Knight's Captive

by Holt, Samantha

  But Henry had been right. She’d been foolish to try to escape with her father. And an even bigger fool to leave Henry to deal with those men. She wasn’t sure what she could have done, but the dried blood on Henry’s face sent a pang of guilt through her every time she saw it. That was not how her father had raised her. Captor or not, her decision had been the wrong one.

  Antonia stood to one side while he heaved out the heavy wood chest. She couldn’t help but admire the way his muscles pulled against the linen of his shirt. It was a strange idea for she couldn’t recall the last time she had admired a man. Lorenzo mayhap, before they had married. Before he had revealed his true nature.

  But what was this man’s true nature? Was it the same for him? Was a dangerous temper simply lurking beneath the oddly chivalrous and sometimes heroic actions?

  No, her mind whispered. Her heart near reached out to him and begged her to trust him. Yet how could she? Why would a woman trust the man who held her fate in his palm?

  Henry pushed the chest outside into the hallway and swiped his palms down his breeches. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, gracias.”

  “Will you sleep?”

  She peered back at the well-lit room but knew it was unlikely. Not while her father was sick and she remained in a room unfamiliar to her. Not while he was only a few paces away.

  “I shall be well enough.”

  He gave a dissatisfied grunt. “I have no wish for you to sicken. You must rest.”

  It was no good. Curiosity ate into her until it almost hurt. She longed to know more of this man. Stories spoke of sirens luring men to their fates, but she could not help wonder if there was not a male version. If there was, he would surely be such a man. Antonia had learned to guard her heart and her feelings the hard way and yet those lessons seemed to be for nothing.

  “Why should you care what happens to me?”

  Henry eyed her for a moment and the silence stifled. She found herself edging toward her bedchamber simply because the air in the hallway had become too thick.

  “Because ‘tis my duty to do so.”

  Well, there it was. He had no interest in her other than as a political prisoner. She knew that, so why did she wish for more?

  “A-and why have you not locked me away after I tried to run away?”

  He sighed and rubbed his forehead as though contemplating that himself. “Get some rest,” he said quietly.

  “What will happen to us?”

  His attention snapped to her. “Us?”

  “My father and I?”

  “You shall be returned to Spain before long.”

  Antonia closed her eyes briefly to him. His features still lingered behind her closed eyes. That brow etched with something—pain or anguish. Those blue eyes that searched her face. That thick dark hair and unyielding body. Her father had intended a new life for them but they’d never expected the English might to be so strong. She had certainly never anticipated meeting a man like this.

  She drew open her eyes and her heart slammed against her chest when she found him still there. Watching, waiting. But for what? She backed into her room.

  “Well, I—”

  He stalked forward and touched her. His finger grazed her chin again. She stiffened but not from horror or fear. No, that same tingle she had felt before simmered through her body and centred low down.

  “Do not do anything rash,” he warned her. “Do not take my compassion for leniency.”

  She nodded against that finger and willed it to remain. If she could have done, she would have begged him to stay but her voice was trapped in her throat. Instead she pleaded with her eyes. Touch me more. Stay with me and do not leave me alone in the dark.

  Even as her mind told her not to even consider such thoughts, her body wavered forward. His words were dark and dangerous. His body spoke of strength and the ease with which he could bend her to his will. Yet his blue eyes called to her—soft and compassionate.

  That finger—that one long thick finger—moved. Just a fraction so that it grazed the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted of their own accord and she let her eyelids flutter closed so she could concentrate on that rough fingertip on her sensitive skin. Again, it moved, tracing the contours of her mouth.

  Her tongue darted out to taste it. Had her eyes been open, and had she been able to see the surprise on his face rather than only hear the sharp intake of breath, she might have stopped. She might have stepped away and closed the door to him. But behind the welcoming solitude of her closed lids, she could do anything. Lorenzo was long dead, she was not the battered wife of a Spanish nobleman or the daughter of a captured commander. She was simply a woman and Henry a man.

  Antonia tasted the salt of his skin on her tongue and repeated it. How would it be to taste more of him? To feel his warm skin beneath her as she ran her tongue over his solid chest and up to kiss him? She had never experienced true pleasure with a man, yet some deep carnal knowledge told her she would with Henry. After all, had he not cared for her welfare so far? Mayhap he would be the same in bed.

  Or mayhap he would turn into a beast as her late-husband had done. The cold wash that came over her forced her eyes open. But instead of seeing the icy hatred that had always lingered in her husband’s eyes, there was warmth and desire. True desire for her. Not driven by a need to possess or punish but simply a reflection of everything she was feeling.

  He pushed an errant strand of her hair behind her ear and her pulse throbbed so heavily that it deafened her to everything except the intakes of his breath and the squeak of leather as he neared. He closed the gap until they were almost chest to chest. Though he towered over her, she no longer felt intimidated.

  No, she felt hot and itchy and desperate. Desperate with the need to touch and taste. The sensations were so alien she hardly knew what to do with them so she waited.

  The finger near her ear skimmed down to touch her neck. It lingered on where she knew her pulse fluttered.

  “Do I scare you?” he asked quietly.

