Ransom My Heart

by Meg Cabot

  Hugo did not need to add, Or you’ll live to regret it. The threat was there, in his voice, without the need to speak the words.

  “But, my lord, I beg you—”

  A heavy hand fell upon Reginald Laroche’s shoulder, and the bailiff turned angrily, only to find himself staring up into the shire reeve’s wide, bearded face.

  “Conduct me to your account books, my dear fellow,” John ordered him, pleasantly enough. “And if you can find a skin or two of wine along the way, all the better.”

  “But—” Reginald called after Hugo, who’d already turned and was heading for the doors. “My lord, wait—”

  But Hugo was outside, in the cool evening air, before the bailiff got out another word. Inhaling deeply, Hugo filled his lungs with the scent of pine and wood smoke, the English night sounds as familiar to him as his own voice. Somewhere, a nightingale trilled a thrilling song, and nearby, another answered. This, then, was what he had missed those cold nights in the desert. Not his family, not his home, but good English countryside, the warning hoot of a wood owl, the soft lowing of the milk cow in the stable. This, then, was what he’d come home to. And this was what he would share with Finnula, and their children, God willing.

  Hugo looked in the direction of the stables, and was about to go and kick his squire awake, assuming that the young jackanapes had passed out from his excesses, when a small voice stopped him.

  “You’re leavin’, then?”

  The towheaded boy appeared as if from nowhere, and Hugo squinted down at the lad’s shabby tunic and threadbare chausses, his dirty cheeks and wide, hazel eyes.

  “Just for a little while,” Hugo said calmly. “I’ll be back after your bedtime.”

  “I can go to bed whenever I want,” Jamie assured him. “I’ll wait for you.”

  Hugo lifted an eyebrow. “As you wish then.”

  Strolling toward the stables, Hugo had the distinct impression the boy was following him, and when he turned and caught the child stooping, pretending to be interested in a mouser that had been strolling nearby, he asked curiously, “Who do you belong to, young man?”

  “What, sir?” The boy gulped, looking up from the cat’s tabby back. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Whose are you? Mistress Laver’s? Laroche’s?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” the boy cried, straightening to his full height. “I’m yours.”

  Hugo nodded, unimpressed. Some scullery maid had got herself with child and dropped this pup among them. Hugo would pay for the lad’s upkeep until the day he died. Unless, of course, he could apprentice him out. The lad looked sturdy enough, though undeniably dirty.

  “Right, then,” Hugo said, rubbing his chin. It had been so long since he’d gone smooth-shaven that he still wasn’t quite used to it. “There’s something you can do for me while I’m gone.”

  The boy nodded eagerly. “What, sir?”

  “You can keep an eye on Sheriff de Brissac. See that he doesn’t doze off or anything, before I return. You see, lad, I’m making Monsieur Laroche and his daughter clear out, and I don’t want them playing any nasty tricks on me—”

  “I understand, sir,” the boy said. “I won’t let anything happen to the sheriff. He’s nice to me, Sheriff de Brissac. Takes me fishing.”

  Hugo raised his eyebrows at that, but refrained from comment. Instead, he tossed the lad a coin, which the boy caught expertly.

  “Good lad,” was all Hugo said, and then he went in search of his squire.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dinner at the millhouse that night was a draining affair. Shire tradition dictated that Hugo wasn’t to sit near or speak to the bride-to-be until the wedding, and since it was Finnula alone that drew him from his own hearth, this was disappointing, to say the least.

  Shire tradition further dictated that Hugo, as the bridegroom, be subjected to numerous humiliations enacted by Finnula’s family. While her brothers-in-law held Hugo in too much awe to play pranks upon him, their wives did not hesitate to tease him, at every opportunity, about Finnula’s capture of him, both literally and figuratively. That, coupled with his unease over what had occurred with Laroche—he had come so close to killing the man, after swearing off violence forever, that he could still feel the longing quake in his limbs—made Hugo a surly dinner guest, and he did not smile once during the whole of the dinner, a fact the impertinent Patricia pointed out to him.

  “Verily, for a bridegroom, you look glum, my lord,” she teased.

