Reginald Laroche had Lord Geoffrey in his pocket even before the old man died. He’ll inherit, if Lord Hugo never returns from the Holy Land, and may God help us then.”
Finnula wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and looked at her companion, then regretted it. The knight had bits of rabbit meat in his beard. She supposed he couldn’t help it, his beard being so bushy, but it was really quite unattractive, and she couldn’t understand why he hadn’t shaved upon reaching England. Perhaps, she thought, her overactive imagination working furiously, he had a weak chin, and needed the beard to even things out.
Her prisoner seemed oblivious to the state of his facial hair, however. “So what you’re telling me,” he began, stabbing a finger at her for emphasis, “is that this Laroche is slowly starving the people of Stephensgate?”
“Well, the serfs, anyway,” Finnula amended. “My brother, and the other free folk in the village, aren’t hurting too badly. It’s the peasants who farm for His Lordship who are suffering the most—”
Hugo had quit chewing, and was staring at her so intently that Finnula began to feel uncomfortable again. There was something so familiar about his eyes, but for the life of her, Finnula could not say what it was. She rarely visited Caterbury, but she supposed it was possible she had met one of his kinsmen there. Or perhaps his uncles or cousins had stopped in Stephensgate to sample Mellana’s brew. It really was quite famous, and on Tap-Up Sunday each October, the only day she could sell it legally without a license, the mill was crowded with men who’d traveled miles just for a taste of Mellana’s beer.
“So you are killing the earl’s game,” Hugo said slowly, his deep voice a rumble, like distant thunder, “and giving it to his serfs, so that they don’t starve.”
Finnula’s eyes widened, and she nearly choked on the piece of rabbit she’d just swallowed. “What?” she cried, giving herself a thump on the chest, then regretting it when she jolted her rib. “What did you say?”
“Don’t act the innocent with me, little miss.” The thunder in Hugo’s voice was not so distant now. “That’s how you can truthfully say the game isn’t leaving the earl’s demesnes. It’s all lining the stomachs of the peasants who work the land—”
Finnula took another sip of ale, just to ease the digestion of the slightly stringy hare. She wasn’t certain, but it appeared that Sir Hugh was upset about something. Since it did not seem wise to have such a very large man angry with her, she tried fluttering her eyelashes, which she’d seen Isabella Laroche do any number of times when caught in the glare of her father’s disapproval.
“Had I not,” Finnula said meekly, “they would have starved this winter. It was very cold—”
“Hell and damnation!”
Hugo’s abrupt exclamation so startled Finnula that she nearly dropped her gnawed half of the rabbit carcass back into the fire. She watched in amazement as her prisoner did exactly that, flinging the meat to the ground and then climbing to his feet. He took several strides into the dark meadow, only to return a few seconds later, his large hands balled into fists at his sides.
She could not understand why a man who was a stranger to Stephensgate should be so disturbed by the mistreatment of its serfs, and so assumed that his anger was directed at her, for her flagrant disregard of poaching laws. The penalties for poaching were quite severe; those caught illegally hunting a lord’s game could forfeit a hand or a foot for it, and it was not unusual for a poacher to pay for his crimes with his life.
Finnula instantly began to regret that she had ever opened her mouth about her hunting practices to this stranger. For all she knew, he could be some agent sent by the king to investigate the mysterious disappearance of game in Fitzstephen Forest. Why the king should take any interest whatsoever in Fitzstephen Forest, she could not imagine, but clearly, that was the only explanation for Sir Hugh’s strange behavior. If Sir Hugh was even his name.
Finnula wasn’t certain how to proceed. She supposed a girl like Isabella would have started to cry, using tears as a weapon against this large man’s wrath, and had she been able to, Finnula would have feigned repentance. But she was not sorry for what she’d done, and she’d be damned before she acted as if she was.
So she merely slid what was left of her dinner into the pot hanging over the fire, since her appetite had abruptly left her, and waited quietly for the large man to vent his anger, bowing her head against the inevitable, but muttering rebelliously beneath her breath.
But when the barrage of accusations did not come, Finnula grew restless, and glanced up at Hugo just once before swiftly lowering her gaze. He was standing some feet away, his arms folded across his broad chest, his tawny gaze inscrutable, but most definitely fastened upon her. Finnula thought it might be wise to provide as small a target as possible for his rage, and so despite the discomfort it caused her side, she brought her legs up to her chest and circled them with her arms, resting her chin on her knees and gazing mutinously into the flames.
When Hugo finally spoke, the thunder was entirely gone from his voice. Instead, he sounded tired, and Finnula supposed that for a man his age, that wasn’t so unusual. He had, after all, had quite a long day.
“Why did you do it?” he inquired.
