Knight's Captive

by Holt, Samantha

  She shook her head vigorously. “She will see nothing of the sort. She will not believe your lies.”

  “When you are taken to London and stretched ‘til your limbs cannot hold you any longer, the truth shall spill from your lips and they shall come for him. You shall be responsible for his death.”

  The image sent a shudder through her but when she looked into his eyes, hooded and dark in the gloom, she knew these were not the words of a sane man. The queen would not see a Spanish prisoner tortured on the words of a lowly priest nor would her men go after Henry. And even if Reed somehow persuaded anyone of her guilt, none would break her.

  “Return me home,” she said quietly. There was no arguing with this man. He was blind to the errors of his ways, likely eaten up by jealousy.

  “’Tis not your home. You were never welcome there.”

  Antonia considered how it was that a place where she certainly hadn’t been welcome and may never be, could feel so much like a home to her. But Spain hadn’t for so long, not since her girlhood. Even after Lorenzo’s death, he haunted her. His words and deeds lingered too sharply in her mind. Here, in England—in Henry’s home—they were finally muted. The acceptance of a few of the villagers and Henry’s care of her had been enough.

  “Where are we?”

  “An old Catholic church. It has been abandoned just as you have. We have no need for your heretic ways.” Reed stood sharply. “’Twill be dusk soon and the roads will be too dangerous. We shall continue our journey on the morrow.”

  She offered him a pitiful smile. “Then I shall use the time to pray for your soul.”

  “I need no prayers from a Catholic,” he spat before spinning away and slamming shut the door.

  After a few moments, Antonia pushed to her feet. Though the pain in her face nearly forced her double, she managed to remain standing. She peered out of the thin window and the ache in her stomach increased. Dusk was indeed nearing, casting her ghostly fingers over what appeared to be a thick forest. Soon this small room would be swallowed by darkness and she would be left alone in it with nothing but her thoughts and fears. Her chest tightened and blood began to throb in her ears. How would she survive the night?

  Her thoughts turned to Henry, to his bold courageous ways. For him, she would stay strong.

  Antonia paced the room. Three paces across, five paces wide. The door was solid oak and would likely last years longer than the crumbling walls. There was no escape.

  “Antonia.”

  Her heart near leaped out of her throat. She moved to the window and peered out. “Henry!”

  In the dim light, she saw the marks of the fight on his face but he was alive and that was enough for her. He pressed a finger to his lips. “Where is Reed?”

  “I know not,” she whispered. Pressing her fingers through the window, she found his own and he curled his hand around the tips. “I am glad you are unharmed. I feared greatly you would be killed.”

  “Nay. A few bruises and naught more. The crowd dispersed quickly enough once some shots were fired.”

  “The villagers?”

  “All unharmed,” he assured her softly. “Forgive me for taking so long to find you. The ground was hard and the tracks were not so easy to follow.”

  “It matters not.”

  “Stand against the wall. I shall come around.”

  “Be careful,” she urged.

  Henry would not be foolish but Reed was not of sound mind. Who knew what the man would do when he saw Henry? Henry would fight with honour. The priest would not.

  She flattened her back against the cold rock and curled her fingers into the stone while listening for footsteps or sounds of a fight. No scrape of swords being drawn came nor the grunts of men or the pounding of fists against flesh. The door seemed to explode into a thousand pieces, much like the Rosario when gunpowder tore her asunder. Antonia held her breath.

  Henry strode through the breech and dragged her into his hold. The strength of Henry’s body revived her and she forgot the pain in her face or the ache around her wrists.

  “Come, he must be nearby. We must away before he returns.” He lifted her bound hands and drew out a dagger from his belt.

  A movement caught her eye. Henry must have seen her gaze flick to the shadows behind him as he released her and whirled, the dagger in hand. Too late though. He gave a howl of pain when Reed jabbed him with his own small blade. Henry staggered back, a hand to his side, and slumped to the floor.

