by Louisa Trent
In battle, he had the reputation of a much-feared opponent—many a dying warrior had told him so. Skilled with dirk and sword alike, he meted out mercifully swift and deadly justice.
Not this time. Sage intended to end LaTourne's life using no skill. Without mercy. A slow and clumsy execution...
“Please, Captor!” His captive broke into his thoughts to plead. “Release me. Otherwise, warfare will result. ‘Tis unbearable to have lives lost on my account.” She looked up at him, beseechingly.
His gaze lowered to meet hers. “I cannot let you go. I need you."
“You ... you need me?"
“Aye. As bait,” was his bald reply. He would not have her think this was something it was not. “To bring LaTourne out of hiding. When he comes for you, I intend to kill him—after questioning him, of course."
His captive never blinked. “Of course."
“Not a love match, eh?” he said, dryly.
“I had little choice in whom I wed. The whim of my stepfather decided my betrothal, as your whim now decides my fate."
“You say that so coolly. Are you aware, lass, that LaTourne is the most notorious pervert in all the realm. That he would take great pleasure in turning your insides out?"
“Are you aware, Captor, that brides do not lie in beds of their own making?” She rubbed a hand over her wet face.
He hungered for revenge, but had no appetite for hurting this delicate lass. How would he reconcile the two disparate emotions converging in his mind?
“Your fingers are scratched.” He took them from her wet cheeks and returned them to his metal breastplate from whence they had lifted. “The tears will add salt to the wounds and sting,” he explained to her questioning look.
She stammered, “But ... but ... my tears will corrode your armor, Captor."
“What of it? ‘Tis only rust."
She sniffed. “Please forgive my weakness."
“There is no weakness in tears."
“Do you ever cry?"
“Once, I did. As a lad. Now, no tears are left in me. I am as dried up as desert sands. You are yet young and you still feel things strongly. Never apologize for your youth or for your tears."
“You are too kind."
“Nay, I am not. But I would listen to anything you have to tell me."
“I am but a female. What would I have to tell you?"
“Do not undervalue your sex to me. I have a great respect for your gender. Ladies step in and take charge of the running of their keeps while their lords are away, or are dead and lying in their graves. They stand at the command when their castles are under siege. They oft times know more than they let on. Ladies have served as confidantes to their lords down through the ages, and through those confidences gain power."
“I have no power. I am no man's confidante!"
“Your stepfather discussed your impending union to LaTourne with you, did he not?"
“He did."
“Then—you are your stepfather's confidante."
“Do not think to twist my words, Captor. The maneuver is beneath your skill and mine. Let us defer to games and trickery, shall we?"
“I prefer candor."
“Alas, candor is a luxury I can ill afford."
For her sake as well as his, he would not relent. He would have the truth from her, through fair means or foul, one way or the other.
For now, fair suited his purposes. “I believe you know every deal, every scheme, every devious plot your stepfather and betrothed designed. Does either plan future invasions on English-held keeps along the border?” he asked, straight-out.
“My stepfather, as you must know, is too weak for political intrigue. As to my betrothed...” She shrugged.
“A twelve-month ago, a Scottish invasion on a borderlands keep took the lives of many innocent women and children and elders. This was no military fortress. No warriors patrolled the gates. The attack was unprovoked. Tell me what you know of it!"
“I know naught,” she said coolly.
Wholly frustrated, he clasped her ‘round the shoulders and shook her. Shook her hard, shook her to loose the truth from her, shook her until her chin jerked and snapped. “At the imperilment of your neck, you must speak and speak now!"
CHAPTER THREE
When her captor had held her close, she responded to him on a primitive level. Without words. Like a wounded animal might. Humans, with all their hidden purposes and jumbled emotions, oft times made no sense to her. Animals, on the other hand, were uncomplicated; their needs were easily fulfilled. When they loved, they showed it. When they hated, they showed that too. When frightened, they ran, as she had run from LaTourne.
Where had the warlord's soothing animal comfort gone?
He shook her now. From the force of habit that comes with long experience, she drew back into herself before the blows fell. “I have n-n-no idea what more you expect me to s-s-say,” she said with as much dignity as possible whilst her teeth knocked together.
Over his hawk nose, her captor's brows drew together, a foreboding black slash hanging low over ruined features. “Tell the truth! Say what is on your mind!"
“Please cease. Do,” she said, rattled. “Wishing the shaking to end is all that is on my mind. And even that truth is difficult to tell. My head does spin so!"
The shaking stopped.
But as is often the way with unsettled weather, the raging winds continued unabated.
“You know of that invasion!” he stormed. “I command you to speak."
Up until one short week ago, she had lived as a cloistered novice, knowing naught of the outside world, knowing naught of her clan's activities. As for taking commands—she had a small problem in that area. Had she known how to obey, her stepfather would have married her off years before, rather than sending her off to a convent for remedial help in deference.
Sad to say, nature had not made her dutiful. Neither had she come into this life meek, humble or quiet; her stepfather had beaten those virtues into her.
And she hated her stepfather for it.