  Hugo looked the sharp-tongued woman straight in the eye—eyes the same color as Finnula’s, actually, but lacking the warmth and humor he’d become accustomed to seeing in gray irises—and said, simply, “When she is mine I will rejoice. Until then, I dare not.”

  Patricia had only looked sly. “It seems to me,” she’d said archly, “’tis Finnula you ought to be tellin’ that to, my lord, not me.”

  Hugo looked across the wide wooden table, its surface whitened from so many vigorous scrubbings, at Finnula, who was protesting quite strenuously something her brother had said. Her color high, she pounded the tabletop, insisting that the papal ban on crossbows had been misinterpreted from the start. What sort of woman was this that he was marrying, whose conversation consisted of hunting techniques and weaponry rather than babies and pie recipes?

  Hugo grinned for the first time all evening, suddenly inordinately pleased with himself. Exactly the sort of woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life, that’s what sort she was. What interest had he in babies and pie? None at all.

  He watched Finnula’s easy banter with her brothers-in-law and envied her her family. Even though there was the irritable Robert and the vapid Mellana to consider, overall, the Crais brood was a happy one, the sort of family Hugo had always longed for. If he and Finnula could produce a family as large and as boisterous, he’d die a happy man indeed.

  It was close to midnight when the very loud and drunken party broke up, and Hugo, after an attempt to kiss Finnula good night that was thwarted by her giggling sisters, found his way to his horse. He mounted and pointed Skinner in the direction of the manor house, reflecting that, considering what awaited him there, he ought not to have had quite so much to drink. Ah, well, tomorrow he would be well-rid of the Laroches, replacing them with a winsome wench who had already proven herself a worthy wife.

  It wasn’t a trick of the moonlight or of the vast amount of ale he’d consumed that evoked an image of that very person before him, however. Somehow, Finnula had managed to evade her sisters, and was gesturing to him from the shadow of a large oak tree behind which she’d hidden herself.

  Hugo urged Skinner to her side, and leaned down to grasp the hands she stretched toward him.

  “Step on my boot toe,” he whispered, and Finnula did as he bade her, swinging easily into the saddle before him, with the athletic grace of a cat.

  “Good evening,” Hugo said, and smiled, wrapping strong arms about her waist and nuzzling her neck beneath the vast amounts of flowing red hair.

  “Good morning, you mean,” said his bride-to-be.

  “Aren’t you risking rather a lot, sneaking out to meet me like this?” Hugo wanted to know, noticing that she still wore the green bliaut, though, unfortunately, its neckline was no longer twisted so interestingly. “Won’t the wrath of your sisters rain down upon us if we’re caught?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Finnula said. In the moonlight, which was very strong, Hugo saw that her pretty face had grown troubled.

  “What is it?” he demanded, groaning inwardly. He had already bedded her multiple times that day, and he didn’t think he had the stamina to go again. Bedding her seemed to be the only way, however, he could keep her in line.

  “I just—” Finnula craned her neck to look up at him, her gray eyes wide and shining in the moonlight. “I just wanted—”

  Hugo smiled and stroked her hair. “You wanted what? To tell me again how very much you don’t want to be my bride?”

  Finnula frowned. “I though
t perhaps you might have reconsidered.”

  “Will being wedded to me be such a hardship?” Hugo could not help swearing beneath his breath. “Faith, I never met a maid so loath to wed. Generally, ’tis the only thought in a wench’s head!”

  “I have many thoughts in my head,” Finnula said, indignantly. “And none of them concerns weddings.”

  “No, but I’ll wager a good many of them concern things only a married woman ought know.” He frowned down at her. “You need a husband more than any lass I ever saw. ’Tis a wonder to me you remained a virgin as long as you did—”

  Finnula gasped and struggled against him. “Forsooth! What are you saying? That I’m wanton?”

  “You most certainly are.” Hugo chuckled, keeping a firm grip on her. “But fortunately, thus far I’ve been the only man to catch on to it. And, being of a chivalrous bent, I intend to make an honest woman of you. So count your blessings—” He gave her a hearty kiss, then slapped her backside as she scrambled angrily down from his saddle. “And don’t get up to mischief between now and the wedding.”

