Susan Spencer Paul

by The Bride Thief

  “By the rood!” the baron swore angrily, setting his goblet down with such crushing force that red wine spilled over the table and onto the floor. “You’ll not speak to me, or to your cousin, in such a froward manner!”

  “Oh, Father,” Evelyn said between gasps of laughter. “’Tis too funny! Can you not see? She’s in love with him! Isabelle—” more laughter, gusting harder “—Isabelle’s in love with Sir Justin! Would he not be horrified to know of it? Can you not envision his face if he knew that such a—such an ugly mouse was in love with him?”

  Sir Myles was too occupied in scowling at Isabelle to pay his daughter notice. “You’re wrong,” he said to Isabelle, “if you think I’ll ever let you wed. Save yourself trouble, my girl, and heed me well. Keep your thoughts on money and numbers, not on men. If you value your brother’s life, and your own, then understand what I say.”

  But Isabelle couldn’t. Her unfortunate temper had taken control, and she was furious. For days now, as they played their game with Sir Justin, it had been simmering. Each afternoon, when he arrived and so urgently pleaded his cause, only to be turned aside by their cruel lies, it had grown hotter. Isabelle had spent four long years suffering and laboring as nothing better than a slave in her uncle’s house. Now, every insult, every unkindness, seemed to well up and burn. Holding her uncle’s gaze, raising her fist, she crushed the writing quill in her hand, mangling the instrument with labor-strengthened fingers until it was beyond use. Without expression, she dropped the broken quill on the open ledger.

  Even Evelyn stopped laughing.

  The silence that ensued was complete, until at last Sir Myles said, “That was unwise, Isabelle. I shall have to punish you. You shall abide in the cellar without food or drink until that account is finished. If it is not done by morning, when the banker arrives to meet with me, I shall write Sir Howton a missive regarding Senet—”

  “He has naught to do with this!” Isabelle cried furiously, taking one step toward her uncle.

  “You’re wrong, my dear,” Sir Myles replied calmly. “He has everything to do with it. You will go to the cellar and finish with that account before the sun rises in tomorrow’s sky—” he pointed at the book with a hard finger “—else Senet will return here to London, where he shall be made to rightfully labor for his care, in the lowliest manner I can arrange. I make you my promise on it.”

  “Send him to White Tower, Father,” Evelyn suggested with purring satisfaction. “Have them put him to work cleaning out the garderobes. Or, better yet, offer him as a suitable gong farmer.”

  The image of her beloved younger brother slaving daily at such a horrible, filthy task—emptying latrine pits—rapidly cooled Isabelle’s fury. She could just imagine her uncle doing such a thing to bend her to his will. He was a cruel man, as wicked as sin in most of his dealings. She’d been too closely involved in his world for too long to take the threat lightly.

  Swallowing the angry words she longed to say, Isabelle stepped back and slowly sat in her chair. Her uncle’s soft chuckle told her that he understood her surrender, and she bowed her head.

  “Most wise, my child. Most temperate. I shall have a new writing quill brought to you in the cellar, and plenty of candles and ink to work by. When you have dutifully finished your task,” he said, savoring the words, “and when I have approved it, you will be released.”

  Chapter Three

  It was late before Isabelle was finally let out of the cellar and led, by a lone servant bearing a candle, through nightdarkened halls to the small room that was her bedchamber. Exhausted, hungry and cold, her bones aching from long hours spent crouched over her uncle’s accounts in the cellar’s dampness, she wearily prepared for sleep. In a few short minutes she had removed her clothes and put on the one nightdress she owned, unbraided her hair and brushed it, and washed her face and hands. Gratefully lying down beneath her covers, she muttered a few words of prayer, crossed herself once and, pushing all troubling thoughts of Senet aside, fell asleep.

  So deeply did she slumber that at first she mistook the voice for a dream—the same dream she’d had nearly every night since she first met Sir Justin Baldwin. But in the dream, Sir Justin, being a creature of her own making, never actually said anything, and this time, his fourth whispered invocation of “Lady Isabelle” at last pierced the fog of her sleep-ridden brain with realization. By then it was too late. Sir Justin’s hand closed over her mouth just as her eyes flew open to see him sitting beside her on the bed, and the scream that naturally followed was thoroughly muffled.