But she hated LaTourne more.
And in the grand scheme of things, her hatred was neither here nor there. She would not speak against her stepfather, nor discuss any clan doings in which LaTourne might have played a part. Hating one man or hating both, she was Scots and Scots do not tell.
“Obey me,” the Captor raged.
“Obedience is a trait most prized in a lady,” she quoted, she forgot whom. It didn't matter. Ignoring the command, she told him naught.
“I would have said honor is a lady's most prized trait."
“Honor?” she scoffed. “When have lords ever given ladies credit for noble sentiments?"
His brow lifted.
She had fallen right into the snare! Knowing that struggling would only further entrap her, she tried wiggling and squirming, instead of direct confrontation, to make her way back out.
Bowing her head contritely, she said, “I ask your forgiveness in expressing an opinion. I believed you engaged me in a philosophical discussion. I see now I was very much mistaken."
Her captor's hands removed themselves from her shoulders. Looking at her askance, he folded his arms across his broad chest. “You made no mistake. Tell me more of your life's philosophy."
“A lady,” she began, trying to recall the catechism of obedience, “must place her lord's needs first in all things, especially on the bed furs. That is the extent of my philosophy, poorly thought out and inarticulately expressed as it is."
He laughed uproariously. “How fortunate I am to find myself in the presence of such a paragon of acquiescence!"
“I shall consider your remark a compliment.” Her answer remained on an even keel. But inside, she grew more and more agitated under her captor's probing stare and relentless questioning.
She was cunning. Clever. Wily too. When her father died and her mother had been forced to remarry, she had relied on all those skills to keep herself safe. But was she dexterous eno
ugh at deception to outwit this astute man?
Praying she used the proper amount of lady-like humility, she changed the subject. “How far is it to your keep?"
“Not far."
“Where is not far?” she insisted.
“Cheviot Hills."
“Hmm. I see. Well, tell me more about this Cheviot Hills. I am curious about the conditions there."
“Have you never before left Scotland?"
“Nay!” she exclaimed, answering the intent look on his face. Would he ever probe her for information she would not give? “But ‘tis sure I am that the same green grass grows in Cheviot Hills as elsewhere. Apart from differences in language, people are similar wherever one travels."
Sage nodded. “I have oft thought so myself."
“You have?” Her eyes widened in interest.
“Certainly. People are people. Some are good, some are bad, some a little of both. Now, take Scotland..."
“Let us not talk politics,” she said, quickly intercepting the course of the conversation. He tried to waylay her; she tried to circumvent the ambush without causing him undo vexation. She did not wish her teeth rattled again!
Putting on her best simpering manner—men did so enjoy silly ladies—she offered him up her best coy smile. “The subject of politics is a tedious one, I fear. One, I little comprehend. ‘Tis a man's topic and I would not bother you to explain every teeny-tiny detail.” She gave a gay laugh. “The telling and the listening would result in the megrims for both of us. Tell me of your keep instead.” Men did so enjoy talking about themselves.
“Cheviot Hills is a rough and cheerless place, in need of much work."
Much like the dour warlord who ruled it, she thought with an inward smirk; on the outside, she kept her expression carefully composed.
Intrigue was hardly new to her. At her father's knee, she had learned to parry a sword as well as a word; she could thrust the point of a knife as well as a pointed remark down a man's throat. However, because she valued life, she always chose first to deflect rather than to attack. And so, though she could easily steal the Captor's blade and cut his throat, it seemed rather mean-spirited to repay a good deed with death. After all, she owed him her gratitude for saving her from LaTourne ... and she had plans for him yet.
She assumed a tone meant to placate. “I am used to hard work."
“Outside work,” he stressed. “The holding shows signs of neglect. The farms, the animals, the stables, all need improving."
“I vastly enjoy working outside. I am good with animals and crops. I am strong..."
“At Cheviot Hills you will not have the kind of freedom you seek."
At that stern pronouncement, fear shouldered out all pretense of composure. “But ... but ... surely even prisoners are allowed to work outside?” she asked, seeking some hint of concession.
But no. Her captor only said, “I have upset you, and that is not my intent. We will talk no more of this matter."
With that capricious order, Aeschine felt the portal slam in her face. In that instant she had a premonition of her future existence, the days stretched out before her in an endless gray sea of monotony. Idling in an underground stone dungeon where she would live, without purpose, like a trapped animal. Perchance, sewing to pass the time...
Sweet Virgin Mary! Not that!
She would play sweet, she would play obedient, but she drew the line at playing with needle and thread!
* * * *
“Have a care,” Sage cautioned his captive, nodding at a ceiling of thorns overhead.
Heedless of his warning, the lass charged recklessly ahead, stopping along the route only to pluck a buttercup. This said much about her character.
“I too am soft on wildflowers,” he told her, watching as she made a bouquet.
She looked up from her task. “A man who appreciates buttercups?"
“Why not? Males have the same eyes and noses as females."
Her eyes sparkled. “As a child, I oft made bouquets for my mother. My stepfather always threw them out if he found them in the keep. I had to pass them to her in secret."