Finnula was surprised by the question. As often as Robert had railed at her for poaching, he had never once bothered to ask her why she did it. That this stranger should put the question to her was really quite odd.
She looked at him, craning her neck to see his face, but his features were all in shadow, he stood so far from the fire.
“I told you already,” she said. “If someone hadn’t done something, they wouldn’t have lasted the winter. There wasn’t enough food in their stores, what with the high tallage set by Laroche—”
“But why you?”
Finnula frowned, looking away from him, back at the fire. She certainly couldn’t tell him the truth. But she could tell him part of it,
anyway.
“God gave me a gift.” She shrugged. “It would be a sin not to use it. That’s what my mother used to say, anyway.” When he said nothing, she supposed he wasn’t satisfied with that explanation, but it was all she was willing to give. She thrust out her chin obstinately, refusing to utter another word.
“You risk your life,” Hugo said slowly, “for serfs.”
Forgetting her resolve to be silent, Finnula corrected him tersely. “To you, perhaps, they are serfs. To me they are friends, people I’ve known my whole life, family almost. If their lord will not care for them, I will. ’Tis the right thing to do.”
When he made no reply to that, Finnula pushed back a loose tendril of hair that had fallen over one of her eyes and glared at him, though he still stood in shadow and she wasn’t at all certain he was even looking in her direction.
“You can’t prove anything, you know,” she said with reckless indignation. “Any more than Sheriff de Brissac can produce a shred of evidence against me. Ask any single one of Lord Geoffrey’s serfs. They’ll not say a word. So you can just go back to King Edward and tell him that if there is a poacher in Fitzstephen Forest, you couldn’t prosecute for want of proof.”
She was trembling by the time she got through with her speech, but not with fear. Good God, no wonder he’d been so amicable about being held hostage! He’d been hoping to goad her into a confession—and he’d succeeded, to a certain degree. But he still hadn’t any evidence.
“What in the name of God are you talking about?” Hugo demanded, stomping back toward the fire in his enormous boots. He sank down beside her, took the flask from where she’d leaned it against a leg of the hayrack, and, unstopping it, took a few noisy gulps.
When he took the container away from his lips, the gesture made a smacking noise, which Hugo followed by wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His gaze was green-eyed now, Finnula noticed. It was disconcerting how his eyes were constantly turning different colors.
Finnula glowered at him, hoping to intimidate with her sadly unchangeable gray irises. “I know who you are.”
Hugo looked taken aback. For several seconds he simply stared at her, his mouth moving strangely, before he finally echoed, in a voice that was too hearty by half, “Who I am? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play games with me,” Finnula snarled. He seemed more amused than alarmed by her ire, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from delivering the lecture he so roundly deserved. “I think it’s disgraceful, you taking advantage of me in such a manner. After all, I’m nothing but an innocent maid. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Hugo laughed outright. “Maid you might be, Finnula Crais, but I have serious reservations concerning your innocence. Point in fact, your method of distracting me at the Spring of St. Elias—”
Finnula flushed hotly at the memory, but refused to be distracted by embarrassment. “That is neither here nor there. When my brother finds out, you can count on him complaining to the king about your ill treatment of me—”
“My ill treatment of you?” Hugo’s golden eyebrows slanted upward in disbelief. “Was it not I who was trussed, as you so delicately put it, like a pig? Was it not my life threatened at knifepoint?”
“How you can be so indignant when ’tis you who are a sneak and a liar, I’ll never know. I don’t ken how you sleep at night.” Leveling a narrow-eyed glare at him, she hissed, “Men like you are no better than the worms crawling below our feet this very instant—”
Hugo looked down, expecting to see the ground littered with night crawlers. “I apologize, demoiselle,” he began carefully, “if I have done aught to offend you—”
“Offend me!” Finnula laughed humorlessly. “Oh, arresting me will be an offense, all right. An offense against all that is sacred in this land—”
“Arrest you?” Sir Hugh’s astonishment, which Finnula was certain was feigned, was nevertheless so convincing, she almost believed him. “Why would I arrest you?”
“Oh!” she cried, leaping to her feet at the cost of sending shooting pains through her side. “And still you play dumb!” She stabbed an impatient finger at him. “Are you not an agent of the king, sent here to root me out?”
To her surprise, her prisoner threw back his tawny head and laughed, long and loud. This reaction was so unexpected that for a moment, Finnula could naught but stare at him, openmouthed. He continued to laugh for some minutes, so uproariously that Finnula, who appreciated a good joke but disliked being the butt of one immensely, grew impatient.
“’Tis not amusing,” she insisted.
But Hugo could not stop laughing. In a fit of pique, Finnula crossed the few feet of grass that separated them, until she stood over him, hands on her hips, her eyes snapping as hotly as the flames of the fire.
