“I have no desire to plunder and pillage.”
Ingar threw back his head and laughed. “Of course you do. All men do, if they can. Most cannot, though.” He ran a canny eye over Alexander. “You would be a wealthy man if you join me.”
“I have been promised a knighthood and money after we collect the ransom.”
The sly, knowing look lingered in Ingar’s eyes. “You abduct a woman for ransom and yet you are too good to sail with me?”
Alexander’s jaw clenched. “This is different,” he muttered, telling himself it was so.
“He never said he was too good to sail with you,” Denis protested.
Ingar, however, was clearly not offended, for he smiled as he regarded the Gascon. “There is no need to defend him. It is his loss if he will not join me.” He put his hands on his lower back and stretched like a cat after a long nap. “This wind will speed our progress. Now I will sleep until midday, when we should be near Oswald’s fortress. There are some treacherous rocks that guard the bay, and while Lars is good with the steering board, I am better.”
With that, he went back toward the stern, said something to the man holding the tiller, wrapped his cloak around himself and lay down.
“A strange fellow, that Norseman,” Denis remarked as they settled back down beneath the sail.
Alexander silently agreed. Then once again his gaze strayed to the lady in the bow.
No, he was not like Ingar, or he would have done more than kiss her last night. He would have taken her there in the trees, sating the desire she roused with no thought beyond that. He would have teased and caressed and stroked with all the skill he possessed until she whimpered with need, anxious and desperate for him.
He would have been long in the loving, savoring every moment she was in his arms, lingering over every part of her. He would have made her moan with yearning and cry out for him to love her. When he finally entered her, he would have listened to her every word and sigh and breath, seeking to pleasure her to the utmost so that his would be all the finer. Only when he was sure she could wait no longer would he release the full power of his desire. Only then would he have given free rein to the ardor she inspired and thrust hard and deep, until he reached the pinnacle of excited bliss and release.
After, he would kiss her lightly, sweetly, like a lover should. He would whisper tender endearments, yet all the while he would touch and brush and fondle, until she was ready for him once more. Then he would love her again, fast or slow as the mood took him.
If he were like Ingar and thought only of himself.
Chapter 6
Later that day, after Ingar had successfully guided his ship around several tall, jagged rocks, Isabelle wrapped the blanket more tightly about her body as she stared at the bluffs surrounding a small bay. Perched on an outcropping, dark against a slate gray sky, were the remains of towers and crumbling walls. It was obvious that there was no village nearby, or there would be vessels in the bay.
Two roofless towers stood at the corners of the outer wall. She could make out two more beyond that, probably at the other corners, indicating that this castle had not been a large one. There was likely only the one outer wall, and perhaps a dry moat on the landward side. All the buildings would be inside that single barricade. Unfortunately, a small courtyard would be easy to watch from the surrounding wall walks.
She did not have to be told this was where they intended to imprison her. A more lonely, desolate and isolated place she could scarcely imagine. Gulls wheeled above the bluffs and the ruins, their mournful cries adding to her feeling that she would never be able to escape this place.
She might as well be a million miles away from home. She could not swim back, and a journey overland, even supposing she could escape and had any idea of the route back to Bellevoire, would surely take days.
How could Connor and his men ever find her here, even if they surmised she had been abducted? They would have no idea what had happened to her, and the thought of her sister’s fear and misery added to her own.
And what if Allis was so upset and worried that she lost the baby?
Someone came up behind her. Steeling herself, she did not turn to see who it was, because she did not want to have anything to do with anyone on this ship, not even the Gascon.
DeFrouchette came around to face her, his warrior’s body blocking out the sight of the ruins. He had something made of cloth in his hands, which he held out to her. “Put this on. You need to be wearing more than that shift and a blanket.”
Once again controlling her fear, she curled her lip and regarded him with scorn. “How kind of you to think of my modesty.”
“It is not your modesty that concerns me. It is your safety.”
“If you were truly so concerned with my safety, you should have left me safely at home.”
He took a step closer and glare met glare, his bright blue gleaming like sapphires in torchlight. “Don’t argue with me about this, my lady. The men who guard this place are not known for their restraint.”
She refused to be cowed. “Unlike you?”
“I am as gentle as a sparrow compared to them.”
“You are a lustful lout who could never have been a chivalrous knight.”
“Even a knight has desires, my lady, as you should know. Did not desire for you compel your husband to forget his vow of chivalry? He wooed and loved another man’s betrothed.”
“I may have agreed to wed your father,” she replied, answering as she was sure Allis would, “but he didn’t care for me, except that I was to be the means for him to gain control of my family’s estate and sate his base desires. So I chose another.”
DeFrouchette’s face reddened. “I think you are wrong, my lady. He did care for you. He didn’t care for my mother or me, but you … why else did my father wait for your hand in marriage all those years?”
“It would have been better for me and my family if he had not,” she retorted, flushing, “and whatever was between your father and me, that did not give you leave to kiss me.”
DeFrouchette’s face resumed its normal stoic calm, and he tilted his head in a mocking little bow. “I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
“Humble is one of the last things I would ever call you.”
