Ransom My Heart

by Meg Cabot

  “But to kill her own husband!”

  “Finnula Crais is not natural, and cannot be expected to have the emotions of a natural woman.” Peter shook his head. “Nay, Mistress Rosamund. I would say that Finnula Crais is a very dangerous woman. Very dangerous indeed.”

  Rosamund, looking down at him, swallowed hard. “’Tis true she is the best shot in Shropshire—”

  “—and ’tis also true that she resents being married, as it keeps her from her hunting—”

  “—and I saw her go out of the room after supper, alone. She could have slipped that burr beneath His Lordship’s saddle!”

  “And she was nowhere to be found when the merlon slipped this morning—”

  “Oh!” Rosamund put both hands to her cheeks. “Oh, ’tis too awful!”

  “But what can be done?” Peter looked down at his hands. “The shire reeve will never arrest her. Any fool can tell he is half besotted with her himself. I…I fear for my master’s life, mistress.”

  “Yes,” Rosamund said, softly. “I have seen Sheriff de Brissac’s partiality for Finnula. He quite admires her, I fear.”

  Peter heaved a massive sigh. “Then all is lost.”

  But Rosamund, who had spent an entire year convincing her father to allow her to marry Robert Crais, who was below her own station in life and saddled with six sisters besides, was not a girl to give up so easily.

  “Nay,” she said. “All is not lost. You leave it to me, sir.”

  “To you?” Peter’s astonishment was great. “But you are only a simple maiden. How can you stop her, mistress?”

  “Wait,” Rosamund said, earnestly. “Wait and see.”

  And Peter, massaging his sore neck, was prepared to do exactly that.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Finnula’s surprise was not the kind Hugo had expected…at least, not exactly.

  When they returned to the manor house, they were met in the stable yard by Mistress Laver, who slyly informed Her Ladyship that all was in order. Hugo was not in the mood for secrets, though he’d refused to answer any of Finnula’s questions concerning Peter’s statements back at the millhouse, and grumbled that she might do as she liked, but he intended to have a bath, feeling dirty from his fall and sweaty from their ride.

  Finnula only turned up her nose at him, so Hugo strode into the house alone, and, after barking orders that hot water be brought to his solar, hastened there.

  But when he entered his childhood chamber, he found that it, like his father’s solar, had been stripped bare of furnishings. Everything was gone, from his clothing to the bearskin rug that had lain across the floor. Even the trunks that he had sent ahead from Cairo, the trunks to which only he had the keys and which contained a fortune in jewels and cloth, were missing. If they were sitting outside, waiting to be part of Finnula’s bloody bonfire…

  Hugo’s bellow might have brought down the roof had Stephensgate Manor been less well-constructed. As it was, every servant in the household came running, but not his wife, whose name it was Hugo had shouted.

  “Where,” Hugo roared at Mistress Laver, who regarded him with more composure than any of the other staff, being well-used to his father’s tantrums, “are my things?”

  “Well, with your wife, I would imagine,” was Mistress Laver’s coy reply.

  “And where is my wife?” Hugo demanded.

  “In the lord’s solar, I should think, where a proper lady would be.”

  Hugo thought he might suffer an apoplexy if someone did not give him a straight answer. Seeing this, Mistress Laver smiled and said gently, “The Lady Finnula had all your things moved to your father’s solar, my lord. ’Twas quite gen’rous of ’er, I thought, considerin’ what happened last time she was there. But she thought you’d be pleased—”

  Hugo had turned away before the last words were fully out of the cook’s mouth. His father’s solar was quite a ways down the corridor, but he was at the heavy wooden portal in a few strides, and, lifting a fist to thump on it, realized that it was his own room now, after all, and laid his hand upon the latch.

  His bed stood in a different place than his father’s had, facing the row of windows on the south side of the solar, the fireplace on the opposite side. The trunks that had arrived before him from Cairo were stacked neatly in a corner. The bearskin rug was stretched across the floor before the hearth, and Gros Louis had already made himself at home there. The dog’s tail thumped once or twice at Hugo’s entrance. In the center of the room, Finnula was changing out of her lavender samite, into something less ornate, but not, he saw with relief, her leather braies.