  “Do not,” he warned, his voice low and firm. “I mean you no harm, and I do not wish to hurt you. Be quiet and all will be well.”

  “What—?” she cried when he lifted his hand.

  “Hush,” he commanded. The next moment, he placed a cloth over her mouth, ignoring her struggles while he quickly tied it behind her head. Isabelle tried to strike him, but found, to her increasing dismay, that her hands were already tied, as were her feet. She screamed again, this time into the cloth, and Sir Justin took her head in his hands, holding her still as he bent over her, eye-to-eye.

  “My lady,” he said patiently, “I wish you would not. There is no cause for such distress, and if you do not cease, I will have to make you insensible, which I profess I am loath to do. Already I regret the necessity that made me bind you. If you will but trust me a little, I vow, on my honor, that all will be well.” Then, picking her up, he carried her to the chamber’s one window, out of which a rope dangled. Stopping suddenly, he looked down at her, the thoughtful expression on his face fully at odds with the rampant fear that possessed Isabelle. “I meant to say this before,” he told her, “but forgot. Chris says my mind is ever scattering.” Sitting on the sill, balancing her on his lap, he swung one leg out the window. “I’ve wanted to tell you this past month, but never found the chance. I find you very beautiful.”

  Isabelle had always been rational. Always. Even during those unfortunate moments when her temper got the better of her. Very English, her father had said disapprovingly. May God be praised, her mother had said with thanks. But rationality, in the wake of Sir Justin’s calling her beautiful, disappeared as if Isabelle had never known it, and the stupefying result was that he had tossed her over his shoulder and carried her all the way down the length of her uncle’s grand manor house before it even occurred to her that she should put up a struggle.

  Sir Christian Rowsenly—a man she would never have thought capable of such a heinous crime as kidnapping— was waiting for them on the ground.

  “It took long enough,” Sir Christian whispered tightly, bringing forward two saddled horses. “I was afraid you’d been discovered.”

  “She wasn’t there,” Sir Justin replied, handing her over to his friend while he, himself, mounted one steed. “I thought perhaps you’d mistaken which chamber was hers, or that Sir Myles, being rightfully ashamed at keeping his own niece in such a mean place, had lied about it when he took you through the dwelling. I was going to search her out when she at last arrived, and then I had to hide and wait until she had prepared for bed and fallen asleep.”

  “I don’t want an explanation now,” Sir Christian told him, lifting Isabelle into Sir Justin’s waiting arms. “God’s feet. If the ward sergeant catches us we’ll be drawn and quartered. Let’s get us out of London, right quick.”

  “Aye, and so we will,” Sir Justin agreed, ignoring Isabelle’s squirming as he tightly tucked her up against his body and wrapped her within his cloak. With one strong arm he held her captive, with the other he guided his horse to the cobbled street that faced her uncle’s home.

  “Go to sleep,” he advised her quietly as they set out toward what Isabelle knew to be the direction of Bishopsgate. “The guards at the gate have been paid to let us pass without notice, and ‘twill do you no good to make a disturbance. You are full weary.” The fingers that held the reins skimmed lightly over her cold cheek in a reassuring caress. “Sleep, if you can, Lady Isabelle. Our
travel this night will be long, but I shall hold you safe. No harm will befall you, I vow.”

  He must have heard the groan she gave, for even as the horses began to move more quickly he smiled down at her, so that she saw the whiteness of his teeth in the darkness. “Sleep,” he repeated. “There’s naught else you can do for yourself at the moment.”

  Which was true, Isabelle thought an hour later as she fought, and failed, to keep her eyes open. True to his word, they had passed through Bishopsgate and out of the city without being questioned, and had been riding north since. There was nothing she could do to help herself until they arrived at whatever their destination was, save to let her body claim the rest it begged for. Soon enough she would discover why she had been taken, and what Sir Justin wanted her for. Better to be rested and fully aware when that time came than too weary to think.

