Love's Captive Heart (Author's Cut Edition)

by Phoebe Conn

  He drew himself up in a slow, menacing stretch, towering above her as he regarded her with a contempt-filled gaze. "Just see that this fire is properly tended, so that it does not have to be relit. Now, show me what you can prepare out of the rabbits. I have not eaten all day and am hungry."

  "Cook those?" She glanced at the small furry carcasses lying upon the table. "I have never cooked any meal, Mylan. I have no idea how to prepare those little beasts so that they will be tasty."

  Shaking his head sadly, he continued to scold her. "Then it is time you learned. I have no need for a maid here; your housekeeping is barely adequate, and if you cannot prepare edible meals..." He broke off in mid-sentence, and when no truly horrible threat came to his mind he gestured broadly. "Then we shall starve!"

  "We'll not starve!" She laughed at his stricken expression, not caring if the sound of her merriment provoked him further. "How have you managed to survive these last two years? Show me how you have prepared rabbits yourself, and I will watch carefully so I might do it the next time. Won't you please show me?" she coaxed with an infectiously pleasant smile and bright glimmer in her sparkling green eyes.

  With a few swift strokes with his knife, he skinned and dressed the rabbits. Cutting the carcasses into quarters, he offered scant advice. "Fill the iron kettle with water from the stream. There are onions and other vegetables in the garden, add them when the meat is tender. Since you did not have the water boiling it will be a long while until supper."

  "I didn't know where you'd gone, or when you might return, so how was I supposed to know you'd gone hunting and would expect the stew made before you'd arrived home with the meat?" His demands made no sense at all to her, but rather than argue she grabbed up the pail and ran to the stream to fetch the water.

  Angered by the sharpness of her wit, Mylan jabbed his dagger into the tabletop with a vicious thrust before going out to check his horses. When he found both had been expertly groomed, their stalls cleaned, and their feed and water replenished, he swore under his breath. "Where does that woman find such energy?"

  He leaned back against the rough wall of the shed and held his side, for it ached badly and he knew the dressing needed changing. Closing his eyes he breathed deeply to force away the pain with the power of his thoughts, but his confrontation with Celiese had provided such a distraction he could concentrate on nothing but her delightful image. He now doubted the wisdom of bringing her with him to the farm.

  When Celiese had the preparations for their evening meal well underway according to Mylan's directions, she began to wonder if he would bother to return to eat. She looked about the one-room abode; searching for the flaws he had noticed so readily, but she could detect none. Everything was in its place, all spotlessly clean and shining from her labors. Too nervous to rest, she waited at the door for a while, and then went outside to look for her reluctant companion.

  He was still leaning against the shed where he had stopped to rest, his face set in a mask of undisguised disgust, and she waited for a moment for him to notice her. When he did not, she spoke softly. "The horses are not in need of more care, are they? It is difficult to perform any task in that small stable after the sun sets, but I have the time now if..."

  "What?" Mylan stood up too abruptly, and winced as the wound in his side caused him a new burst of pain. Unable to catch his breath, he could say no more and feared Celiese would think him a fool for not having heard her question.

  Frightened he might be ill, she lowered her voice to a sympathetic whisper, "You have done far too much today, Mylan. Do not exert yourself needlessly. Please come inside and I will see to your comfort as best I can." Another of her many failings, she realized, for she knew nothing of brewing remedies from herbs, but perhaps he might be able to prescribe something she could prepare for him.

  He offered no resistance to her suggestion, and when her arm encircled his waist he walked slowly back inside where he sank into a chair at the table before pulling his tunic off over his head. "I am none too clean, but I'll not risk opening the wound again by bathing."

  "That is wise, but I can help you to wash," she offered agreeably without realizing what exquisite torture it would be to touch him. His skin was deeply tanned, golden-brown and warm beneath her fingertips. She had to force herself to concentrate upon the blood-soaked bandage at his waist rather than on his lean, muscular body, which reminded her far too vividly of the night she had spent in his arms.

