Knight's Captive

by Holt, Samantha

  She moved away from him but kept her hand in his. Her hips swayed to whatever music was in her mind. All he knew was that it had to be like no song he’d ever heard. The village dances consisted of foot-stomping songs about bonny lasses with bountiful curves, and there had been few celebrations when his father had been alive so he hadn’t witnessed more refined dancing. But he doubted the dancers ever swayed as she did—rocking their hips side to side in a suggestive manner. Spanish dances were a lot more enticing than English.

  Henry couldn’t help let a grin spread across his face. “Whatever are you doing?”

  A glint of mischief flickered in her gaze. He considered then that he would do anything to keep that intriguing smile on her face and the slight crinkles at the corner of her eyes. Antonia was the sort of woman who deserved to smile a lot and yet had not nearly enough to smile about.

  “Is my dancing so bad that you do not recognise it for what it is?”

  “This—” he motioned up and down her “—is not dancing. ‘Tis...”

  “’Tis?”

  He shouldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

  “Seduction.”

  The word rang around the room like a pistol shot even though he said it low and gruff with his throat full of tension. She paused her swaying and her smile dropped. He noticed the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck.

  He tugged on her hand. Not enough to have any real impact but enough to imply he wanted her closer. It worked. She turned into him, twisting so that her back met his chest. His arm encircled her. The scent of flowers washed over him and he inhaled deeply when her hair brushed his face. The silky softness begged him to bury his face against her.

  Antonia tilted her head and rested it against his shoulder. Still holding hands, still keeping her firmly against him, he used his other hand to sweep aside her hair and reveal the expanse of her neck. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know if it was the wine making him weak or simply Antonia, but he had to taste her.

  “Antonia,” he grated out as he lowered his head—a warning.

  She simply sighed and sank farther into him.

  The first touch of her skin on his lips sent a jolt through him. The second touch made him feel as though his body were aflame. Hot, searing need washed through him again and again. Her tiny gasp almost undid him. He gripped her shoulder in his free hand and brought his mouth down again to the crook of her neck. This time he used his teeth to nip lightly. A tiny tremor ran through her body.

  The taste of her warm skin made him forget everything—forget himself. He twisted her to face him and cupped her chin.

  “Tell me to cease,” he said gruffly.

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me!” Henry demanded.

  “No.”

  “Hell’s teeth.”

  There, under the candlelight, with wine surging through his veins, he gave in. He kissed her. She was sweet, succulent yet fiery like the wine. She kissed him back hard, looping her hands around his waist and giving him no way of retreating. His sore lip stung but he didn’t care. Her lips parted and he slipped his tongue inside, tasting the rich wine she’d drunk. She drew in a sharp breath and wriggled against him. Aware of every sweet curve against him, his body responded with an agonising ache. He shifted in a bid to ease that ache and she released a tiny sound of pleasure.

  He wanted to curse more. To release a stream of words that would have him in confession forever. This woman was dangerous. He needed her more than he’d ever needed anyone. She made him forget honour, forget everything except the sweet taste of her and the feel of her body flush against his. For the moment, they were not enemies or prisoner and captor. They were man and woman.

  He wanted to make them man and woman in so many ways.

  Releasing her face, he bundled her to him. She staggered back and muttered something in Spanish when her back met the wall. It almost brought him to his senses. But not quite. Because she was upon him with her lips once more, this time dragging them down his face and nipping at his neck. He groaned and thrust his fingers into her hair to draw back her head and repay the favour. Her fingers curled into his shoulders. There was no escape for her here. Her body was at his mercy, pinned between the wall and his chest. It was exactly how he wanted her.

  Henry took her hands from his shoulders and pressed them up above her head. With one hand curling around her wrists, her body was open to him. He trailed kisses up and down her throat, paying attention to her lips as she writhed and released small begging sounds. Her curves enticed him and he dropped down low to trace the shape of her breasts with his tongue. They heaved against her bodice, begging to be released.

