Ravished

by Keaton, Julia

  A strange, womanly sensation assailed her. It had taken but a moment to take him in fully, but she was disconcerted to find she hadn’t had her fill of gazing upon him. She felt warm inside, inexplicably weak and giddy.

  She suspected she driveled on herself. Alex shut her mouth with effort and swallowed. She felt a dumbstruck fool--she would surely give herself away, staring at him like a simpleton. In annoyance, Alex waved away moths that had congregated to the torches and their body heat.

  “I’ll have your head for what you’ve done,” the man ground out, grabbing two massive fistfuls of her doublet. He lifted her from the ground like a bit of fluff, and disconcertingly, she felt her toes dangling. He grunted, though not with the effort. “You weigh naught more than a pageboy.”

  This was what she’d been taught to admire. Knights in shining armor, protectors of the innocent, men who would conquer heaven and earth for their lady love. She hadn’t envisioned herself in the role of villain, however.

  Alex was quite taken aback by his implication. Had she done something wrong? Mayhap she shouldn’t ought to have stared quite so long. She tried searching her sluggish brain for any other offense, but none came to her. She considered struggling, but it was hardly appropriate for her to start fighting like a she-cat. He’d merely misunderstood.

  “Nay!” Constance yelled, a welcome intrusion. Thrusting herself between them, she forced the brute to drop Alex. Alex stumbled back a step, keeping her balance, her gaze never wavering from him.

  He looked at Constance in confusion, and Alex almost smiled. She doubted anyone stood up to the tyrant--ever. Alex wasn’t sure why she should need protecting since she hadn’t done anything wrong, but she appreciated it regardless. He was a mite larger than she could handle on her own.

  The man’s hands clenched into fists when he looked back at her. Unease tightened like a noose about her neck.

  Saints! He had a foul disposition. If she weren’t so certain of herself, she might be frightened. Any other fool would be, but not she.

  “You don’t know what you’ve done, Constance.” Each word came out slowly, as though he was pained to utter them. “Get you to bed, woman.”

  “I will not leave while you tear him limb from limb, Bronson. You are my kin, and I love you, but....”

  Alex tried to make words come out but her throat had dried of a sudden. She swallowed convulsively, forcing moisture down her throat to loosen her vocal chords. “Mayhap if I introduce myself....” she squeaked.

  The man, Bronson she knew now, glared at her whilst another, younger looking giant laughed and spoke up, “Good god, Constance, the boy hasn’t even become a man! Listen how his voice breaks.”

  Alex gaped at him. How dare he? she fumed. She was certainly old enough to be a man ... well ... Certes!

  “Oh, Rafael.” Constance giggled, confirming Alex’s earlier suspicion she was an airling.

  A fluffy moth flew drunkenly around her face and she blew it away. “I will expla--” The world went black in one of her eyes. She yelped in a most unmanly manner, clamped a hand over her eyes, and flailed her free arm in the air in a vain attempt to clear it. “Damn! Remove those blasted torches from my presence!” Tears streamed down her cheek.

  “What has happened?” Constance attempted to pull Alex’s hand from her face.

  Alex wiggled from her grasp as a child would evading its mother. “Leave me be woman. Those foul torches have attracted every insect for a fortnight.”

  Constance started giggling, uncontrollably, which was bad enough, but then the distinct sound of male laughter began bellowing forth from her cruel inquisitors.

  “‘Tis not a matter of humor. Doubtless I shall be blinded in this eye and live with the damnable insect in it the remainder of my days.”

  “Come, let me see it, boy,” Bronson said, his voice over gruff and impatient. Mortified, she knew he had laughed also. She attempted to evade him, but he caught her in her susceptible condition.

  Bronson grasped her chin, engulfing it in one massive hand, and tilted her face up. “You’re as soft as a babe’s bottom. No doubt just out of swaddling yourself. Open your eye, lad.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides in defeat. Was he implying she was weak? “I can’t.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Alex wouldn’t put it past him to poke one of those enormous digits in the offended lid.

