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

by Phoebe Conn

  "I could make my own if you would help me. Let me come with you today, and I will gather sturdy branches to fashion a bow and arrows of my own," she offered eagerly. She had cleaned his house so thoroughly the previous day she would have little to do if he again left her alone until sunset.

  "Your attire is unsuitable for walking through the forest." Mylan reached out to touch the soft silk of her blue gown. "Since you'll not wear the garment I gave you, you cannot afford to ruin this one."

  "If you'll but wait a moment I will put on the other one." The coarse wool would be uncomfortable, but she wanted to go with him too badly to worry over that discomfort.

  "The morning is half gone already. I have no time to waste on a woman's whims!" Turning to hide his smile Mylan stalked off with a long, confident stride, his limp barely noticeable as he moved down the path to the woods. He took his time that day, knowing the longer he left Celiese alone the more anxious she would be for his company when he returned and therefore all the more agreeable to his demands.

  He could not understand her continual eagerness to please him, but he would be a fool not to make it work to his advantage. He would most certainly never allow her to hunt with him, but there were plenty of other chores to keep her busy. He had forgotten to tell her to water the vegetable garden, but that was so obvious a task she would undoubtedly think of it herself. If she did not, he would scold her sternly for being so negligent. That she had so few practical skills was annoying, but she was bright and would learn soon enough how to manage his farm so he could leave it in her care when he returned to the sea.

  When he had shot a plump bird for their supper he sat down under a tree and stretched out to rest, for he did not want to misjudge his strength as he had yesterday. He was fortunate that the wound had not been far worse. Another day or two of rest were what he still needed. As he sat lazily in the shade he soon began to wonder how Andrick had fared with Olgrethe. He had wished him luck and had meant it, but thought his brother had little chance of making the willful girl happy.

  She was no prettier than Celiese, in fact, he had found Raktor's daughter something of a disappointment after having known her maid. It was not so much that her features were any less attractive, nor her figure any less amply endowed, but her manner was not nearly so pleasant nor her smile half so sweet.

  Celiese had done him a great favor, he thought ruefully, for she had saved him from marrying a young woman who would surely have nagged him incessantly, always wanting to be kept amused, and he had no desire to be any young woman's pet. All women were troublesome, he thought suddenly, bothersome creatures he would sooner live without. He would not make the mistake of ever trusting another female, but he intended to enjoy what they did have to offer nonetheless. His frown deepened as he thought of his three brothers. As the eldest he was expected to be the leader, but he had set a sorry example in the last two years.

  Perhaps with Celiese there to help him he would be healthy enough by the next spring to return to the sea with his former vigor. There was the matter of his ship—it needed to be completely refurbished. And his crew had been scattered when he had had no work for them, but with a year's time to prepare he should be able to set sail again. His mind turned to the wondrous possibilities for adventure, and he dozed away the afternoon before returning home to see what Celiese had accomplished in his absence.

  She had stood watching until Mylan had disappeared into the forest before she had returned to his house. She could not see any task she had left undone, so she had no idea why he had been so terribly disappointed with her housekeeping when he had given her no clue as to what had caused his displeasure. The house was small and his possessions many, but she had done her best to see they were neatly displayed and had no intention of doing any of her work over again when he had not explained why he had been so angry.

  As for herself, she had almost nothing, and, wondering if he might not have some fabrics she could fashion into another gown, she opened his chest and began to sort through its contents, stacking the layers of his clothing in neat piles by her side. She had meant the compliment when she had paid it; all his clothes were very fine, and her fingertips brushed the soft suede fondly as she laid it aside. Rather than the few yards of silk she had hoped to find when she reached the bottom of the chest, she discovered only a piece of heavy wool she recognized as being a small portion of a torn sail. Leaning down to touch it, she found it had been wrapped around some heavy object, and she lifted the bundle out to see what it contained.

