Scoundrel of Dunborough

by Margaret Moore

  Lewis untied a wineskin that had been affixed to his saddle and brought it to her. After pulling out the stopper, he held it to her lips. “Drink!”

  She did, but he poured too fast and she began to choke, wine spilling over her clothes and making her shiver more. Ignoring her discomfort, Lewis took a drink. Maybe he would keep drinking until he fell asleep.

  As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his lustful gaze roved over her, making her tremble with fear as well as cold. She never should have accused Gerrard of looking at her that way. She knew now there had always been respect and admiration in his eyes as well as desire.

  “I’m hungry, too,” she said, hoping to turn her abductor’s attention to different needs.

  Putting the stopper back in the spout of the wineskin, Lewis frowned, then mercifully got to his feet and went back to the horses. While he rummaged in the pack tied to one saddle, she looked around, seeking anything she could use as a weapon. There was a stick nearby, too thin to be effective. Still, it would be better than nothing and she could jab it at his throat or eye.

  Lewis pulled out something wrapped in a length of linen. It proved to be a small loaf of brown bread. He broke off a piece and put it into her mouth, forcing her to eat without using her hands.

  “It would be easier if I were untied,” she said as she chewed.

  “I can’t trust you,” he replied with a weary, petulant sigh, as if she were the one at fault.

  “I give you my word that I won’t try to leave.” She wouldn’t use the word escape, or any other that might upset him. Nor would she consider herself bound by any promise she made to him. “I can hardly walk for my sore ankle.”

  He studied her a moment, then smiled. “All right. Even if you could run, you wouldn’t get far.”

  No, she wouldn’t, unless she could get on a horse.

  She didn’t answer as she leaned forward to let him reach the belt binding her hands, and uttered a silent prayer of thanks when he knelt behind her and began to loosen it. She’d planned to be patient and wait for her chance, yet once the belt was undone, his hand snaked around to cup her breast. Shocked and frightened, she instinctively pushed back with her elbow, hitting him hard in the neck.

  He fell back, gasping.

  This might be her only chance!

  She clambered to her feet, nearly tripping on her habit. Lewis was between her and the horses. He could stop her if she went that way.

  Gathering her skirt up in her arms, she ran in the other direction, ignoring the pain in her ankle and going as fast as she could. She paid no heed to the bare branches of trees and underbrush scratching her face, or the mud splattering her clothes and soaking her shoes.

  Her breathing harsh and ragged, she saw a tangle of holly bushes ahead. A horse wouldn’t be willing to follow her in there.

  Falling to her knees, she threw the skirt of her habit over her head to protect it from the sharp points of the holly and pushed her way inside, shoving dead leaves behind her to hide any signs of her passing.

  There was a bare spot in the middle of the bushes and she lay curled up on her side, clutching her swollen, aching ankle, trying to calm her breathing, listening for any sound of pursuit, while praying fervently to God to help her.

  * * *

  With growing desperation, Gerrard surveyed the brush and trees and ground around him. The trail of peas had stopped several yards before, and he and his men had fanned out in the wood, seeking any sign of Celeste and Lewis or their horses.

  He’d followed some promising hoofprints this far. Now they were petering out.

  “Anything?” he shouted to the others.

  “Not yet, sir!” Hedley answered, followed by a chorus of “Nothing!” and “No, sir!”

  “Keep looking!” Celeste couldn’t have disappeared into thin air, and if they were looking for a body, there would be some sign of that, too.

  Oh, God, not that! he prayed. She didn’t deserve a terrible death any more than her sister had. If someone deserved to die, it was him. He’d made his useless, worthless life a disaster.

  He scanned the undergrowth again and saw a broken branch. And then another. It could be from a deer. Nevertheless, he went that way.

  * * *

  “Where are you, Celeste?” Lewis called out in a singsong voice, as if they were playing some sort of game. “You might as well show yourself. I’m going to find you, and the longer I have to search, the more you’re going to regret running away from me.”

  Her muscles sore, her face and hands scratched and bleeding, she could hear the anger and agitation in his voice, and that he was getting closer. Yet hard as it was to stay still, she didn’t doubt that if she tried to flee again, he’d catch her. Her only hope was to hide and stay quiet, like when she’d been little and her father was on a rampage.

  She’d had Audrey to cling to then. Audrey, who always seemed so brave and determined, who was so keen to make a better life for herself. Was it any wonder Gerrard had admired her? He and Audrey were alike in many ways. The truly great surprise should be that Audrey had apparently finally seen his merit, a worthiness Celeste had always known was there.

  If only she had told Gerrard that she loved him, she thought, as the cold grew more and more unbearable. She had loved him before she left Dunborough. She loved him now. She would always love him.

  Here, in her most desperate hour, she realized what she truly wanted, and it wasn’t being shut out from the world in a convent, no matter how peaceful and secure such a life would be. She wanted to be Gerrard’s wife, to live with him and bear his children and, yes, even quarrel with him. To share his bed and his concerns, to help and comfort him as she was sure he would help and comfort her. And he would make her smile, no matter what troubles they faced.

  “Where are you?” Lewis called again, and from close by.

