“Mon Dieu,” Denis whispered, the piece of wood he had used to strike her limp in his hand. “What a wildcat.”
Alexander nodded.
“I know she was not to be harmed, but I had to hit her.”
Alexander could not fault Denis as he crouched down and examined the bump on the side of the woman’s head, but he didn’t want her dead or injured. He wanted her alive, and fit to be ransomed. “I don’t think she’s badly hurt.”
Indeed, he was rather sure she wasn’t. He had seen many a man injured while working or training, and her wound looked superficial. Still, any injury that rendered one unconscious could not be completely dismissed. “We can’t be sure until she wakes up.”
“Merde!”
“You did what was necessary. Go keep watch,” Alexander commanded quietly.
With a nod, Denis obeyed.
As his friend peered out of the alley, Alexander pulled out the rag he had stuck into his belt. He knelt, put it between her full lips to gag her, and tied it. His hand hurt like the devil, but he ignored the pain.
After tying her wrists and ankles, he grabbed the wool sack that had fallen to the ground in their unexpected struggle and began to work it over her body, starting with her head.
She was indeed a lovely woman, with fine features, a shapely figure and the most beautiful blond hair he had ever seen. No wonder his father had waited for her hand even though that had left him prey to her duplicity, and no wonder Sir Connor had killed for her.
He would surely pay a great deal for her return, as well.
She was younger than he had expected, though, and with her eyes closed, she looked very sweet and vulnerable—which was certainly far from the lady’s true nature. She had betrayed his father for another, and together they had robbed Alexander of Bellevoire.
As he pulled the sack down over her, he was sorely tempted to let his hands linger on the body clad in that fine, soft gown. He wanted to caress her rounded breasts. Run his hands over her trim waist. Stroke her slender thighs.
But he would have her awake, looking at him with those light blue eyes so like the summer sky. He wanted to see them filled not with fear and wonder but with passion and yearning.
Rarely had any woman inspired anything like the desire now surging in his blood, and the heat coursing through him proved nearly impossible to ignore.
Usually his encounters with women were swift and brief, by his design. He did not want any intimacy other than the most basic. Yet if he could be with this woman, he would take all night.
He forcefully reminded himself she was merely a thing to be ransomed. He would not fall prey to the lure of her, as his father had done.
After tying the sack, Alexander threw his hood back over his head, then hoisted the lady’s limp body onto his shoulders. He hunched with the weight.
“Can you manage?” Denis asked as Alexander approached.
He shifted his burden to a more comfortable carry. “I worked for a mason in my youth, remember?”
He had toted stones much heavier than Lady Allis of Bellevoire. He had not begrudged the work because he’d wanted to become strong. Now he was very strong, and Lady Allis was no heavier to him than a sack of flour.
He peered into the busy market to make certain no one was watching the alley, then stepped out and started to walk back the way they had come. He skirted the busier areas, taking care not to appear guilty of anything except carrying a sack full of wool. Since nobody was giving them a second glance, he decided he was safe.
They left the village without the lady waking, screaming or struggling. Part of Alexander was relieved; another part was concerned that Denis’s blow had caused her more harm than he had supposed. Despite his growing worry over the lady’s state, Alexander did not pause in his journey back to the hill and the place they had hidden their stolen horses. As long as they did not attract undo notice, he would not slacken his pace.
It wasn’t until they slipped from the road and had to climb back up the hill that Alexander began to get winded. They reached the secluded glade far from any farmer’s fields or pasture at last, however. A gray gelding of some value and a brown mare were tethered with long ropes Alexander had brought for that purpose, and they grazed near a small stream. Willow trees and alders helped hide them, as did tall reeds and long grass.
Denis threw himself onto the ground with all the loose-limbed ease of a man who knows how to fall without hurting himself while, with a grunt, Alexander laid down his burden. Muttering a curse, he put his callused hands on his back and stretched before he pulled out his sword. He began to cut the binding around the wool sack and then around his captive’s ankles.
“What are you doing?” Denis demanded, sitting bolt upright as Alexander began to pull the wool sack off. “Are you not still going to keep her in the sack or bound?”
“I don’t know how well she can breathe,” Alexander replied. “I can’t sling her over the horse’s rump as if she really were a sack of wool. If she woke up, she’d surely start squirming and then fall. I intend to keep her hands tied, but I don’t want her harmed more than she is.”
Denis said no more as Alexander removed the sack and took off the lady’s gag. It didn’t matter if she screamed here; there was no one nearby. He had made certain of that when he’d selected the place for hiding the horses.
The young woman’s face was as still and peaceful as if she were sleeping in her own bed. Her chest rose and fell with her steady breathing. Wisps of hair had escaped from the blond braid making him think she would look just the same after sleeping in a bed. His bed. After they had made love. He imagined her body beneath him, warm and soft and welcoming.
A surge of even more powerful desire jolted him to the tips of his toes.
Forcing away the intense, untimely hunger, he went to the stream and splashed cold water over his face until his wayward desire was once more under control. Denis joined him to take a drink.
When Alexander turned back, he saw a flash of red—the skirt of his captive’s gown disappearing into the trees.