  With her wrists still caught up in one hand, he slipped a finger beneath the bodice and eased out one ripe, round breast.

  “Henry,” she cried when he plucked at her nipple. Her whole body shook with what he assumed was the same desire that ate deep into his gut.

  He’d never seen anything more beautiful. Her dusky skin, her dark nipple, the way her lips were parted in a silent plea. With her head tilted back and her lids at half-mast. Her breaths heavy and wanting. She was his for the taking.

  “Nay.” He dropped her wrists. “Damnation. Nay.”

  Antonia blinked and straightened. “No?”

  He thrust a hand through his hair. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t—”

  She pushed herself away from the wall and dragged up her bodice.

  “Antonia, we have drunk much wine...”

  “You think I am a weak woman, here to do your bidding, is that it? That I am ruled by my desires and that I have no control over myself? Did I not kiss you in return? Do I not know my own mind?”

  “I know you are far from weak.”

  “Do you?” She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “It matters not. Good night to you, sir.”

  She gave a little dip and hurried from the room. The temptation to follow her was great. But he couldn’t seem to say or do anything right with this woman. And he feared greatly he might do something even more foolish, like attempt to bed her.

  Henry pushed both hands into his hair and held them there as he tried to rid himself of the taste and scent of her. He’d have to write some more letters and hurry along negotiations. The townsfolk wouldn’t tolerate the prisoners much longer, and he wasn’t sure he could survive many more nights in her company without doing something wholly dishonourable. Antonia did know her own mind, perhaps, but she had also just been through several traumatic events. There would be nothing worse than taking advantage then seeing the regret the next morning.

  He eyed the left over wine and slumped into the chair. Henry threw back the remains of the drink. Mayhap if he drank enough he’d forget the taste of her. He sat there for some time, eyeing the empty goblet and pondering the dripping wax candles as they burned down. Fatigue soon ate into every part of him and the wine made his lids heavy. Shaking his head at himself, he stood. No amount of sitting around would help him puzzle out that woman.

  He made his way upstairs and eased open his bedroom door. Kate had left some candles lit. He blew them out, covering the room in a blanket of darkness.

  “Careless,” he muttered to himself as he stripped off his doublet and shirt before clumsily pulling off the rest of his garments. He’d have to have a word with the housekeeper on the morrow.

  Staggering over to the bed, he grimaced as his head began to pound. Spanish wine was potent indeed. He feared he’d suffer in the morning. He drew back the sheets and slipped into bed.

  Something moved. Then screamed.

  Antonia.

  Ears ringing, he found himself having to shield himself from her fists as they flew at him. He grasped them and pinned her in place. How had he forgotten he’d given her his bed? That wine really had made a fool of him.

  “Antonia,” he said softly. She must have been dreaming. She wriggled against him and he tried not to think about the bare skin under that thin chemise.

  “Por favor,” she
sobbed then began spilling out endless words in Spanish. He only caught a few of them but it sounded as though she was pleading. She’d relaxed in his hold, boneless. Her fight had gone. For some reason, that disturbed him more than anything.

  “Antonia, ‘tis I, Henry.”

  Her mumbling continued, increasing until she was almost hysterical. He stumbled from the bed and fought to get a candle lit. “God’s blood.”

  When the faint flicker of light cast over her face, he saw her eyes were open but she couldn’t see him. She was locked in some kind of terror. She remained on her back, like an offering. But not a willing, sensual one. Nay, like someone who was resigned to her fate. Antonia flung an arm over eyes and pleaded again.

  He snatched up his shirt and thrust it over his head. Not that she had noticed his naked state, but he wouldn’t have her anymore terrified. He eased down next to her and tried to stroke her face but found that only sent her rigid and made her tremble.

  “Antonia, have no fear. I’m here.”

  “Lorenzo,” she said, seeming to look straight through him. “Don’t hurt me. Not the box. I’ll do anything.”