  It was easier than she thought to relax and let herself slide into slumber. Sir Justin’s body was warm, his grip strong and sure. The horses were moving at a steady pace, neither too fast nor jarring. She was more than half-asleep when she felt the cloth around her mouth being loosened and pulled free. Bare fingers and a thumb gently vised her cheeks, rubbing for a few moments to soothe the numbness away, and then her head was tucked more firmly against Sir Justin’s shoulder.

  “Is she asleep, then?” she heard Sir Christian ask.

  “Aye,” Sir Justin replied just as Isabelle, with a yawn, willingly gave truth to the word. “She’s asleep.”

  Isabelle awoke the moment she was pulled from the saddle on which she’d been riding. The sensation she experienced, at first, was similar to drowning, and she flailed as if to save her life.

  “I have you,” Sir Justin said soothingly, somewhere near her ear. “Hush, now, my lady. I have you.”

  His arms cradled her and she subsided, groggy and bewildered. Her head fell against his shoulder as he carried her from the cold damp of dark night into the warmth and dryness of some dimly lit place.

  “Where are we?” she murmured sleepily.

  “A monastery in Cambridge,” he answered. “I’m taking you to a chamber where you may rest peacefully and in comfort. There is naught to fear.”

  “I do not wish to sleep,” she told him, blinking to clear her eyes. “I wish to know what you mean to do to me.”

  “Do to you?” he repeated with what sounded to Isabelle like bewilderment. He glanced at her before giving his attention to a man in dark robes, who approached them holding a candle.

  “You are Sir Justin Baldwin?” the monk asked, his face unseen beneath the folds of his hood.

  “Aye.”

  “All has been made ready. Come with me.”

  “Father!” Isabelle cried.

  The monk turned. “Yes, daughter?”

  “This man has taken me from my home, without my consent! Help me, I beg you.”

  There was a sympathetic nod. “Aye, and so we shall, daughter, if that is your wish. You will be free to leave this place in the morn as it pleases you, either with Sir Justin or without. No harm shall come to you while you bide here. I give you this promise on the holy vows I have taken before God.” He turned and walked away.

  Sir Justin followed, carrying Isabelle down a long hall and up a number of stairs before at last reaching their destination: a large, clean, well-furnished chamber, warmed and lit by both fire and candle. Placing her in a chair by the fire, Sir Justin knelt and, producing a small knife, cut away the bindings at her hands and feet.

  “I regret…” he began as he tried to take her wrists in his hands to chafe them, but stopped when Isabelle yanked free of his touch.

  “Leave me be, I pray you, Sir Justin.” Her tone cast harsh aspersions on his claims to the honorable state of knighthood. To the monk, who stood by the door, she demanded, “Why have I been brought here? My uncle, the Baron Hersell, will be more than displeased to know of the treatment I have received this night.”

  The monk gave another nod and put his hand on the door. “There is wine on the table, and I will have food brought at once. Father Hugo has been praying in the chapel, and will arrive to greet you shortly.” Then he left, closing the door behind him.

  Isabelle turned her angry gaze on Justin, who still knelt before her. “What is this about? Do not touch me!” She tried to pull her feet away, but the warm grip on her ankles held her fast.

  “My lady,” he said with what Isabelle felt was unmerited calm, “be pleased to put your mind at rest. I have not brought you this long distance, to a monastery, i’ faith, to rape or harm you. If that had been my goal, I would have managed it at some other, more advantageous spot.” When she continued to attempt to pull her feet free, he said, “I am sorry for having tied you. I thought it the best way to keep you from harming yourself unnecessarily. But look—” his gaze fell to where his fingers gently rubbed her raw flesh “—the rope has done its own damage. If I could take the pain from you, I vow that I would.”

  Weary, unwanted tears filled Isabelle’s eyes. She hated crying. Worse, she hated feeling out at sea, as if she were clawing at a slippery rock to gain any sort of hold.

  Having long been treated as one without value, Isabelle believed that she was, in truth, without value, and so she said, “Sir Justin, I cannot think I will make a very good hostage. My uncle will not make Evelyn wed you simply to secure my return. He will probably be glad to be rid of me.”

  He pulled his fingers from her feet and took hold of her wrists, rubbing them as he had her ankles. “I do not want you for a hostage,” he told her, “and I do not want Lady Evelyn for my wife.”

