Knight's Captive

by Holt, Samantha

“Are you harmed?” he asked her, his arm wrapped firmly around her.

  She felt his strong legs kicking to keep them afloat and realised she had given up swimming long ago, her energy sapped by cold and shock. This man was keeping her alive.

  “No, I am unharmed.”

  He pushed his dark hair from his face. It had come free from the strip of leather that had tied it back. She let herself grip his shoulders, even as her pride demanded she did not. Pride was a fine thing but she had to stay alive to see her father again.

  The man—she wished she knew his name but her father had kept her in ignorance while he made his negotiations with him—peered around, first at the coastline and then at the longboats.

  “We cannot swim that distance, but they will send a boat back.”

  She eyed the collection of boats that had begun rowing to the shoreline. A deep shudder wracked her already shaking body. “They are leaving us!”

  “No.” He held her close. “They had to move away in case the ship exploded or created a wave and dragged them under.”

  He eased her away and panic burst in her chest. He was abandoning her to drown! She gripped his arm.

  “Do not fear. Trust me.”

  Foolishly, she did. That same determined expression had also told her of his honour. Here was a man who would dive into the bowels of a sinking ship to save his prisoners. But had she not learned not to trust men?

  He hooked his arm around her waist and began dragging her back toward the wreckage. Antonia attempted to aid him but her arms were numb and useless. He did most of the work until they reached a plank of wood large enough to support them both. He looped her arms over it and moved behind her to press his body into her back, thus anchoring her to the flotsam. For the first time since their capture by the English, a sense of safety blossomed through her chest.

  Foolish indeed.

  Antonia rested her head on her arm. “Are they returning?”

  “They will.”

  Perhaps they hadn’t realised there were survivors. Perhaps she would die here this day, wrapped in the arms of an Englishman.

  “What is your name?”

  “Henry Bainbridge.” His voice brushed her cheek and his breaths puffed over her cold skin.

  He had to be as cold and as exhausted as she yet she felt no tremor in his body, only tense strength as he kept her secure on the wood.

  Henry. It suited him. The name of England’s last king. She could see why his parents had named him so. Commanding, assured, powerful. The name conjured up images of this sort of a man.

  “Are they coming yet?”

  “Aye, soon.”

  Soon didn’t seem quick enough. Her legs no longer felt like they existed. Her teeth chattered. She longed to close her eyes.

  “Why were you on the ship?”

  She drew open her eyelids, not realising she’d even shut them. “My father...” Antonia tried to control the tremor in her voice. “My father took me with him.”

  “Aye, but why bring a woman on board?”

  “I am not the only one.”

  “There were more women on the Rosario?”

  “No. On the other ships. They thought the invasion would be easy. Men wanted to bring their wives and fiancées when they landed. I wanted to be with my father.”

  What foolishness it was. The Armada’s ships could not outrace or keep up with the English ships. Their victory should have been easily secured—after all Spain had the best naval force in the world—but they had not counted on inclement weather, the inability to make port and the pure wiliness of the English.

  “They are all dressed as men too?”

  She almost smiled at that. Her father had wanted her to remain in women’s clothes after their capture in the hopes that they might treat her better but she didn’t wish to leave his side. She had hoped to pass for a young boy but it seemed Henry had seen through it.

  “Only me,” she murmured. “The boats...?”

  “On their way.”

  She had no way of seeing if what he said was true. Her head could not seem to lift from its resting position upon her arm.

  “How old are you?”

  Antonia scowled. Why would he not cease asking her questions? She felt as though she were under interrogation. Perhaps she was. Mayhap it would benefit him in some way to know more of his prisoner.

  “How old are you?” she bit back but the shaky quality of her voice stole any fire from it.

  “Seven and twenty.” He shifted so that his body pressed more firmly into hers. Warmth flowed through her, almost counteracting the icy coldness that currently ebbed around her. “Antonia? How old are you?”

  “Two and twenty,” she offered.

  “Have you any brothers and sisters?”

  “No.”

  “A husband?”

  She tried not to stiffen—if stiffening was a possibility. Her body already felt frozen as though encased in ice and yet as cold as the English water was, it was not like that of the Atlantic. She had heard tales of how cold it could be and how it could freeze you to death in moments. Was she dying? Did that explain the muddied sensation in her head? Why, then did he insist on talking? Could she not die in peace?

  “No husband.”

  “Do you have any—” He paused and he lifted a hand. “Over here!” His shout made her jolt at the same time as relief coursed through her.

  “They’re coming?”

  “Yes,” he said, that same relief clear in his voice. “They’re coming.”

  Antonia couldn’t be sure how long it took for the boat to reach them. Henry continued to talk, drawing answers from her—all of mundane things—her home, her town, how many cats she had. When he moved away from her, a flutter of panic made her heart beat like butterfly wings.

  “Henry!” She gripped his shirt sleeve to keep him from leaving her.

  “Do not fear. I’m here. We must get you into the boat.”