  Eyes wide with horror, Antonia saw the light glint off the dagger in the priest’s hand. She heard her own cry but it sounded distant. The priest rushed forward again and Henry lifted an arm. This time the blade glanced off him but even in the increasing dusk, she saw blood blossom on his shirt sleeve. Bile rose in her throat. She was upon Reed before she had realised what she had done.

  The man reared as she latched her hands around his neck and tried to drag him away using the full weight of her body. He rotated and dropped the knife while he scrabbled at her hands in an attempt to pry her grip from her. She clung on.

  Savage cries rang out, like that of a beast dying. She had never heard the likes of it. The man was truly mad. He crashed out into the ragged remains of the church and twisted. Her grip came loose and she fell to the floor, winded.

  “Heathen,” he screamed at her.

  Reed pounced on her, crushing what little breath she had left from her body. His hands were upon her neck before she could put up any kind of a fight. Her bound wrists prevented her from doing anything other than wriggle fruitlessly. Antonia kicked out but to no avail.

  Dots clouded her vision. She wanted to scream but no sound came. Her lungs burned. The priest’s wild eyes became the only thing she could see. Around her, everything else was dark. She gave one last kick before the circle of darkness closed in.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pain seared Henry’s side. It burned through his arm. It tore at his heart. He lunged for Reed and pushed him off Antonia. She remained lifeless, pale.

  Dead?

  He turned on the priest. No thoughts of honour remained. He wanted this man’s blood. Hot, pulsing anger ran through his veins and he clenched his fists. As Reed pushed to his feet, Henry went for him again, bringing a fist across his face. Bone crunched under his fist. He released a grin of satisfaction.

  The sting to his side all but melted away. Nothing existed apart from this man and Antonia’s lifeless body. The need for vengeance burned bright. He let Reed stagger to his feet. He even allowed him to exit the church. Better not to spill blood on holy land. And better to let him think he might have some chance of escape. That way Henry could take all the more satisfaction in bringing him down again.

  Henry stalked after him with measured steps. From the way the priest staggered from his blow, he wouldn’t get far. Reed stumbled over an old gravestone and Henry followed.

  “She was an innocent,” he said, feeling the hotness of his breath.

  Reed shook his head, backing away. “She’s a heretic. You all are. You should never have taken that witch into your home. I was doing the work of God.”

  “The work of God is that of charity and kindness. Antonia had more goodness in her than a hundred Protestant priests. You have not a kind bone in your body, Reed. ”

  “I serve only to protect my flock.”

  “You serve yourself,” Henry spat.

  The man inched back farther until his back hit a tree. He tumbled around it and paused when a splash resounded through the dark woods. The priest had come upon the old lake Henry had spotted when he’d ridden here.

  God’s blood. If he’d but acted sooner. Punished the rioters, removed the priest from the village, none of this would have happened. Antonia would have been safe.

  “Sir Henry...”

  He pushed forward, nostrils flaring, fists balled. There would be no mercy from him this time, no sign of weakness. Ignoring the rush of cold water in his boots, he grabbed for Reed. The priest’s cloak bunched in h
is fist, Henry slammed him down into the water. Reed spluttered and scrabbled against his hold, his fingernails digging into his hands and his weight making the slice on his arm burn.

  With a growl, he shoved the man under again, coming down to kneel in the shallow water, and held him there while water sloshed about him. Reed came up briefly to suck in air so Henry put his full weight on him.

  “Henry!”

  He kept his hold on the priest firm, even as shock stiffened his muscles. “Antonia!”

  She waded up beside him and pulled his arm. “Leave him. ¡Dios mío!, don’t kill him.”

  Henry’s hold loosened enough for Reed to splutter to the surface again. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let the man get away with harming Antonia, with putting the villeins at risk. It had been simple luck that no one had been harmed during the rioting.

  “No,” she pleaded, tugging on him again as he pushed the man under.

