“Arms up,” she said.
“I hope you’re right,” he grumbled, spreading his arms in compliance. “I hope your sister comes before thieves do.”
She secured his right arm to the wood frame. “Let me worry about the thieves, Norman.”
As she leaned over him to seize his left wrist, he was tempted to make one final attempt at escape. One unexpected blow of his fist could probably knock her senseless.
Two things stopped him.
The first was chivalry. Colin always treated women gently. He never raised his hand in anger to a maid. Indeed, he seldom raised his voice to a lady. The thought of intentionally hurting a woman was unconscionable.
But the second thing that gave him pause was the fact that as Helena reached across his body, she lost her footing on the rushes and stumbled forward against his chest. He stiffened, sure he’d feel the dagger plunge into his throat. Fortunately, her instincts were lightning-swift. She pulled back the blade before it could do damage.
But for one instant as she lay there, crushing his ribs, their eyes caught, and an awareness of mutual vulnerability passed between them. She could stab him. He could disarm her. Instead, they remained paralyzed at some curious impasse. And in that moment, as he gazed into her startled green eyes, unable to move, unable to breathe, he glimpsed, beneath her bravado and flippant manner, a gentle heart.
In the next moment, it was gone. She closed her eyes and her soul to him and pushed up off his chest with a dismissive frown.
Then she anchored his last hand.
Colin fought back mounting unease. It wasn’t the first time he’d been tied to a bed by a woman, but Helena was the first to make the knots inescapable. If anything happened, he’d be helpless to defend himself…or her.
Helena, her task completed, nodded in satisfaction. Sheathing her knife, she took four steps and sank onto the three-legged stool. She was still rattled from nearly stabbing her hostage. At least she tried to convince herself that that was the source of her breathlessness. The fact that Colin’s gaze had for a moment lost its mocking cast and seemed to glow with admiration had nothing to do with the way her heart was racing.
“My lady, this is unwise and—”
“Hush.” She didn’t want to listen to his arguments. Now that her captive was secure, she could rest easy in the knowledge there would be no more excitement today.
Colin complied with her command and seemed to be absorbed in thought as he lay staring at the crumbling ceiling of the cottage. Now she would just sit and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Her stomach growled loudly, and she glanced in chagrin to see if Colin had heard the sound. He had. Though his eyes never left the ceiling, the corners of his mouth turned up in amusement.
She scowled. “Maybe if you’d locked me in a cellar with food…”
“My apologies,” he said.
She chewed at her bottom lip. Lord, she was hungry. There were those who mocked her ravenous appetite, but they didn’t realize how much fuel her warrior existence required. “Deirdre should send word before nightfall,” she said, half to herself.
“And if she doesn’t?”
Helena didn’t want to think about it. In her impulsiveness, she’d brought no provisions. If they were forced to stay the night, in the morn she’d have to seriously reconsider her plans.
She continued to wait, as restless as a caged wildcat, prowling the small room, and then plopping down upon the stool, roaming now and then to the window to peer through the sagging shutters, only to witness the shadows growing deeper and deeper.
By her twelfth trip to the window, she could see only the vague silhouette of the trees against the twilight sky. The air was heavy with evening mist, and she shivered against the chill. No one would come now. Though Helena was fearless when it came to the forest, cautious Deirdre never roamed the woods after dark.
She sighed, turning away from the window. She supposed they’d have to spend the night in the cottage then.
She rummaged through the contents of the pine chest. There was a wool coverlet with moth holes in it, and this she tossed atop Colin. He had to spit part of it from his mouth, but the rest of it covered him from shoulders to shins. She dragged out the two remaining blankets, as threadbare as the first, and used one to make a mattress for herself on the floor beside the pallet, bunching straw beneath it.
It was a travesty, she thought, sleeping on the hard ground while her hostage took the pallet. But the bed frame was a more solid place to secure him than the walls of the hovel, which might collapse if he tugged on them with enough force.
Stretching out with her feet in the direction of Colin’s head, she pulled the remaining coverlet over herself and watched the cottage slowly fade to dove gray, then to slate, then to ebony.
Just as she was about to give up on ever falling asleep, across the darkness, Colin whispered, “Are you awake?”
It was tempting not to answer him. She didn’t want to hear him gloat about how he was right, that no one had replied to her missive.
But she was fitful and hungry and bored. Conversation would be a welcome respite from ennui. Even if it was with a Norman.
“What do you want?”
“Tell me, Hel-fire, are you afraid of anything?”
She bristled at his pet name for her. “Aside from being stuck in a cottage with a chattering Norman all night?”
He laughed. “Aye, besides that.”
“Fear is a waste of time.”
“But surely you fear something.”
She shrugged. “What is there to fear?”
“Wild beasts. The dark.” He paused, and then added pointedly, “Starvation.”
She snorted. “Don’t fret, Norman. I won’t let us starve.” She smirked in the dark. “Though you could stand to lose a bit of softness about the edges.”
“Softness?” he blurted. “I’m nothing but muscle, you wicked wench, and you know it.”
“Then how is it I was able to overcome you in the cellar?”
His laughter seemed to warm the room. “’Twas a clever ploy, little vixen, luring me into your lair that way.”
