The Very Thought of You

by Lynn Kurland

  She frowned, disgusted with herself. As if she had time to moon over a man!

  Then again, why not? Just because she ran her keep with an iron fist didn't mean she couldn't appreciate the sight of a fine-looking man as well as the next woman. And this was a man to be appreciated over and over again. She would indulge herself for a brief moment. She allowed herself few enough pleasures that this was surely permissible.

  His face was beautifully sculpted with a fine, straight nose, prominent cheekbones, and a generous mouth. The night before she'd watched that mouth go from being taut with well-controlled fear to relaxed with laughter. The insolence of the man to laugh in her face when she had informed him he was her prisoner. She'd been half tempted to stick him just to show him she wasn't to be trifled with. But to mar that finely fashioned form? It had seemed almost a sacrilege.

  And then there were his clothes to add further to the mystery. She held the candle over him. What strangely fashioned hose he wore. The cloth was like nothing she'd ever seen before. She reached out a hand to touch it. It was heavy blue cloth, but surprisingly soft. Indeed it was worn almost clear through to the skin at his knees. And even through the cloth she could feel the heat of his skin and the hardness of his muscles.

  She pulled her hand back as if she'd been bitten. As if she should stand there and fondle the man!

  She turned her attentions to his other garments. He wore a shirt made of much the same stuff as his hose, though it appeared to be crusted over with some kind of substance. She didn't want to investigate further. Perhaps he was clumsy when he ate. She couldn't reconcile that with his clean-shaven appearance, but men were strange creatures.

  His cloak was passing odd. It was cut close to his body and hardly reached his hips. The garment seemed to be fashioned of very fine leather. Why had he not had it sewn to be of some use? What did it serve him if it did not cover his backside at least?

  Margaret stepped away, her hand trembling. The truth was hard to accept, but she knew she could avoid it no longer. She put the candle back on the table and hugged herself, trying to stifle the tremors that were growing inside her. Damnation, but she'd made a disastrous tangle of things. And it all had to do with the man before her being so infinitely pleasing to the eye.

  The Brackwalds being, of course, notoriously ugly.

  Even if the man's insistence that he wasn't Edward hadn't haunted her, his comeliness would have.

  Just who was it she had tied up in her father's chamber?

  Her only consolation came from knowing the man was obviously someone of importance. If he'd been but a mere knight, he wouldn't have been sleeping in Ralf's finest chamber. Margaret swallowed, ignoring the dryness of her mouth. Hopefully he was someone Ralf would want returned. The saints preserve her if the man was one of John's cohorts. The prince would surely not look kindly on her having stolen one of his men to further her plans.

  She left the chamber and walked wearily down the steps to the great hall. George would have to be told, but she didn't think she was up to it at the moment. What she wanted was a cup of ale. Solutions to her problems would have to come later.

  She hadn't gulped down but two fortifying cups before she knew the time for solutions was at hand. She heard her handsome prisoner bellowing even before one of her serving maids came flying down the stairs into the great hall, as pale as a ghost.

  "My lady," the girl said breathlessly, "there is a man in your late sire's chamber!"

  "I heard him," Margaret said wearily. "As I'm sure the servants have been gossiping already about who he is, tell them he's a guest. He won't be here long."

  The girl curtsied and fled. Margaret mounted the steps, feeling her mail weigh more heavily on her than usual. She hadn't reached the door before George was huffing down the passageway behind her.

  "I'll subdue him," George panted. "He's a bit on the spirited side. I'm surprised, as I'd heard Edward was most mild mannered."

  "It's not Edward of Brackwald," Margaret admitted reluctantly. "I made a mistake."

  "What?" George shouted, aghast.

  Margaret winced. Between George and the prisoner, she began to wonder if the walls would start to crumble.

  "Enough!" she shouted, pounding on the door. She threw George a dark look. ' 'How was I to know? He told me he wasn't Edward, but I assumed he was lying."