  Stay still, she silently ordered herself. Keep quiet. Don’t even breathe.

  “There you are! Thought you were clever, did you?”

  * * *

  Gerrard’s heart leaped to his throat at the sight of the horses through the bare trees.

  Drawing his sword, he started to run. He was going to call out to his men until he realized that might alert Lewis. Better to keep quiet. He was stronger and better trained than the chandler’s son. He could best him easily in a fight and he didn’t want to take the risk that the desperate lout would harm Celeste.

  Difficult though it was, Gerrard slowed to a walk when he drew closer to the horses, which were now shifting nervously.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, looking for any sign of their riders.

  There! Footprints in a patch of mud where the leaves had been blown clear. Two sets, one large, one smaller.

  Gripping his sword, he moved away from the horses and began to circle the area, looking for more footprints or any other sign of the people he sought. He spotted a long, narrow piece of damp black fabric at the base of a tree and bent to pick it up.

  He felt the stickiness of blood on it.

  His resolve hardened. Whatever had happened here, he would find Celeste and soon.

  He must find her.

  * * *

  As Lewis started slashing at the holly, Celeste rose to her hands and knees and, grimacing, began to crawl away, until her hair got caught on some of the leaves. She desperately tried to pull it free, tearing at the holly with her bare hands, paying no heed to the painful nicks and cuts that gave her, until Lewis clutched her swollen ankle.

  “Now I’ve got you!” he cried as she yelped in pain. He started to drag her out of the bushes.

  Despite her agony, she did all she could to stop him—kicking, twisting, grabbing at sharp leaves and branches, digging into the ground with her fingers.

  But he was too strong and she was too tired to prevent th
e slow, inexorable progress. Yet she wasn’t going to give up. Once free of the holly, she flipped onto her back and kicked at him with her other foot. When he moved out of range, she struggled to her feet. He got hold of her shoulder and threw her to the ground. Then he stood over her, one foot on either side of her torso, his knife in his hands and ire in his eyes.

  “Don’t try that again or I’ll gut you like a pig!” he warned as she lay panting beneath him.

  She said nothing. All her effort was concentrated on trying to breathe and gather her strength. Tired and hurt though she was, she wasn’t going to surrender. Not yet. Audrey had fought for her life and so would she.

  Lewis took hold of the front of her scapula and pulled her up. He was no trained mercenary, not like Duncan, and she could see that he was tired, too.

  “Is this any way to thank me?” he demanded, pushing her back against a tree. “Is this any way to repay my devotion? And saving you from a miserable life in a convent?”

  She didn’t answer as she gripped the trunk, grateful for its support. Her mind still sought a way to defeat her enemy, to hurt or incapacitate him if she couldn’t outrun him. Sister Sylvester had said something once about men’s weaknesses. No matter how big and strong and apparently invincible they were, there were places where a well-aimed blow could hurt them.

  What were they? Where?

  The ears. And that spot at the bottom of his neck above the collarbone, where there would never be muscle.

  Like a snake striking, Celeste suddenly and swiftly raised her arms and smacked Lewis’s ears with her palms.

  He shrieked and fell back, unsteady, giving her enough time to shove her way past him.

  “Bitch!” he snarled, again grabbing hold of her scapula.

  She was ready for that this time and with the last of her strength managed to duck out of the garment. Her fear and desperation gave her the energy she needed to limp swiftly toward the trees.

  Not fast enough. Lewis threw himself at her and sent her sprawling. She clawed at the dirt, trying to stand, until he struck her shoulder hard with his fist. The blow sent her facedown into the mud and leaves. He put his foot on her back and held her there as she gasped for breath.

  “You stupid woman!” he snarled. “I would have made you happy.”

  Never. The only man in the world who could make her truly happy was back in Dunborough.

  “Leave her alone, you dog!”

  Gerrard! Oh, thank God, thank God!

  She managed to raise her head to look over her shoulder. His sword drawn, Gerrard was racing toward them as fleet as a stag fleeing the hunter’s hounds.

  “By God, I’ll kill you!” he shouted as Lewis took off through the trees.

  She tried to get up. Before she could stand she felt a pair of strong arms raising her and heard Gerrard whisper her name.

  Then pain overwhelmed her and darkness closed in.

  * * *

  Carrying Celeste in his arms, Gerrard jogged toward the small clearing where he’d found the horses. His breathing was hoarse and rasping, his arms and calves were burning, yet his discomfort meant nothing. He had to get Celeste back to Dunborough, although that meant letting Lewis escape.

  For now.

  There! There were the horses, placidly munching a few bits of grass.

  One of them suddenly raised its head and looked not toward Gerrard, but something else.

  Verdan.

  Gerrard tried to call out to him, but the only sound that escaped his throat was a hoarse croak. Nevertheless his progress was far from quiet and Verdan heard him. In the next moment, the soldier was lumbering toward him.

  “S’truth, is she...?” he gasped, sliding on some damp leaves as he stopped.

  “She lives,” Gerrard managed to say. “Get me a horse.”

  Verdan did so at once. Meanwhile, Gerrard looked down at Celeste’s pale face. Her lip was cut and bleeding, her cheeks scratched and bruised.