  This time he wouldn’t let him come up again.

  “Henry, this isn’t you. Do not kill him. This isn’t you.”

  Under the increasing moonlight, he glanced down to see the shadowy outline of the man he was drowning. He saw the trails of blood dripping down his arm. Henry twisted his head to view Antonia and the horror on her face. To her, he was perhaps no better than her husband.

  Icy coldness washed through him.

  He hauled the priest out of the water and dragged him to the side of the lake. Flinging Reed down, he drew in several ragged breaths while the priest gagged up water then collapsed.

  Antonia came to his side. “What shall you do with him?”

  “Take him to the village. See that justice is served,” he said quietly. He turned to Antonia and took in her features. Swelling marred her cheek and her hair was wild. Bruises were already revealing themselves upon her neck. He pressed both thumbs along either side of her jaw and lifted her face. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  Henry kissed her. He brought his lips down on hers swiftly. Her bound hands were still trapped between them but it didn’t stop him from bringing her as close to his body as possible. Holding her tight, he plundered her mouth and she gasped. The sweet sound urged him on and he took and took until they were breathless.

  When he drew back, he kept hold of her face. “Did I frighten you?”

  “A little. But not for myself.”

  Reed groaned so Henry reluctantly released her. “Can you find my dagger?”

  “Si.”

  Antonia marched back toward the church. He thought he spied a shudder in her body but she behaved with such courage, given her fear of the dark. When she returned with his blade, he cut the ropes from her wrists and rubbed the red patches.

  “There’s enough here for me to restrain him,” he commented and began binding Reed’s wrists behind his back.

  The man proved to be compliant, mayhap scared of another dunking or simply drained from his near drowning. Henry hauled him back to the church and pushed him into the same room in which Antonia had been locked. The door would no longer lock after he’d burst through it, so he used an old plank to bar it. It would do for the night and he had little intention of letting down his guard. He had even less intention of anything happening to Antonia again.

  He motioned to the old altar and made her sit. His boots squelched and his clothes stuck uncomfortably to him. “We’ll have to remain here for the night and travel back in the morning.” Henry came down on one knee and clasped her hands. “I must find firewood and tether the horse closer. I didn’t dare bring her close in case she alerted Reed,” he explained. “I have my cloak and tinder box with her. But I must leave you for a moment.” He looked into her wide eyes, the whites still managing to shine in the shadows of the church. “I will return. Do not be afeared.”

  She nodded but said nothing. He saw the fear there and he saw the trust too. He wasn’t quite sure he’d earned it though.

  By the time he’d retrieved his cloak, slung it over Antonia’s shoulders and got a fire lit, chills began to wrack him. The pain in his side increased and he winced as he sat beside her.

  “Will you let me look?”

  “’Tis but a scratch.”

  Antonia ignored him and shifted around him to begin unbuttoning his doublet. Before long she had his shirt pushed up over his head and his arm lifted so she could examine the wound. She shook her head and tutted.

  “What is it?”

  “’Tis deep. Not a mere scratch, Henry. ¡Dios mío!, if you hadn’t turned...”

  “If I hadn’t let Reed continue with his behaviour...” He let out a hiss of a curse. “I shall never forgive myself that he hurt you.”

  “You said it yourself, the church has the power over him, not you. What could you have done?”

  “I should have killed him. Maybe I still should.”

  “No.” She gripped his shoulders and set her gaze upon him. “You should not. You could not. You are a deeply honourable man and that is much to be admired.”

  He snorted. “Honour did not protect you tonight.”

  “Your honour has protected me this entire time. Were you any less of a man, I would likely be drowned and my father dead.” Antonia leaned in to brush a kiss across his lips. “’Tis why I love you.”

  Henry froze. He searched her gaze to see some element of falsehood and to be sure she had said as much. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever uttered such words to him and yet this beautiful, bold woman had. Something throbbed deep in his heart and he fought to find some reply but nothing came.

