by Julia Latham
As the pace of his eating slowed, Arthur began to glance shyly at Florrie. She smiled at him, and when she would have spoken, Sir Adam suddenly took her hand. She blinked at him. He smiled at her, giving her all his attention. His thumb ran lightly over her knuckles, back and forth, so slowly it somehow made her want to squirm. She couldn’t stop looking at his face, at his even white teeth and the day’s growth of dark whiskers that almost disguised the dimple in his chin.
“Do ye travel far today, sir?” Arthur asked.
His voice startled Florrie, and she looked away from Sir Adam.
“It will depend on milady’s pleasure,” Sir Adam answered.
Florrie felt herself blushing at his low and intimate tone. And though he held her hand lightly, it was almost all she could think about.
Wide-eyed, Arthur stared between the two of them, then shook his head.
“Fools in love,” she thought she heard him murmur as he rose to his feet. “I thank ye for sharin’ your meal,” Arthur continued. “This be a lonely place at times.”
Sir Robert and Sir Michael gathered together the remains of the food, and Florrie found herself assisted to her feet by Sir Adam. He tucked her hand in his arm with all the grace of a lover. She waved good-bye to the young shepherd, and when he was far enough away, she yanked her hand free.
“And what was the point of that performance?” she demanded in a low voice.
Sir Adam’s face had returned to its usual impassivity. “The boy needed to understand that there was no point in showing interest toward you.”
“You do not think my being surrounded by three men would have brought home that point?”
He ignored her. “And by showing him that we were relaxed enough to be playful around him should ease his suspicions. You did not seem like a captive.”
“So you also did that for the benefit of whomever might be looking for me.”
“Of course.”
And then he slipped the rope back around her wrist and helped her to mount. Florrie wasn’t going to be distracted.
As the midday sun slid behind clouds, and their small traveling party resumed the journey, she said gravely, “This performance will fool no one. Word will spread as more and more people see us. My father’s men will come to rescue me. It would go well for you if you release me now.”
“And abandon a plan I’ve been anticipating for four years? I think not.”
“What happened four years ago to set this plan in motion?” she asked, too curious to resist.
Not looking at her, he said, “’Tis none of your concern.”
“If it’s about my father, it is my concern. Did he oppose you at court or best you in a contest of wills?” Sir Adam could very well have met her father—it wasn’t readily apparent that her father’s health had faded, because he was good at projecting vitality and strength.
Sir Adam didn’t answer.
She slapped her hand on her thigh. “How can you speak of fighting my father, but not tell me why?”
“Because ’tis none of your concern.”
“He’s my father!”
“And for that I pity you.”
She opened her mouth in shock, but could think of no response. He obviously blamed her father for something terrible, and she could not gainsay him. The marquess of Martindale was not a nice man; he had no friends, only allies or enemies. He’d put two wives into the grave with his obsessive need for a son, but all for naught.
Florrie sighed and let their conversation die. The only interesting thing that happened during the afternoon was that they passed three beggars going in the opposite direction. After giving her a warning look, Sir Adam dropped her leash, so that it dangled near her thigh. Florrie was uninterested in escaping at the moment, but he wasn’t to know that.
The beggars were dressed in a combination of animal skins and poorly sewn cloth. At their waists hung metal clapdishes, which they opened and closed noisily as they begged for attention.
“Please, sirs,” one had called, his face hidden behind a hood, “can ye spare a bit for poor folk?”
Florrie expected Sir Adam to give them great leeway; instead he rode right up to them and fished in a pouch at his waist for three coins, which he tossed into each clapdish. Then he continued riding at her side, as if he hadn’t just done a good deed.
Was he simply a kind man caught up in a desperate situation that he felt honor bound to resolve? She couldn’t even be afraid of a man like this—but he wasn’t to know that.
This journey—though she’d been forced into it—was proving the most interesting experience of her sheltered life. No one usually paid any attention to her, and yet now she was the focus of a secret mission. These men didn’t know that her father wouldn’t care that she’d been kidnapped—if they knew the truth, they’d probably take her home, and the adventure would be over.
She suddenly realized the direction of her thoughts. How had this become an adventure, rather than a frightening kidnapping?
And was she being a fool to even entertain such a thought?
Chapter 4
They avoided a small village late in the day and made camp in a stone cattle shed in the center of a grazing pasture, where four stone walls met. A wide stream followed the path of one wall, and Adam saw Lady Florence eyeing it with longing. And he didn’t think she was simply thirsty. He waited for her request.
Not long after their supper—a rabbit Michael had snared and roasted—she approached Adam where he was grooming the horses. Adam saw that Robert, who’d been assigned to watch her, was standing nearby.
“Sir Adam, I need to wash,” she said hurriedly, “and I need more privacy this time.”
“So you don’t want me bound to you.”
“I do not.”
She took a deep, fortifying breath, and he could not help watching the way her small breasts rose.
“If I don’t wash after a day riding a horse,” she continued, “then I will not be able to stand myself.”