  Concerned, she scolded him softly, "You must have been bleeding all day, you never should have gone hunting."

  Feeling no need for her advice, he sighed wearily. "It is a slight injury, and we must have food to survive."

  She worked quickly to pull away the matted layers of cloth covering the deep wound as she replied, "I can hunt for us, my father taught me how, and I've not forgotten his lessons."

  "Why would Raktor teach you such things, when he has sons aplenty?" he asked skeptically.

  "He didn't, but he is not my father, in case you have forgotten," she pointed out quickly. "Tomorrow you must simply rest, and I will kill a wild hen or two for our supper."

  Snorting derisively, he exclaimed, "I'd rather eat porridge."

  "Would it offend your pride so greatly to eat food I'd provided?" She stepped back, insulted that her offer of assistance had been so rudely refused.

  "I will not be able to eat anything if I bleed to death while you stand there talking! Find some linen to bind my side and be quick about it."

  Complying rapidly, she ripped a piece of cloth into narrow strips. "You brought me here to be useful, didn't you? What difference does it make what work I do? Since you find my housekeeping so disappointing, perhaps my hunting will please you more."

  He looked askance but made no comment as she bent down to tend him. She was wearing the blue silk gown he had told her to leave behind. Her hair curled softly over her shoulders, and he was disgusted with himself for finding her fair beauty so appealing when he knew full well she had a serpent's lying heart.

  "You will do as I say, Celiese. I am the master here, and I mean to be obeyed."

  She finished her task swiftly and turned away to hide the heartache that shone so brightly in her eyes. "Why don't you lie down for a while and I will call you when the stew is ready."

  Frowning, he hesitated to agree with her suggestion. It was most sensible, but he did not want her to believe he would do anything simply to please her. But knowing he was too tired to do much else, he walked the short distance to his bed without complaining and stretched out carefully so as not to aggravate the gash in his side. The aroma from the bubbling kettle was surprisingly enticing, and he realized it had been far too long since he had eaten He was dizzy and weak, more seriously injured than he wanted to let the graceful blonde see, but when she was ready to serve their supper he could not summon the energy to rise.

  "Mylan?" She did not wish to disturb him, but she had found only one bowl and his utensils were few. "Is there no more than one bowl?"

  "I had several, have you misplaced them?" he responded accusingly.

  Sorry she had inquired, she gave him a hostile glance, and then noticed how pale he had grown. She had not mislaid any of his belongings, but excused his foul mood after considering the pain he had to be suffering. "Well, since we have only this one bowl it will be difficult for us to dine together."

  "I don't share my meals with slaves!" Mylan shouted hoarsely. He fell back with a moan, sorry he had been so nasty when yelling had caused him such agony.

  Ignoring his cry of pain, she continued agreeably, "I see no reason for us to eat separately." She attempted to affect a calm she did not feel, for if she called him husband and he called her slave their lives were never going to run smoothly. The point seemed to be a moot one tonight, however, as he appeared to be too ill to leave his bed to come to the table.

  "Since there is just this one bowl, I will sit beside you and help you eat. That way you will not have to tire yourself by rising from
your bed."

  He shot her another disapproving frown, but decided not to argue; he was hungry, and his bed was suddenly too comfortable to leave. "I am no infant—bring me the bowl, and I'll feed myself."

  "As you wish." She carried the steaming bowl to his side and waited for him to sit up.

  Mylan struggled to shift his position but found it too painful and lay still. "It looks as though you'll have to feed me after all. Just be careful you do not spill any of that hot broth on me."

  "I will be very careful, and won't spill a drop," she promised playfully. After bringing a chair to his bedside, she sat down and offered him a spoonful of the stew. It smelled delicious, and she tried to ignore her own hunger while she saw to his.

