He stroked his beard as though mulling her words. “Regrettably, I have no way of proving to you that they are all right. I was assured, though, that no one would be harmed by the potion in the wine.”
“Assured by whom?”
He shrugged, but didn’t answer.
“Did you taint the drink?”
He almost appeared insulted. “I did not.”
“Who, then?”
“I cannot say.”
Addy’s anger flared. “You cannot say because you do not know? Or you cannot say because you refuse to tell me?”
Judging by the hardening of his expression, he didn’t like being challenged. “The potion was the best way to get you out of St. Agnes without attracting attention.”
She huffed, the sound rife with indignation.
“If I had thought you would come willingly, milady—”
“Go with a man I do not know? Never.”
“As I thought.”
Fear crawled through her, for this criminal had not acted alone. Even more disconcerting, he spoke like a cultured nobleman, not a commoner. Was he one of her sire’s peers? Mayhap she’d met and spoken to him at a feast. She must find out as much as she could from him, so that once she was freed, all of those involved would be caught and punished. “For what reason did you abduct me? What do you want?”
Silence stretched as his gaze wandered down the front of her bodice to her folded hands. ’Twas a very deliberate stare; almost possessive. Goose bumps skittered over her skin, for only one man had ever gazed upon her that way before. Years ago, she’d been thrilled to know Garrett had desired her so passionately. This man, however, was being far too bold. If he thought she’d ever be his, in any way, he was dead wrong.
She crossed her arms, curtailing his ogling. His lips twitched, as though he fought not to grin, before his gaze slid back up to meet hers.
Misgiving churned inside her, but she must keep him talking; he hadn’t answered her questions.
“What reason did you have for kidnapping me?” she said again. “What—?”
“I did what was necessary.”
“Necessary?”
He nodded once, as though his answer was complete and final.
“Necessary in what way?” she pressed. “And for whom? You? The man or men who hired you?”
He shook his head, his dark locks gleaming in the sunlight. “’Tis all I will tell you for now.”
Annoyance sparked, for he was toying with her, feeding her only the tiniest morsels of information. She wouldn’t give up, though; she’d wait and ask the same questions another time, until she found out what she wanted to know. “So be it,” she said. “Yet, if I am your captive, I at least should know what to call you.” Besides ‘arrogant bastard.’
His brows rose.
“You must have a given name.”
Warning touched his gaze, and a heady tingle coursed through her. Was he afraid she’d figure out who he was?
The silence lagged.
“Well?” she insisted.
His eyes narrowed, and then, of all things, he chuckled: a genuine, admiring laugh that sent shivers dancing over her skin.
Her face warmed. “You find this situation amusing?”
“Nay, milady, I find you amusing.”
Mother Mary!
“You are in great peril, but you do not caution your tongue.”
She refused to cower, despite the awful quivering of her stomach. “I only ask what is fair. You know my name. Therefore, I have a right to know yours.”
“Do you?”
Mayhap this fool would respond to threats rather than questions. Forcing a cold smile, she said, “Did you know I am to be wed days from now, to one of the most powerful, renowned men in all of England? Once my betrothed realizes I am missing, he will be searching for me. So will my father.”
Her captor’s expression had shadowed with wariness.
“My betrothed will not rest until he finds the man who dared to jeopardize the wellbeing of his lady.”
Her abductor almost seemed to be holding back a smile, but she hadn’t spoken in jest. He was a damned idiot if he didn’t heed her warning. “You would be wise to release me.”
“You will remain here.”
“If you release me—”
“I will not.” His tone warned there was no point trying to change his mind.
Impatience and anger prompted her to rise to her feet. Head held high, she stood in a stream of sunshine swirling with dust motes. “I have warned you. You might think you have bested my betrothed and my father in whatever plot you have contrived, but they will find me and free me. You will lose all.”
“We shall see.”
“Indeed we will.”
Their gazes clashed. As she stared into his brown eyes, she sensed there was so much more to this man than he would ever let her understand. And yet, God help her, she’d swear she’d seen such expressive eyes before….
He moved toward her, his leather boots creaking in the quiet of the chamber.
She longed to step back, but there was nowhere to go; the bed was right behind her.
Do not show weakness, her conscience screamed. Show him you will not be defeated.
He closed in on her. Her palms dampened with sweat, and she curled her fingers into fists.
An earthy, outdoorsy scent surrounded him: a blend of verdant forests, sun-drenched stone, and windswept fields. To her shame, she liked the scent. It reminded her, oddly, of the seashore long ago.
His hand rose to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyelids fluttered on an unexpected swell of longing and confusion. A battle warred within her: a sense that she knew his touch. The only man who’d ever touched her, though, was Garrett, and he’d died while fighting for the king.
She tilted her head, trying to dislodge her captor’s fingers, but his hand moved to her nape and held her firm.
“Stop,” she whispered. She hated feeling trapped. Hated that her life, for now, belonged to this man.
His smoldering stare bored into her. “Am I hurting you?”
“Nay, I….”
