Ransom My Heart

by Meg Cabot

  Finnula stepped forward and drew the garment from his fingers, inspecting it closely. “Gros Louis could track him farther,” she said flatly.

  “Indeed he could. But you know the dog will track for none but you, Finnula.”

  Finnula bit her lower lip, not daring to look up at the sheriff. “And you would not…you would not allow me…”

  “Do not even think it.” Abruptly, the sheriff took the small tunic from her hands, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “What you ask is impossible. Until I have a confession from Reginald Laroche and the squire, I cannot allow you to so much as set foot outside that door.” Seeing Finnula’s crestfallen expression, John de Brissac heaved a sigh. “Do not look at me like that, Finnula. You know Miles Hillyard wants nothing more than to see you hang.”

  Finnula made a face. “I do not ken why he hates me so. He ate the venison I brought him all winter readily enough.”

  “Mayor Hillyard hates only to look foolish, and the fact that no one was arrested for the murder of Lord Geoffrey made him look foolish indeed. He intends to see that this time around, someone pays for the crime. Whether ’tis you or another, it matters not, but it must be someone. ’Tis not a personal grudge against you, Finnula, though ’twould seem convenient for him that his daughter is no longer to wed so lowly a man as your brother, Robert.”

  “Aye,” Finnula agreed quietly. Running her hand thoughtfully along the stone mantel, she sighed. Hearing the soft sound, Sheriff de Brissac looked up from his inspection of his own fingernails and cleared his throat.

  “What is it, Finn?” he asked, not without some trepidation. Finnula wore an expression he did not recognize, and he thought he had seen her every mood.

  “Reginald Laroche wants only one thing,” Finnula said matter-of-factly. “And that is to see Lord Hugo dead and himself placed as the Earl of Stephensgate.”

  “Aye, that’s so,” John admitted with shrug. “What of it?”

  “So in order for him to get what he wants,” Finnula said, “Lord Hugo has to die. When he does, Monsieur Laroche will reveal himself.”

  “Aye. But Lord Hugo isn’t dead, Finnula, and if my men and I have our way, no one will be able to get near enough to him to do him any harm.”

  “But supposing,” Finnula said, “that Lord Hugo was not to recover from his wound. Supposing—just supposing—Lord Hugo were to die tonight…”

  Sheriff de Brissac stared down at the girl in horror. “Know you what you say? Are you suggesting—”

  “—that we announce publicly that Lord Hugo has died, and that I am to hang for his murder,” Finnula finished for him, shortly.

  “But—”

  “That news will bring Laroche out of hiding far sooner than any effort on our part to find him.”

  “But ’twould be a lie!”

  Finnula looked impatient. “Of course ’twould be a lie! Think you I meant we should kill my husband in truth? Are you a lack-wit?”

  Taken aback at being called a lack-wit, the sheriff could only stammer wordlessly as Finnula paced the room, outlining her plan.

  “’Twould be a simple thing to convince the world that Hugo has died. Keep him out of sight and do not let even Mistress Laver know he yet lives. Orders for a coffin can be sent, and plans laid for a fine funeral. Word spreads that Lord Hugo has died of his wound, and that I am to hang. The Laroches return, with Peter. You promptly interrogate them, and, when the truth comes out, because the boy Peter will crack like an egg, I assure you, arrest them for kidnapping and attempted murder. How difficult is that to understand?” She shot him a disdainful look, remembering all the times he’d threatened to arrest her for significantly less than murder.

  Sheriff de Brissac shook his head. “But will your husband go along with it? He was a soldier, remember, long before he was ever an earl. For a man of his nature to play dead…’twill not sit well with him…”

  “Would he rather his son die?” Finnula’s asperity was ill-disguised. “I think not. Explain it to him as I have explained it to you, and he will agree to the scheme readily enough.”

  Sheriff de Brissac lifted a hand to his beard and stroked it, obviously deep in thought. To Finnula the pause was dreadful. She knew her plan had merit; indeed, it was the only way she could perceive of ever catching a man of Reginald Laroche’s cleverness. She liked John de Brissac, liked him very much indeed, in spite of the fact that he had arrested her and subjected her to his horrible mother.

