by Tamara Leigh
But not she. There was nothing at all captivating—
That was not true. The streak of blood matting a length of his hair was beyond fascinating. Gilbert’s blade had done that.
“God’s teeth, men, what delights have we here?” he said in the coarse English of a commoner. As his men guffawed, a slow grin spread his lips and revealed straight but discolored teeth. Then he reached down and lifted a lock of her black hair. “Aye.” He pulled his fingers through the heavy strands. “Yer a rare beauty, lass—a fine prize.”
His eyes met hers, and their fathomless depths charged her with fear she did not wish to feel. Hate was so much more comforting.
Clutching her young charge nearer, Hattie said, “Take that which ye came fer and leave the child be.”
Harsh laughter rumbled from the man, and the other brigands answered with more of the same.
Heart pounding so fiercely Lizanne thought it might burst, she continued to stare at the man above her.
He sobered. “Aye, hag, I’ll take what I came fer.” He drew back an arm and landed a fist to Hattie’s temple.
When the old woman’s hold loosened and she toppled backward, Lizanne screamed and reached to the still form. Hardly had she touched Hattie’s rough woolen tunic than she was hauled to her feet and forced to face that evil visage.
Grinning, the man dipped his gaze to the neckline of her gown and ran a hand down her chest.
“Do not!” She struck out at him.
With little effort, he pinned her arms and dragged her near. “Aye, my beauty, ye will bend to me.” He lowered his head toward her untried lips.
The brigands’ laughter paining her ears, Lizanne jerked her chin aside and strained away from the hands that roamed her.
Dear God, I shall die! Pray, let me die!
As tears spilled onto her cheeks, she felt other hands touch and pinch her flesh. But the man who held her was averse to sharing. Issuing a growl, he swept her into his arms and shouldered his way through the throng.
Breath coming in great, choking gulps, Lizanne gripped his tunic as he carried her past those terrible, leering faces.
They had only just cleared the gathering when her captor lurched and dropped to one knee. Keeping hold of her, he shook his head as if to clear it, and Lizanne saw that blood still flowed from his head wound. It was no mild injury as she had first imagined. Mayhap God had not abandoned Gilbert and her after all and the miscreant would soon drop dead.
However, neither the Lord, nor her captor, seemed of a mind to oblige her.
Amid mocking laughter, the man surged to his feet and swung around to face the others. “Do ye laugh again, I’ll see the lot of ye gutted,” he snarled, then strode from the camp toward the moonlit woods.
“When ye finish with ‘er, Darth,” one called, “I’d like a taste meself.”
As his words were met with more jeering, Lizanne silently repeated Darth over and again until she found a niche for this bit of information in the turbulence of her mind. Then, with fear and trembling, she turned her thoughts to her desperate circumstances that were about to become more desperate.
She did not doubt this man intended to steal her virtue that was to have been the privilege of her husband, Philip. He would defile her. But was that all? Might her fate be the same as her beloved brother’s?
Do something! Do not just let it happen! You are more than that!
She did not know if it was her brother’s voice or her own she heard, but she acted on it, bucking and letting her hands fly. When her nails raked her assailant’s rough, unshaven face, he dropped her to her feet and repaid her with a slap so heavy she nearly fell over.
Covering her stinging cheek with one hand, she looked up at the devil in moonlight. He stood so rigid, his face nearly deformed by anger, that she knew his slap would not be retribution enough.
Lizanne took a step back, glanced right and left. The castle of her betrothed lay less than five leagues to the west. If she ran and hid in the wood until the sun rose to guide her…
She turned to flee but, almost immediately, found the needled ground at her back. And looming over her was the man called Darth.
His lips fell to her throat, and she squeezed her eyes closed and tried to go deep inside herself. ‘Tis but my body, she told herself once, twice, three times, desperately willing her soul to rise above this night.
But it was his weight that rose from her.
Merciful Lord! she called praise to the heavens. However, when she lifted her lids, she saw it was no angel come to her rescue. The man had but risen to his knees to remove his tunic. She started to look away, but her gaze was drawn to a long, jagged scar that slashed across his lower abdomen.
“Fight it, and ‘twill go worse fer ye,” he growled, only to shake his head and press a hand to it.
Still he suffered from his injury. Perhaps…
She threw herself to the side, but he thrust her onto her back and, with a hand to her throat, lifted her face toward his. “Listen well! I would prefer not to spoil yer beauty, but I will. Do ye understand, wench?”
She understood, but it did not stop her from prying at his fingers around her neck. What did momentarily still her was the pain lancing his brow.
Do something!
And so she did, swinging a clumsily bunched fist upward and connecting with his head wound. However, she had no moment to rejoice, for a pain such as she had never known shot through her hand and wrist.
The man slumped atop her, but she only distantly noticed his weight as she sucked in precious air that had been denied her and whimpered over the shards of light dancing against the backs of her eyelids.
Why did it hurt so? What was this pain that made it feel as if she had laid her hand upon a fire?
As the lights began to recede, she opened her eyes and looked to the pale head on her shoulder. Except for the shifting of hair by the breeze that meandered through the trees, there was no movement about the man.