His lips curved up into a little smile that filled her with annoyance. “What would be the first?”
“Tempting though it may be, I am too much of a lady to use the words that would best express what I think of you.”
Challenge flashed in his sapphire orbs. “Try.”
Challenge was infinitely better than condescension, but she was in no humor to bandy insults. “I will not bring myself down to your level.”
“Giving up?”
“You bloody bastard!” she hissed so that only he would hear.
His infuriating smile grew. “Oh, come, surely you can do better than that and call me worse. The boys of my village could, and they were much younger than you.”
She snatched the tunic from him, then waited for him to leave. He didn’t. “Do you intend to stand there and watch me dress?”
Again, their gazes met, stare for stare.
Then he ran a slow, measuring gaze over her. As he studied her, something strong and primitive began to throb through her body, something unwelcome but undeniable. It had to be a weakness caused by fatigue. Whatever it was, it was wrong and she would not acknowledge it.
She shifted the blanket so that it was wrapped around her breasts, leaving her shoulders and arms free, tucking in one end so that it would stay. She pulled on his tunic, which smelled of horse and leather and him, as she well recalled from when he had held her on the gelding. She would probably never forget how it felt to be clasped in his powerful arms then, or when he had embraced her and forced his hot kiss upon her.
Or when they had been on the ground, his body pressing against hers, his lips sliding across her mouth and his hands moving with slow, sure leisure over her. Her heart had pounded and her whole body
had been hot with fear.
As he stood here now, her heart began to pound and her body to warm just the same, but she was not afraid. She could not name the feeling coursing through her as she inhaled his scent, the memory of his strength and passion coming to her whether she willed it or not.
She told herself to attend to her task, and forget that he was there.
The tunic fell to mid-thigh and the sleeves covered her hands. She tied the lacing at the neck, which nonetheless hung low enough to expose the tops of her breasts. She could roll up the sleeves, and as for the length....
She reached up under the tunic and pulled the blanket loose, then retucked it about her waist, so that it became a long skirt. “Now that I am more decently attired, you may go.”
He frowned and made no move to leave. “I should have guessed it wouldn’t matter what you wear. Your beauty has nothing to do with the clothes on your back.”
A strange feeling stole over Isabelle and, flushing, she looked away. Other men had told her she was beautiful, other men with rich, deep voices and warriors’ bodies. Why was it, then, that this time—for the first time—she truly believed that in a man’s eyes she was beautiful?
Perhaps it was his annoyance.
“I hope you’re not intending to put me back in that sack,” she said, determined to forget his compliment, such as it was.
The corner of his lips lifted. “There’s a thought.”
“I nearly suffocated.”
“It wouldn’t be for long.”
She crossed her arms and prepared to denounce him, until she saw what looked suspiciously like mischief in his blue eyes. “You aren’t, are you?”
“It’s tempting, but I don’t think I could make it up the bluff with you over my shoulder.”
“Thank God! Now go away.”
He bowed with a mocking—and unexpected—elegance. “As you command, my lady, I obey.”
She sniffed and didn’t look to see where he went or to whom he spoke; it was enough that he had left her alone.
She didn’t want to be anywhere near him and his disconcerting eyes or full lips. She wanted to be as far away from him as possible.
She wanted to be home, where most men—except Connor—treated her like an overgrown child.
Ingar shouted, and the Norsemen who were awake roused their companions. Together, with the same unexpected brisk efficiency they had demonstrated before, the crew began to disassemble the yard and mast.
As the Norsemen went about their task, Isabelle kept her eyes on the shore, even when she heard DeFrouchette return. She tensed, ready to maintain her air of haughty defiance.
It wasn’t DeFrouchette. Regardless of whether or not he was in the way, Osburn picked his way to the prow, nearly tripping over a large coil of thick rope before he turned to lean his back on the curving wooden decoration. His face was deathly pale, and tinged with green, whether from the effects of the wine or the rocking motion of the ship, she wasn’t sure. His brown eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his fine clothing wrinkled and his blond hair disheveled.
“The land is not much to look at, is it?” he asked over the orders and curses of the Norsemen, as if they were any two passengers on a journey.
“What land is it?” she asked, wondering how guarded he would be in his answers.
“Wales.”
It was even farther from Bellevoire than she thought, and she fought to hide her dismay.
Obviously she was not successful, for Osburn smiled. “I share your distaste for the place, my lady. I’ve done my best to make it comfortable, and I hope my company will make up for any deprivations you might feel.”
“Do you honestly believe I could ever be comfortable anywhere when I have been abducted?” she demanded incredulously. “Do you think I want to spend any time at all with you? If you were the only man left in England—Europe—the world!—I would not. Even if I were not here against my will, I would say the same.”
His eyes flickered with annoyance, but he kept smiling his awful smile. “You had best have a care how you speak to me, my lady, and act toward me, too. We’re not going to be alone there, you know. I have a garrison to guard you. The Brabancons won’t be nearly as forgiving and patient as I.”
New and even more consuming fear gripped her as she stared at him. She was going to be guarded by Brabancons, the most reviled, cruel, rapacious mercenaries in Europe?
