“Here, ‘twill be cold but ‘tis surely better than being covered in mud.”
She nodded hurriedly and moved into action, scooping up water and scrubbing her face. He couldn’t help but admire the way her skin glistened once clean. His fingers twitched with the need to skim across the planes of her cheeks and touch the gentle up-tilt of her nose.
Antonia’s gaze connected with his and he turned his attention back to himself. The worst of the damage was to his breeches and boots thankfully but his doublet was unbearable now and dirt clung to his shirt sleeves. He rolled them up and bit back a curse at the cold water when he scrubbed his arms.
Antonia giggled.
“Hell fire, you could have warned me.”
She snuck a sideways glance at him. “Like you warned me of the mud?”
He stifled another curse. “Forgive me, I should not have—”
She waved a hand and propped herself on the side of the well. “You need no forgiveness. I am no—how do you say?—delicate flower.”
With her legs dangling over the side and an impish smile on her face, she looked remarkably youthful.
And attractive.
Far too attractive. Now he was almost grateful for the icy temperature of the water. He supposed she was right. Antonia had been through so much these past days—not to mention the journey here and the battles fought between the English and Spanish ships. In truth, it astonished him she was not more traumatised. She had seemed to sleep well in his bed, which was more than could be said for him.
Henry loosened the laces of his shirt at the nape and tugged at the sleeves. “Damnation,” he grumbled when the dirt stuck the sleeves to his arms and made it a battle to remove.
Antonia hopped off the well and came to assist him. Up close, he noted a few smears of mud still on her face—one skimming her forehead, another down the side of her chin and a faint splatter over her nose. While she tugged at his shirt sleeves, he couldn’t bring himself to aid her. Having her so close brought him far too much pleasure. Would the moment their bodies connected in the mud linger in her mind just as it did his? Would she dream of him tonight? Because he was certain that if he managed any sleep, she’d be haunting him for the rest of the night.
“Henry,” she huffed when she managed to loosen the sleeve a little and tug it down, “I cannot do this alone.”
He snapped his attention away from where the tiny little drops of mud lingered on her face, making him want to sweep his fingers over her skin and perhaps follow it with his lips once he’d removed all traces of dirt. “Aye, of course.”
Together they hauled his shirt over his head and he draped it over the stone side of the well. When he turned, Antonia was still no more than a pace away. Her gaze skimmed him, leaving some strange fiery trail over his body as if she had somehow scalded him with a mere look. He noted her throat work and she stumbled back, forcing him to snatch her arm. The contact made her stiffen, and a fleeting look of terror came across her face before vanishing. Then he saw it...
The same look as when they’d been in the mud. Desire. Her eyes warmed and darkened. She glanced down his body and her pale pink tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip. It would be so easy to draw her into him, to kiss her. To do more. They were alone, no one would disturb them. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to do it—to lay this vulnerable woman down on the damp ground and take her.
His instincts were wrong. So very wrong.
Instead, he drew in a breath, released her arm and skimmed a thumb over her nose to wipe away the dirt there. The intensity to her gaze diminished but the need didn’t disappear. Henry cursed to himself. It was hard enough battling his need for her without being aware she wanted him as badly. The sooner he had this woman returned to Spain, the better.
Chapter Nine
While her father slept, Antonia perused the small sacks of herbs in the physician’s store room. Mr Willis seemed to trust her well enough now to leave her unattended whilst he visited with the villagers. She understood his reticence. After all, she was Spanish and Catholic and a potential invader. None of those things would make her a friend to the English. She wasn’t wholly ignorant to the suspicious looks she garnered even while accompanying Henry.
She sifted through a bag of lavender and brought her fingers to her nose to inhale the scent. ¡Dios mío!, she’d had need of some lavender last night to soothe her to sleep. And not because of her usual fears but because she hadn’t been able to get the image of Henry shirtless out of her mind. She’d been aware of a strong body underneath those doublets and linen shirts—she’d even felt it wrapped about her—but being aware of something and seeing it was two different things.
Now she had an image to add to her awareness. Now she couldn’t look at him without recalling the flex of his stomach or the slight scattering of hair across his chest and the way water droplets clung to it.
If she was not much mistaken, he desired her too. The look he’d given her after he’d pulled her down into the mud said as much. It was intense—the sort of look she should have been terrified of. Lorenzo had given her such looks before demanding use of her body. But Henry didn’t even try to kiss her.
Antonia sighed. Mayhap this was all a symptom of never having met a man like him. She’d spent too long under the crushing influence of her husband and the men around him. They had all been the same. Even the men she’d met before marrying Lorenzo at only six and ten. To them, she was nothing more than a means to an end—a vessel for carrying a child and a plentiful dowry. So it was understandable that she might find herself drawn to a man like Henry. Even yesterday, when she had experienced the briefest bubble of fear when he’d snatched her, it had dissolved within an instant. That frightened her more than anything. That left her vulnerable. She needed her defences to remain strong while she was his captive and while her father was still at risk.
“Your father is sleeping?”
She turned to find the physician dipping in through the door. “Si. I gave him some more poppy tonic as he was in pain.”