She furrowed her brow, wanting to be irritated, but secretly pleased by his praise, which for once seemed genuine.
“Where did you learn such wiles?”
“Trafficking often with half-witted men,” she said dryly.
“Ah.”
As soon as she said the words, she regretted them, for her cutting remark silenced Colin. And as much as she claimed to despise the man, discourse with him was not unpleasant. He was a man of appreciable wit, even if most of it was wasted on fawning flattery. At supper, he’d seemed educated, well traveled, and somewhat interesting. And on a cold and empty night such as this, stimulating speech was welcome.
So after a lengthy silence, she relented and gave him a gentler reply. “My sister and I have always battled men of greater size and strength. We’ve learned to rely as much upon our minds as our muscle.”
When he didn’t answer at first, she suspected he might have drifted off.
Finally, he gave her a soft reply. “If your muscles are half as able as your mind, my lady, you must be a worthy foe indeed.”
She was glad of the darkness, for his compliment brought a blush to her cheek. Surely it was just another piece of empty Norman flattery. Flustered, she felt the silence thicken again, and she searched for words to fill it. At last she grudgingly replied, “That trick with your shoulder…’twas…’twas clever, as well.”
His chuckle eased the tension. “That? ’Twas inspiration born of desperation. The fall was accidental.”
She smiled. The poor fool probably had injured himself.
Quiet descended again, and she was sure this time her captive had settled into sleep. As the night lengthened and the stars wheeled slowly through the heavens, Helena’s thoughts began to drift back to Rivenloch.
Had Deirdre received the missive in time? Would it serve t
o delay the consummation? Or was poor Miriel even now languishing in her marriage bed?
“You’re restless,” Colin murmured, startling her.
“Perhaps because someone keeps waking me.”
“What troubles you?”
How he’d guessed she was troubled and why she should disclose her most secret thoughts to her enemy, she couldn’t fathom. But the truth seemed to slip off her tongue as easily as butter from a warm knife. “If he hurts her…if he harms her in any way…”
“Pagan? By the Rood, my lady, he is no ravager of women. Aye, he has a fierce reputation as a warrior, but all the maids claim he is the gentlest of lovers.”
“All the maids?” Her mouth soured. “So my sister is wed to a philanderer?”
“Nay,” he hastily replied. “Far from it. Faith, Pagan hasn’t had half the women I have.”
Helena rolled her eyes, a gesture completely wasted in the dark. “Ah. So you’re a worse philanderer.”
“Nay. I only meant—”
“And just how many women have you had? Do you notch your saddle for every—”
“Bloody hell! ’Tis not about me. ’Tis about Pagan.” He sighed in exasperation as he tried to climb out of the pit he’d dug. “He’s a good man, a better man than I am. And he’s a man of his word. He swore to you last night he wouldn’t take your sister against her will. He will not.”
Helena wished she could believe that.
“I swear it on my own spurs,” he added. “She won’t be forced to do anything.”
With that feeble assurance, Helena rolled onto her side and pulled the thin coverlet over her shoulders. But it wasn’t worry for Miriel that kept her awake now. It was the image of Colin counting the women he’d swived, and the appalling fact that she should even care.
Finally, as the creatures of the night slowly emerged, the mice skittering along the cottage walls, the owls hooting from beyond the shutters, a lone wolf baying in the distance, she laid the dagger beside her head, falling asleep with one hand on the haft.
Chapter 4
Colin woke in the quiet hours before dawn to the sound of Helena’s breathing. It wasn’t exactly a snore or a shudder, but something between the two. The room was still as dark as the grave and cold enough to turn breath to mist.
His chivalrous heart went out to the shivering maid. Bending his head forward, he caught the edge of his coverlet in his teeth and, inch by tortuous inch, dragged it off himself, until it finally fell atop her. There was a snort and a rustle as she woke enough to rearrange herself, then slipped back to sleep.
Meanwhile, he lay awake and shivered, wondering what the day would hold.
He was sure if Pagan intercepted Helena’s missive, he’d think it a great jest that Colin was being held at the mercy of a wench. Pagan would be in no hurry to ride to his rescue, and Colin might languish here for days. Which, given the comeliness of his abductor, might not be a terrible thing.
But they were hardly provisioned to stay any length of time. She’d brought no food, and her only hunting weapon was his dagger. He had coin, but it would do them no good in the wilds of the woods.
Would she reconsider her demands? Could he convince her that Pagan would never agree to them? That while Pagan was not unreasonable, he was resolute? That he was a wise leader with Rivenloch’s best interests at heart?
Any other woman, Colin would have had eating from his fingers with just a wink. But this maid was a challenge. She was no simpering bud to bloom at his touch. Helena was more akin to the thistle of Scotland, bright and lovely to look at but fraught with treacherous thorns.
Despite the cold, Colin drifted back to sleep, dreaming he searched for a prized purple thistle in a vast field of pale daisies.
He wakened some hours later when the door closed. It was Helena, returning from outside. She must have gone to answer the call of nature, something he’d have to do soon.