  Huffing indignantly, Finnula whirled around to leave him, but Hugo leaned down and caught a handful of her gown, stopping her short. She looked back at him, her cheeks, even in the silver moonlight, aflame.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Remember, Finn. You gave your word.”

  She grimaced. “I know it,” she snarled, and snatched her train from him. “I’ll be there.”

  Hugo laughed and let her go, watching amusedly as she stalked across the yard and into the millhouse, where she gave the door a healthy slam. Little witch! Lord, how she made him laugh. No other woman of his acquaintance had ever delighted him as much.

  Hugo was able to hold on to his good spirits all the way back to the manor house, where he found, to his astonishment, that the stables were filled with horses. Further inspection revealed that the Great Hall was crowded with men Hugo didn’t recognize, all of whom had gathered round the long dining table, at the head of which sat John de Brissac, roaringly drunk and keeping one heavy hand on the shoulder of a very dour-looking Reginald Laroche.

  “Ah, His Lordship, at long last!” Sheriff de Brissac staggered to his feet, the chair in which he’d sat falling over backward. His deep voice boomed through the vast hall. “Gentlemen, raise your cup. Here comes Lord Hugo Geoffrey Fitzstephen, seventh Earl of Stephensgate.”

  Chair legs scraped against flagstone as each man stood, holding a flagon aloft and looking pointedly in Hugo’s direction. Hugo was just drunk enough to burst into guffaws.

  “De Brissac,” he managed to snort, between brays. “What welcome is this? Who are these men?”

  Grinning a bit self-consciously, the sheriff shrugged. “My men, of course. It’s been a long while since the wine cellars of Stephensgate Manor were opened—”

  Hugo was still laughing when a chalice was thrust into his hand. Each of John de Brissac’s deputies—and there appeared to be over twenty of them—tipped his flagon in Hugo’s direction.

  “Long life to you, Hugo Fitzstephen,” the sheriff declared. “And much happiness with your little bride, the Fair Finn—”

  “To the Fair Finn!”

  The lusty cry echoed throughout the hall, and then the men drank, all except Reginald Laroche, who had not risen with the others, and looked, in fact, as if he was not feeling well. When Hugo had drained his own cup, he approached John de Brissac and asked after the bailiff’s health.

  “What, him?” The sheriff looked down at Monsieur Laroche with distaste. “Ah, he’s feeling no pain, believe you me. Showed me his books, he did, and what receipts he didn’t burn in the great bonfire you might have noticed when we walked in earlier today.”

  Reginald Laroche looked up at Hugo, and the hatred burning in his eyes was palpable.

  “Welcome back, my liege,” he sneered, clearly the only sober person in the room. “Might I have your leave to retire? There is much still needs doing if my daughter and I are to be away from here before noon tomorrow—”

  Hugo was feeling the effects of the wine on top of all the ale he’d consumed, and he waved dismissively at his father’s former bailiff.

  “Get thee gone,” he said. When Laroche scurried to obey him, Hugo leaned over and requested that a few of the sheriff’s men be assigned to watch the man, a request that de Brissac instantly honored, sending three men, armed with a skin of wine, to keep an eye upon the former bailiff.

  It was after two in the morning when Hugo finally mounted the stairs to the second floor, where the bedchambers lay. He wasn’t precisely staggering, but did have to lean rather heavily on the banister. Below him, John de Brissac snored before the fire, as did a number of his men. Hugo had found young Jamie curled on a pile of dusty pelts in a far corner, and laid his cloak over the boy, to protect him from the spring chill. The manor house was quiet, and Hugo, guided by the light of a torch he’d lifted from a sconce upon the wall, searched for a bed upon which he could lay his spinning head.

  His father’s former solar was out of the question. Hugo would not spend the night in the bed where Lord Geoffrey had died. His brother’s solar held bitter memories as well, for it was there that he’d been urged—nay, nagged—to join a monastery time and time again. Hugo finally decided that his old room, a drafty corner space that was lovely in summer but in winter was impossible to warm, would suit until he could have an addition applied to the house.