  He watched her closely as she lifted another spoonful of the tasty stew to his lips. She had spent the day cleaning his home, but she had obviously bathed and had washed her hair, for she appeared as well groomed and pretty as when they had first met. The pointlessness of that tender meeting brought back his anger in full force, and he nearly choked on his next bite.

  "Not so fast, give me a minute to chew, at least."

  "Forgive me," she offered coolly, frustrated by his unreasonable attitude. They were eating together as she saw it, though, and the thought pleased her. Thinking perhaps if she tried he would converse with her more agreeably, she asked sweetly, "Your farm seems to be a most prosperous one, but how did you come to own land located so distant from that of your father?"

  "You must know how land is acquired, Celiese, do not pretend that you do not."

  Puzzled, she persisted, "It can be bought, I suppose. Did you simply purchase this property because the land is fertile?"

  Her question seemed so innocently asked he answered truthfully, "This farm was part of the land my mother gave to my father when they married, part of her dowry. Have you never heard of that custom?" It seemed unlikely that she had not, but the wife's goods belonged to the husband after the marriage, and every family increased its wealth in that fashion.

  She found it impossible to raise her eyes to his. She stirred the bowl of stew as though searching for a tasty morsel and asked shyly, "Were you promised land when you married Olgrethe?"

  "Of course. Raktor is rich, the man who married his daughter could expect land and other valuables, as well. Did you think she would be prized solely for her beauty?"

  "I gave such matters no serious thought, but wealthy young women have attractive dowries in my country, as well." When she glanced up, her deep green eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I am sorry you were disappointed in that respect, too, to not have the wife you thought you had married, nor to have the wealth you had been promised."

  Astonished by her sincerity, Mylan changed the subject abruptly. That she actually seemed to care about his feelings had to be another trick, and he refused to believe her. "You needn't look so stricken, for Andrick now owns all that he should as Olgrethe's husband, and my family was cheated of nothing that was rightfully theirs. Now I'm finished eating. The stew was not nearly as good as it usually is, but in time, your cooking should improve." Closing his eyes, he considered their conversation, as well as the evening, finished.

  Realizing she had been dismissed without the courtesy of a thank you for her help, she got up. She rinsed out the bowl and filled it with a portion of the savory stew and sat down at the table to eat. She thought the meal quite good, despite his complaint, and wondered if perhaps he were not just being spiteful. She had often eaten alone, for Olgrethe had joined her father and brothers for the evening meal. But this was different. There were only the two of them occupying the small house, and she could not believe he truly planned to treat her as a slave.

  She would not take that insult from him—to be ordered about from dawn to dusk, made to eat alone and then made to share his bed whether she wished to or not, she thought angrily. When she glanced in his direction he had not moved. Perhaps he was already asleep. She vowed he would never have a worse slave. She was his wife and deserved to be treated with kindness, to be loved and cherished rather than ignored unless there was some menial task he did not wish to handle himself.

  While Mylan fell more deeply into the serenity of untroubled sleep, Celiese sat fuming with rage, watching the glowing coals upon the hearth until they were no more than a few bright embers. She was not a bit tired, in spite of the long hours she had spent cleaning the small house and the stable. Too anxious to rest, she cleaned up the remains of their meal, and added more wood to the fire.

  She was confused and hurt by Mylan's continual criticism, but he had been through an ordeal every bit as harrowing as the one she had survived. Perhaps if she held her tongue and was patient for a few more days he would recall the hours they had shared as fondly as she did and again take her as his bride. If not, then she would be forced to run away, for she had far too much pride to live as a slave in a house in where she was rightfully the mistress.

  Chapter 8

  When she awoke before Mylan the next morning, Celiese hurried out to the stream to bathe as best she could. She had boasted that she could hunt, but she had been a child when her father had let her ride by his side. She had been able to draw the small bow he had made for her, but what of Mylan's far more powerful weapon? If it took all her strength to draw back the string she would be unable to aim the arrow with any accuracy and never be able to provide meat for their table.