  "Margaret, how could you have been so foolish?" George exclaimed.

  "I didn't do it apurpose," she said stiffly. She ignored her captain and faced the door. "Prisoner?"

  "What?" came the angry answer from within the chamber.

  "Stand you away from the door."

  "You tied me to the damned bedpost!" the man thundered. "How am I supposed to even get to the door?"

  Margaret drew her sword and unlocked the door. She entered the chamber cautiously. The man was standing on his bound feet, hunched over and looking very uncomfortable. She had fettered his arms behind him and then secured another rope between his wrists and the bedpost. She surveyed her handiwork with an approving glance.

  "Cut me loose!" the man demanded.

  Margaret bristled at the arrogant tone of his voice. "When it pleases me," she said curtly, closing the door behind her.

  He jerked on the ropes, and she backed up a pace reflexively. It was no wonder she'd had such a hard time getting him on his horse. He was huge. He was easily a hand taller than she and just that much broader. And he had a formidable temper. Anger was written in every line of his body, from his crushed-together ankles to his mussed hair. If he could have gotten his fingers around her throat, he would have no doubt enjoyed himself immensely.

  Margaret gritted her teeth. Not only had she abducted the wrong man, she'd had the grave misfortune of abducting one who was infinitely more dangerous than she had expected. Saints, she had been lax!

  "Are you going to cut me free, or stand there dithering?"

  She stiffened in spite of herself. The insolent wretch. She put the tip of her sword into the wooden floor and folded her hands on the hilt.

  "I do not dither. If I cut you loose, I will likely find myself murdered, or worse," she said coldly. "I am not a fool."

  "Of course not. That's why you so carefully checked the identity of your kidnapee."

  "Kidnapee?" she echoed. Where was this man from? Not only was his French poor, he seemed to have trouble remembering many of his words. That was surely the only explanation for the way he mixed together French and an accented dialect of the king's English.

  "I'm talking about myself," he said impatiently.

  "Ah," she nodded. "I see." What an odd way he had of speaking. Was he one of Richard's allies from the continent? The very thought chilled her to the marrow. The king would have her head for this!

  "Margaret!"

  She blinked at him. "What?"

  "Cut me loose!"

  She shook her head. "I don't dare."

  She had to think. If he were one of Richard's allies, he would return to the king with the tale of her foolishness, augmented greatly no doubt. The saints only knew what would befall her then. Despite his captivity, Richard's arm was still very long.

  She resheathed her sword, then paced to the window and back, ignoring her prisoner's repeated attempts to attract her attention. She could not set him free. The risk to herself was too great. The saints only knew how the king would have his envoy choose to punish her. She could be stripped of her lands. She knew she held them by only a tenuous grasp as it was. Worse, Richard could force her to wed with anyone he chose—as if he hadn't already attempted that! Only this time she knew he would brook no disobedience. By the saints, he could force her to wed with Brackwald and see that she did so. A kinder thing to do would be to see her hanged, but even that wasn't too pleasant an alternative.

  She looked back at her captive. He was glaring furiously at her. She couldn't set him free. It was obvious she couldn't retain him in the keep forever. She sighed deeply. It was a drastic measure to take, but she saw clearly it wa
s her only choice.

  "I regret this," she began, "but I fear I must kill you." The man didn't even blink.

  "Don't be an idiot," he said, through gritted teeth.

  Margaret folded her arms over her chest and looked at him coolly. "I think it is the best choice."

  He growled in frustration. "You said I would come to no harm. Don't compound your mistake by adding murder to it. Cut me loose, then I'll leave and we'll pretend this never happened."

  "I've rethought the matter and changed my mind. The king would never forgive me for this."

  "What does Richard have to do with this?" Margaret winced. This man was on such familiar terms with the king that he called him by his Christian name? She groaned inwardly. Aye, he would have to die. Perhaps she could bury him where no one would find him. The king was very far away, and news traveled slowly. His Majesty would believe that his friend had merely had an unfortunate accident and been lost on the roads. Ruffians abounded, as did disgruntled Saxons who had lost their homes. Aye, there were many who could be blamed for such a tragedy.