  “Was that you I heard caterwauling before?” Finnula asked, pulling the lavender gown over her head and awarding Hugo a tantalizing glimpse of her slim ankles and calves as the kirtle she wore beneath the samite hiked up a little. “Must you go about the house bellowing my name like that? ’Tis embarrassing, you know.”

  “I thought—” Hugo broke off, watching as she bent to scoop a plain yellow gown from her own trunk. The emerald he’d given her winked between her breasts on its silken cord. “I thought you had lain my own things upon the pile for the bonfire.”

  “Did you?” Finnula was concentrating mightily hard at working the lacings to the gown. “I said you were a fool to marry me. I didn’t say I was a fool. Why would I throw out your things? ’Twas Lord Geoffrey I could not abide.”

  Hugo crossed the room to stand beside her. “And you had them remove his things to make way for mine?”

  “You said your solar was drafty in the winter. And ’twas too small for your belongings, let alone the addition of mine. I thought it better to move in here.” Finnula raised the gown to drop it over her head, but Hugo reached out, arresting the flimsy garment in one hand before it covered her.

  Finnula looked up questioningly. “My lord? Is there aught the matter with the gown?”

  With a rakish smile, Hugo tossed the garment over his shoulder. “Naught that can be remedied by your not wearing it.”

  Snaking out an arm, Hugo caught his wife about the waist and pulled her against him. Finnula, feeling the heat of his body through the muslin of her kirtle, looked up at him with amusement in her gray eyes.

  “You called for a bath,” she reminded him.

  “There isn’t any reason why I must bathe alone.” He grinned down at her. “Have you any objections, my lady?”

  Finnula actually burst out laughing. “None at all, my lord.”

  Chapter Twenty

  If the entire village of Stephensgate had turned out for Hugo and Finnula’s wedding, then the entire population of Shropshire gathered together for the bonfire the following night. Or so it seemed to Hugo. He was surprised by the number of people who wished to witness the destruction of his father’s property, and a little ashamed that so many should harbor such contempt for the late earl. Hundreds of people, very few of whom he recognized, flooded the south meadow directly after Vespers—everyone from Rosamund’s father, the village mayor, to Fat Maude, the village prostitute, who greeted Hugo with a lascivious wink, despite her advanced years.

  It wasn’t very long before the vassal who tended the field appeared at His Lordship’s elbow to complain that the grass was all being trodden down and what was his flock to eat for the rest of the summer?

  Hugo provided for the shepherd’s losses rather more generously than necessary, because, thanks to the pleasant afternoon he’d spent in Finnula’s company, he was in a mood to be obliging to all. True, his new wife had a few vexing character quirks, such as an infuriating independent streak and a tendency toward obstinacy. But in every other respect she was exactly what Hugo had always looked for in a woman, and never found, till now. And she was entertaining in the bath, as well.

  Since the wedding celebration had not quite depleted Stephensgate Manor’s wine and ale supply, Finnula had instructed Mistress Laver and her nieces to see that all who attended the bonfire received a cup, and spirits, in every sense of the word, were high. In the p
urple twilight, the air that was heavy with the scent of spring flowers was soon fragrant with spilled ale as well.

  “’Tis a boisterous lot you’ve assembled here, my lord,” observed Sheriff de Brissac, his own cup clutched securely in a gloved fist. “’Twould seem the Lady Finnula was correct in thinking this torching of your father’s goods would warm more than hands.”

  Hugo grunted noncommittally, though he had long ago come to realize that Finnula’s plan had merit.

  “I understand there was a second attempt made on your life,” was de Brissac’s next remark.

  “Bloody rot,” Hugo growled. “A burr ’neath my mount’s saddle, ’tis all. Hardly life-threatening.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve seen many a good man lose his life in a fall from a horse.”

  “Well, I didn’t fall.”

  “Nay, but someone wanted you to.” De Brissac’s deep voice lost its teasing tone and became serious. “I fear for you, my lord. Someone wants you dead, and he will not rest until his goal is achieved.”