  But she was not certain he’d agree to her plan. If he did not, Reginald Laroche would forever remain a free man, and would forever represent a threat to her and Hugo and, God willing, any children they might have.

  Suddenly, John de Brissac lifted his head and, piercing her with his stare, nodded. “Aye,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Aye?”

  “Aye. We’ll do it. I’ll speak to Lord Hugo first thing in the morning.”

  Finnula stamped a slippered foot. “’Twill be too late! You must speak to him tonight!”

  The sheriff looked surprised. “Tonight? Whatever for?”

  “The longer we dally, the greater the chances that Jamie will perish. ’Tis possible they are holding him alive, John!”

  “Nay, Finnula,” the sheriff said, his regret palpable in his voice. “I think it hardly likely…”

  “But ’tis possible, is it not?”

  “’Tis possible, I suppose, but—”

  “Then he must die tonight! Tell him. Tell Hugo that tonight he must pretend to die, and news of his demise must be spread first thing in the morning—”

  Startled by the girl’s vehemence, John held up both hands, palms outward, and said, “Very well. Very well, my lady. ’Twill be as you command. I will go at once. Only hand me my boots, if you will be so good—”

  Finnula was glad to do so, since it was as the sheriff was bending down, tugging on his boots, that she slipped a hand with lightning quickness into his pocket and drew forth Jamie’s ragged tunic, which she swiftly shoved within her wide sleeve. When John de Brissac straightened, he bellowed to his mother that he was going out, and stomped toward the cottage door, pausing only to take one last, long look at the Lady of Stephensgate.

  “Think you this will succeed?” was all he asked, with a look that was so eager Finnula would have kissed him—had she not been married to another, of course, and his face not covered with bristles.

  “I think so,” she said, feeling a momentary pang of guilt.

  “Good.” The sheriff turned and strode away, into the purpling twilight. And Finnula, leaning against the doorjamb, sniffed the air, pleased to note there were no clouds in the sky nor any hint of rain. It would be a fine night, she thought, for hunting.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Finnula waited only until darkness fell, encompassing the land in long blue shadow and lending her the cover she needed to escape. She did not think it necessary to delay her journey until the sheriff and his mother retired for the night. Doing so would mean hours wasted, valuable time better spent searching for Jamie. Once she made the decision to go, Finnula could not wait.

  Since she had no braies, she wore the darkest bliaut she owned, of midnight blue with muted silver trim, and a kirtle of dove gray that, though light in color, was mostly hidden by the gown. Forsaking a wimple for her trusted braid, she was ready to leave at once, and opened her window shutters to climb out upon the thatched roof of the smokehouse.

  Gros Louis saw her at once, banished as he’d been to the yard, Madame de Brissac not being able to stand the sight of him after last year’s butter debacle. A well-trained dog, he did not bark, but stood happily wagging his tail until Finnula was safely upon the ground. Then he rose onto his hind legs, placing his forepaws on her shoulders, and licked her face until she moved away.

  She had no knife, no bow, and no quiver; no supplies, in the event that they were forced to spend the night out of doors, and no coin to purchase any. All she had was the heavy emerald, hidden in the valley betwee
n her breasts, and that she wouldn’t have parted with for all the money in the world. Still, the only trepidation she felt was for the sheriff’s sake, since he would surely be chastised when it became known publicly that she had escaped.

  But if she was able to find Jamie before morning, as she hoped to, perhaps her absence need never be known beyond the walls of the de Brissac cottage. For she would return to her prison as soon as she’d satisfied herself on Jamie’s account, and there await her punishment. ’Twas the honorable thing to do.

  Creeping from the yard, Finnula trod as silently as a wraith in her velvet slippers. Gros Louis was nearly beside himself with delight at the prospect of this unexpected hunting trip, and he conducted himself as well as a dog aquiver with excitement could be expected to. They avoided the road, of course, and stuck to well-traversed trails through the woods, heading in the direction of Stephensgate Manor. There was no moon yet to guide them, but Finnula knew the land as well as she knew the lines on her own palms, and they made rapid progress despite the uneven terrain, the stinging brambles and occasional stream.