“What?” he coaxed, a huskiness in his voice. “Tell me.”
Addy swallowed hard. What should she say? She didn’t dare tell him that for some strange reason, he reminded her of her true love.
***
God’s blood, she was exquisite. Sunlight gilded her in gold and gave her hair the shimmer of silk, her eyes the gleam of precious gems.
Never had he expected his feelings for her to still be so strong, but the defiance and iron resolve she’d displayed while they’d talked had stirred his admiration, along with bittersweet recollections of long ago.
His heart ached for the love they’d once shared. He had loved her. He’d known many women, but his feelings for them had never come close to the way he’d felt for her.
She trembled in his hold, and his jaw tightened as self-loathing washed through him. How vile that he was bound by his loyalty to Ransford to harm her. Hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do. Hell, he still had a sense of honor, no matter how tainted his soul might be.
A better man would have released his grip on her by now. But, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. ’Twas a simple matter, to uncurl his fingers from her tresses and let his arm fall back to his side, but he didn’t want to stop touching the softness of her hair, or being close enough to catch her enticing fragrance.
A breath shivered from her, a sound that reminded him of the sighs she’d made when they’d kissed. He tried to resist, but his gaze dropped to her mouth, her full lips slightly parted. Even now he remembered the glorious taste of her. Kissing her had made his soul come alive with pleasure, made him feel as if, for once, he belonged. ’Twould be very easy to lean in and claim her mouth in a kiss once more….
Her posture stiffened. She’d clearly fight him off if he attempted a kiss.
Admiration for her stirred again, along with a renewed surge of self-condemna
tion. He had no right to think of kissing her. In no way was he worthy of one so lovely, so unsullied—when he’d been corrupted and forced to become a man at a far younger age than most.
As he’d told Ransford, with her, he was wisest to hide behind the armor of anonymity.
“Why did you…gaze upon me like that?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
His teeth ground together as he pulled his hand from her hair. “Like what?” Anger at his weakness for her roughened his tone.
“Your stare was very…familiar.”
He laughed, forcing menace into the sound. If the threat was convincing, he could frighten her as Ransford had ordered—and she’d be too unnerved to pursue her questions.
“You stared at my lips. Why?”
Unsettle her. Distract her. Keep her from figuring out the truth. “Mayhap I was pondering other ways to make you use that pretty mouth,” he growled, “and not for talking.”
Fury flashed in her eyes. Her face reddened. “You had best not be referring to kissing, or…or something lewd.”
“If I was?”
She glowered, while quivering like a tiny wren facing a windstorm. “You will never make me—”
“Never?” he taunted.
Her lips pressed together. At last, she was going to cease her questions.
“Have you and I ever met before?”
Ah, hellfire. He hadn’t managed to stop her at all.
I am the man who loved you, a little voice inside him answered. The one who wishes he’d never let you go. Forcing down the words, he remained silent, his gaze locked with hers.
“Aye or nay,” she said firmly.
A chivalrous man would tell her the truth. Yet, he could also reply in a manner that wasn’t a lie. “I do not owe you answers.”
Triumph glinted in her eyes. “So we have met before, then.”
He scowled. “I did not say that.”
“If we had never met before, you would have said ‘nay.’”
An urgent cry for caution whipped up inside him. He didn’t want her knowing who he really was; didn’t want to battle the deep shame he’d experience when shock and recognition etched her features.
Stepping away, he turned his back on her and strode for the door.
“Who are you? Tell me!”
Without answering, he quit the chamber and locked the door behind him.
***
Addy sank down onto the bed. Frustration burned within her, but she forced herself to calm. She would achieve naught by staying flustered.
She must try to remember where she’d met her captor before. He clearly wasn’t eager for her to recall, though, which made the mystery even more perplexing.
Did he not want her to know because, despite his privileged upbringing, he’d chosen a less-than-respectable profession? He could be a mercenary, a trained warrior who’d once fought for his king, but whose services now could be bought by whoever offered him the most coin.
If he was a mercenary, she was likely being held for ransom…or to settle a grievance against her father. After his rash outbursts condemning the king, her sire did have enemies.
Tears pricked her eyes. Oh, Father, how I wish you hadn’t been so foolish.
Whatever plan had been initiated, however, would not succeed if she escaped. That must be her priority, for she would never allow herself to be used against her sire.
Addy hurried to the door and put her ear to the rough-textured panel. The diminishing tap of footfalls told her that her captor was descending stone stairs that led to and from the chamber. She waited, listening for any other sounds that would indicate guards were posted outside the door, but heard naught but silence.
That meant no one would stop her if she picked the lock.
She hurried about the chamber, searching for an object she could use. Her captor—damn him—had left her very little. A hairpin would have worked perfectly, but she hadn’t worn any in her braid. Her gown whipped at her ankles as she ran to the bed and lifted the straw mattress, hoping to find a loose nail in the wooden frame, but there were none.
After muttering an unladylike curse—one she’d learned from Garrett—she walked around the chamber again. She was not going to admit defeat. If she couldn’t pick the lock, then she must consider other options.