  “Do not speak of it anymore,” Hugo said, as he observed his wife approaching. “I do not wish to alarm Finnula.”

  The sheriff’s eyes followed the slim figure of the new Lady of Stephensgate. “I fear, my lord, that I have heard her name bandied about as the culprit behind these vile pranks.”

  “Whoever says so can go to the devil,” Hugo declared, with sudden savagery. His hand went to the scabbard at his belt. “And I will be more than obliged to hasten his journey.”

  “That is not the way, my lord,” de Brissac chastised. “’Tis not the gossipers who are to blame, but the man who is trying to kill you—”

  “And I tell you there is no such person. Be silent on the subject, now.”

  Finnula, her long red hair loose about her shoulders, approached them, a coy smile on her lips and a jug of wine in her hands. Hugo had not failed to notice that she was still acting strangely complacent, with glimmers of her former outspokenness breaking through this new, ladylike facade only occasionally. He supposed he had Finnula’s interfering sisters to thank for that, and wondered how long he was going to have to put up with it.

  “Sheriff, I fear your cup runs low,” his wife purred, with a glance in Hugo’s direction to see if he registered how docilely she was behaving. “Allow me to replenish it.”

  His eyebrows raised in surprise, Sheriff de Brissac held out his empty flagon, and Finnula, for all the world as if she wanted nothing more from life than to spend it refilling men’s chalices, poured him a generous serving of wine. “There,” she said with satisfaction, when the cup was full. Turning soft gray eyes upon Hugo, she asked, “And you, my lord? Do you require replenishment? For, if memory does not fail me, I believe you exerted yourself strenuously this afternoon.”

  Hugo grinned. Despite the outward trappings of propriety—the rust-colored bliaut she wore over a kirtle of gold—Finnula was still, underneath it all, the Fair Finn, and no amount of sisterly advice was ever going to cure her of that. It still seemed incredible to Hugo that the huntress he’d first seen garbed in a pair of braies could look so stunningly feminine when she wanted to. Though the form-fitting bodice of the gown left little to the imagination, the skirt was full enough to hide all that the braies had not, a fact that Hugo found immensely satisfying. Now that she was his, Hugo wanted no man save himself to enjoy the sight of Finnula’s slim legs.

  It was for this reason that he planned to eliminate the source of this anxiety.

  “Aye,” he said, his hazel eyes as green as the emerald she wore beneath her kirtle. “A drop of wine would ease my parched throat very well.”

  Finnula’s grin was as wicked as his own as she leaned forward to replenish his cup. When the vessel was full, Hugo slipped an arm round her waist and turned to the great crowd that had gathered round the towering pile of his father’s belongings.

  “Good people of Stephensgate,” he cried, holding his flagon aloft. He did not have to say anything further to gain the attention of his vassals. All eyes turned toward the new earl, and the crowd quieted in order to hear what Lord Hugo had to say.

  “Yesterday,” he said, in his deep voice, “you were all witness to my marriage—” Applause, accompanied by hoots and some interesting catcalls. When they had quieted down again, Hugo continued. “This evening, I have the pleasure of your presence at another moment of historic importance. For tonight ends your vassalage to my father and his bailiff, Reginald Laroche, and begins my assumption of the duties of lord…”

  More applause, which Hugo held up a hand to silence.

  “And for my first official act as Earl of Stephensgate, I declare that all outstanding tithes due to my household be forgotten—”

  Such an outcry arose over this announcement that it was several minutes before Hugo could regain his audience’s attention. Finnula, at his side, looked up at him with such wonderment in her eyes that he bent down and kissed her heartily, and when he lifted his head again, the crowd had quieted enough for him to continue.

  “And I would ask you all to join me now in putting to rest the memory of my father,” Hugo said, in a more somber tone. “It grieves me that Lord Geoffrey was not the sort of man of whom a son could be proud, and I”—here his eyes searched the crowd for Jamie, who, though somewhat cleaner than before, still looked as little like the son of an earl as a pig keeper—“I can only hope that my sons, as well as all of you, will have reason to feel differently toward the new Lord and Lady of Stephensgate…”

  Removing his arm from his wife’s waist, Hugo gestured to Peter, who stood nearby with a flaming torch held high. Peter hurried forward and thrust the torch into his master’s hand. Turning toward Finnula, Hugo bowed, and presented the end of the burning branch to her.