  By the time they reached the demesnes of the manor house, the moon had risen, and, though still tangled in the lower branches of the trees upon the horizon, its silver light was already both a boon and a disadvantage: Though Finnula could see better by its light, she herself could also more easily be seen, and that, above all, was something she wanted to avoid.

  But though her intention had been to skirt the edges of the property on which the manor house was situated, she was completely unprepared for the hypnotic pull Hugo’s presence had upon her. A single glance showed her that a light burned in the window of the earl’s solar, and she found herself drawn toward it. She felt a lovelorn fool. She had to shake herself, and drag her eyes from the window, in order to proceed according to plan.

  She turned her back upon the manor house and trudged to the very spot where, Sheriff de Brissac had explained, Jamie’s scent had been lost by his own hounds. Drawing the boy’s soiled tunic from her sleeve, Finnula presented it to Gros Louis, who sniffed at it curiously.

  Words were not necessary between huntress and hound. The mastiff had accompanied Finnula on too many midnight hunting trips not to know what she wanted him to do. Lowering his snout to the ground, the dog sniffed the fresh spring grass, nosing through dead leaves and sheep dung. Then, his heavy ears lifting, but his nose still upon the ground, he began to move, jogging swiftly into the cloying darkness of the woods.

  And Finnula, lifting the hem of her gown, followed.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Like bloody hell I will!”

  Hugo was sitting up. He felt stronger now, had been feeling better with every passing hour, ever since he’d sent that damned old man and his foul-smelling poultices away. Hugo didn’t know what was in them and he didn’t care, either. All he knew was that they were sapping his strength as sure as leeches sapped the blood. He was convinced that the only thing that had kept him from dying was his very strong resolve to kill Reginald Laroche before doing so.

  “My lord,” Sheriff de Brissac said, with forced patience. “’Tis the only way—”

  “Find another, then.” Hugo felt like hurling something, and the only thing handy was a pitcher of water at his bedside. And so he heaved that, angrily, at the far wall, where the clay jug shattered satisfyingly. Water made a dark arc across the flagstones. “I will not play dead,” Hugo bellowed. “If you can’t find my son, then I will damned well look for him myself. Mistress Laver! Mistress Laver, fetch me my sword!”

  Sheriff de Brissac sighed. He hadn’t expected Lord Hugo to agree to Finnula’s plan. The fatal flaw in it was that it depended upon a man of action to forcibly remain inactive for a significant period of time. Hugo would never agree to it. John felt a fool even suggesting it.

  And then, with a feeling of dread, the sheriff wondered why Finnula, who surely knew her husband better than he did, would ever have considered such a course of action as viable. Surely it would have occurred to her that Hugo would say no. She must have known that her husband was not a man to allow others to take action while he waited.

  When the pounding on the solar door came, Sheriff de Brissac was the only person not surprised by it. He turned slowly, his fingers stroking his beard, already trying to determine a course of action under these new developments.

  “Sheriff!” One of de Brissac’s deputies, a good man, though young, burst into the solar, panting as if from having ridden a good distance. “Sheriff! ’Tis the Lady Finnula, sir. Your good mother…your good mother reports that the Lady Finnula has flown!”

  Lord Hugo was no longer sitting up in the bed. He was standing beside it, his hazel eyes glowing green, greener than the stone the sheriff had glimpsed around Finnula’s neck.

  “What?” Hugo breathed, but in the solar, his whisper was as loud as any shout. “What?”

  John de Brissac brought his hand down from his beard and shoved it into the pocket of his leather jerkin. The boy’s tunic was gone, as he knew it would be before he even felt for it. The little hussy. The scheming little hussy.

  “What do you mean, the Lady Finnula has flown?” Hugo demanded, no longer whispering. “What does he mean, John? Where is my wife? Where is my wife?”

  John de Brissac pointed to the window. “Out there, my lord,” he said, gesturing to the dark landscape that surrounded the manor house. “Out there.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  She found him well before dawn.