  Boneless and at his will, she allowed herself to be manoeuvred off the wood and to the side of the boat. With the help of several men, they drew her into the vessel. She sagged against the hull and closed her eyes. But firm hands began to move her again, this way and that until she was resting against something warm. She dragged open her eyes and realised it was Henry’s chest. His shirt was soaked through. How was it his skin remained warm? He had a lot more on him than her, she supposed. She was fairly thin and reedy whereas he...well, there was muscle covering every part of him.

  “A blanket,” he demanded. None were forthcoming so he jabbed a finger at one of the rowers. “You, your mantle.”

  The man handed over his cloak and Henry ensconced her in the warm wool. Then he took her fingers between his hands and began rubbing. She tilted her head to view him, her cheek pressed against his chest. Dark damp hair covered all of his jaw and his hair hung almost curly around his face, brushing the tops of his shoulders.

  Had she been, say, eighteen summers and had never experienced the true brutality of men, she might have sighed at his handsomeness. A strong, slightly long nose, wide jaw and a set of lines between his brows that made him appear serious and in charge made him appealing indeed. This was the sort of face that made women want to smooth out those lines and see if they could make him smile.

  Henry’s gaze locked onto hers and her heart stuttered. She shouldn’t be thinking of her captor as handsome. She should be worrying about what he intended for her. After all, she was in enemy territory, in enemy hands. He could do with her as he wished.

  Antonia wanted to close her eyes to him. The heaviness of her lids begged her to, yet she could not drag her gaze away. Instead, she remained staring up at him through a haze of fatigue while he rubbed the life back into her hands and cradled her against his chest. She barely noticed as they came into port.

  When the boat was pulled up against a long narrow jetty, she dragged her attention away from him. Spanish men were huddled together while Englishmen directed them up the green hills. She assumed they w
ere taking them to this old barn that Henry had mentioned. Antonia skimmed her gaze over the men and spotted several of the officers. But where was her father?

  “My father,” she murmured to Henry as he shifted.

  “He is safe.” His words were firm but when she glanced at him, she saw doubt in his eyes.

  “Where is he?”

  “He was injured.” Henry pushed from behind her and stood to offer her his hand. “He is likely being seen to. Can you walk?”

  She nodded though she wasn’t certain. Thrusting her hand into his, she forced herself to stand and her knees juddered beneath her. She felt as though she was standing on the slowly crumbling deck of the Rosario again, searching for her father. Still, she could not let him see her weakness. She knew not if this man was indeed as honourable as her father had hoped.

  The hammering of her heart slowed when she set foot on the jetty. And when he escorted her to the beach and sand crunched underfoot, her breathing had almost returned to normal. It might be English sand, but it was sand nonetheless and far preferable to water at present. Henry adjusted the mantle around her and skimmed his gaze over her form.

  “We must get you warm,” he muttered though it seemed to be more to himself than her. He motioned to one of the Englishmen standing guard on the jetty. “Are there horses available?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring two. With haste.”

  Antonia took a moment to observe the coastline of Plymouth. She’d only seen it from afar during the battle. Up close, the rolling hills and great slabs of rock were more impressive than they’d appeared. They had green hills in Spain but none quite like this. Several muddy paths etched their way like snakes up the side of it and she spotted a collection of white cottages not far from the edge of the hills. Farmsteads most likely.

  The horses were brought over. “Can you ride?”

  She nodded as her attention was drawn back to Henry. His shirt was beginning to dry but it clung to his body and she spotted dark hair curling under the loose laces of it. Her mouth was suddenly drier than the sand under her feet. He wore his boots still, which were probably as soaked as hers. The long leather length of them drew her attention to—

  ¡Dios mío! What was wrong with her? He was her captor, an Englishman. She had nearly drowned and now she was a prisoner. She should not even be considering what he might look like underneath those breeches.

  “Where are we going?” she asked huskily.

  “My house.” He motioned for her to climb onto the pale rouncey.

  She stilled. “No. My father. I must see my father.”

  “You will,” he assured her.

  “No, no, no.” Antonia spun away but a firm hand latched around her wrist, preventing her from trying to search amongst the prisoners. He tugged and she lost her balance. Sprawled across his chest, she tried to push away but he held her firm. “Take me to him!”

  But her words lost any impact as her knees began to buckle. He tightened his grip around her. Darkness began to colour the edges of her vision.

  “You’ll not be going anywhere today,” he said gruffly, “aside from bed.”

  She felt herself being lifted and heard Henry issuing orders to someone but his voice sounded distant. And this odd idea kept fluttering through her mind, even though it made no sense to latch onto it. Was he taking her to his bed?

  Chapter Three

  The cold, limp woman in his arms made Henry’s heart throb a sickening beat. He’d been trying to keep her awake and now she had fallen into a swoon. He only hoped sickness had not taken hold. Not only had he lost a fine ship but he’d seen no sign of the commander and now he might lose his daughter too.

  He urged the horse into a quick pace as they reached the top of the hill that overlooked the sea. He peered back only briefly to eye the spot where the ship had gone down. A few planks of wood still lingered on the ocean surface. He shook his head. Antonia had been close to drowning but he’d stopped her from going under. He’d be damned if she died now.

  Which meant he wouldn’t tell her about her father until he was sure she was well and able to take the news. If he had been forced to jump with a broken leg, he thought it unlikely the man had survived and there had been no sign of Will on the jetty.