  His jaw went tight. He couldn’t be sure who she thought he was or why she had switched to English after his words but they sent a chill through him. Who was this Lorenzo and why did he hurt her?

  Taking a calming breath, he eased farther away from her. The desire to wrap her in his embrace was strong but he recognised it as a selfish need. In her state, she wouldn’t recognise his actions as ones intended to comfort.

  Softly, he said, “All is well, Antonia. You won’t be hurt.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed at this and the rigid posture eased. Henry lit the other candles again and bundled up his clothes. Satisfied she was falling asleep once more, he eased out of the room and retreated to the guest chamber.

  There was something more to her fear than trauma from the shipwreck. He needed to find out what. And he had to know who this Lorenzo person was. If he was one of his prisoners and he’d done something to Antonia, he would pay and pay dearly.

  Chapter Eleven

  “¡Dios mío!,” Antonia spat when she jabbed her hand with her eating knife as she tried to cut through the bread for the morning meal. Her head pounded a little, but it wasn’t the wine that made her irritable.

  No, it was Henry.

  Henry and that kiss. And now he wasn’t even here. Kate had said he’d headed out as soon as the sun had risen. She couldn’t even confront him or...or mayhap apologise. Though she wasn’t sure what she’d be apologising for. Kissing him or shouting at him? He had kissed her first, though.

  And she had kissed him back. She supposed she had probably wanted his kiss for some time. By the time he had her pressed against the wall, she’d wanted more too. But then he had behaved as though she didn’t know her own mind. He simply had to be honourable, did he not?

  “Damn his honour!”

  “Forgive the intrusion.”

  She whirled at the sound of a man’s voice, her heart jerking against her ribcage. The priest stood in the doorway, his hands clasped in front of him with his gaze narrowed on her.

  Antonia stood and dropped into a curtsey. “Forgive me, sir. Kate did not say there was anyone here.”

  “There was no one at the door, so I entered myself.”

  It seemed presumptuous but she didn’t say as much. This wasn’t her house, after all. “Will you have a drink, Reverend?”

  “Nay, I thank you. I came to speak with Sir Henry.”

  “He is not here this morn. I think it likely he has gone to the village.”

  He remained in the doorway and in spite of his fairly small stature, it struck her as an intimidating sight. His dark cloak filled the space and he seemed reluctant to either enter or leave, as though contemplating his next move.

  “You do not know where he is?”

  “No, sir. Why should I?”

  “’Tis said you know much, my lady. I do not see the other prisoners being afforded such luxuries.”

  She wasn’t sure what the implication was. Was it that he thought she was trading herself for these favours? Mayhap.

  Antonia lifted her chin. “I have never asked for any favours.”

  The man stepped into the room in one swift movement. She gripped the back of a chair to prevent herself from leaping backward. The narrowed gaze and tight lips made her stomach bunch. The faint prickle of her skin warned her trouble was afoot. She remembered the same sensation before Lorenzo struck out or raged at her. Antonia swallowed hard.

  “Reverend.” Henry entered the room, his imposing form dwarfing the man.

  Antonia felt the air leave her lungs.

  “Sir Henry.” Reed inclined his head.

  “What can I do for you?” Henry asked coolly, his eyes as hard as stone.

  “I came to enquire about the boy.”

  “The one nearly beaten to death, you mean?”

  “Aye, that one.”

  “He has been put to work and is under my protection. I hope you agree that we don’t wish to see that kind of rioting again.”

  “Nay, of course not.”

  “I hope also that you shall attend to the matters of your church more diligently, Reverend. It seems to me your attention has been diverted of late.”

  A wash of displeasure came over Reed’s face and he glanced at Antonia. “Some say the same of you, sir. ‘Tis my duty to look after the spiritual wellbeing of my flock and the devil likes to prey outside of the church walls.”

  Henry’s jaw worked. “Let me worry about the people outside of the church walls. You stay where you are wanted, Reed.”

  Antonia saw the indecision in the reverend’s eyes. Henry wasn’t a man to be trifled with but it seemed the priest was growing in boldness.