He felt the need to rile her, to keep her afraid of his intentions. Leaning closer to her, he murmured, “I don’t mind a little perspiration.”
For a moment he could have sworn that she looked curious rather than afraid, but she turned away from him and shuddered. Nay, he must have been wrong. She was his prisoner—she was afraid of him.
“If you are not bound to me,” he continued, when she remained silent, “my men and I will have to stay near.”
She whirled back to him, mouth open, and he held up a hand.
“We will keep our backs turned. But we cannot risk you escaping again.”
She gave a dramatic sigh and flung her arms wide. “Where will I go on foot?”
“Mayhap the village we just passed.”
“I know no one there, and I have no money!”
He shrugged. “You make the choice.”
She put her hands on her hips and said between her teeth, “Do you have soap?”
“I do.”
“Oh.” She looked taken aback. “And a drying cloth.”
“I do.”
“Do not men simply…shake the water from themselves?”
He squelched a smile. “Like a dog?”
“Well…I cannot imagine you would normally bring such luxuries on a journey.”
“They are not just for you.” He turned back to the horse. “I like comforts when I travel.”
He heard her sigh. “I do not suppose you have a change of clothing for me in this magic saddlebag of yours.”
“I do not. But I could give you a clean shirt to wear beneath your dress.”
“Instead of my smock?”
He glanced over his shoulder. She looked horrified—and then intrigued. It was going to take him some time to understand how her mind worked.
They waited until dusk for her bathing rituals. Adam knew the other two men had already washed themselves, for their wet shirts lay strewn over a stone wall to dry. They’d positioned themselves a stone’s throw away, one up
and the other down the stream, their backs to Lady Florence’s chosen bathing spot. Adam left her with the ball of soap in its leather pouch, a cloth, and a clean shirt, should she choose to use it. Then he went several paces out into the pasture, away from the wall, and stopped.
“You’re not far enough,” she said immediately.
“I will not turn. Now wash quickly, and remember, if I cannot hear you, it will be my angry face you see rather than my back.”
Suddenly he heard the rustling of garments, then the splashing of water.
And his mind began to torture him.
The stream wasn’t deep enough for her to immerse herself…so, was she kneeling and washing at the water’s edge, naked? He imagined her hands lathering the soap, then those hands rubbing over herself—over him.
He was only with her a day and a half, and already he was aroused by her most of the time.
Was this what it would have been like if he’d grown up near women? Or would his body have finally become used to their presence? He couldn’t imagine so. It was almost painful to think of her fair form, nude, glowing softly in the dying light.
He fisted his hands at his sides, staring out into the growing darkness. He had a mission, he reminded himself. He would calculate again how many days it would take before Martindale heard that his youngest daughter was missing. Martindale would think he was after a ransom, of course, that he wouldn’t have taken her very far as he waited to send a missive threatening her life.
But Adam’s mind, usually so logical, seemed to repeat the same figures and suppositions over and over again.
He heard water splashing softly, and imagined it sliding in little trickles down between her breasts. He groaned.
At last, after what seemed like an eternity, she called softly, “I am done.”
He strode back toward her. He was aware of both men disappearing into the growing darkness, released from guard duty. He almost didn’t want to be alone with her. What kind of cowardly thought was that?
Adam saw that she hadn’t made use of his shirt, but her hair was damp, and her skin seemed to glow with moisture.
“Down on your knees,” he said harshly, staying on his side of the stream.
“But—”
He pointed to the ground, and she dropped down.
“I need to wash, and my men cannot guard you.”
She looked up and down the stream. “Where did they go?”
Was there a note of panic in her voice? That should have pleased him, because a frightened captive would behave. But it was more difficult than he’d imagined having a woman afraid of him. He didn’t like how it made him feel.
“They’ve gone to scout our surroundings, to judge if we’ve been followed, and to see if the way ahead is clear.” He loosened the laces of his tunic at the back of his neck and pulled it over his head.
She gave an actual squeak of surprise.
Wearing a forbidding frown, he continued disrobing.
Florrie knew she should turn away or close her eyes. Her heart banged with panic, her mouth felt dry, yet still she watched Sir Adam as he lifted his shirt up his body and over his head. In the last light of day, his torso seemed to glow, each hill of muscle etched vibrant with shadows. She was not ignorant; she’d seen more than one man without his shirt on, performing the same chore Sir Adam now did.
But…something was different. Looking at his chest incited a new response inside her that was confusing and even—exciting. Surely it was because this was an adventure; she was taking each new experience inside and trying to understand.
Then he leaped over the stream, and she gasped, sinking back onto her heels. He ignored her as he knelt down, giving her that impenetrable stare. She waited, barely breathing.
“Soap?” he said without emotion.
Heat flooded her face as she passed it to him. He washed himself quickly with his hands, dunking his head briefly. And she didn’t even try to pretend that she didn’t watch him.
He saw the cloth she’d used to dry her body, then thrown across the wall. “No sense in wetting another one.”