  He found the room not unlike he’d left it ten years earlier, down to the threadbare blue velvet bed curtains and battered wolf-pelt spread. The space needed airing, and so Hugo opened the wooden shutters over both windows, neither of which had ever been glassed in, and inhaled the fresh English night air for a few moments before stripping naked and pulling back the musty pelts that covered the wide bed.

  He had just extinguished the torch and slid between the cool sheets when a soft tap sounded upon his door. Hugo, annoyed, barked, “What is it?”

  The portal eased open, and a circle of light that could only have been thrown from a wax candle spilled across a far wall, revealing a tapestry Hugo hadn’t noticed before but recognized as his mother’s stitching.

  “Who’s there?” Hugo demanded, sitting up in bed and narrowing his eyes against the candle’s bright glow.

  A slim hand, clutching the candle, appeared from behind the heavy door, attached to a slender arm clothed in a sleeve of some diaphanous material. At first, a fuzzy-headed Hugo thought he was being visited by the fair ghost of a long-dead ancestor, but then he remembered that ghosts had no need of candles. And when his early morning visitor stepped fully into the room, he recognized her, despite the fact that the long black hair was loose about her shoulders and the rouge had been toned down somewhat.

  “Lord Hugo,” Isabella Laroche whispered, her dark eyelashes fluttering. “Oh, Lord Hugo, I thought you were never coming to bed. I must speak with you, my lord!”

  Hugo couldn’t help grinning. “Speak with me?” He chuckled, taking in the girl’s attire, which consisted of a slim sheath of a gown of the thinnest possible silk, covered by a robe that might have been made of gossamer, for all it hid from the eye. Isabella was not dressed for conversation, but for something quite a bit more intimate.

  “Oh, Cousin Hugo,” Isabella breathed, coming toward his bed, the candle held high. “I am so afraid there has been some misunderstanding—”

  “There most certainly has been,” he said, lifting an eyebrow at the way the girl’s bosom was rising and falling dramatically beneath her nightdress. “Apparently, you’ve lost your way, and wandered into my solar by mistake. You had best hurry on back to your own bed, cousin, before a chill takes you. You are hardly dressed for visiting.”

  Isabella ignored his warning and rested one bold knee against his mattress, a hand flattened to her bosom provocatively.

  “Oh, Lord Hugo,” she cried softly. “My father tells me that you have commanded him to leave this house by noon tomorrow—”

&n
bsp; “Today, actually,” Hugo corrected her dryly.

  “But I cannot believe this to be truth! My lord, this has been my home for half my life. Surely there must be something I can do to change your mind?”

  As she said the word “something,” Isabella lowered her backside onto the bed, and, leaning upon one hand, fluttered her eyelashes at Hugo again. Hugo, who had never seen such an inept attempt at seduction, hid a smile.

  “Nay, demoiselle, there is naught you can do. Return to your chamber now, as I have need of a good night’s rest—”

  “If I may be so bold to suggest it,” Isabella whispered, reaching out and running a finger down one of Hugo’s darkly tanned arms, “I might be able to help make your night’s rest very good indeed—”

  Again, Hugo could not stifle a grin. “Oh? And how might you do that?”

  The finger tangled in the coarse mat of hair upon his bare chest. “I think we both know that, Cousin Hugo.” Isabella smiled suggestively, her rouged lips parting to reveal a pink and darting tongue. “I have been chatelaine of this manor for some time now. I would be invaluable to you in that respect, as well as…others…”

  Hugo did not need to venture as to what others she meant, for her dark-eyed gaze dipped boldly to where the sheet covered his lap. All at once, Hugo was no longer amused. He wondered if the girl’s father had put her up to this, and despised the man even more for using his daughter in such a manner. Then Hugo remembered the contempt in which Isabella Laroche was held by Finnula and her sisters, and he wondered if her father had, in actuality, had anything to do with this early morning visitation.

  “Mademoiselle Laroche,” he said carefully. “Have you any idea why I am so badly in need of a good night’s rest?”

  She shook her head, dark hair falling about her face in an ebony wave.

  “Tomorrow I am to be wed.”