The balding man nodded and unpinned his cloak to drape it over the back of one of the chairs at the table in the middle of the small room. “I hope ‘twill not take long to heal and he shall be as strong as he was before after some time.”
“I must thank you for your help. I am aware that we are your enemies, but Father said you attended to his bedside for most of the night.”
The man waved a hand, dismissing her thanks. “These battles are between kings and queens, not us mere men. I pay little heed to them though I cannot speak for my countrymen. Besides, Sir Henry would not see any of his prisoners suffer, I’d wager. I would not wish to displease him.”
“He is a fair man, is he not?”
“Aye. Count yourself lucky ‘tis him in charge of you all and not his father.” Mr Willis strode over to the herb table and gathered a bunch of mint leaves before bringing it over to the chopping block. He laid out the leaves and lifted the large knife that rested upon it. “That you are left here alone...” he glanced at the knife in his hand, “is a sign of his trust in you.”
Antonia swallowed. She hadn’t repaid that trust well when she’d left him at the mercy of those men. She told herself she hadn’t known the sort of man her captor was but now she was deeply ashamed of her actions. His prisoner or not, she should never have betrayed his trust. The man was right. At the hands of anyone else, she could have been treated poorly indeed.
“What was his father like?”
He lowered the chopping knife and eyed her. “Sir Edmund was not like Sir Henry, to be sure. Let us just say that your fellow countrymen would think themselves lucky to be locked away in a barn should they have been under his care.”
She couldn’t help but wonder how such a man might sire a son like Henry. He had his moments where he seemed fierce, she supposed, but she was becoming increasingly doubtful that was his true nature.
Mr Willis turned his attention back to the mint leaves and set about
chopping them roughly. Antonia wound her hands together and attempted to turn her attention away from Henry by inspecting the herbs once more. There were a few she didn’t recognise that she had to assume were native to England but most were much like the ones she had grown in the herb garden in Spain.
“What is this?” She lifted the stem of a dried purple flower.
The physician paused chopping and rubbed his hands together to remove the mint leaves from his palms. “’Tis Scottish Primrose.”
Antonia nodded. “We have primrose in Spain but not of this colour. Are the properties the same?”
“It soothes and calms. ‘Tis a great help to women when they are overwrought.”
“Si, that is how we use it.”
He peered at her, his grey eyes narrowed with interest. “You understand the use of herbs?”
“Si. I had an herb garden that I tended in Spain. We use primrose in tea.” She twisted the dried flower in her hand and eyed its purple petals. “You have English primrose do you not?”
“Aye, but ‘tis thought the Scottish primrose is more potent. I buy it from a merchant in Plymouth.”
Before Antonia could question him further, the door burst open and a young lad ran in. “A fight,” he puffed. “By the church. Sir Henry...”
Antonia didn’t wait to hear more. She’d abandoned Henry to a fight before and she wouldn’t do it again. She raced out of the cottage and down the muddy road that twisted around a corner and dropped toward the church. Already people were gathering around the building, pressing against the stone wall and trying to clamber over it to get a better view. She hurried as fast as she could in her borrowed gown and leather shoes, her heart beating a sickening tattoo in her chest.
She reached the edge of the crowd and tried to peer over the angry shaking fists but could not see Henry. An elbow jabbed in her side, and she bit back a yelp before trying to press her way between the crush of bodies. The scent of sweat filled her nostrils. The air grew thick around her. Someone’s cry rang in her ears, but she struggled to make out what they were so furious about. As she pushed farther into the crowd, she narrowly avoided being shoved over and several limbs nearly connected with her face.
Where was he?
She burst out of the crowd and her knees jarred against the stone wall surrounding the church. Biting back a cry of pain, she froze.
“Henry.” His name left her lips before she could summon it back. And she wanted to. He couldn’t be distracted. But he glanced her way, his expression severe, dark, dangerous. Her breath stuck in her throat. Sword held out, he kept back the braying crowd while a man cowered behind him.
“Get back,” he shouted, using the tip of his sword to keep distance between him and the few brave men who had stepped over the wall to confront him.
What this man he was protecting had done, she knew not.
One of the large men dashed forward, forcing Henry to swing his blade around.
“Let us have him,” the man yelled. “He’s a traitor.”
“I’ll do no such thing. Get back or I will use force.”
Antonia gulped. She didn’t think Henry would but the strong set of his brow and the way his muscles seemed to strain against his linen shirt certainly made him appear intimidating. She suspected it was the only reason the crowd hadn’t pushed forward yet.
She tugged her skirt free from where someone had trampled on it and fought to clamber over the wall. It wasn’t high but the crush of bodies prevented her from doing it easily. As she put one foot over, she had to fight to free her leg and hop over the other side. She hastened to Henry’s side and caught his glare.
“Antonia, ‘tis not safe,” he hissed.
“I can help,” she said.
However, when she looked to the crowd that he was keeping at bay with a mere sword, she gulped. She had thought perhaps the voice of a woman would calm them, but now her thoughts seemed foolish. These people wouldn’t listen to her—particularly not a Spanish woman. Angry words simmered through the air and though she couldn’t hear them all, she recognised many of them as insults.