Had she truly done it? Was it possible she, who had never struck another being, had knocked the man unconscious?
Question not, Lizanne! Run!
Biting her lip, drawing blood as she tried to distract herself from the pain in her hand, she twisted beneath the body and used her forearm to push it off her. As the man rolled onto his back, he groaned.
Away!
Nursing her hand to her chest, she stumbled to her feet and looked one last time at her assailant. Had she a weapon—and the courage—she would put a quick end to him. Unfortunately, she had neither.
Skirts gripped high, she plunged into the woods. Deeper and deeper she went, oblivious to the sharp rocks and pine needles that tore at her feet, the branches that tangled her hair and scratched her face.
How far or how long she ran, she did not know. Only when she tumbled into a narrow ditch, lungs raw from exertion, did she notice light was beginning to seep into the sky above the woods.
Panting, she squeezed her eyes closed and listened for the sounds of pursuit. All she picked out were the innocent noises of an awakening wood—the buzzing of insects, the twittering of birds, the gurgle of water.
Would they come? She raked her fingers through the wild hair falling about her face and shoulders, hoped against hope that she had outdistanced them.
Knowing she should continue on, she tried to stand, but her legs would not hold her, leaving her no choice but to stay awhile. For fear her clothing would reveal her amid the greenery, she burrowed more deeply into the undergrowth and promised herself she would not sleep. But her body had other plans.
With her last presence of mind, she dug her uninjured hand into the loose soil beneath her, unearthed a large rock, and clasped it to her chest lest she find herself in need of a weapon.
As fatigue dragged her under, images of the night past tumbled through her mind, the worst being that of her brother’s ravaged body. “Ah, Gilbert,” she whispered, “’twill not go unavenged. This I vow.”
CHAPTER ONE
England, 1156
By degree, Ranulf Wardieu became cognizant of his surroundings. A fetid, musty odor assaulted his senses first, the taste of it on his indrawn breath making his throat constrict.
Lord, but I thirst!
Swallowing hard against the parched tissues of his mouth and throat, he lifted his chin and put his head back against cold, weeping stones. Where his head settled, he felt an aching throb, but before he could ponder the cause, he became aware of lowered voices.
He opened his eyes and peered into the dimly lit room. Though it was too dark to be certain, his wakening senses told him he was in a cell. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he watched indistinct shadows move in and out of the light cast by a single torch.
It was but a dream—nay, a nightmare. Still, he sat forward to catch a piece of the conversation. It was the rattle of chains on either side of him that brought him fully awake.
Though his senses screamed with shock and outrage and his mind protested the pain in his outstretched arms and the numbing chill throughout his body, the warrior in him forced himself to predatory stillness.
Unfortunately, the protesting chains had alerted his shadowy companions to his wakefulness, for they had grown quiet, the flickering torch the only movement for what seemed minutes.
His own face in shadow, Ranulf stared at the silhouettes through narrowed lids. Why did they not show themselves? Who were they?
Then they were moving again, their voices louder, but not so that he could make out their words. Would they draw nearer?
Shortly, a door was thrown open on the far side of the cell, and the shadows transformed into three men who filed out and slammed the door behind them, returning the cell to its former state of near-darkness.
God’s mercy, I truly am in a cell!
Was he alone? His eyes and ears told him he was, but his senses said otherwise. Someone was yet within.
Resenting the torch that cast its shadowy light across the floor and illuminated little else save him, he assessed his situation.
He was imprisoned, stripped of tunic and boots, his only clothing undertunic and chausses. Chained upright to a wall by manacles that bit into his wrists, his arms were stretched up and out to the sides. Beneath him, his knees were buckled, his arms having carried the weight of his slumped body for… How long?
Though he felt the grip of manacles around his ankles, there was no tension between them. He lowered his chin and peered at the chain that ran from one ankle to the other, the excess of which was pooled between his feet.
Grinding his teeth to keep from giving voice to the pain in his limbs, he searched for an answer to his predicament and, gradually, memories unfolded.
He had been at Langdon’s Castle. Full of wine and ale and against his better judgment, he had succumbed to the beckoning of a comely maid and followed her down a narrow corridor. She had teased him, allowing glimpses of slender calves as she danced ahead—always just out of reach.
Upon rounding a corner, he had been set upon. Though he had delivered a retaliatory blow, his assailant had struck again—this time on the back of his skull. He had dropped to the stone floor and had only a moment to focus on the darkly hooded figure who bent over him before darkness dragged him away.
Now, most acutely aware of the injury to his head, he moved it, and a sharp pain sent his anger spiraling. Then there were his joints that burned like a thousand fires. But as much as he longed to get his legs under him and take the weight off his aching arms, his battle-proven instincts forbade him the comfort.
Trembling from the effort to contain his rage, he turned his head and searched the darkened cell. Though the mantleed corners revealed nothing he had not seen before, he continued to feel another’s presence.
He held as long as he could and then, with much resentment, lowered the heels of his bare feet to the cold earth—and brushed something soft and warm that shrieked and scuttled away.
Straightening, he peered at the manacles overhead. Thick bands encircled wrists that were raw and darkened with blood. As he was large-boned, they intimately tested his flesh, nearly cutting off the laborious upward flow of blood.