Ignoring the pain in her head and her aching body, Isabelle stumbled through the trees. It was hard to keep her balance with her hands tied, and the shady ground was slick and muddy from the rain two days ago.
Her throat was dry, her breathing hoarse, but desperation drove her onward, especially when she heard her abductors chasing her.
With a cry, she tripped over a log and fell hard on her hands and knees. The rope cut into her wrists, yet she struggled to her feet, her skirts impeding her.
She could hear the heavy pounding of her pursuers’ feet as they closed on her. Sobs choked her as she ran—until somebody caught hold of the back of her gown.
“Oh, no, my lady,” that hateful, familiar voice said. “I do not let my prize slip from my grasp so easily.”
She still tried to run, the strength of panic and determination humming along every nerve and sinew as he pulled her back and back and back.
Then he had her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. He was indeed the image of DeFrouchette, but younger and leaner, as if he had known deprivation, something DeFrouchette never had. His sapphire blue eyes were more intense, more searching. His body was fitter, harder, and his shoulder-length black hair was wild from the chase.
Her captor’s dark brows lowered in a way very reminiscent of the hated Baron DeFrouchette. “It is no use, my lady. I have you, and I intend to keep you. If you try to run again, I will catch you. But if you do as you are told, you have nothing to fear. You are worth far more unharmed. Sir Connor owes me much, and your ransom will be some recompense.”
Ransom. Small comfort, but she clung to it the way a man in danger of falling from a cliff clings to a tree branch.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am the baron’s son, Alexander DeFrouchette.”
Based on his appearance, she could believe it, and yet… “It is well known that cowardly traitor had no sons.”
&nbs
p; To her utter surprise, Alexander DeFrouchette laughed, and a cold, mirthless laugh it was. “I know better than you the kind of man he was. But whatever he was, I am still his bastard son.”
Baron DeFrouchette had been an immoral, lustful man, so this could well be true.
The slender peddler from the market appeared. Winded, he leaned against a chestnut tree for support. “Alexander, this is not the time for talking. We must go.”
The son of Rennick DeFrouchette made a mocking bow, and the corners of his lips curled slightly. “You see, I must have the honor of your company for some time yet, my lady. Will you come with me peaceably?”
For some time yet? Her legs began to tremble, but she willed strength back to them. She was Isabelle, daughter of the earl of Montclair, and she would let no bastard son of a hated enemy see her fear. “I suppose you mean that expression for a smile, but I assure you, I find nothing amusing in your crime. Nor should you, for when you are caught—and you will be!—I will take great pleasure in seeing you hanged.”
With a scowl, he reached out and grabbed the binding between her wrists with his strong right hand. “Come,” he commanded as he turned on his heel and pulled her.
She tried digging in her heels, but it was no use. He simply yanked harder on the rope binding and tugged her onward. Having caught his breath, his friend loped through the trees ahead of them, and by the time they returned to the glade, he had the horses untied.
There were no saddles, only bridles and a rope for a rein.
DeFrouchette stopped beside the gray horse. “Denis, hold her while I mount, then help me get her on the horse.”
The Gascon did as he commanded, and Isabelle gave him a sneer for his troubles. She contemplated kicking him and running again, but if DeFrouchette was mounted, she would not get far.
Once seated on the back of the gelding, DeFrouchette leaned down and grabbed her under her arms, while the Gascon put his hands on her waist to hoist her onto the horse in front of him. She made herself as limp as possible to make it harder for them both, but, afraid they might drop her, she put her leg over the horse’s back and sat. Her gown rode up, bunching up about her waist and thigh, exposing her limbs. She squirmed forward to get as far away from DeFrouchette as she could, while the Gascon eyed her legs with blatant approval.
She kicked him in the nose.
“Merde!” he cried in both anger and disbelief as he covered it with his hand, blood dripping out between his fingers. “She kicked me!”
“Don’t try anything like that again,” DeFrouchette ordered in a voice that made her blood run cold. His left arm clamped about her waist like a band of iron, and he pulled her back against his chest. “I meant what I said about not hurting you, but I might change my mind.”
Chapter 3
As they galloped away from Bellevoire over what was little more than a wide path through the wood, Alexander struggled to control both his annoyance and his lust. Hearing of her loveliness and actually having her shapely body up against his were two very different things.
Every movement of the horse brought her body into contact with his, with only the gathered fabric of her gown between them. The fine fabric made him think of soft days and softer nights, of ease and comfort and riches such as he had never known—but that he might have known had his father not been killed before he had claimed him as his son.
Lord Oswald had described her as slyly clever. He should have said she had the heart of a warrior, the tongue of a fishwife and the pride of a queen. Then he would have been prepared to deal with his prize. Maybe.
As for her denunciation of his father, she had not shocked or upset him. He knew, far better than she ever could, that Rennick DeFrouchette was not a good man.
She moved again, the sensation making him hard. “Be still!” he commanded, at war with both her and his own body.
“If you would not hold me so tight, perhaps I would,” she retorted, panting like a woman in the throes of lovemaking. “I can hardly breathe.”