Henry snatched her arm as the same man took another step forward. Grip tight on her sleeve, he dragged her behind his body and placed himself between her and the crowd. She glanced down at the young man he’d been shielding to see blood trickling down his face. She kneeled and drew a handkerchief out of her sleeve to press it to his head. She longed to ask him who he was, what he was doing, why Henry was risking his life for him but the noise around her grew in intensity.
Antonia swallowed as the crowd seemed to bulge and wash forward like waves on the beach. Several more bodies spilled over the wall, and Henry took a step back. She fought the need to close her eyes when a group of men began inching forward.
A crack ricocheted through the air. Her heart bounded against her chest and she waited for something awful. Henry toppling forward perhaps or collapsing to his knees. But a puff of smoke drifting lazily into the sky told her the shot had been far away at the rear of the crowd. Many dispersed as soon as the sound rang out between the buildings.
Henry snatched her arm and hauled the young man to his feet. “Make haste.”
He led them around the building while the crowd was distracted. Another crack made her jump, but Henry urged them forward. They ran behind the church and paused when they came to the cliff edge. “Follow the path down to the beach.” He pointed along a narrow strip of dirt that had been worn into the grass. “Stay hidden until I find you. Look after this lad, Antonia. He has had a knock to the head.”
“Henry, you’re not—”
“If someone is shooting at the crowd, I cannot leave them.”
“But you might get hurt—killed even!”
He gave her a look that told her he would not be denied his duty. And she couldn’t help admire him for it. He would lay his life on the line for those who had wanted to take it from him only moments ago.
“Be careful,” she whispered as he turned away.
Henry paused to give her a nod and a slight smile before he made his way back to the church. His royal blue cloak billowed out behind him and his hair ruffled in the wind. Her heart panged in protest of watching him go. However, the young man at her side forced her to turn her attention away.
“Come then.” She began the walk down the narrow pathway, aware of the drop on one side. “I’m Antonia, what is your name?”
“Richard,” he stuttered.
“What happened?”
“I was caught bringing food to the prisoners.”
She paused and eyed the boy who couldn’t be much older than six and ten. “Why?”
He glanced around as though fearful of being overheard. “My mother was Catholic.”
Antonia tugged his arm to keep him moving. If one of the men decided to follow them, she didn’t think they would be able to defend themselves. Once they’d made it onto the beach, she pointed to one of the many caves that littered the cliffs. “We shall wait here,” she said and led the way.
Once they were settled in the mouth of a cave with only dripping water and the sound of the waves not far from them for company, she turned her attention to Richard’s head, pushing back his fair hair to inspect it properly. The bleeding had ceased, and she was pleased to note it wouldn’t need stitches.
“Not too much damage,” she announced.
“I thank you.” He touched the sore spot. “I must have struck it against the wall when Byron pushed me.”
She sat on a relatively dry rock and eyed the young man. “Are the prisoners not being fed?”
“Not well enough. Some are sickening.”
Antonia wrapped her arms about herself. She didn’t know all the men—her father had kept her away from all of them apart from the officers—but they were her countrymen. It was likely some would die whilst in captivity in England. But Henry had wanted to ensure they were well-fed, she knew that from their visit with the farmer, so why were they going hungry?
“Sir Henry
asked the farmers to provide extra food. He offered extra coin too.”
“Aye, but the villagers stopped Mr Palmer bringing in the corn this morning. They say they don’t want to share with the invaders.”
“And you hoped to help them because of your mother...”
“We have a Protestant queen, milady. ‘Tis dangerous to be anything but. However, my mother was a devout Catholic and she would not have stood by and watched this happen to people of the same faith.”
“She would have been proud, no doubt,” Antonia said softly.
A tiny boyish smile graced his face. “You’re the daughter of the commander, are you not? I heard tell of you. They said Sir Henry was entranced by your beauty.”
She dropped her head and stared at her fingers. “I am not so sure about that.”
Entranced, no. But he was interested. And that thought made her stomach tumble over and over. She twined her fingers together until her knuckles hurt from gripping them so tightly. Silently, she uttered a prayer for his safety.
“I think they are right,” Richard said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
Heat surged into her cheeks. She didn’t think Henry had been enthralled by her. After all, he had first seen her in men’s clothing and then soaked to the skin. None of which made her entrancing. She could be beautiful in elegant gowns and with a maid to do her hair but in the simple gowns she wore, she felt far from this exquisite creature who might win over such a man. But then, even when she had worn expensive gowns and had spent hours ensuring she looked perfect, she hadn’t been able to win over her husband either.
“What shall—”
Antonia pressed a finger to her lips when she heard a shuffle outside of the cave. She flattened herself against the rock and held her breath. When Henry’s ruffled hair and handsome face made an appearance, she let loose that breath and jumped swiftly to her feet to rush up to him and latch her arms around him.
“¡Dios mío!, you could have been killed!” She remembered herself and drew back when he gave her an awkward pat to her back. Her gaze fell onto a mark on the side of his face and little blood on the corner of his lips. “You are hurt.”
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