  “No.”

  He should do. These unknown feelings, this unknown man. Her survival instincts had flown and though she knew she ought to be wary, terrified even, she couldn’t bring herself to be.

  He lowered his mouth to hers. It took an eternity. She kept her hands curled tightly into fists, not trusting herself to let him kiss her. But she must. She had to. Just to know.

  Just to know what a kiss from a man like this would be like.

  Soft, tender. His lips grazed hers almost reverently. Antonia couldn’t recall ever being kissed like this. Desperation welled inside and she fought the need to pull him close. However, at the same time she was able to relish the skim of his lips over hers. He did it again—the same careful sweep. If desperation seared him to the core, he made no show of it. The strong, powerful man demonstrated such care and consideration that the desire to weep almost overcame her.

  When he drew back, her eyes were damp. He touched a thumb to the corner of her eye and scowled. “Forgive me.”

  She shook her head numbly. What to say? He needed no forgiveness, she had invited his kiss, after all. Instead, she wanted to thank him or draw him close and repeat it. He was the only man to have ever shown her such respect and care.

  “Will you...will you kiss me again?”

  He shook his head, making her heart drop almost into her toes.

  “Nay, I should not have done. You are my prisoner and my charge. I took unfair advantage.”

  Antonia clutched her arms about herself. It was not a dismissal. He had not said he hadn’t wanted to kiss her. Her body couldn’t decide if she should be thrilled or disappointed.

  “Will you sleep now?”

  “I’ll try,” she replied quietly.

  He hissed a curse—one so hard and quick that she missed what it was but she recognised the sound of it. Swiping a hand through his hair and loosening the leather that held it back, he shut the door behind him and motioned to the be
d.

  “Go to sleep.”

  She eyed the bed and swung her gaze back to him. “I’m not certain—”

  “Is it the sinking? It scared you?”

  It should have done. Nearly dying in the ocean should have been what terrified her most. But no, a dark, small room with a cramped bed and a box in it was far worse than any reality she had faced. What could she say though? Her husband beat her, he hated her, he locked her away whenever she did something wrong like not greet him correctly or wear the wrong colour gown? Only her father knew what Lorenzo did, and that was how it should stay. Even her father forbade her to speak of it.

  “Si,” she said softly.

  “Hell fire.”

  The words came hard from between his teeth. They made her jolt. For a moment, she had been back in her old life—a chattel to her husband and his whims while he hissed his anger at her.

  Henry’s gaze skimmed her and his soft eyes brought her back to the world she was in now. A prisoner, si, but not the sort of prisoner she was before. She almost smiled at how being the captive of an Englishman was preferable to being Lorenzo’s wife.

  Wrapping a careful hand around her arm, he pulled open the door and led her to his room. She found herself going willingly instead of wanting to battle him.

  “Sleep here,” he commanded, a slight bite to the words. Then he said more softly, “I never would have let you come to harm, Antonia. Not on that ship and not now. Enemy or not, your welfare is my duty.”

  Duty. She almost wished it was not and then she could be led to believe that his care of her was motivated by something else. Admiration for her perhaps? Mayhap even desire. But that kiss...was that not desire? She couldn’t be sure for she had never experienced anything so sweet and sacred before. Men were led by their needs, she knew that much, so what need drove him to merely lay his lips gently upon hers and not take more?

  He went to retreat but she put a hand to his wrist. It had been instinctual, so the contact startled even her. His gaze—now a little haunted—searched hers.

  “Gracias, Henry.”

  Henry gave a gentle nod of his head and left her. She waited until he’d shut the door before turning around and eyeing the bed that had offered her comfort last night. Had it only been last night? It seemed so long ago now. The terror that had been imbued in her had ebbed to a sort of gentle ache. And knowing this was his room, smelling the scent of him in the air dulled it further.

  She removed her gown, shaking loose the flecks of sand before draping it over the back of a chair. A bowl of water waited on the washstand, so she dipped her hands in and scrubbed her face and neck. Antonia finished her ablutions and checked all the candles. None would burn out any time soon and all were safely away from fabrics. She yawned. In this room—his room—she could almost feel safe.

  Climbing into his bed, she settled against the feather pillow and let his scent cocoon her. For the first time in a long time, her mind wasn’t a whirl of fears and nightmares. It didn’t take sleep long to claim her.

  Chapter Eight

  Every muscle in his body ached when he awoke the next morning. The small bed in the guest chamber wasn’t suited to someone his size. The aches and pains addled his wits, he concluded. That was why he had paused outside of Antonia’s room.

  With the door slightly ajar, he could see her walking around the room in her shift. He’d paused in the doorway to his chamber when she’d called to one of the maids then stepped out to find her slipping back into her bedchamber but leaving a gap for him to peer through. Those aches wracking his big frame must have worked their way up to his brain because he found himself pausing.

  And watching.

  The previous day he simply had fatigue to blame. That was why he’d been unable to resist skimming his lips over hers. Instinct had taken over. His instinct had been wrong. He should never have kissed the woman under his protection. If he let her burrow any farther under his skin, she’d have him releasing her into the wild and God knows what would happen to either of them. He had to fulfil his duties and get back in the Queen’s favour. He had to erase any notion of dishonour from his family.