  “You will.”

  Something about his tone brooked no argument. Her lids had grown heavy as an oaken chest. She strained to lift them and looked into his face. Someone held a torch near and she flinched, expecting more flying monstrosities, but the grip that held her was firm.

  He brushed a callused thumb and forefinger near her eye, holding it open wider, looking closely. His brows were pulled low over his eyes, lending him a grim appearance. Her insides felt quivery again, but she knew it was merely fear of discovery, not those large hands, that made the wash of weakness flow through her veins.

  He released her suddenly, rubbing the hand that held her as though he’d been burned. “You’ll live. The wound was not mortal.” The other armored men began chuckling anew, earning them a glare from Alex.

  Her eye did feel better though, and she rubbed it absently.

  “I suppose we’ll have no killing tonight,” the third man spoke with a grin, obviously the youngest of the three.

  “Come, Father is awaiting your safe return to his house. We will speak inside.” Rafael took Constance’s arm and began leading her away.

  “I must needs be on my way. If I can have my horse....” Alex whirled around and started running when she was pulled to an abrupt halt, one foot suspended in the air. Craning her head around, she saw it was Bronson’s hand fisted around her cape.

  “Mine father wouldst speak to you as well, pup.” His expression was quite serious. He looked accustomed to having his way in every matter. Well, she would teach him he could not bend her to his will.

  As he dragged her across the grounds, Alex had a terrible suspicion she was drawing close to the wolves’ den.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bronson ushered a reluctant Alex through the great door of the manor, through an immense two story hall, and into the parlor off to the side. They were alone except for Constance and the two other armored men who stood watchfully silent.

  Now that they were inside, she could see all three men bore a striking resemblance. Brothers no doubt, and Constance their sister. All shared the same midnight hair, the same dark eyes. Bronson, she decided, was the most handsome, for she was accustomed to men with some age to them, not fresh faced youngsters with no life lived.

  The other two possessed an ease about them that Bronson did not share, however. She wondered if they felt uncanny having someone so close to them in appearance, having siblings. She had no experience in such matters.

  Turning slowly, she surveyed the room they were in. Gold plates, encrusted with jewels around the outer edge lined the great mantel, two passant wolves forged into the stone as support. Fine tapestries, depicting the hunt and other histories hung about the walls, woven in a fantastic array of color. Glastonbury chairs flanked the massive hearth, padded with cushions embroidered in scarlet and gold. The two other armored men lounged near the fire, having stripped some of their plate for comfort.

  It was a room built for leisure and to impress, and she was not immune to its charms.

  The ceiling stretched far above them, and trophies adorned the heights of the walls. Riveted, she stared wide eyed at the vast multitude of antlers lining the wood paneling in orderly rows. The ivory of the horns was a dramatic contrast to the rich, burgundy painted paneling, capturing her attention as effectively as a rabbit in a snare. Her eyes flashed on sconces decorated with bone, to a candle beam crafted completely of horns and lighted with an abundance of precious candles. There were hunters here, and by the look of it, very, very skilled hunters. Alex’s collar shrank around her throat.

  “Who bested these defenseless beasts?” Alex asked.
>
  “We did, generations of Blackmores,” Bronson spoke from behind, coming around her. At her look of horror, he said, “We hunt for food. No animal who dies, dies in vain.”

  The door flung open and reverberated soundly against the wall, cutting off further questions. A man who could only be the lord of the manor stomped inside with the gale force of a thunderstorm.

  Alex cringed, expecting beatings to be handed out, but Constance showed no fear in the face of her father’s wrath. Constance beamed at her father. “Papa, you will be so pleased by what has happened.”