  Despite her every effort not to let them, Isabelle’s eyebrows rose.

  Sir Justin smiled. “I never thought I would ask for a woman’s hand in the accepted manner, but as I’m already kneeling at your feet, I suppose I should. Lady Isabelle, will you do me the honor of wedding with me?”

  She stared at him as if he’d stunned her with a blow to the head.

  He waited a full minute before prodding, “My lady?”

  “W-w-wed?” she sputtered. “With you?”

  “I’ve surprised you,” he said. “I understand fully how it must seem. But give me a moment to explain, I pray, and all will be made clear.”

  Standing, he crossed the room and filled a goblet with wine, then returned, pressing the cup into her hands.

  “Drink this,” he said, and bent to tuck his cloak more tightly about her. “Are you warm enough? I threw some of your clothes down to Chris after you’d fallen asleep, and he put them in one of his bags. I’m sure he’ll bring them as soon as he’s finished stabling the horses, and then you may clothe yourself more warmly.”

  “You—” she began, then faltered. Just how often did Sir Justin Baldwin deal in kidnapping? He was apparently very well organized at it. “You seem to have thought of everything.” And then she remembered that he had stood in her chamber’s shadows and watched her prepare for bed. Heat warmed her face at the realization that he had seen her—all of her. With shaking hands, Isabelle lifted the goblet and drank deeply, praying for any measure of sustenance. She’d rather be dead than make a muddled idiot of herself in front of this man.

  “I hope I have,” he replied thoughtfully. “There was no way to keep you from being distressed in some measure, but Chris and I tried to plan for your comfort, as best we could. I didn’t wish to give you greater reason to turn me—my request—aside.” There was a chair on the other side of the fire, and he settled into it, wearily closing his eyes. “You are aware, I think, that if I am not wed within three—nay, two days, now, I will lose all that I possess? My lands, my holdings, everything.” Opening his eyes, he gazed at her. “Even my horses and livestock. I must have a wife, my lady, else all that I have labored for will be lost to me. I do not care so much for myself, but there are others involved whom I do not wish to see brought low because of my misfortunes.”

  “But I can do naught to help you,” Isabelle told him, lifting one hand in a placating gesture. �
��It is my cousin, Evelyn, whom you are to wed.”

  “Not so. She was the bride chosen for me by my brother and the duke of Gloucester, but in the missive I received regarding the matter, it was only stated that I must be married by the first day of July, not that I must be married to her.”

  “But Evelyn is ready to wed you. I know it has not seemed so, but she, and my uncle, always intended that it should be thus.”

  “Did they?” His smile was suddenly unpleasant. “I am glad they kept from agreeing to the marriage too soon, for I do not wish to wed your cousin, lovely though she may be.”

  “But, my lord,” Isabelle protested, “neither can you wish to marry me! You know nothing of me, of my family. I have no dowry, indeed nothing to call my own save what my uncle has chosen to give me. It is impossible for me to marry any man.”

  “’Tis not impossible for you to wed me,” he said, sitting on the edge of his chair and leaning toward her. “I have no care for who your parents were, and I do not require a dowry. If you will take me as I am, I will take you, and gladly. I am no great lord, but my home is sufficient, and we could live well and comfortably.”

  Isabelle’s head was spinning. He couldn’t mean the things he was saying. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

  “My lord, I pray you will be serious, and cease speaking such foolishness. Surely there is another, or many others, whom you would more readily choose.”

  “Nay,” he said bluntly. “Only you. Let us speak the truth with each other. Do you wish to continue living under your uncle’s hand?”

  The question set her off balance, and Isabelle stared at him in silence.

  He held her gaze unwaveringly. “He treats you like a servant. He dresses you in servant’s clothes. His own niece. I have never heard him speak a kind or gentle word to you. The chamber that was yours—” he hesitated when she lowered her eyes, and when he continued, his tone was more gentle “—it was in the servants’ quarters. Small and spare. And cold. I cannot fathom why he should treat you so ill, when he is blessed with more than enough wealth to easily treat you better. Especially when you continuously labor on his behalf.”