Suddenly, DeFrouchette’s words made sense, for he might indeed seem as gentle as a sparrow compared to the Brabancon. Her gaze flicked to the center of the ship. He wasn’t there. She quickly scanned the vessel and saw him and his friend in the stern near Ingar.
No wonder now that DeFrouchette had offered her his tunic. He would want his prize better covered against the lustful eyes of the Brabancons so he wouldn’t have to exert himself to fight them off.
“I see you’ve heard of the Brabancons,” Osburn observed, coming closer. “If your husband doesn’t pay the ransom, first I’ll be repaid for all my trouble and having to live in such a dismal place by enjoying your favors, then I’ll turn you over to the Brabancons to do with as they will.” He smiled with genuine, sickening pleasure. “And after they’ve had their sport of you, I’ll send you home. Will your doting husband love you so well when he hears what has happened to you, do you think?”
She gripped the gunwale, tempted to jump again. “You’re a monster!”
While Osburn laughed at her epithet as if it both pleased and amused him, out of the corner of her eye, she saw DeFrouchette rise. If she did jump, he would be right behind her.
“There’s no need for such harsh words, my lady,” Osburn said. “If your husband pays, you’ll be safe enough. I’ve already warned the Brabancons not to touch you, and I’ll set DeFrouchette to guard you, like a big hound, for as long as he is here.”
As long as he was there? He was leaving? He did seem the lesser of several evils, which no doubt explained her dismay.
“After your little escapade last night, I’m sure he’ll keep a careful watch while he can. He’ll not want to lose the five thousand marks he has been promised for his part in our scheme.”
Five thousand marks? Connor could not possibly raise such a sum!
Osburn’s smile grew, and he sidled a little closer. “Perhaps I shouldn’t upset you more by saying this is merely a quarter of what we will demand to guarantee your safe return.”
Oh, God! Connor was not wealthy enough to afford such a sum. If he managed to borrow it, he and Allis would be indebted for life.
“Why look so worried, my sweet? If your husband loves you as much as I hear, he’ll find it somehow. Borrow some from Richard perhaps—oh!” Osburn’s eyes gleamed with evil mischief as he covered his mouth with his fingertips. “I forgot. All Richard’s money is going to his new fortress in France.” The gleam crystallized into something hard and cold as he lowered his hand. “Your husband had better find it somehow, or you may find yourself very intimately acquainted with several Brabancons.”
A wail of anguish rose up in Isabelle. Death sounded preferable to the fate Osburn described. Yet even then, her will told her she must live. If she died, there would be no one to give evidence against Osburn, and Lord Oswald, and all those involved in this despicable crime. If she gave in to despair, they might never be brought to justice. She had to believe that Connor would capture them all eventually. If she could survive whatever they did to her, she would see that they were punished.
So she must be strong and find some way to escape, no matter how hopeless it seemed.
“A very interesting plan to dispose of me, Osburn,” she said, her decision giving new strength to her voice.
As she spoke, she noticed DeFrouchette approaching, skirting the Norsemen as they finished laying the mast down the keel of the ship.
Osburn threatened her; DeFrouchette claimed she was to be treated as an honored guest. It was obvious DeFrouchette did not have a very high opinion of Lord Oswald’s son. Why not sow a little
more dissent?
“You must have come up with this plan all by yourself,” she said to Osburn, her tone mocking and loud enough for all to hear as they sat on their chests and prepared to out oars. “I know it cannot be your father’s because, unfortunately, there is no denying that he is a clever man. A clever man would know that to rape the wife of any lord will turn all the nobility against him, even those few secret allies he may have left. A clever man would know that if he did that to me, my husband would hunt him—and all his band of outlaws—down like the dogs they are and gladly send them straight to hell. A clever man would know I would happily drown in a bog rather than spend a moment in his arms, no matter what fate he threatens me with.”
His face growing purple with rage, Osburn’s hand went to his jeweled dagger.
“Will you make some more useless threats, Osburn? Why not spare yourself the effort and go back to your wine?”
He yanked the dagger from his belt.
“Will you strike me dead, Osburn?” she jeered. “I will believe it when you do it.”
As she had anticipated, DeFrouchette came around her and grabbed Osburn’s wrist before he could strike. His gaze darted from Osburn’s red and furious face to Isabelle’s. A shrewd, appraising look appeared in the bright blue orbs as he regarded her, and then he loosened his grip on Osburn. “Will you let her goad you ?”
“I wasn’t going to kill her,” Osburn mumbled as he shoved his dagger back in his belt.
“Good, because if you do, she is worth nothing.”
Osburn straightened his tunic. “I know that.”
“Nor was I goading him,” Isabelle retorted, blithely lying through her teeth. “I was merely stating facts and asking questions.”
“I can imagine,” DeFrouchette muttered.
“I daresay, you and Ingar, his men and his ship do not come cheaply, DeFrouchette.” She addressed the sulking Osburn. “I must say, Osburn, for a man stripped of all his goods and holdings, your father seems to have a lot of money. How is that, I wonder?”
“He has ways,” Osburn sullenly replied.
Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] Page 7