  “Now, let us see to that wound.”

  Antonia turned away before he summoned the right response. He eyed her as she tore strips from her gown and gathered a handful of ash with which to clean the wound. Indecision rioted through him. The desire to clamp her to him and never let her go warred with the knowledge that she would have to return home soon and she needed to be with her father, with her people.

  So he didn’t declare his love for her, even as it warmed his body. Instead, he remained quiet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pausing on the threshold to the main bedchamber, Antonia took a moment to appreciate the sight of Henry without his shirt. She admired the lines of his arms and the slight scattering of hair across his chest. However, the linen bound around his arm and torso made her heart pang. He was a strong man, she assured herself. No small cut would bring him down.

  The sunlight spilling through the windows of the chamber silhouetted Henry against the cloudy glass. With his long hair loose and touching his shoulders, she itched to push her fingers into it and recreate that all too short kiss. She’d suggested the physician see to him there rather than in the guest chamber because of the better light but in truth, she also wanted him comfortable to ensure a quick recovery.

  The physician spotted her and motioned her in as he packed away his belongings.

  “Are you well?” she asked as she hastened in. “Is he well?” she asked Mr Willis.

  “Aye, well enough. A mere scratch for a man of Sir Henry’s size.”

  Henry gave her a look that told her he had said as much. She ignored his smile and eyed the linen bandages.

  “Will you allow me to change the strips?”

  Henry opened his mouth, but the physician spoke. “Aye. You’re in good hands here. Should he show any sign of fever, send for me, but I think it unlikely. A strong herb bath in a few days will draw out any impurities.” Willis put a hand to Henry’s shoulder. “You have a fine woman here. She’ll look after you well. Would that I had someone like her to help me every day, but I suppose you’ll be returning with your father soon.”

  She met Henry’s gaze, unable to avoid noticing how he stared at her. “Aye,” she said softly even as the word pained her. His eyes seem to echo that pain. Was it possible he didn’t wish to be parted from her any more than she did from him? He hadn’t spoken of love but that kiss and the desperation when he’d thought her harmed...

  He broke the connection first. “How are thing
s in the village?”

  “Good, Sir Henry. Calmer. The announcement this morning that there will be extra funds to continue taking care of the prisoners has mollified most. And now that the reverend is no longer putting words in their ears, I think you shall have no more trouble.”

  “Aye, let the courts at Torquay deal with him now. I am grateful to have washed my hands of him.”

  “As are many of us,” the physician agreed.

  Antonia suppressed a shudder and Henry took her hand to curl his fingers in between hers. It would take some time before she forgot that yet another man had tried to harm her, yet her fear melted with his touch. He read her so well, understanding her fears and knowing how to comfort her perfectly. In this man, she had found so much.

  “Well, I shall bid you good day.”

  She gave a little dip of her head. “Good day, Mr Willis.”

  Antonia waited until he had left and shut the door behind him. She came back to Henry’s side where he sat upon the bed and lifted his arm to inspect the bandage. He let out a sharp hiss when her fingers connected with his chest.

  “Forgive me, did I hurt you?”

  He shook his head and his deep blue gaze locked onto hers. “Nay. ‘Tis your touch...”

  “My fingers are too cold?” She straightened and tried to tuck her hands by her sides but he grabbed one and tugged her close so that she stood between his thighs. He opened them wider, allowing her to slot completely between them.

  “Your touch is like torture.”

  “I...”

  “Sweet, sweet torture.” Slipping his hands around her, he smoothed his palms up the back of her gown and down again to just above her rear.

  “Henry, you are injured,” she protested even though a faint tingle of excitement began to trill through her.

  “Aye, and in need of your attention.” When he lifted his gaze to her face and likely saw the astonished look on her face, he dropped his hands away. “Forgive me.”

  “No.” She took both hands and placed them firmly about her. “No, never apologise to me for being yourself, Henry. You are a fine, fine man.”