  He had not gone far. She and Gros Louis walked for only a few hours. Not that the way had been easy. There was no path, only thick brambles that tore at her long skirts and hands, through which Gros Louis, with his short fur, slipped as easily as a fish through water. He lost the scent a few times, but by then Finnula had found what none of the sheriff’s men had managed to see: that the way was marked by broken twigs and crushed under-growth. People had been here before her, several of them, and they had made little effort to hide their tracks. This deep into the woods, there was naught but brambles and wolves, each assiduously avoided by hunters and berry gatherers alike. Reginald Laroche had evidently known this, and used that knowledge to his advantage.

  The moon had not even set by the time the dog sat back on his haunches and softly whined. Placing a hand on the beast’s wide head, Finnula knelt beside him, peering through the darkness at that which Gros Louis had led her to.

  She was not surprised that the sheriff’s men had missed them. The cave was not a well-known one. She remembered it from her childhood as a place in which they’d been warned not to play. A child had been lost forever inside it, it was rumored. The fact that wolves lived inside it during the harsh winter months was no rumor. That was why it was called Wolf Cave.

  But ’twas not wolves that occupied the cave this eve—or at least, not of the four-legged variety. The rock formation had been transformed by human hands into a spot nearly as homey as Stephensgate Manor. A bright fire danced on the rock lip just outside the cave’s entrance, casting a golden light throughout the small clearing. In that light, Finnula recognized Reginald Laroche’s horse, along with the squire Peter’s, grazing peacefully to one side of the clearing. Across the cave’s mouth had been hung a velvet curtain, to keep out the wind that fluttered the newly washed clothing hanging on a line stretched taut between two nearby trees. Finnula recognized one of Isabella Laroche’s low-cut bliauts, and realized that it must be she who slept behind the velvet curtain, along with her father. Peter the squire had apparently been assigned first watch, but he was doing very little watching, dozing quite comfortably instead on a carpet by the fire. Beside him, Finnula saw with relief, slumbered Jamie. A Jamie who seemed very much alive. They would not trouble themselves to bind the wrists and ankles of a dead boy.

  Now that she had found them, Finnula was quite certain as to how to proceed. She would, of course, turn back, and alert the sheriff. That was undoubtedly the best plan, as she had no knife or quiver. It would have bee
n tempting to waylay the squire and loose Jamie…which she was certain she could have done without waking either of the Laroches.

  But not weaponless.

  Exhilarated as she was from her long walk—exhilarated and reluctant to give up her newfound freedom so soon—she had to go back. It was hard to believe she had not been on her own in the out-of-doors since she’d captured Hugo. She had certainly not gambled on losing her freedom in curtailing his. Mellana cried that she was responsible for Finnula’s predicament, but Finnula blamed only herself. She had badly misjudged Hugo’s character that day in the tavern. He was not a man she could control.

  Perhaps that was why she had fallen so desperately in love with him.

  It was Gros Louis, however, who changed things suddenly. The dog, as exhilarated from his long trek as his mistress was, happened to see a rabbit a few feet away, and reacted with pure instinct. With a low growl, the dog launched himself, an act that startled one of the horses, causing it to lift its head with a sharp whinny. The noise roused the squire, and Finnula ducked, suddenly finding herself in very grave danger of discovery.

  “What—” Peter was on his feet, no doubt feeling guilty at having fallen asleep on watch. Peering out into the darkness, he saw Gros Louis’s great silver head thrashing back and forth as the dog broke the rabbit’s neck. With a swift intake of breath audible even to Finnula, Peter cried, “Christ’s toes!”

  To her dismay, Laroche staggered out from behind the velvet curtain, swiftly adjusting his tunic, which apparently had hiked up in the night, while balancing a drawn sword in his other hand. “What is it?” he cried. “The sheriff?”

  “Nay.” Peter pointed a trembling finger. “’Tis a wolf, sir, the biggest one I’ve ever seen!”

  “Damn,” the bailiff swore, his eyes wide as they took in Gros Louis’s bloodied muzzle. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Fetch something to throw at it.”