  He followed the dirt road past the farm and toward the village. Even from here, his manor house overshadowed the small cottages that made up the bulk of the village. Built by his grandfather, the stone building was modest by all accounts but large enough to ensure no one doubted that the man who owned it had complete control of his lands.

  His lands. It had been two years since his father’s death and yet he could not get used to being the owner of all of this.

  By the time he had brought the horse across the bridge that spanned the small moat, several servants awaited his arrival. No doubt news of the capture of the Rosario had already reached them but whether they knew of its loss, he knew not. He motioned to the stable hand who aided him with Antonia. Thankfully the woman weighed less than a sack of feathers so the young lad had no troubles handling her, though uncertainty was written on his face. Henry bit back a laugh. It was probably the first time the whelp had ever held a woman.

  Henry dismounted and took her from the boy. “Take the horse down to the dock. They’ll have need of it,” he ordered. “The ship sank,” he explained to the waiting servants. “This is Antonia. She will be under house arrest until negotiations are made.” He motioned to the housekeeper, a widow by the name of Kate who followed him into the front room. “Have someone fetch the physician. She was in the water for some time. Then we need clean clothes and a warm bath.”

  “What about you, sir?”

  “I’ll change in but a moment.” He pressed past the dining table and carried Antonia into the hallway. “Is there clean bedding in the rear bedroom?”

  “Aye, sir.” He started up the stairs with Kate on his heels. “Will you be wanting some hot food?”

  He considered this. He’d only been aboard the ship for a matter of weeks but Antonia would have been on the Rosario for much longer. Was she normally so slender or was that the product of rationing and illness?

  “Aye, something warm for when she awakes.” If she awoke. He prayed she did. When Henry glanced down at those inky lashes against skin that had been much duskier before her spill into the water, the thought of her passing away in his house made bile rise in his throat. He could not let that happen.

  The rear chamber was the smallest but also the one closest to his room. From what he had witnessed, the woman was wilful. He wasn’t sure he could trust her if—when—she regained her strength. He’d be better off putting himself between her and any escape.

  Henry laid her down on the bed, struck by how fragile she appeared against the rich carved wood. He flexed his hands. His body remembered holding her—he suspected it would keep remembering. Only Kate’s presence prevented him from doing something foolish and dishonourable like touching her cheek or brushing her hair from her face.

  He looked to the housekeeper. “See that she is made warm and dry.”

  Spinning on a heel, he strode out of the room, across the hall and into his chamber. He moved purposefully, drawing clean clothes from the coffer at the end of his bed and stripping down. Cool air brushed his skin and he shuddered. Death had been far from his mind today. He’d been too focused on victory. But Antonia…

  When they’d been in the water, awaiting the boats he feared would never turn back and find them, she’d been steps away from it, he suspected. Malnutrition and exhaustion had made the effects of the cold water ten times worse than what he suffered. His attempts to keep her talking and awake had worked—at the time. He only hoped she did not succumb now. If her father was alive, he’d be far less cooperative after his daughter’s death.

  Henry grimaced and reached for a linen cloth to rub his body vigorously. Warmth seeped back into his muscles and fatigue began to slip away. Not one, but two people’s lives to worry about and ar
ound three hundred men now locked away in the old barn. The local militia and those under his command hardly seemed enough to handle that amount of prisoners.

  Slipping on dry clothes, he eyed his soggy boots and rooted out some dry ones. He shoved a hand through his hair and tied it back. Then he bundled up his water-logged garments and marched out into the hallway to snag a serving girl. “Get these washed and dried,” he ordered. “And send Mr Fredericks up. I need him to go to Torre Abbey.”

  The girl dipped and took the bundle from him before hastening away. He stepped into the hallway and eyed the closed door to Antonia’s chamber. He paused to listen for any indication that she was awake and alert.

  Nothing.

  It was purely his sense of duty making his stomach bunch. It had to be. After all, he hardly knew the woman. Though he wasn’t heartless. He had no wish to see a young woman die. Women had no place in war and what her father was thinking bringing her with him, he knew not.

  Brushing aside thoughts of storming into her room and finding out what was happening, he took the small flight of stairs up to his office. Nearly a month at sea had put him behind in his duties, no doubt. The tenant farmers would have many problems awaiting him and his business dealings had been put on hold as soon as news of the Armada reached Torquay.

  He eyed the stack of missives on the wooden desk and blew out a breath. Henry noted the jug of wine and platter of bread and cheese awaiting him. A smile teased his lips. His staff knew him too well. They’d guessed he would be straight back to work.

  By the time he’d settled at the desk and taken a moment to cast his gaze about the room, Fredericks, the estate manager arrived.

  “Well done on your fine victory, sir,” the grey-haired man said formally as he ducked through the low doorway.

  “We do not have victory yet. Still need to chase off the rest of the Armada,” he explained. “But I’m confident the navy can do so.”

  Fredericks nodded solemnly. “And your part is done?”

  “Aye. The local militia are to ensure the prisoners remain just that—prisoners—while I make negotiations for their return to Spain. We have over three hundred souls to watch over.”