  The unexpected sight of the gleaming sword startled her badly and she drew back, ashamed now that she had searched through Mylan's belongings, regardless of her purpose. The blade of the double-edged sword was decorated with the finest gold filigree, an intricate swirling design pounded into the steel to create not only a most deadly weapon but a magnificently beautiful one as well. It was a sword any Viking would prize, and she knew he must have a suit of mail as well as a helmet and shield.

  Armor was expensive, but he was a wealthy man from a fine family and could afford all the necessary implements to make war. That he chose to reside on so distant a farm in such a humble abode was unusual, even perplexing, but she guessed he had wanted to be left alone while he recuperated from the injuries he had suffered in his encounter with the bear.

  Undoubtedly his armor and other weapons would be at his father's home, but for some reason he had wanted to keep this sword close at hand, and with a shudder of contempt she replaced it in its wrapping and laid it at the bottom of the chest. She put away his clothing as neatly as she had found it, and, satisfied he would not suspect she had looked through the chest, she slammed the lid shut and turned away, as disgusted with herself as she was with him.

  There was a wicked-looking spear in the corner where he kept his bow and arrows, as well as a double-sided battleaxe that appeared to have been used only to chop wood. But it was the image of the sword she could not clear from her mind. Repelled by that gruesome discovery, she went quickly to care for the horses. As she returned to the house she noticed the vegetables in the small garden were in need of water and brought several bucketsful from the stream to quench their thirst.

  She then turned the wooden pail upside down to use as a stool and sat down to contemplate the vast expanse of grain that had begun to sprout upon the surrounding fields. Mylan must have sown the seed just prior to their wedding, and the bittersweet memory of that day filled her heart with despair. She sat gazing out over the countryside, her posture betraying her dismal mood.

  * * *

  Mylan paused as he rounded the corner of the house. Celiese was sitting so still he approached her stealthily, uncertain why she should be observing his small garden with such intense interest, but she was concentrating so deeply that she did not notice his presence until he cleared his throat and spoke gruffly.

  "The plants will grow without such close supervision, Celiese, or is the knowledge of how to raise food for your own use also a skill you lack?"

  "What?" She leapt to her feet, picking up the pail by the handle as she replied, "I was merely thinking my own thoughts, not wondering how these plants grow."

  "At least you were clever enough to bring water, that is all the vegetables require for the time being." He frowned with disappointment, for the young woman was obviously not in the least bit pleased to see him return home. She looked annoyed, impatient at having been interrupted when she had been doing no more than stare at his garden! Thrusting the hen he had shot toward her, he exclaimed, "If you have no idea how to pluck a bird, I suggest you learn before suppertime."

  She backed away, not eager for such a duty, "Why couldn't you simply teach me how the fowl is to be prepared rather than complaining that I'm unable to do it? You have no reason to continually treat me so meanly."

  "No reason!" He threw the limp bird at her feet, furious with her for being so stubborn. "That I speak to you at all should please you. That I have been so generous as to bring you here to live with m
e has clearly made no impression upon you."

  She drew back her foot, tempted to kick the dead bird clear over the roof of the house. "Is it gratitude you want or simply obedience?" she asked defiantly. He looked extremely fit, and he could silence her with one blow from his fist, but she was beyond caring.

  For the first time Mylan stopped to consider the expert fluency with which Celiese spoke his language. There was no trace of an accent in her speech, and she never seemed to lack for the precise term she wanted to make a point. "Can you even speak the French tongue?"

  "What?" Confused by the irrelevance of his question, she could only stare up at him too dumbfounded to give a more sensible reply.

  "Can you speak the language of the French? Yes or no?"

  "Oui," she replied flippantly, tossing her fair curls for emphasis.

  "What does that mean?" Mylan took a step closer, closing the distance between them to no more than a foot and that space was occupied by the dead hen.

  "It means yes, I am a Frenchwoman, and I speak the language of my people as easily as I speak yours."

