Since Steffan ignored them, she judged it safe enough to get rid of the gag. This was the perfect time to try something. Except for the fact that he continued to hold the lead rein, he seemed oblivious to their presence.
Besides, how could they decide what to do if they couldn’t speak?
She rubbed her cheek against Gillian’s shoulder, rolling the fabric down. Her mouth was dry, so she pushed at the gag with her tongue, finally forcing it out of her mouth. She nudged it down around her neck, wincing when the knot in the back pulled her hair.
“I think I can loosen your gag,” she whispered to Gillian, her eyes fixed on Steffan.
After tugging at it with her teeth, the material finally came undone and fell to the ground.
“What I wouldn’t give for a drink right now,” Catrin whispered as she watched Gillian wiggle her jaw. Her mouth felt dry as dirt and tasted a thousand times worse.
“Do you think we could slip off the horse and get away?” Gillian asked.
“No. I considered it earlier, but I don’t believe we could get enough of a start before he realized we’d left.” She raised her hands and shoved at the hair hanging in her face. “I’m not certain whether we should try to untie ourselves, either. I don’t know if we could. He seems demented, Gillian. Have you noticed?”
“No more than usual. But he hates to be crossed. When he took me before, he struck me so hard I fell against a stool and hit my head. And that was when he wanted to marry me.” She eyed him nervously. “I didn’t wake till the next morning. I’d rather try to get away. God only knows what he has in mind for us,” she added, shuddering. “And Katherine needs me. How will they feed her when I’m not there?” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Perhaps we could overpower him.”
“I don’t think so. He’s strong. When he twisted my arm, I thought I’d swoon.”
“It’s nearly night. The path is so dark, we’ll have to stop once the sun goes down,” Gillian said hopefully. “If we wait until then, mayhap we’ll find a chance. He has to sleep sometime.”
“Until then we should rest and plan,” Catrin whispered.
Nicholas slumped in the saddle, his mount’s bouncing gait doing little to counter his weariness. He and Rannulf had traveled like the wind to Prince Llywelyn’s, observed the bare minimum of courtesies while passing on the king’s messages, then ridden nearly nonstop back to l’Eau Clair.
He could imagine what King John would say when he heard about their whirlwind visit, but he didn’t care. If there were consequences to this, he’d deal with them. No more would he seek to be the ideal knight; ’twas naught but a foolish quest, born of his shame. He’d allowed his life—and himself—to be ruled by the opinions of others for too long. No more.
From now on he’d live to please himself.
His horse sidled nervously, ears twitching back and forth. He scanned the area but saw nothing.
Then a gust of smoky air drifted by. Tension filled him. The acrid scent reminded him of battles, siege and death. “Rannulf,” he called, foreboding lending a sharpness to his voice.
“I smell it,” Rannulf replied, spurring his horse to greater speed. They galloped over the narrow track, their men thundering behind them. They were near l’Eau Clair. The possibilities racing through his mind made him curse even the short distance and the fact that they could travel no faster.
Wisps of smoke hung in the air like fog, and tendrils wove among the trees like gossamer silk. The closer they came to the village, the thicker the smoke. By the time they left the forest, they could scarcely see.
A man stepped into the road in front of them, startling the horses. ’Twas a wonder they didn’t accidentally run him down.
“Lord Rannulf! Thank God ’tis you.”
Edging closer, Nicholas recognized Sir Henry, the man in charge of l’Eau Clair’s defense.
Rannulf leapt from the saddle and led Sir Henry out of the road. Curious, Nicholas dismounted and joined them.
Soot-stained and drooping with exhaustion, Sir Henry looked ready to collapse. “Lady Gillian and Lady Catrin are missing, milord,” he said without preamble. “And someone set fire to the village.”
“What?” Rannulf grabbed the front of Sir Henry’s tunic.
“Were they abducted?” Nicholas asked, fear lending his voice a razor-sharp edge.
“Was the keep attacked? What of my daughter?” Rannulf’s eyes were wild.
Sir Henry gave them both a stern look. “Milords. Let me tell you what I know.”
Rannulf released him, but stood close by while Sir Henry straightened his twisted tunic. “It appears the women were taken, though we don’t know by whom. I sent men to search the forest. No one attacked l’Eau Clair. And Lady Katherine is safe with Emma.”
Rannulf looked ready to do murder. “Mount up,” he said. “We’ll arm ourselves for battle, then search for them ourselves.” He vaulted into the saddle. “I’ll be damned before I allow someone to take Gillian from me again.” He spurred his horse on.
Nicholas silently echoed his words as they hastened through the smoke to the keep. Although he still didn’t know who had attacked Catrin before, he feared they’d come to finish the task.
But why take Gillian? Before he left, Ian had hinted that he knew who was responsible for the assault on Catrin. According to Rannulf, Ian believed it was Steffan ap Rhys. Nicholas didn’t agree, judging Steffan too craven for such a bold attempt.
He had never understood what prompted Steffan to seize Gillian the year before. Perhaps he’d tried again and Catrin got in the way. Or maybe there was a lunatic roaming the marches, stealing their women, he thought acidly.
At this point all they had were suspicions.
However, someone had wanted Catrin before, wanted her badly enough to attack an armed troop to get her. His head spinning, he focused on the most likely answer. It looked to him as though someone wanted one of the women—or both—enough to destroy a village to get her. Sir Henry hadn’t said, but the women were probably taken when everyone’s attention was on the fire.
He’d get her back, he vowed. Catrin had become the most precious thing in life to him, a life she’d taught him to appreciate. He wouldn’t rest until he held her in his arms again.