He commanded himself to make no such comparisons in the future as he struggled to get his burning lust once again under control. He was no brigand to rape and pillage and steal. He wanted only what was justly his, some portion of what had been taken from him by his father’s untimely death. “If I thought you would not try to escape again, I would loosen my hold. Will you give me your word you will not?”
She didn’t answer. He hadn’t really expected her to.
He glanced over his shoulder. Denis was no horseman, but he was keeping up, for the brown mare was very fast. He looked unhappy and afraid of falling, though. Fortunately, they had not much farther to go to rendezvous with the Norsemen.
Alexander saw no one else as they rode, and they encountered no soldiers on patrol. Obviously, Sir Connor had grown lax and was not expecting an attack. Had Alexander known how unprotected the land around Bellevoire was, he would have had Ingar bring his vessel further down the river.
At last they left the wood and rode over a ridge, and there, in the distance, on the other side of a large meadow, the curved prow of a Norse ship gently bobbed on the river behind the willow trees lining the bank. He could see it because he knew to look for it.
At about thirty feet long, it was not a particularly large ship. Normally, such a vessel was used for swift raids. This time, the ship and its crew had but one thing to do: take them and their prize out of England.
Alexander slowed his horse to a walk, which allowed Denis to come abreast of him. He wanted the Norsemen to see them clearly, so that they would be recognized as friends, not foes.
As he did, the lady stiffened and gasped with shocked surprise. Obviously, she had spotted the ship, rocking at its rest like a great beast.
“We could not stay near Bellevoire, of course,” he said, his lips close to her ear, “so we must take you on a bit of a journey.”
She smelled of roses, and it was all he could do not to press his lips to the curve of her jaw. His hips moved with the motion of the horse, bringing him again into contact with her. This time, though, he gave in to the temptation to feel the pleasure of arousal.
Her back as straight as if she had a lance up her gown, she inched away. “I might have guessed you would be allied with Norsemen,” she replied. “You share their morals, after all.”
Since they were nearly at Ingar’s ship, there was no way she could escape, and they were safe from Sir Connor’s troops, supposing he even knew where to look, so Alexander could afford to be amused by her fierce words. She was certainly not what he had expected, and as long as she realized who was master here, he might even find spending time with her … entertaining. “You know very little about me, my lady,” he said, his voice low and intimate.
“I know enough.”
“In the days to come, you may learn more.”
“In the days to come, I shall amuse myself contemplating your slow and painful execution.”
Perhaps “entertaining” was not quite the right word for the sort of conversation he would share with his “guest.”
“Alexander,” Denis said cautiously, “where are all the Norsemen?”
Looking over the lady’s head, he scanned the ship. Ingar, the broad-shouldered, broad-chested blond fellow who commanded the vessel, stood in the bow near the great dragon’s head, watching them approach. A few other Norsemen were also visible, sitting on chests that held their personal goods and any booty they divided, as well as doubling as rowing benches. But Denis was right; there should be more of them. “They’re probably sleeping in the bottom of the vessel, napping in the summer’s sun.”
“I do not see Osburn, either.”
Alexander sniffed. Lord Oswald’s son was probably drunk, lounging with his back against the curved side of the ship. “That’s not surprising. He’s probably napping, too.”
When they were nearly at the riverbank, Alexander pulled his horse to a stop and with some reluctance withdrew his arm from around the lady. He slipped off backward over th
e horse’s rump, then, coming around to the side of the beast, reached up to help her down.
She twisted away. With an expression of utter revulsion, and in spite of her bound hands, she lifted her right leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground unaided.
Then she winced.
“What is it?”
She raised her angry blue eyes, and they seemed to fairly flash fire. Dressed in a muddy gown and with her hair disheveled, she looked like an indignant young goddess as she glared at him. “What does it matter to you?”
He pulled out his dagger, and fear flooded her eyes before she closed them, as if expecting a fatal blow. “I told you, you will not be harmed,” he said as he sliced off the ropes binding her wrists.
“Really?” she replied, tilting her head skeptically as she rubbed her reddened skin. “I believe you will find a sizable lump on the back of my head and my wrists will be bruised for a week.”
“I see there is nothing the matter with your tongue,” he retorted. He glanced down at her ankle, noting that she was keeping her weight off it. “You will not be harmed if you do as I say. However, if you try to escape or refuse my help, I cannot guarantee that you will not,” he said as he turned and smacked the horse’s rump.
It bolted off. Denis dismounted and did likewise, and the mare ran off after the gelding.
The lady raised a brow. “Stolen, were they?”
“Yes. It was necessary,” he replied as he faced her.
“I’m sure it’s very easy for a man like you to justify whatever he does.”
“Just as you have, my lady. I’m sure it is easy for you to excuse the merry dance you led my father.” He glanced at his friend. “Denis, get aboard the ship.”
His friend immediately and obediently made his way through the willow branches and down the slippery bank. He waded toward the vessel, which was about a yard out.
“I do not have to justify anything. Your father was a traitor who died because he was trying to kill the king,” Isabelle declared, her fear growing and her effort to hide it becoming more desperate as she tried to delay boarding.
Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] Page 3