“Aye, that’s right,” she snarled. “Laugh all you want. We’ll see how amusing you find it when my brother gets hold of you. He’s got fists as big as flour sacks, you know, and he won’t take it kindly if you bring me back to the millhouse in shackles.”
This only succeeded in making the lion-maned knight laugh harder. Finnula stamped an impatient foot.
“I’ve got brothers-in-law, too, four of them, and Bruce is the village butcher. His arms are thicker than tree trunks—”
Before she realized what was happening, one of Sir Hugh’s own arms, which, while not thicker than tree trunks, were among the longest and most muscular she’d ever seen, snaked around her legs. In the next second, he’d knocked her sharply in the backs of the knees, buckling them, while his other hand closed over her wrist, pulling her down into his lap. Finnula could not stifle a yelp of surprise.
But before she’d had time to recover herself from the ignominious tumbling, before she’d had a chance to notice that his lap was not the most unpleasant place she’d ever been, being, among other things, rather warm, though uncomfortably hard in places, Finnula lifted her head to complain about this rude treatment…
…and found her protest silenced by a pair of very determined lips.
Finnula had been kissed before, it was true, but the few men who’d tried it had lived to regret it, since she was as swift with her fists as she was with a bow. Yet there was something about these particular lips, pressing so intently against hers, that caused nary a feeling of rancor within her. Indeed, what she felt instead could hardly be described, it was so foreign to her. But it was most definitely enjoyable, of that she was certain. She could not even bring herself to bite the audacious knight, she so enjoyed his caress.
He was an excellent kisser, her prisoner, his mouth moving over hers in a slightly inquisitive manner—not tentatively, by any means, but as if he was asking a question for which only she, Finnula, had the answer. Now there was nothing questioning at all in his manner; he’d launched the first volley and realized that Finnula’s defenses were down. He attacked, showing no mercy.
It was then that it struck Finnula, as forcibly as a blow, that this kiss was something out of the ordinary, and that perhaps she was not in as much control of the situation as she would have liked. Though she struggled against the sudden, dizzying assault on her senses, she could no sooner free herself from the hypnotic spell of his lips than he’d been able to break the bonds with which she’d tied him. She went completely limp in his arms, as if she were melting against him, except for her hands, which, quite of their own volition, slipped around his brawny neck, tangling in the surprisingly soft hair half buried beneath the flung-back hood of his cloak. What was it, she wondered dimly, about the introduction of a man’s mouth against one’s own that seemed to have a direct correlation to a very sudden and very noticeable tightening sensation between her thighs?
Even in her heightened state of arousal, Finnula was not unaware of the fact that her prisoner seemed to be suffering a similar discomfort. She could feel that part of him which earlier she’d so foolishly mistaken for a knife hilt, pressing urgently against the softness of her hip. He had let out a low moan, smothere
d against her mouth, when she’d slid her hands around his neck, and now, as his need for her chafed against his braies, his strong arms tightened possessively around her. Callused fingers caressed her through the thin material of her shirt, and she realized they were moving inexorably close to her breasts. If she let him touch her there, what with the strange feeling she was experiencing between her legs, she’d be lost, she knew.
And she had to stop him, because she was no Isabella Laroche, who was loose enough to enjoy without compunction the lewd attentions of men she did not love or had any intention of marrying. She was Finnula Crais, who had a reputation to uphold. Granted, that reputation was not exactly a flawless one, but it was all she had. Besides, she would not end up in the same situation as Mellana, for whom she’d gone to all this trouble in the first place…
And then those strong, yet incredibly gentle fingers closed over one of her breasts, the nipple of which was already pebble-hard against the heat of his palm.
Tearing her mouth away from his and placing a restraining hand against his wide chest, Finnula brought accusing eyes up to his face, and was startled by what she saw there. Not the derisive smile or the mocking hazel eyes she’d become accustomed to, but a mouth slack with desire and green eyes filled with…with what? Finnula could not put a name to what she saw within those orbs, but it frightened as much as it thrilled her.
She had to put a stop to this madness, before things went too far. “Have you lost your reason?” she demanded, through lips that felt numb from the bruising pressure of his kiss. “Release me at once.”
Hugo lifted his head, his expression as dazed as a man who’d just roused from sleep. Blinking down at the girl in his arms, he gave every indication of having heard her, and yet his hand, still anchored upon her breast, tightened, as if he had no intention of releasing her. When he spoke, it was with a hoarse voice, his intonations slurred.
“I rather think it isn’t my reason I’ve lost, Maiden Crais, but my heart,” he rasped.
Finnula snorted at this. He looked, to her, like a man who hadn’t lost anything more serious than his judgment. “Do you think I’m a simpleton?” she demanded. “That I’ll swoon at your pretty words and beg you to take me?” She laughed without humor. “Not bloody likely.”