So he had challenged the guards. And she had cast stones and fury and hard looks at him. And now, even hauled across his horse, with the earth skimming less than a yard beneath her nose, she fought him still, squirming like an eel. He planted a hand in the middle of her back, pressing her tightly against the horse’s powerful flanks.
“Yield, girl, and you may ride pillion.”
He did not expect thanks and he only wanted her to stop struggling, but she jerked her shoulders free, hardly seeming to care if she fell. As he grabbed her waist to stop her plunging headfirst off the beast, she twisted her head, her face a single dark scowl.
“Or what, sir knight? Will you use your other glove to silence me?”
Still she remembered that! Hugh reined in the horse a little. “I told you, I am sorry for that. Be at peace! I do not abuse my captives.”
“If you believe that, you are deluded. Look out!”
Hugh glanced forward, checking the horse, and Joanna pushed off with her arms. He was only just quick enough to seize her skirts as she tumbled toward the ground.
“Yield!” he yelled in French, in that instant transported to the combat ground and badly shaken as he tugged her back, seating her astride his horse, and wrapped both arms tightly round her. “Be not so reckless!”
She reared up again. “Why not, when I am now riding with you, without any promise?”
“Hell’s teeth, girl! No man prisoner gave me so much trouble!”
“And I fight my way!”
Her hair, which had been loosened in their turmoil, now spilled free of its gold net. The thick brown mass whipped Hugh’s face and he could not answer for a moment: his mouth and eyes were full of hair. He could smell her, taste her: peppery and spicy. His mind reeled with the scent as his body reacted, stiffening and yielding at the same time. He was naked to the waist still and the feel of her against his naked skin made him burn up with desire. He still clasped her, but more gently, his fingers spreading in a semi-caress over her narrow waist.
Using his knees and thighs, he brought the snorting stallion to a stop.
“You are the bishop’s woman,” he said urgently when she moved restively against him and he could speak without the gag of her hair. “For you he will give much, including the release of my brother.”
“Is that your justification?” she flung back, spiraling round in his arms to face him down. “If so, I do not think David would approve! But then he is thrice the man you are!”
“In that we are agreed,” Hugh said, smarting at her easy use of his brother’s name, “and it changes nothing.”
“Were I the strumpet of the garrison, you should not treat me this way.”
“No, you are more choice in the men you bed: raddled, decaying churchmen who can pay you gold.”
She gasped, a blaze of color rushing into her face. Seeing the glint in her bright brown eyes, Hugh held himself taut. She marked that—she noticed everything—and her lip, from trembling, stiffened.
“You do me wrong. Again, you do me wrong,” she said quietly. “What woman harmed you so, that you are this discourteous?”
He had braced himself for a blow. Her words, though less dramatic, stung the more. He had injured his mother first, fatally, and since then had seemed fated to do badly with women.
“’Tis not you,” he admitted, wondering why he was troubling to explain. He was used to women thinking the worst of him. “If you swear not to dash your skull into the track, I will tell you the whole of it.”
“You expect me to obey my own kidnapper? Besides, I know the whole already. You mean to instigate a hostage exchange. I should be in your ‘care’ for one, two days, no more, before you barter me for your brother. A most powerful plan.”
She had pretty eyes, he thought, especially as she now was: flushed with battle. Her mouth was reddened by the ride and he was tempted again to kiss it. Instead, he drew his legs over hers, fixing her in place.
“You laugh at me, mistress.”
“If my laughter means you stop calling me ‘girl,’ then why not?”
Abruptly, she twisted round again and faced forward.
“You are watching where we go to find your way back when you escape,” he remarked, several moments later, when she was quiet.
“You can always blindfold me with a glove.”
Hugh chuckled: doubtless he deserved that. And now she was no longer fighting him, it was oddly pleasant to have her sitting in front of him on his horse. Making his living in tournaments, he’d had little actual contact with women and being this close to Joanna made him feel light-headed, almost happy. The scent of her, the pliant, sweet feel of her—it was like sinking into a warm bath at the end of a grueling day’s battle, one where he had won many prizes.
He had to remind himself that she had not yielded yet. She was turning her head this way and that, picking out landmarks. “Is this your first time out of West Sarum?” he asked as the round ramparts of the city stole into view from the woodland track they were on.
“It is not,” she replied, triangulating with her fingers the course of the meandering river and the hill on which the city was built.
“See those walls?” He pointed ahead, above the flat, reed-filled landscape to the east and north and the tree-clad slopes of the city hill to the massive circular earth-works. “I think these must have been made by giants. What do you think?”
“I think if you have men in West Sarum you should get word to them, lest my lord take out his anger on them. Have you jousted in many places?”
“In Picardy, France, Italy—” A small sigh from her then prompted him to expand his answer. “In Italy the cities are amazing: so many people! And the markets there! You can buy pepper and spices and silks and books!”
“What do you like to read?”
Hugh cursed softly, then admitted, “I do not. I cannot.”
She touched his arm—a gesture of pity?—then asked, “What do men call you at the tournaments? Do you have a nickname?”