  Damn, if he could only forget the feel of her sweet lips beneath his. He’d do it all again if he could.

  Instead he was standing outside her door, watching the sway of her hips beneath cotton that was too thin. He swallowed hard. Antonia padded over to the washbowl and swiped a cloth over her arms and neck. Her hair was loose and wavy. She must have just unbound it. Henry longed to thrust his hands into it.

  She raised her shift to reveal one leg, propping it on the end of the bed. He knew she had long legs. He knew they were slender. His imagination hadn’t done them justice.

  Hell fire.

  Long. Endlessly long. The kind of legs a man imagined wrapped around him. Antonia scrubbed her leg to the top of the inside of her thighs and his mouth became drier than Torquay sand. Then she switched legs, giving him a fine view as she rubbed the cloth all the way to the top of her leg. Her fingers were so close to the apex of her thighs. All she need do was lift her chemise just a—

  Someone coughed at the top of the stairs, and he jumped back to see Kate with a fresh bundle of garments. He braced himself for her to say something and reveal his dishonourable behaviour but instead she gave him a knowing look and breezed past him into the bedchamber before firmly shutting the door.

  Henry shook his head and pushed his fingers through his beard. Damnation.

  When he entered the hall, he paused and held back a groan. The priest, Reverend Reed, awaited him. The young man, two years his junior, dabbed his sleeve to his forehead and dipped his head. Henry concluded the man must have rushed up the hill to ensure he met with him first thing.

  “Mr Reed, ‘tis a pleasure.”

  “Good morrow, sir.”

  “Will you take a drink with me? Is the day very warm?”

  “Not yet, but it promises to be.”

  Henry cast his gaze over the balding man. Reverend Reed had been raised in Torbay and they knew each other well—though there was no love lost between them—but had only been in the Parish for a year and was determined to be seen as a true shepherd to his flock. Yet he lacked any leadership skills or the charisma that many successful clergymen had.

  “A drink then?” he prompted, leading him into the dining room. Reed gratefully drank down an ale and Henry turned his attention away from the man and his noisy way of drinking to eye the table set for the morning meal. Would Antonia be joining him soon? Was she still washing? Had she stripped down so Kate could help her wash her back?

  God’s blood, if he was there, he would scrub every inch of her, all the way down to the curve of her bottom and then he’d turn her around and—

  “You have a Spanish woman here, I believe?”

  He jerked his attention back to the priest. What was he doing? Could his thoughts get any more depraved? And while speaking with a man of the cloth... He gave himself a mental shake.

  “Aye, she’s the daughter of the commander of the ship we captured.”

  Reed began to pace the room and he dabbed his upper lip with his sleeve. “There are some...murmurs of discontent from the villagers. These prisoners are using our food stores.” The priest met his gaze before dropping his head to make a show of studying one of the books left lying on the table. “Having a Catholic woman under your charge may not be wise, Sir Henry.”

  “How so? Am I meant to lock her up with three hundred men who have not laid hands on female flesh for months while her father is abed with a broken leg?”

  Colour burst free on the priest’s cheeks. “I understand that you are in a difficult predicament...”

  “There is no difficulty in my predicament,” he barked. “I am charged with ensuring these prisoners are looked after and returned safely. Would you not hope the same for our Englishmen should the roles be reversed? Am I to abandon this woman to their desires and stand idly by while they ravish her and worse? Pray tell, how am I mean
t to control three hundred men when I thrust a woman amongst them?”

  If he paused, he might reconsider his words. He might try to reconcile with the priest. But what the man was suggesting made his skin burn. Reed clearly had little compassion for Antonia and that riled him most of all.

  “Of course not. But she is Catholic, Sir Henry, and your uncle...”

  “Was a heretic, aye. But my father proved his worth and the shadows of his deeds have long been banished. Showing compassion to another—Catholic or not—should not cast me as a heretic and if I hear speak of such, I shall assume the source of these scandalous words are very close to me indeed.”

  He stepped closer and gave the priest a grave look. He wouldn’t be surprised if Reed had ignored any talk from the villagers and jumped to his own conclusions. But this man could lead opinion if he tried hard enough. Charismatic or not, the villagers still looked to him for guidance. If Henry was to be betrayed, he thought it would likely come from this small, balding, uncharismatic man.

  “I assure you,” he stammered, “I would counsel anyone who would utter such falsities against—”

  “I should hope so, Reverend. These are trying times and the smallest rumour can ruin a man.” He stepped back, aware the priest was darting his gaze from side to side as though searching for escape. “That woman remains in my home, under my protection until her safe return has been arranged. In the meantime, I suggest you calm the villagers and assure them that they will be rewarded for their generosity in looking after the prisoners.”

  Reed nodded frantically. “Of course, of course. I see that you are busy so I shall leave you to your day. Good day, Sir Henry. Good day.”

  The man scurried away, leaving Henry glaring at his back. His glare softened when Antonia slipped past the man, offering a quick dip before lifting her brows in question to Henry.