Crafty puss, he thought, in admiration.
He said aloud, “I would never discard your bouquets."
“Then you must have this one."
It was a formal presentation, complete with a curtsey. The wobbliness of that curtsey telling him that this was a maid unaccustomed to bowing.
She would bow to him. She would have to.
“Your keep's chambers will overflow with bouquets,” she enthused, wisdom and naiveté coloring her voice. “I shall see to it. Flowers dispel the gloom."
Sage brought the yellow bunch to his nose. “There are not enough flowers in all the borderlands to accomplish that feat."
“One buttercup at a time makes all the difference,” she called over her shoulder as she ran ahead.
Did she not see the thorn branch in her path?
Evidently not. For she neither ducked nor stooped to avoid it. On a collision course with a nasty injury, she raced pell-mell into danger.
Picking up his big feet, Sage dashed after her. With a lift and a swing, he took her out of harm's way, taking the thorn's scratch himself.
For his troubles, she touched his cheek. “You bleed."
“Look away,” he said, when her eyes filled with tears.
“Why may I not look at you?"
“You are never to question my dictates."
He wiped the blood away, lest she swoon once more; one female faint a day was enough for any man. “Now, off to the stream with you. And this time, walk."
She did. Though, she brooded again; the slight tilt of her head gave her mood away. Aeschine did a great deal of deep contemplation. Silent introspection. Some men might view a quiet female as a gift. Not he. She must share her thoughts with him, no matter how small, no matter how insignificant. Only in that way, would he learn the inner workings of her mind.
Aeschine's air of fragility fooled him not at all. Men wield swords to conquer; women wield feminine wiles. Though he had a strong suspicion Aeschine of Scotland would rather arm than disarm, she was female. And, like all females, she knew how to use her sensuality to the best advantage
This lass, in particular, was well versed in carnal sorcery. All female animals give off a scent that acts as a powerful aphrodisiac on the unsuspecting male of the species. Add to that a smile, a promise of kisses, the enticement of a turned-down bed—and a powerful lord is brought to his knees. One taste of passion, and black and white decisions change to shades of gray. Soon, the line between guilt and innocence shifts.
That line shifted now.
He must prevent it from slipping further.
“Stop here,” he said sternly. Aeschine's sensuality would not work as an aphrodisiac on him! He was no unsuspecting male...
Yet, when the lass dimpled and hopped from one foot to another, his resolve to maintain a forceful mien collapsed in the face of her boundless enthusiasm. In comparison to Aeschine, he felt old and jaded. As though he had seen and done everything already, and no surprises remained. Constant warfare did that to a man. Sand-choked, skin burnt the texture of leather, numb from endless death and suffering—in recent years there had been little soft sentiment in his life. While this lass brimmed over with life and mischief and softness. So much softness! She would take some getting used to.
“Did you not hear what I said, Captive? Cease your hopping at once.” Her bouncing apple-breasts maddened him!
“As you will,” she sang out. Finally—that is to say, when she felt like it—she held steady.
This new sweetness of hers gave him the toothache. No question, the lass had quite a talent for pretending. He entertained no false illusions about Aeschine of Scotland. The lady was far from the tractable lady she would have him believe. Her compliance was an act, a fairly obvious pretense of surrendering her will to his.
Fine. Though he detested her transparency—and allowing her to think him duped offende
d his conceit—he let the act go unchallenged. Let her feign obedience. Let her pretend docility. Her deceit served them both.
Sage suspected Aeschine had the honest and forthright opinions of a man. She was far from biddable. No meek bone inhabited that spirited body! His captive was a naturally passionate creature who hid her wild beauty under the plain garb of conformity and her willfulness under a cloak of passivity. How might he change the act to a semblance of reality? How might he temper her obstinacy without destroying her spirit? Was it even possible?
He had to try. Aeschine must be brought to heel!
Though, only to him. That is all he would request of her. The thought of her kowtowing to anyone else offended him for some reason.
“Whilst I water my animal, you may go off alone. See yonder boulder?” he asked.
When she looked, he said, “No further than there."
“You are too kind,” she said—like a pointy-nosed shrew.
Not so sweet, after all, Sage thought, and barely restrained a laugh.
“These are dangerous times. As much as I enjoy your spirit, my first charge is to keep you safe."
“You enjoy my spirit?"
“Do you hint for a compliment?"
She dimpled. “Aye."
“Then, all right. I do enjoy your liveliness. But enjoying your exuberance will not prevent me from doing what I must when it comes to you. Make sure that is something you understand. Your prettiness will not dissuade me from a course of action I feel is necessary."
“Prettiness, did you say?"
“You heard me. Hear this too: I shall tether you to me if I feel I must."
“As you will,” she demurely replied. Then winked, quite ruining the sweet facade with suggestiveness. “We might both enjoy it."
Ignoring the fire that heated his belly, ignoring the cause of the heat too, he led his steed to the stream for a much-needed drink.
After a time, a slight movement behind him had him turning.
“You take good care of your steed,” she offered, her blue eyes somber.