Hugh felt himself going hot: this was becoming worse and worse. “Destroyer,” he mumbled, then berated himself for being ashamed. Why should he be made to feel guilty by this scrap of a female? “Though men like your bishop decry it, the tourney is a good life for a man. Better that than being dragged into King John’s wars with the King of France or his barons, where only the leaders gain.”
“A life for a young man, certainly,” Joanna answered, “and he is not my bishop.”
She drew in a large breath that he felt through his own ribs. Alerted by that, he reined in the ambling horse, caught her shoulders, bent her back into the crook of his arm and kissed her—just as a shepherd appeared around a corner on the track in front of them with a small flock of sheep.
Her lips were hard under his, rigid. He nuzzled her mouth with his, then thought, If she dislikes this so much, let her make her appeal to the shepherd: he can only raise the alarm sooner.
He withdrew slightly, then, when she did not cry out, he kissed her again, his lips now soft against hers. He eased her small, tense frame more comfortably against his shoulder and kissed her very lightly several times: tiny, swift embraces, as if he was burying his face into rose petals. Her mouth tasted of salt and a fresh sweetness that was her own perfume.
She sighed and then relaxed, allowing him to kiss her, even kissing him in return. Her hands brushed over his neck and shoulders as she lifted herself to him, plunging her tongue into his mouth.
Hugh reeled, heat pounding into him. He dropped the reins, forgot horse, shepherd, and sheep, and wrapped his arms about her, wanting their kiss to go on and on.
“Why?” he asked, when they finally broke apart. The shepherd was a distant speck, entering the city.
She did not pretend not to know what he meant. “I wanted to know what it was like,” she answered. “And now I have my answer.”
She shifted smoothly from the crook of his arm to face forward again. “Do we have far to go?”
“Ah.�
� He shook a finger at her. “You must wait to discover that.”
“I am used to waiting,” she answered as he urged the horse into a steady trot.
They moved through the landscape of vineyards, hay fields, reed beds, and woods, Hugh watching her and watching out for the bishop’s men or any hue and cry while most of his mind was racked by a single question.
Did Joanna like his kissing?
Chapter 7
Joanna kept watch but saw no one else all the time they traveled. It was not market day at West Sarum and folk were busy in the fields and vineyards, with no inclination to gawp at strangers—not even the bishop’s mistress.
She had guessed the rumors, but hearing it from Hugh’s lips was still a shock. Worse, she felt ashamed and actually alarmed by his clear disappointment, although why should his good opinion matter? She was the one wronged: he had kidnapped and manhandled her, kissing her to silence her. She wished now that she had not responded, but his lips had been so persuasive, so appealing.
Would he kiss her again? Would she respond?
He was a living wall, but there was a strange comfort in embracing him, in having him hold her. She and her father were not people who hugged or kissed much, so this feeling of safety, almost of peace, was new to her. Riding before him, feeling his naked chest warm and powerful against her back, his body hair tickling the back of her neck and her arms as his sinewy arms encircled her in a gentle yet unbreakable grip, was both exasperating and seductive. Trees and whole fields would slip by as she was lost in the sensation of being borne away. Her initial anger and panic had disappeared: she sensed he would not harm her.
Escape was different; it was her duty to do so, or at least to try. The nagging fear in her heart was that her lord would not care, or worse, that he would blame her for falling into Hugh Manhill’s clutches. To ride on this smooth-stepping stallion might be a dream, but she needed her wits honed and sharp: she must snatch the chance to get away when she could.
First she must lull and gull him into thinking she was defeated, obedient. “Are you not cold?” she asked, flicking his arm. She dared do no more than the briefest contact: a full, lingering touch was too distracting to her; it made her want to do more. “I would be freezing,” she added, trying not to stare at the whorls of black hair running over his forearms.
“I rarely feel the cold.”
She waited, but he said no more.
“What is the name of your horse? He is a magnificent beast. Does he have a miraculous name?” she asked, waving to a lonely figure digging in a muddy, waterlogged field.
The figure took no notice, but Hugh tightened his grip around her waist, a warning squeeze, and said, “Behave there.
“His name is Lucifer,” he went on. “I won him in a tourney when I captured Lord Stephen La Lude and won a worthy ransom. Before you ask, yes, you are my first girl hostage and far more trouble than any man.”
“So you have already told me,” Joanna replied, “and that is as it should be.”
“You females do not like to be confined. Even in the garden of Eden, you were not content.”
He sounded amused, so Joanna let it pass. Lull him and gull him. “What is the best prize you have won?”
“The freedom of a Jewish healer, Simon, who is now in my service.”
She felt his laughter. “There. I knew that would surprise you. But I did not like his keeper, and Simon has since repaid any debt to me many times over. He is away at present, in France.”
“Who oppressed him?” Joanna asked.
“One of Yves de Manhill’s men, his lead knight, Roger Two-Blades. He had Simon in his entourage, but treated him poorly.” Hugh’s voice was clipped, his whole body taut. “It was my pleasure to win him.”
“From your father’s champion?” Joanna said softly.
“It was a fair challenge.”
Making it clear he wanted no more talk, Hugh dug his heels into Lucifer’s sides, spurring the horse into a gallop.