  "His table!" she corrected herself bitterly. Glancing up at the sun to judge the lateness of the hour, she returned to the small dwelling to begin making porridge for their breakfast.

  Mylan opened his eyes slowly and for a brief moment could not recall why he should again be on his farm, when he absolutely despised the place. At least Celiese was there to tend the house and relieve him of the tiresome chores it entailed. He lay quietly watching her move about without letting her see he was awake. That she had begun preparing his breakfast without being told was a point in her favor, and he tried to recall where he had last seen the pewter bowls he sometimes used, for even if he would not eat with her he knew she deserved the courtesy of having her own dishes.

  "Look in the chest where you found the linen yesterday, Celiese. I must have a dish or two stored away there," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

  "Oh, Mylan, you startled me badly!" She spun around to face him, happy to see he was well enough to consider her comfort for a change.

  The pretty blush filling the delicate blonde's cheeks surprised him completely. He thought his request had been casually phrased and did not understand why she had reacted with such delight, as if he had paid her the most flattering of compliments. Why was she blushing so attractively when there was not the slightest cause for such a reaction?

  "Well, go on and look, I'll not have you standing around waiting for me to finish eating when there is so much work to be done."

  She moved toward the ornately carved chest without any real haste, for she was embarrassed that her happiness in seeing him that morning had not been returned in kind. She bent down, lifted the lid, and after regarding the layers of apparel for a moment commented, "You have very fine clothing, Mylan, the smoothest suedes I have ever felt. But I do not see any bowls here."

  Mylan pushed himself off his bed, and when his side gave him no pain he knelt down beside her to look for himself. "They would be along the side, not among the folds." Thrusting his hand along the wood, he withdrew first one bowl and then another. "There, now you need not wait for me when you prepare meals."

  They were so close their shoulders were touching, and when she turned to take the two bowls from his hands they slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor. "I'm sorry." She grabbed them up quickly for his accusing stare made her acutely uncomfortable, and she did not want to make him angry with her again. "I am not usually so clumsy."

  He turned away, as startled as she had been by the spark of excitement that had passed between them. Her fingertips had barely brushed his wrist and he could not even catch h
is breath. Disgusted with himself for having so little control of his emotions where she was concerned, he got to his feet and left the house, determined to remain outside until he could again convey the cool detachment he wanted to affect in her presence. He had brought her with him to punish her, to make her work keeping his house and cooking his meals, but that was to have been the extent of her duties. He had not realized how quickly he would again succumb to her charms, but she was the most attractive of women, a beauty of such grace and spirit he had been a fool to think he could treat her with the indifference he usually showed a slave.

  He knelt by the stream, splashing the cold water upon his face until its icy chill had cleared his mind and cooled his blood sufficiently to think calmly. The problem was a simple one, and since he would not have Celiese for his wife, she would have to accept her place as his slave and consider providing him with the pleasure he craved as only one more of her duties. A small matter, he decided with a sly grin, and he returned to his house to see if she had prepared an edible porridge.

  Celiese waited as he ate, her smile shy. "Well, what do you say? I thought it quite tasty myself." He had finished one bowl of the steaming porridge and had then asked for another, so she was reasonably certain he liked it.

  "I was too hungry to taste the first bowl, some honey might help, or fruit, if we had any." Making a face, he shoved the half-eaten bowl aside. "I will forgive you since you have no experience as a cook, but if you cannot do better than this tomorrow morning I will just throw it out." Without looking her way he got up from the table, reached for his bow and quiver of arrows, and headed out the door.

  Astonished by his abrupt exit she ran after him, calling excitedly, "Wait, I can hunt even if I cannot cook! Please, let me come with you!"

  Mylan hesitated only a moment. The porridge had actually been delicious, and he was sorry he had not thought of some way to finish his second helping before he had said it was no good. "It is a proficient cook I need, not a hunting companion. And how can you hunt with no weapons?"