And he used it on his body! Then he took the clean shirt he’d originally offered her and donned it. She almost expected him to hand her his soiled shirt to wash. Since she was still pretending to be afraid of him, she was going to meekly agree to the task. Instead, he efficiently washed his own shirt and spread it to dry beside the others.
He rose at last and pointed to the cattle shed, now dark and gloomy in the twilight. “Come.”
And she did, without a protest, her mind still examining everything that she’d just felt. Once inside, they were free of the breeze. There was plenty of fresh hay stored, so the smell was tolerable, and the horses would be happy. She could barely see, except for the beams of moonlight coming in through the shuttered window.
When he began to bring out food, she could not help asking, “Are you going to start a fire?”
“Nay, I do not want a nearby farmer to wonder who uses his shed. The hay will keep my men warm. And I shall keep you warm.”
He looked at her, as if preparing her for the inevitable. She bit her lip and said nothing.
While they were eating, the other two men returned. Both reported seeing nothing, and Sir Adam only grunted a response. While they ate quietly, she wondered if eating in the dark made conversation seem foolish.
At last, Sir Adam looked at her. “Find a spot in the hay to spread a blanket. I will join you in a moment.”
Once again, she did as he wanted, almost biting her tongue to keep from protesting. But she had to lull him into thinking he frightened her. The three men stood at the door and spoke in low tones, their forms as dark as shadows. What could not be said in front of her? Were they planning something else to capture her father’s attention? Instead of feeling afraid, she felt impatient. Sir Robert left the shed, Sir Michael wrapped himself in a cloak near the door, and Sir Adam approached her, a big, dark outline in the stone building. He stepped over her body, then sat down beside her.
She lay on her back and frowned. “What if I don’t wish to lie on my side?”
“I do.”
He stretched out along her body, his chest pressed to her arm, his head propped on his hand. His knee rode over her thighs, startling her. It was heavy and hot, and she felt as if he were about to climb on top of her. She was shocked by how curious she was about how it felt to have a man in such an intimate position.
“My long legs have to go somewhere,” he said.
She quickly rolled to her side, and barely heard his chuckle as the sensation of him once again pressed against her. She’d had fleeting memories of sleeping together all day, had told herself she would become used to it by now. But she’d just seen his sculpted chest nude, and now it was pressed against her back, lifting with each breath. His hips were tight against hers, and to her surprise, she felt…something long and hard. Did he hide something within his clothing? She didn’t know what it was, but she wasn’t going to ask. He had even forgotten to tie her wrist to his, for which she was grateful.
Wide-eyed, she waited for him to fall asleep, but gradually realized that he hadn’t. And that kept her awake. She thought hours might have passed, while her wide eyes burned with fatigue and she concentrated on slowing her breathing and emptying her mind. Nothing worked. At last she turned her head to speak, and he abruptly covered her mouth with his hand.
“Say nothing,” he murmured against her ear.
She froze, sensing tension in his voice, and suddenly fearing it. What was happening? She heard the unusual sound of birdsong at night, only a moment before the window shutters near her feet burst open. A man’s body blocked the moonlight. At her back was nothing but the rush of air as Sir Adam leaped to his feet. With a punch, he knocked the man back out the window, then turned to face the strangers coming through the door.
Florrie scrambled backward through the hay until she was up against the wall. Digging frantically, she at last found a tool handle. She ran
her fingers along it until she knew it was a pitchfork. Holding it in front of her, she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it.
She couldn’t see much unless the men staggered through the faint beams of moonlight. She heard muffled curses and groans, and she panicked. Were these her father’s men, come to rescue her? How could she shout that they weren’t to kill anyone on her behalf?
Another man slid through the window and crept toward her. She didn’t know how to feel—until he passed through moonlight, and she saw his ragged beard, narrowed eyes, and triumphant, gap-toothed grin.
He wasn’t her father’s knight, not a knight at all.
She screamed and waved the pitchfork. Then he was plucked away from her by Sir Adam, who dealt him a hard blow. As Sir Adam tossed the thief out the window, another came up behind him. Florrie swung the pitchfork with all of her might and hit the stranger in the back of the head, staggering him into Sir Adam, who caught him roughly. Sir Adam stared at her in obvious surprise. She lifted her chin, feeling proud of herself.
After that, it all seemed to be over quickly. She saw the glitter of sparks only a second before Sir Michael brought a small fire to life. So much for not caring if a farmer saw the light. Had they been lying to her, perhaps anticipating this very attack? She didn’t understand anything, but was going to demand answers.
After they were done with the attackers, of course. She watched mutely as they tied up the three men. They dragged them outside, and she went to the door to see Sir Robert binding another two out by the wall. They left the gagged men in a heap, where only an occasional groan could be heard.
When they returned to the shed, she backed away to let them through the door. “What will you do with them?” she asked breathlessly. “They are thieves, are they not?”
Sir Adam squatted down beside the fire, motioning Florrie to join him.
He wiped a trickle of blood from his chin. “You realized quickly that they weren’t here to rescue you.”
She remembered the triumphant gleam in her attacker’s eyes. “They were not knights.”