He opened and closed his hands until rewarded with prickly warmth that spread from his aching shoulders to the tips of his fingers. With the return of feeling came a measure of strength and, eager to test it, he thrust his arms forward. The restraints held, drawing fresh blood as their clatter violated the silence.
When the noise died, he caught the sound of movement to his left. “Show yourself!” he demanded, his harsh voice echoing around the stone walls.
Nothing.
’Tis a game we play, then.
Straining to the right, Ranulf put all his strength into his left arm and wrenched it forward. The manacle bit more deeply, and he growled when he felt blood trickle down his wrist. Where was he, and who dared chain him like an animal? With his bare hands, he would crush the miscreant!
Anger, fueled by imaginings of revenge, intensified until there was nothing to do but release it. He propelled his body forward and, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and wrists, fought the chains until his energies drained. With hoarse curses, he collapsed back against the wall.
“What ails you, my lord?” a sweetly sarcastic voice cut through his stream of expletives.
He snapped his chin to the left. An arm’s reach away stood a darkly clad figure. It was impossible to make out the features of the upturned face amid the shadows of a hood, but the woman’s eyes caught the barest light and glittered coldly.
His mind swept back to the moment before he had lost consciousness at Langdon’s castle. It had to have been her.
“A lord, indeed,” she murmured. “I never suspected as much.”
Though size and gender could be deceiving, Ranulf did not doubt this woman was his captor. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“An old acquaintance.” She stepped nearer, raised herself onto her toes, and boldly tested his chains.
Maddening! Close enough to smell the sweetness of her woman’s body but he could not so much as touch her. Longing to close his hands around her neck, he curled his fingers into fists.
“They hold well,” she said, and her gloved hand grazed his as she stepped back. “Best you not waste your strength so foolishly…my lord.”
Ranulf jerked the chains. “I demand to know the grounds for my imprisonment!”
She turned away.
Forcing himself to a calm he was nowhere near feeling, Ranulf followed her progress across the cell. When she stopped before the wall sconce with its single torch, he saw she was not clothed as the lady her voice proclaimed her to be. Visible beneath the hem of her mantle were the chausses and boots of a man.
As he watched, she removed the torch and used it to light others around the cell. Soon, every corner stood out in sharp contrast to its former self, confirming she and he were the only occupants.
Immediately, he imprinted every detail upon his mind. He was chained to the wall of the main room where guards could be stationed. To the left, beyond an iron-banded door with its grate set at eye level, lay a row of individual cells. To the right stood a corridor that stretched into nothingness, and from which he detected the sound of running water.
When he finally returned his attention to the woman, she faced him, and he almost laughed at the bold stance she assumed, legs spread and hands clasped behind her back. Unfortunately, he still could not make out her features, and he wondered if she had a good reason to keep them hidden. After all, what kind of woman dressed as a man and tended a cell with such apparent ease?
He felt the tug of a smile. Never had he been intimidated by a woman—not even his strong-willed mother—and this woman’s display sparked humor in him despite it being an entirely humorless situation.
Shaking off the emotion, he asked, “Am I to be told of the charges against me?”
The woman traversed the earthen floor and once more came to stand before him. The hood continued to shadow her featu
res, though he could now make out the line of a straight nose and the curve of full lips. More intriguing was a pair of keys on a thin leather thong about her neck. Worn to taunt him, they would surely fit the manacles.
“You are here, Baron Wardieu”—she pushed the hood back—“to atone for sins visited upon others.”
He narrowed his eyes on her pale, unmistakably familiar face, shifted his gaze from her intensely green eyes that regarded him with loathing to the blackest hair he had ever seen—like the starry night of a new moon.
Recognition flew at him. His captor was none other than Lady Lizanne, though he knew her only from the one time he had made inquiries after catching a glimpse of her at Lord Bernard Langdon’s castle. Shortly after his arrival, while he and his vassal, Sir Walter Fortesne, had been seated with Lord Langdon and his steward in the hall, a commotion at the opposite end had interrupted their discussion. Exhausted after two days of riding in the constant drizzle of the season, Ranulf had been annoyed at the intrusion and, scowling, turned in his chair to observe the perpetrator.
There she had stood, all that unconstrained black hair about her shoulders as she berated a servant who, it seemed, had dared lay a hand on her maid. Despite the drab bliaut the lady had worn ungirded, Ranulf had been intrigued.
“Lady Lizanne!” Lord Langdon had arisen so abruptly he upended his chair.
The lady had turned and looked across the hall, eyes wide with surprise.
“Apologies, my lord, I did not realize…” The moment her gaze lit upon Ranulf, her words died away.
Swiftly, he had risen from his chair and, towering over Lord Langdon’s plump figure, smiled broadly.
Her eyes had widened farther and mouth gaped as the color drained from her face.
Wondering if he should take it as a compliment, Ranulf had stared as she stepped toward him. Then, with a strangled gasp, she had pivoted and fled as if evil were at her heels.
Lord Langdon had grunted and, reseating himself in the chair his steward had rushed to upright, said, “My apologies for Lady Lizanne. Would that you know what a trial she is to me.”