  “My lady,” he said, in a voice only meant for her. “You will do the honors, of course.”

  Finnula’s smile was, of all things, shy, and he did not believe that diffidence was feigned. “I thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. Gingerly taking hold of the torch, she approached the pile of furniture and clothing, which had been soaked with oil earlier in the day for speedier conflagration.

  It took only a single touch of the torch to ignite the great tower. Finnula stared like one enchanted at the first licks of orange flame, and when she didn’t move away from the suddenly roaring inferno, Hugo stepped forward and steered her gently back.

  Finnula wasn’t the only one whom the sight of the flames subdued. The rabble which had so raucously cheered Hugo’s every sentence had gone eerily still as the fire grew, engulfing seemingly innocuous objects, a chair, a stool, with savage intensity. The wood snapped and popped in protest as it burned, but that was the only audible sound in the meadow. Had he not seen it for himself, Hugo would never have suspected that such a large group of people could remain so still.

  It did not take much to break their spell, however. From out of nowhere, Jamie came scurrying up, and hurled, with a grunt, a thick leather belt onto the fire.

  “There!” the lad cried, with evident satisfaction as flames engulfed the strap. “And good riddance!”

  Sheriff de Brissac, grinning at the boy’s vehemence, noticed Hugo’s questioning glance and explained, “That’s the strap your father used to take to ’im when he misbehaved.”

  Horrified, Hugo watched as dozens of other people, inspired by Jamie’s action, moved forward to throw their own personal reminders of the late lord onto the fire. He saw a horsehair shirt begin to smolder, a metal collar attached to a chain growing red from the heat, a block of wood that looked as though it had come from a stockade turn to cinder. Scores of bits of parchment, the markings on which the owners undoubtedly had never been able to read, fluttered from work-roughened hands onto the flames. These, he knew, were the bills of tallage his father and Reginald Laroche had presented to these illiterate peasants. Hugo had never liked his father, had never held him in any sort of esteem, but at the sight of those slips of parchment, he felt, not for the firs
t time, ashamed of the man who had sired him. Fortunately the heat from the fire hid his burning cheeks.

  Then all at once, the stillness was broken. Cheering erupted as someone threw a bundle of straw-stuffed clothing onto the fire. A face had been crudely drawn on the sack that made up the mannequin’s head, and Hugo recognized Reginald Laroche’s curling mustache. Somewhere, Jack Mallory’s rebec sprang to life, and a spritely tune joined with the laughter in the air.

  Turning to his wife, upon whose shoulders he’d laid his arm, Hugo asked, hesitantly, “Do you think…Is it better now, then, do you think?”

  Finnula darted a swift glance at his face before looking away. “Aye. Better, I think.”

  Hugo felt some of his grief lift at her smile. Playfulness swiftly followed, and he asked, teasingly, “Then shall we add another reminder of days gone by to the fire?”

  When her gaze again lifted to meet his, it was with wariness. “What reminder?” she asked suspiciously.

  Wordlessly, Hugo reached into his jerkin and withdrew a tightly folded bundle. Finnula eyed it with growing unease until Hugo shook it out, revealing her leather braies. Then she let out a cry of outrage.

  “You’ll burn them over my dead body,” she declared. “Return those to me at once!”

  Laughing at her indignation, Hugo held the trousers easily out of her reach simply by lifting his arm. “Nay,” he teased. “They, too, symbolize a time that has passed. Your maidenhood is over, and ’tis time you faced the fact—”

  “What am I to ride in?” Finnula demanded, stamping a slippered foot. “What am I to wear while hunting?”

  “You will wear attire suitable for the wife of an earl,” Hugo said firmly.

  Finnula was so angry, she looked ready to claw his eyes out. Her cheeks were flaming near as hot as the fire. This was his Finnula, as he had first known her. Gone was the pretense at gentility. His grin widened to a smile of delight at the realization that the Fair Finn was back.