  Her comment was answered with a brain-rattling roar, unintelligible at best but no less fierce for its perplexing denouement. His cheeks flushed dark with ire, began to glow red and darken to purple. “What on God’s green earth do you speak of? We have been scouring the countryside for you! We’d just begun preparing to assault those devil McPhersons. You have driven us mad with worry.” He pulled her into his arms for a great hug, then released her hesitantly.

  “Oh, Papa.” With a giggle that seemed to suggest Constance had not heard the threatening sounds that had come from her towering father, she said, “This young gentleman, Lord Alex Montague, rescued me. Lord Montague, this is my father, Lord Derwin.” Constance’s hand wrapped protectively around Alex’s upper arm.

  Her words seemed to dawn on him. “Rescued you?” came the ear-shattering reply.

  “Now you know better, Papa. We shan’t have you going into another apoplexy.”

  The mention of apoplexy seemed to reign in some of his fury. Lord Derwin looked suitably chagrined and slightly less angry. His circulation began to improve, lightening his dark countenance.

  For all his bluster, Alex could see he’d do no harm to Constance. He cared for her--that much was obvious in the way he held her close, in how his hands shook when he’d talked of searching for her. Constance was a fortunate girl to have a loving family.

  Something told Alex Constance was accustomed to wrapping her father around her finger.

  “I believe you have some explaining to do, young lady,” Lord Derwin said, sounding as though commanding great armies would be natural to him.

  Constance further irked her father as she leaned over and whispered loudly, “Do not fret so. Papa really is quite gentle.”

  Alex glanced at the antlers on the wall, not quite believing her.

  “Remember when you said to me I should explore my horizons?” She looked innocently at her father who, by this time, had cooled to a slow simmer.

  He sputtered, but she continued, “There is so much to see at the fair and when I heard the servants speaking of it, I knew this was just the sort of activity you would approve of.” Lord Derwin guffawed. Un-perturbed, she said, “The fair was glorious ... but on the way home some dreadfully smelly man that I had ignored at the fair accosted me and had the gall to demand my purse. I, of course, told the gentleman that I would do no such thing. He became quite cross.”

  Alex thought cross did not accurately describe the man but wisely kept her own counsel.

  “A lady simply cannot abound anywhere these days.” Constance tilted her chin up. “Oh, Papa. You would be so proud! If it were not for Lord Montague ... well ... I shan’t have known what I would have done. He bested that dreadful man with his sword, just like in your stories, Papa. He rode his beautiful steed into the clearing like an avenging angel. I nearly fainted, I was so relieved to see him.”

  Eyeing Alex appreciatively, noticing her for perhaps the first time, he said, “It seems we are indebted to you ... my son.”

  Before Alex knew what was happening, he embraced her and pounded her with good fatherly humor on the back with breath-taking force.

  “It ... it was nothing, my lord. Any true gentleman would have done the same.” For this comment Alex was the lucky recipient of another back-bruising hug. With effort, she caught her breath.

  “Oh, my boy. I have not heard of such chivalry since my father’s days. It does me good to see a man after my own heart. Chivalry is not dead!” he said with a raised fist, as if challenging the gods to dispute him.

  “I knew you would be thrilled.” Constance smiled prettily at Alex and her father.

  “You must allow me to extend my hospitality to you. I will brook no argument,” he said, attempting a stern face, a smile threatening.

  Bronson had remained in the background during the exchange, silent, but not forgotten, leastwise not by Alex. She studied him from the corner of her eye. His anger and disgust was a palpable thing. If she were to have any trouble, it would come from him, she knew.

  It seemed hours had passed since her arrival at Derwin Hall, but in a short amount of time she had already sealed her fate, caught in a mire so like quicksand it was shocking. Of course, she could turn this to her advantage. Before her adventure, she had learned her cousins’ castle was not far from this place. Lord Derwin would undoubtedly know of his neighbors.

  The situation was not completely abhorrent--Saints!, what could she be thinking? She was far outnumbered here, her danger of being exposed had increased exponentially. What’s more, they were seeming enemies of her family, though she’d give her eye teeth to know why.