  That she could manipulate words so readily made him distrust her all the more. "I care not at all what you say or in what language you speak as long as you learn to prepare meals worth eating." He turned away, disgusted she was no easier to manage if left by herself all day. He swore under his breath. He had wanted her to... to what? To learn her place; but he had taught her nothing that day.

  Perplexed by the bitterness of their angry encounter, Celiese glanced down at the feathered heap at her feet and decided the sooner she began the disagreeable chore of plucking the bird clean the sooner she would be finished. Using the wooden pail again as a stool, she sat down and began to pull away the feathers, scattering them to the wind as she muttered a coarse string of oaths of her own.

  Mylan warmed only enough water to clean himself thoroughly with a wet cloth before he peeled away the bandage that covered his side. The wound seemed to be healing well, but the scar would be as hideous as his others, he thought with a grim sense of humor.

  Celiese stopped at the door, never having expected to find Mylan standing nude. She was uncertain whether to go back out or to simply complete the errand that had brought her inside. When he glanced over his left shoulder at her she continued to regard his lean physique with an admiring gaze as she explained, "I came to get a knife to dress the bird. Do you need me to rebandage your side while I am here?"

  He found the pretty young woman's level stare astonishing, for she seemed to be neither embarrassed nor repulsed by his unclothed body and he was as uncertain as she as to what action he should take. He reached for his suede trousers and pulled them on without seeming to hurry as he responded. "No, it will be better if I do not cover it now."

  Coming close, she reached out to touch his ribs just above the gash. "Are you certain? It has just begun to heal. If you were to move too quickly it might tear open."

  Brushing her hand away, he laughed at her concern. "Just what do you think I'll be doing tonight that will prove so strenuous?"

  Frightened by the taunting light in his golden eyes, she blushed deeply as she backed away. He was right, of course, if he came after her now he would cause himself far more pain than pleasure. It was that threat that appalled her, and she could think of no ready retort to wipe away the smirk of triumph lighting his handsome features with such devilish glee. Turning away, she picked up his knife from the table. Suddenly noticing that it was decorated with the same rhythmic pattern of inlaid gold filigree as the sword she had found earlier, she nearly let it slip from her grasp.

  "Be careful with that! I'll not have the blade dulled by your carelessness!" he called after her, but she was gone before he realized she could just as easily have turned in his direction and thrust the blade of that highly prized weapon clear through his heart. Appalled by his own carelessness, he vowed to be more cautious where she was concerned, for he knew he had frightened her, and she was not the type of woman to take such an insult lightly.

  "A slave would not dare attack her master," he murmured, but she did not regard herself as a slave. He swore bitterly, and Celiese would have been pleased to see the mocking shine had left his eyes to be replaced with a far more clouded glow of confusion.

  Celiese roasted the hen upon a spit over the hearth, and although Mylan paid no compliments he did not complain about the meal she served him, and she considered that a victory in itself. There was still the matter of her sharing his table, however, and it was all she could do not to ask him why he wished to treat her so rudely when there was no one else about to know or care if she dined with him. Not wishing to beg for his company if he would not give it gladly, she cut off a tasty portion of the breast for herself and went outside to enjoy the coolness of the evening while he finished his meal. She then went for a walk before returning to the house, and to her relief found Mylan sleeping soundly. But it was a long while before she could rest, with the strain of their uncertain relationship troubling her so badly.

  In the following days Celiese found her life no easier to live, for now she frequently looked up to see Mylan studying her actions with an interest she felt far from flattering. He would laugh at her blush, or remind her of some tiresome duty she had neglected to perform, but she recognized the gleam in his amber eyes for the pure lust it was and knew it was only a matter of time before he felt well enough to give vent to his passions once again. He had been so dear to her before, so gentle and sweet, but now everything had changed between them and she could imagine no torture worse than having Mylan treat her as a whore when she still wanted so badly to be his bride.