They stopped less than two leagues farther on the road, Hugh guiding the stallion behind a stand of oak trees into a narrow, high-banked road that was scarcely wider than a deer path. Deeper and deeper the horse plodded along the overgrown, reedy track, trees arching over their heads.
“Where are we?” Joanna whispered, feeling the pressure in her ears pop as they ventured down into this sunken land.
“A place I discovered as a lad,” Hugh answered, “before I was sent away to train as a knight. There.” He pointed ahead. “It has not changed.”
Beyond a grove of alder trees a section of land rose into a small, perfect circle, round as an ancient grave mound. Hugh made for this and Joanna could now see a gaping black gap in the circle: the mouth to a cave. She had a vision of being swallowed by the earth itself, of being here where no one could hear or see her, and shivered.
“This is a safe place from footpads and animals,” Hugh announced, as if he sensed her small withdrawal. “We shall sleep in the cave tonight: it is snug and dry.”
Too snug, Joanna thought, fighting down a wave of sickly panic. “You have slept here before?” Her voice sounded calm enough.
“Many years ago, in different times. This should be more pleasant.”
Why? Joanna clamored to ask, but she dared not.
“This time I have food and drink, sufficient for two.”
“Naturally, because you planned this.” Joanna tried to keep censure from her tongue but something must have leaked through, for Hugh took her hands in his and gently chafed her fingers.
“You are safe with me,” he said, his chin so close to the top of her head that he could have rested it on her hair, had he so chosen. Joanna fought a sudden temptation to relax and trust him, to lean back against him, into his shielding arms.
“Safe, although I am the bishop’s woman?” she tossed back, then wondered at her own folly. Why was she goading a man who had already kidnapped her, bringing her to Lord knew where?
“It is still an hour to sunset,” she added quickly. “Do you not want to go farther?”
He twisted forward on the saddle to look at her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “To escape our pursuit, you mean?”
He grinned as she said nothing and swung down from his mount, laughing outright as she scrambled down from the big horse without waiting for him to help her.
“Do you wish to help, or would you consider that treason to your master?” he asked.
Joanna spread her hands: let him make of that what he would.
He smiled again. “I will see to all, then. Why not go on inside and look? It is an interesting place. There are strange marks on one wall: runes, I think. Secret writing.”
“Which you cannot read,” Joanna shot back, then felt ashamed of the jibe. “I will look,” she said, and hurried to climb the grassy mound to the entrance, musing that Hugh had already guessed her weakness for strange things and mysteries. Of all things he could have said to divert her from escape, secret writing was one of the most powerful. She was eager to see these runes and read their message for herself.
Hugh tethered and tended Lucifer, roughed a little with Beowulf, cut reeds for bedding, collected firewood, and kept a sharp eye on Joanna. She made no move to flee from the cave, which surprised him, and met him at the cave mouth with his armload of reeds, which astonished him.
“What is it?” he asked. Her eyes were wide and her color high, lighting up her tanned face, making her very pretty. This would be how she would look in lovemaking, he realized, and felt a mingled twist of desire and jealousy. “Well?” he demanded, now using a hated phrase of his father’s, “Must I wait for doomsday before you speak?”
“I know what the runes say, and we must dig.” She was clearly too excited to notice his rudeness. “There is treasure here! Viking gold! Look—”
She caught his hand in hers and fairly dragged him back with her, careless of whether he smacked his head on the low cave roof. Crook-backed, he let her guide him, enjoying the feel of her
small fingers round his palm.
“Look!” She dropped to her knees beside the maze of marks he had found at the back of the cave years earlier. The setting sun blazed into the small dry space—had it always been this small?—turning rock and stone golden. The runes on one darker-hued stone close to the cave floor seemed faded to Hugh’s eyes, but his eager companion read them easily.
“Orri’s hoard is here. A mighty gift.” She pointed to an X-shaped rune. “This rune, Gebo, means gift.” She touched three straight lines with her foot. “Three, then dig, it goes on.”
She stepped three paces from the cave wall and began to hack at the earth floor with her knife.
“Wait!” She was wilder than he was, in a fight, Hugh thought, astonished by this whirl of activity. “You will blunt your blade. I have something better.”
He looked amongst his things and found the small hammer he used to drive in tent and baggage pegs and the metal file he used to sharpen his sword. He set to work, driving the file into the hard-packed soil where Joanna was laboring, and in a few moments struck something that rang out like a broken bell.
“Let me—” Joanna had her fingers probing and tearing at the loosened earth and now she sat back on her heels, a great smile of pleasure breaking on her face. “We have it!”
Down by her knees was a torn bag, gray-black and half rotten, no more than wisps of cloth. But through the tangle of fraying threads he saw the unmistakable gleam of gold.
“Orri’s hoard,” Joanna said softly. “He must have left it here for safety and never come back.”
She moved but Hugh was swifter, scooping the coins and rings out of the dirt and onto his cloak.
“Hey!”
Fairness made him look at her and offer her a ring: a pretty one, he thought. “Thank you,” he said. “That will be most useful.”
Joanna stared at the ring without taking it. “You do not think we should share?”
He smiled at the question. “What use would you have for old coins? Your lord gives you all you need, but I must make my own way.”
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