  "Margaret, what does Richard have to do with this?" the prisoner demanded.

  "You would know that better than I," she said tartly.

  "I would?" he asked, looking surprised. "What do I know of Richard?"

  "You speak of him as if you were dear friends," she said, trying to be patient, but finding his pretend ignorance very tiresome. "Surely you see now why I have to do away with you. Should you return to the king with this tale, he would take away everything I hold dear. It would not surprise me to have him put my neck in a noose."

  He looked even more surprised than before. "Why would he do that? You just made a mistake. Surely he would understand that."

  "Cease with your ploys. You know him far better than I and you are well aware of what a monarch does to disobedient vassals. I will do you the courtesy of a last meal, then I'm afraid you will have to die."

  "Damn it, I am not one of Richard's buddies!" he exclaimed. "Hell, I'm not even English!"

  That caught her off guard. "You aren't?"

  "No, I am not." He paused for a moment, then frowned. "I'm from Scotland." He looked at her as if he expected her to say something.

  Margaret shrugged. "A barbarian from the north. Richard has spies everywhere."

  "I'm not a spy. If you kill me, you'll kill an innocent man."

  Margaret shook her head, amazed at his tenacity. She had to admire it, for she would have done the same in his place.

  "Whatever else you are," she conceded, "you're a very good liar. I will bring you a meal in an hour's time. Enjoy it, for 'twill be your last."

  "Unbelievable," he said, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Go ahead and kill me. My blood will be on your hands. Innocent blood," he said pointedly.

  Margaret looked at him again, trying to judge. He was lying, wasn't he? What man wouldn't lie to save his neck?

  He cleared his throat pointedly and she looked up out of habit.

  "Aye?"

  "I don't suppose you'd allow me to pass my last few hours in freedom, would you? To be quite frank, I have a few unmentionable needs to take care of."

  She hesitated. Cutting him loose was out of the question, at least his arms, anyway. But she could sympathize with his desire to relieve himself. And it was the least she could do for a condemned man. She pulled her knife free from her belt. The man was perfectly still as she approached. She paused a few paces away.

  "A score of men wait without. Harm me and you'll die without your meal."

  His pale blue eyes hid no deceit. "I doubt you'll believe this, either, but I've never laid a hand on a woman. To hurt her," he added with a trace of a smile.

  Margaret snorted. His meaning was entirely too clear. She could hardly hold him responsible for his charm, though. Only a fool would have been able to resist him.

  "Perhaps I am a fool after all," she muttered under her breath as she knelt before him and cut the bonds around his ankles. He grunted and swayed the moment the blood rushed back to his feet. She stood and put her hand out to steady him. How solid he was to the touch! She jerked her hand away, then fetched a chamber pot. She set it on the floor next to him.

  "There. That should serve you well enough."

  "And how do you propose I use it? Are you going to help me?"

  To her horror, Margaret felt color flood to her cheeks. She couldn't remember the last time she had blushed, but she knew it hadn't been long enough in the past. And damn the man if he wasn't wearing a mocking smile. She took her knife and jammed it into the table next to him.

  "Use that, knave," she said, spinning on her heel and stalking to the door.

  "Alex," he called after her.

  She didn't want to turn around, but she did. "What did you say?"

  "Alex. My name is Alex. And that knife isn't going to do me any good where it is."

  "Then find a way to move it," she threw over her shoulder as she jerked open the door and bolted out into the passageway. The man was mad! How could he even for a moment think that she would be fool enough to cut him free?

  She made her way quickly down to the kitchens. The sooner the man was fed, the sooner he would be dead and one less thing she had to worry about.

  Five

  Alex stared down at the chamber pot longingly. Here was just one more reason he should have gone to Barbados. At least if he'd been captured, he would have been naked—which certainly would have solved his current problem.