  No, she could not stay. When the first chance to escape arose, she would take it. Until that time, she could not appear rude, lest she arouse their suspicion.

  “If it would please milord, the honor is all mine,” she said, a hand placed over her heart as she made a sweeping bow.

  Bronson grunted from the corner, the arrogant son of a jackal. Doubtless he would take pleasure in her exposure and certain torture to follow.

  “Good my boy. My sons welcome you as well.” He gave Bronson a meaningful look.

  “W-we have not had formal introduction.”

  “Damn, I have but forgotten my manners. Sons, I present Lord Alex Montague of ... whence have you come?”

  “Evenshire, my lord.”

  “Of Evenshire. My sons,” he gestured with his hand and they came forth as he spoke their name, “The thundercloud in the corner is Lord Bronson Blackmore. My second son Lord Rafael, and youngest son, Lord Gray. I have another son, older than Gray, Lord Nigel, but I fear he enjoys the intrigues of court far too much to visit us often.”

  He had another son? A veritable army of them, all battle honed and wary.

  Alex could scarce believe three such giants had issued forth from one maker, let alone four. She pitied their poor mother. Rafael and Gray looked closer than Bronson. Their smiles and the twinkle in their eyes bespoke deviltry. Aye, she could tell by the look of the Blackmores that they were rogues, the lot of them. There was no doubt in her mind that the last was equally as devastating. Alex was thankful she was not susceptible to charm and flattery, nor a fair face.

  She realized she had been rudely silent. “And the lady of the manor?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “She has passed on,” Bronson gritted out. His ears were devilishly keen.

  “My apologies.” ‘Twas a trial for her to keep anger from her expression. Alex would be glad to see the last of him. He had taken a dislike to her for some reason she couldn’t fathom, and she abhorred having someone angry at her for no good reason.

  Lord Derwin dismissed Constance to see about readying Alex a room. “We will see you have every comfort. I will not have it spread about that we treat heroes shabbily in my household. You must rest and refresh yourself.” He draped his arm around her shoulder as a friend, as a father.

  She felt homesick of a sudden and cursed the foul winds of change for her contemptuous destiny.

  She sighed. Alex wondered again at her good sense, but it was too late to back out. She would have to make the best of the situation until opportunity presented itself.

  “Come now, I will show you myself to dinner and your room.”

  As they started to leave, Bronson called out, “We welcome you, Lord Montague. I look forward to your stay.”

  Lord Derwin chuckled.

  She caught Bronson’s dar
k look but said nothing as they exited. She felt his eyes bore into the back of her skull until they’d gone, and she was left to ponder his cryptic statement.

  What could he mean?

  * * * *

  “Well, brother, what did you make of the scamp?” Rafael asked, his legs outstretched, and the remainder of his plate scattered carelessly on the floor along with his brothers’. A servant would be by soon to collect and polish it, and return it to their armory for safekeeping.

  “I think him a pissant in need of a good whelping.” Bronson yawned, stretching like an immense beast of prey. “I’d blister him for being off from home, but I’d likely break his puny bones with one wallop on his arse.”

  “Ha! You put on too good a show of nonchalance.” Gray sat up in his chair, leaning forward. “You’re afraid Constance will enamor herself of him ... or worse, ensnare the boy with her charms. He’s a touch pretty I say, but women always find that most appealing.”

  Bronson’s arched brows drew low over his eyes. “Nay. Constance has better sense.”

  “Aye. What possible harm could come from the runt?” Gray laughed at his dark look. “Ah, I see the thoughts tumbling through your skull, you’ll listen to naught I say. Enough of this, will you come with us tonight?”

  Rafael was on his feet in an instant. “Aye, we have some fair wenches in dire need of your protection.”

  Mouth tipped in a crooked grin, Gray said, “They’d welcome your sword with pleasure.”