Sunlight struggled through the forest flora now, enough filtering down through the patchy roof to lend a dim golden hue to the room. Emerging in the hazy glow, dressed in her surcoat of pale saffron, the Scots beauty looked as magnificent as Apollo, still warm from the chariot of the sun. She drew near, and he noticed she held something cupped in her hands.
“Morning,” he mumbled, squinting to adjust to the daylight.
“I found a patch of strawberries,” she said. “You’ll need your strength for the walk back.”
That brought him fully awake. “They’ve come?”
“Nay. But they will. Soon.”
“Hm.” He wished he had her optimism.
“Open,” she said, bringing her hands close. The alluring fragrance of ripe berries made his mouth water.
They were as luscious as they smelled. As she dropped the tiny berries one by one into his mouth, like the adoring concubine of an Arabian prince, it took all Colin’s will to resist lapping the sweet juice from her fingers.
“Deirdre should come by midmorn,” she predicted.
Colin thought not. When Pagan successfully seduced a woman, as Colin was sure he had, she lay abed with him for hours.
Helena tucked another berry between his lips, and he playfully nipped the tip of her finger, earning a scowl. As he crushed the strawberry between his teeth, he suddenly noticed that his coverlet had been returned to him. She must have replaced it before she went outdoors. He grinned. Little Hel-fire was not half as heartless as she pretended to be.
When she offered him another berry, he turned away. “You take the rest. You must be famished.”
She wasted no time, wolfing down the handful with zeal.
“Let me ask you something, my lady.” Now that her hunger was momentarily staved off, perhaps she’d listen to reason. “If you win, if you have this marriage annulled, what do you hope to gain by it? After all, this alliance is decreed by your own King.”
She smacked the juice from her thumb. “I don’t think my little sister should be a pawn in the King’s game.”
“’Tis no game. ’Tis a true union. The Normans and the Scots are allies, you know.”
“Nonetheless, ’tis not Miriel’s place to be a sacrifice. She’s too young and too—”
“Wait.” Colin blinked. “Miriel. You said Miriel?”
“Aye, my sister.”
He shook his head. “But Miriel did not wed Pagan.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“She didn’t wed him.”
“What do you mean?”
“She. Did not. Wed him.”
Understanding finally dawned in Helena’s eyes, and she gave him a solid shove. “Why didn’t you tell me this? You let me abduct you for nothing?”
“Let you?”
“So Miriel is untouched. And Pagan is not steward of Rivenloch.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
“Pagan is steward.” He braced himself for another possible shove. “Deirdre married him.”
“What?”
“Deirdre disguised herself as Miriel and wed Pagan.”
A curious expression evolved on Helena’s face, first shock, then outrage, then anger. “That conniving vixen! She planned this from the start. She got me drunk a-purpose and…”
“You’re not pleased?”
“Nay, I’m not pleased!”
“But Miriel has been saved from wedding Pagan.”
“’Twas I who was supposed to wed the bastard,” she snarled.
“You?” He burst out laughing, which was a grave mistake.
Fire blazed in Helena’s eyes, and she drew her dagger, brandishing it before his eyes. “Aye, me. What of it?”
“Nothing,” he said, making a poor attempt to control his laughter. “Only…”
“Only what?” she bit out.
He could have flattered her, told her she was far too beautiful and sweet to be wasted on Pagan. He could have. He should have, considering she held a sharp blade not three inches from his chin. But Helena was bright. She�
�d smell his deception in an instant. He’d have to tell her the truth, or at least a diplomatic version of the truth.
“Pagan likes his women more…malleable. Weak-willed. Weak-kneed. Weak-minded.”
“Hmph.”
“Neither of you would be content in such a marriage.”
“’Tis not necessary to be content. I’m certain Deirdre won’t be so.” She sheathed her knife and backed away again. “And if Pagan believes for one moment she is weak-willed…”
Colin frowned. The last time he’d seen Pagan and Deirdre together, they’d been arguing over castle defenses. Perhaps Helena was right. Perhaps they’d have an unhappy marriage. But he didn’t think so. It wouldn’t take much for that spark of rivalry to flare into a heart-consuming fire.
Suddenly he realized with Miriel saved, Helena no longer needed a hostage. “Does this mean we can return now?”
“Return? Nay. I would still have the marriage annulled.”
“But why?” Colin was beginning to see why King David had sent the Knights of Cameliard to take over the keep. He doubted the three rivaling sisters could stop quibbling long enough to agree on a way to lower the portcullis.
“Because I intend to wed him.” Helena sniffed. “’Twas supposed to be my sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice.” Colin shook his head. “Where we come from, Pagan Cameliard is considered a prize.”
“Maybe to a crofter’s wide-eyed daughter.”
He quirked up the corner of his lip and narrowed his eyes, goading her mercilessly. “Oh, nay,” he said, nodding. “I see now. You’ve secretly grown fond of the warrior captain and want him for yourself.”
Her mortified shudder was priceless. “You’re mad. Why would I willingly wed a…a…”
“Norman?”
She shuddered again.
“Tell me, my lady, why do you hate Normans so?”
She smirked. “We won’t be here long enough to count the ways.”
“You’re a cruel wench,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Very well, tell me just three things you hate about Normans.”
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