  Her mounting fears compounded to terrifying proportions the afternoon she went to the door to shake out a fur and saw Mylan approaching with two strangers. The men were almost as tall as he, yet neither had a pleasing appearance. They struck her instantly as being of the same crude nature as Raktor and his kin, and she closed the door, looking about for someplace to hide herself, but there was none and the men were too close for her to successfully escape them if she ran outside. She tossed the glossy pelt upon Mylan's bed and backed away into the corner, praying the strangers would not be invited inside, but in the next instant all three men came through the door.

  "I can offer you some ale, at least while we discuss the reason for your journey here, but I can give you no hope that your proposal appeals to me." Mylan slammed the door behind his guests, using far more force than was necessary to emphasize his words. "I am not pleased to see you, nor would I welcome anyone now when I am busy with my crops and cannot spare the time for such an interruption as your presence here presents."

  Celiese held her breath, for she knew Mylan was no farmer. He spent his time hunting or with his horses, and she doubted he did more than glance at his fields from the day he planted them until the harvest began. She brushed a stray curl away from her eyes, wanting only to disappear into the shadows, but to her horror Mylan called out to her in a loud voice.

  "Have you no manners, Celiese? I would like my guests to be served as promptly as they would be in my father's home. Bring us some ale and be careful to spill none, for I have little to spare."

  The strangers turned then, their mouths agape as they watched the graceful blonde prepare to serve them. Never had they seen such a treasure, and after they exchanged knowing glances one exclaimed, "So this is your woman, Mylan. No wonder you do not wish to be disturbed. I would never leave my bed were she to share it!"

  Appalled by the boastful man's assumption, Celiese set the tray down carefully upon the table without daring to look up at Mylan. She knew him to be a proud man and she did not want to hear his response, for he would be no more pleased by his guest's teasing than she was. As she turned to go, the man who had spoken reached out to grab her wrist.

  "What is your name, girl? The story is a confusing one, I'm told. Are you slave or wife? What do you call Mylan, master or husband?"

  She struggled to pull free, but the man held he
r too tightly and finally she had to look toward Mylan for assistance, her gaze imploring him to speak in her behalf. The look in his light eyes terrified her though, for his glance was filled with hatred and she was certain it was directed solely at her. In desperation she gave the obnoxious visitor a hoarse command. "Unhand me, you swine!"

  Astonished by the clear ring of authority in the young woman's voice, the startled man released her with a quick slap to her fanny and gestured toward the pitcher of ale. "I like a woman with spirit, but there will be enough time for me to see to you, girl, after I have quenched my thirst. Well, Mylan, perhaps if my original proposition does not please you I can make another one that will."

  When the two strangers burst into deep peals of hearty laughter, Celiese did not tarry but reached for the pail and ran to the door. "I need more water to prepare our supper," she said breathlessly, then left the house. But the second she turned the corner she dropped the pail and fled for the safety of the woods on the far side of the stream. She ran on and on, not caring if her only gown was ripped or if her arms and legs were cruelly scratched by thorns. She kept on running until she feared her lungs would burst, and she had to sink down behind a thick clump of bushes to catch her breath before she rose again to flee ever deeper into the forest to where she hoped the hateful men would never be able to find her.

  When dusk fell and she could no longer make her way through the dense underbrush, she crawled beneath the only shelter she could find, a tree uprooted by a long forgotten storm and left half buried in the earth. She was cold and tired, and desperately afraid, for Mylan had sworn once that he would sell her at his first opportunity, and she was certain by now the money had already changed hands.

  Chapter 9

  Mylan leaned against the doorway of his house, waiting impatiently as the sun rose, his keen gaze sweeping over the fields in the distance with the same care to detail he had given the sea. The land was flat, uninteresting to view in the pale light of dawn, devoid of the constant motion that made the sea the most fascinating of sights. He cursed loudly, though no one would hear, and turned to pick up his bow and arrows, deciding if he had to search for Celiese he would at least make good use of his time.