  “I can see I’m not welcome here. Be careful, Sir Henry. The devil disguises himself in many ways.”

  “Get out,” he pressed between his teeth.

  Reed retreated, dipping his head briefly before disappearing out of the door. Henry stared at the doorway for several moments then turned to her.

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “Not in so many words.” Antonia clasped her hands together. “There are rumours, are there not?”

  “There are,” he confirmed. “But be assured I won’t let him ruin you, Antonia. ‘Tis only the ignorant that believe his word.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I’m no innocent, it matters little. But why do you not do something about him?”

  He stroked a hand across his beard and released a long breath. “I have no say in what happens in the church but I have requested that he be moved. Now I wait for word from the bishop. Until then I can only watch and pray he doesn’t incite more trouble.”

  “I have no doubt he will not get the better of you.”

  A dry smile slipped across his face. “Do you not? You think better of me than many do then.”

  “Nonsense. Your people admire you.”

  “Not enough to respect my word over that of a priest.”

  “They shall see him for what he is soon enough. Those of import take you at your word and can be counted upon to support you should you need it.” On impulse she took a step forward and rested a hand on his arm. “You need not do everything alone.”

  He patted her hand absently, his blue eyes crinkling in the corners. Antonia’s chest tightened. In a dark blue doublet, his cloak slung over one shoulder and his long boots polished to perfection, she wondered how it was anyone could not hang upon his every word. She’d never met a man like him. So selfless, so bold.

  The air around them grew heavy. She longed to go onto tiptoes and brush a kiss across his bristled cheek or to burrow herself against that wide chest. But she wasn’t sure she could take a rejection again so she removed her hand.

  “You went to the village?”

  “Aye.” The creases around his eyes vanished. “To speak with your father.”

  “Why did you not wait for me? I should
like to see him this day.”

  “I had need of a private word.” Henry fixed his gaze upon her. “Will you tell me of Lorenzo?”

  That name from his lips sent a shard of pain through her, piercing her insides and making her feel as though she wanted to double over.

  “How do you know of him?”

  “Last night, in your sleep, you spoke of him. I came into your room...” he held up his hand “with no intention of seeking company, I swear. But you thought I was your husband. You screamed and begged me not to harm you.”

  Antonia wrapped her arms around her waist and swivelled away. “I don’t recall.”

  “You were nonsensical.”

  “If my father told you all, then you need not hear it from my lips,” she said huskily.

  He came up behind her and clasped the top of her arms. The desire to lean back into him ate heavily into her muscles but she kept herself rigid. How could her father tell him everything? He knew she wanted to forget Lorenzo and everything he’d done to her. The day Lorenzo had been buried was the day she swore her memories of him would be buried too.

  “Why did you not say something?” he asked softly. “’Tis why you hate the dark, is it not? ‘Tis why you flinch when there is a sudden movement? Antonia,” regret hung heavily in her name, “I would have—”

  “What was I to say?” she snapped. “I didn’t know you. How could I know whether to trust you? You are my captor, Henry.”

  He twisted her around to view him and the concern in those eyes made her stomach swoop. “I hoped I was more than that.”

  Antonia fought to find a response to that. He confused her. He muddled her thoughts until she no longer knew what was right and was what not. Men were not to be trusted—that had been her belief. But she trusted this man. He had saved her life and protected her father. However, now he was asking her to bare her soul to him. Could she really do it?

  “Come, let us walk in the gardens.” He laid her hand over the top of his and led her out into the herb gardens.

  The fragrance of lavender greeted her. She peeked up at the morning sun and felt the welcome touch of a light sea breeze. England might be colder than Spain, but she was beginning to appreciate the place that her father had intended to become their home. Her heart gave a little painful throb as if to remind her that she would be leaving soon enough once negotiations with her king were completed. But that was what she wanted, was it not? Her father safe at home in Spain, away from a place where they would always be seen as the enemy.