  But she was breathing.

  For the first time, he noticed her hair, long and curling just as he remembered. She was just as he remembered and more. She was his past, his present, his future, his redemption and his life.

  He hugged her close and blinked back tears. “Live, Celeste, live!” he whispered. “Live for me, I beg you!”

  She stirred and her eyes opened and she gave him a weak smile. “Gerrard...my hero...you saved me,” she whispered, before her eyes closed again.

  “No, Celeste, it’s you who saved me,” he murmured.

  “Here, sir, let me take her while you get on the mare,” Verdan said with quiet reverence, as if she were dead.

  She couldn’t die. She must not, or his heart would die, too.

  When he had Celeste cradled in his arms again, he lifted the reins. He was about to turn his mount toward the road when he paused and grimly said, “Fifty marks to the man who catches Lewis, and my eternal gratitude.”

  * * *

  Lizabet and the rest of the household were waiting anxiously in the courtyard when Gerrard rode through the gate with Celeste in his arms. He quickly told the maidservant to prepare her bed and warm the chamber.

  He half expected Celeste to rally enough to tell him she wouldn’t sleep in the castle as long as he was there.

  She didn’t. She didn’t wake at all, not even when Gerrard handed her down to Ralph and one of the other men. Nor did she wake when he took her in his arms again and carried her inside.

  That frightened him most of all.

  After he’d laid her on the bed, and Lizabet and Peg had come to tend to her, he went back to the hall and found Ralph waiting. Gerrard sent him to fetch the apothecary with all haste, then threw himself into a chair and leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

  And began to pray.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “There he is! There on the bridge!” Hedley called out.

  The other soldiers within range of his voice joined him as he ran to the mossy stone bridge over the rushing waters of the river that fed into the Ure.

  “Stay back! Keep away!” Lewis shouted in warning. His hair was wild and full of bits of leaves, his cloak torn and muddy. His hands gripped the stone railing as he leaned over it, anxiously scanning the trees along the bank, where the soldiers had congregated.

  Verdan started forward, until Arnhelm held him back. “Best not.”

  “But the reward—”

  “Is already Hedley’s,” Arnhelm replied, addressing his brother, as well as the other men who’d joined them. “I don’t like the looks of that lad, and the river’s deep. Let me try to talk him into coming quiet.”

  “The river or the noose, what’s it matter?” Ralph asked. “He’s dead either way.”

  “It’s not our place to pass judgment on him,” Arnhelm reminded the sergeant at arms. “That’s for the lord of Dunborough.”

  “Go on, then,” Ralph replied. “See if you can get him off the bridge. The rest of you, stay here unless he runs.”

  Most of the men were willing to obey, and those who weren’t would have had to get past Ralph, so they grudgingly stayed where they were.

  “Lewis!” Arnhelm called, stepping out of the grove of trees. He threw his sword onto the bank and held up his empty hands. “It’s over, lad. Best come back with us and seek mercy.”

  Lewis laughed, a high-pitched, sickening sound. “Mercy?” he scoffed. “From a son of Sir Blane?”

  “Better one of them than their father,” Arnhelm noted, walking slowly toward the bridge. “You ain’t done murder, after all. Sister Augustine’s all right.”

  “So instead of being executed, I might merely be imprisoned for the rest of my life and left to rot or starve to death.”

  Arnhelm was at the foot of the bridge by then. “You don’t
know that.”

  “Don’t I?” He raised his voice. “Don’t the rest of you? Any son of Sir Blane won’t be merciful. They don’t know how.

  “Keep back!” he ordered Arnhelm. “If you come any closer, I’ll jump!”

  The soldier dutifully retreated a few steps. “You don’t want to do that.”

  “How do you know what I want? I wanted Esmerelda, yet the slut would rather risk her life meeting with Gerrard. I wanted Audrey until she proved to be a worthless whore who deserved to die. I thought Celeste was different. Better. Purer. What a fool! All women are sluts and whores.”

  “Could be you’re right. Come back and you can tell everybody in Dunborough that.”

  Lewis regarded the soldier with outright disgust. “I may be a fool when it comes to women, but I’m not stupid. I’m not going to let you take me so Gerrard can have the satisfaction of torturing and killing me.”

  He began to climb onto the wide stone railing.

  “Lewis!” Arnhelm cried, starting toward him.

  “I told you to stay back!” the young man exclaimed as he stood on the ledge, the cold north wind blowing his cloak around him like a fluttering flag.

  He looked over at Arnhelm, who dared to take a few steps closer.

  Tears slid down Lewis’s cheeks. They might have been from the wind, though, for his voice was proud and defiant. “Tell my father that I’ll see him next in hell!”

  Arnhelm rushed forward to try to grab the youth before he fell into the swirling water below.

  He was too late.

  * * *

  The flames in the central hearth of the great hall flickered in the darkness. Shadows shrouded the corners of the vast chamber and stretched out behind the pillars. Dusk had turned into night, and the few men and servants lingering there talked quietly among themselves. They cast occasional glances at Gerrard on the dais, a cup of untouched wine at his elbow.