  The door opened slowly. Alex looked up, intending to give Margaret of Falconberg a very long human rights lecture. Only it wasn't Margaret. It was a grizzled old warrior whose crusty expression was enough to make Alex back up a pace. If he could have backed up a pace. He tried anyway and ended up sitting down on the bed with an ungraceful thump.

  The man closed the door behind him softly, and Alex wondered if he would even get that last meal. He wasn't ready to meet his Maker yet. Fiona MacAllister needed him. That didn't begin to address what would happen if Zachary were left at home too long with all of Alex's toys. His brand new Range Rover would be trashed inside a week.

  "Damnation," the man said, stroking his bewhiskered chin. "She's bloody right about it."

  "I beg your pardon?" Alex said.

  "You certainly aren't Edward of Brackwald."

  "No, sir."

  Alex didn't call too many people "sir." Some men just seemed to demand it. Like the man currently giving him the once-over. Alex felt like he was sixteen, being grilled on why he'd broken his curfew. He had the most ridiculous urge to give a list of plausible reasons as to why he found himself currently loitering in medieval England.

  "Your name, young man?"

  "Alexander," Alex replied promptly. "Sir," he added, suppressing the urge to salute as well. Not that he would have been able to. He cast another longing look at the chamber pot.

  "Alexander of what? Who is your sire? Whose man are you?" The questions came at him like machine-gun fire. Military men hadn't changed, so it seemed.

  "Ah," Alex stalled, wondering where to start, "it's a long story."

  "And I have nothing but time." The man folded his arms over his chest and waited.

  Well, this just wouldn't do. Alex knew he would have to make up something, obviously. What sort of reception would a Scot receive anyway? He racked his brains to try to remember just how relations had been during Richard's day. William Wallace hadn't come on the scene yet, so maybe the Brits just looked upon the Scots as their barbarian cousins in the north. It could be worse.

  "My father," he said, deciding on mostly truth, "is of Seattle."

  "Seattle?" The man shook his head. "That is not familiar."

  And it won't be for some time, Alex added mentally. "It isn't in England."

  "France? The continent?" The older man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Then why, by all the saints, is your French so poor? One would think you hadn't spent much time in Phillip's country."

  "True," Alex agreed. "I haven't been to Se
attle in many years. I lived for a time in New York, ah, York," he amended, "but mostly I made my home with my sister and her husband in Scotland." That was a little lie, but it was better than dropping a time-travel bombshell. "In a little village near the Benmore Forest. My brother-in-law is laird of the clan MacLeod." Or will be in a hundred years or so, he added silently.

  The man chewed on that information for an eternal moment, then spat out another volley of questions.

  "What are you doing in England? Why are you begarbed in such a fashion? Why were you at Brackwald?"

  "I'd fallen off my horse when Edward found me. He offered me the hospitality of his brother's hall. Such as it is."

  "You were in Brackwald's finest chamber."

  "That isn't saying much."

  A flicker of amusement crossed the man's face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

  "To where were you riding?"

  Alex gave him a weak smile.

  "I was out riding on my brother-in-law's land, and I took a wrong turn and wound up in England."

  "Indeed."

  "It's the truth," Alex said. "I didn't mean to come here, and if you could see your way clear to cutting me loose, I'll get back on my horse and be off Falconberg soil in an hour."

  The man stared at him for another eternity, and Alex had no doubts his fate was being decided right then and there. The old soldier could have drawn his sword and cut him down where he sat.

  Without warning, he motioned for Alex to stand. Alex did so, but he was less steady on his feet than he would have liked to be. He'd faced career death before, fending off angry CEOs, pit-bull attorneys and judges with expensive contempt-of-court rulings on the tips of their tongues. He'd also found himself along with Jamie in a Scottish dungeon with open wounds on his back and his sword out of reach, and yet he'd lived to tell. Only that had been back in the days when he'd still carried a sword.