Her gaze shifted to the earthenware jug and washbowl sitting on the table flanked by two high-backed chairs. Smiling, Addy picked up the jug, for her captor would come into the chamber again. If she hid behind the door, she could surprise him.
She’d have to get close to him—perilously close—but a swift blow to the head with the jug would render him senseless.
Addy poured the water into the washbowl, while fighting an intense pang of dread. She’d never hit anyone before. Well-bred ladies did not do such things, and the thought of causing physical harm to another person made her feel distinctly nauseous.
Yet, she had no choice. She had to escape.
Chapter Five
“Did you finish writing out the letters?” Garrett asked.
Corwin sat at the trestle table, swinging his legs and holding a quill Garrett had loaned him. The boy sighed as the tip of the quill scratched aimlessly on a piece of parchment. “I do not want to do letters today.”
Crouched by the fire in the castle’s great hall, Garrett set aside the whetstone he’d been using to sharpen his dagger. “I did not give you many.” He’d spent the past few weeks teaching the lad the sounds of each letter and to recognize simple words, and today, he’d written a short sentence—A knight relies upon his honor and his sword—and had asked the lad to copy it five times.
Corwin grimaced. “What is the purpose of writing out letters?”
“To learn how to read.”
“How can reading help to win battles or hunt rabbits or…kidnap ladies?”
Chuckling, Garrett shook his head and stood, sheathing his dagger. “Being able to read is one of the most important skills a nobleman can have.”
“I am not a nobleman.” Corwin’s expression shadowed with defeat. “Not even a nobleman’s bastard.”
Garrett walked to the table and sat on the bench beside the boy. Beneath the sentence Garrett had penned, the parchment was covered with nonsensical squiggles, none of them even slightly resembling letters.
Corwin might not be of noble birth, but he was clever and capable, and Garrett wanted to give him the best possible life; the boy had already experienced the worst.
He set his hand on Corwin’s small shoulder. Shoving long hair from his face, the lad glanced up at him. “You might not have been born into a titled family,” Garrett said, “but you are part of mine now.”
“But, I am not your child.”
“Not by birth. In here, though,”—Garrett touched his hand to his chest, over his heart—“you are, and always will be, my son.”
Corwin smiled. “Son.”
“Aye,” Garrett said solemnly. “’Till the day I die.”
“Even if I do not write my letters?”
Mischief shone in the boy’s eyes now. Garrett mussed the lad’s hair and said, “You would be wise to finish those letters without delay. If you do your best work, I will grant you the extra chicken pie we bought in St. Agnes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The boy grinned and quickly set quill to parchment.
***
Addy sat near the door, her back to the stone wall.
Listening.
Waiting.
Her right hand rested on the jug, ready to snatch it up the instant she heard someone coming up the stairs.
The light slanting into her room was no longer golden, but tinged reddish-orange. The chamber remained well enough illuminated, but ’twould be twilight soon, and her captor hadn’t left her any candles or torches. She hated to think of spending a dark night alone in the chamber.
Courage, Addy. Be swift and brave, and you’ll be free by nightfall.
Addy’s pulse lurche
d, for she heard footsteps, growing steadily louder. Whether her captor was approaching, or one of his cohorts, she must seize this opportunity. She snatched up the jug by the handle and leapt to her feet.
Courage, Addy.
The footsteps stopped. The key grated in the lock.
Her heart pounded so fiercely, she was sure whoever was outside the chamber must be able to hear it. Raising the jug high in the air, she waited.
The door swung inward. Carrying two torches, her abductor strode in; there was no mistaking his broad stature.
Addy lunged. She brought the jug down toward the back of his head, anticipating the instant the vessel clonked against his skull—
In a blur of movement, the jug flew from her hand. She was vaguely aware of a clattering noise and the sound of earthenware shattering.
Her back hit the wall.
A hand clamped around her throat.
She coughed in a waft of smoke as her captor glared down at her, holding a torch just a hand’s span from the right side of her face.
“Did you really think you could overpower me?” He sounded astonished by her attempt.
“Whoreson,” she croaked. It was the foulest insult she could think of at that moment.
His mouth curved into an indulgent smile. “What a wicked word from a damsel’s lips.”
“I can think of more.” A few Garrett had taught her would apply perfectly to this knave.
Her captor laughed. Fury boiled within her, and she kicked, clawed, fought to wrench free of his grasp. The door was still open. If she could just break free—
“All right.” His smile faded. “Stop struggling. I do not want to hurt you.”
“Bastard,” she hissed.
“Stop. Struggling.”
She tossed her head, heedless of her hair catching on the stone. She must escape—
He kicked out with his left foot. The door slammed shut.
Still fighting, she shrieked at him. She brought her knee up, intending to hit him in the groin, but he dodged the blow. Cursing, he dropped the torch; it hit the planks. Before she guessed what he planned to do, his hand dropped from her throat, and he closed the gap between them, pinning her between his body and the wall.
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