They found Ian standing amid the still-smoldering ruins of the village. As they halted their mounts he grinned. Was he demented, Nicholas wondered, to smile when his sister and cousin were missing and a village lay in shambles?
“Well met,” he said, stepping forward and motioning to one of his men to take their horses. “Our timing couldn’t have been better.”
Nicholas grabbed Ian by the shirt. “What is wrong with you?”
Rannulf seized him from behind and tugged him away. “Enough, Nick. Give him a chance to explain,” he said, although he, too, gave Ian a puzzled glare.
“Christ,” Nicholas snarled. “Don’t you care that your sister is missing—again?”
“Of course I care. But I’m glad you’re here, as well.” Ian gestured toward a group of men, sitting bound and gagged beneath the trees. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
Impatient to be done with his games, Nicholas strode past him. He stared at the group for a moment, until something about one of them caught his attention.
Lunging forward, he snagged the man by his tunic and lifted him up. “It was you. You son of a bitch. Why?” Ripping off the man’s gag, Nicholas shook the whimpering coward until his head lolled on his shoulders. “Why did you attack her?” he roared, opening his fists and letting him drop limply to the ground.
He rounded on Ian when he received no answer from the outlaw. “Where did you find them?”
“Where I found them isn’t as important as who hired them. ’Twas Steffan.” Ian gazed at the fire-ravaged area. “This has the look of Steffan about it, as well. He must have waited till we left, then set his plan in motion. If we search for him, I’m certain we’ll find Catrin and Gillian with him.”
He shoved at the man Nicholas att
acked. “I see you recognized Lord Nicholas, Ralph.”
Eyes huge, Ralph nodded.
“I’m giving you and your charming band of followers to him.” Ian smiled grimly at Nicholas. “Call it a gift for your impending nuptials.”
He’d wondered what Ian’s next move would be concerning Catrin. This acceptance was more than he’d hoped for; he’d expected something more along the line of swords and daggers, or a fistfight.
Instead Ian was giving him exactly what he wanted. “I thank you. I trust this means I may count on your support when I ask your sister to be my wife.”
“I suppose I have little choice. But I advise you to approach her fully armed.”
Rannulf watched this byplay in silence, but evidently his patience had reached its end. “This is all wonderful, I’m sure. And I congratulate you, Nicholas.” Snatching up the reins, Rannulf swung onto his horse. “But unless we go after them soon, you may not have a woman to wed. It’s clear Steffan has lost what few wits he had. I don’t intend to leave Gillian in his hands any longer than I have to. As soon as I get more weapons and supplies I’m leaving. Are you with me?”
Nicholas jumped into the saddle before Rannulf finished his speech, and Ian wasn’t far behind. Exchanging a worried look, they galloped up the track to l’Eau Clair.
As the last rays of daylight faded away, Steffan led Catrin and Gillian up a steep path through the trees. It soon became too narrow and rocky for the horses. Halting, Steffan jerked them from their mount together, so they fell in a tangled heap at his feet.
“Get up. We’ve ground left to cover before it’s too dark,” he said, poking at them with his foot.
Catrin had landed atop Gillian, and she feared she’d come to harm, for she lay still, moaning slightly. She tugged at Gillian’s gown and tried to help her up, but she couldn’t offer much assistance with her hands bound.
Arms folded, Steffan watched as they struggled to their feet, a strange smile on his lips. “Aren’t you clever to take off your gags? No matter,” he said with a shrug. “We’re so far from civilization, you can scream all you want. No one will hear except me.”
Judging from the look on his face, he’d enjoy it, too. But Catrin refused to give him the satisfaction—whatever he might do to her. No doubt Gillian felt the same.
“’Tis a pleasure and a delight to see you thus. I’ve dreamed of this—both of you here to serve me as I wish.” He grabbed each by the arm and shoved them ahead of him. “Not long now,” he said in an abstracted voice. He prodded Catrin in the back. “I grow impatient. Move.”
She felt as though her blood had turned to fire in her veins as white-hot rage nigh overwhelmed her. How dare he steal them away from their loved ones and drag them out here? And for what purpose? It had to be something terrible, else he’d have taken them to the comfort of his own keep as he had with Gillian last year.
Exhaustion settled upon her, weighting her limbs until she could scarcely climb the uneven path. She couldn’t imagine where Gillian found the strength to continue, unless ’twas fear of Steffan’s anger that goaded her onward. She felt that spur herself.
Finally they emerged into a small clearing, faintly lit by the moon rising in the night sky. Steffan directed them to a crude hut and pushed them inside.
Catrin caught her balance against the rough wall, but Gillian fell over something, groaning as she tumbled to the floor.
“Clumsy bitch,” Steffan snarled, ignoring her plight and striking a flint to light a brace of candles.
Catrin knelt beside Gillian and assured herself that she hadn’t been hurt. But she sounded as though she’d reached the limit of her endurance. Catrin helped her lean against the wall, resolving to draw and hold Steffan’s attention so Gillian could rest.
He moved about the hut, lighting more candles. The room seemed bright as day after the faint light outside.
A chill passed through her as she looked about the chamber, for it strongly reminded her of the accommodations in Madog’s keep. A bed stood illuminated by several tall stands of candles. She’d swear she saw ropes looped at the head and foot of it. And spread out on the lid of the coffer at the foot was a bizarre assortment of objects. Catrin couldn’t put a name to any of them, but she recalled the degradation and pain they could bring all too clearly.
Steffan met her stare with a blithe smile. “How do you like my little love nest? It’s been ready for you for weeks, but those idiots who attacked you botched my plans completely.”
Catrin struggled to contain her outrage while he ambled to her side. He had been responsible for the deaths of her men—just as much as she. More so, for their lives didn’t matter to him. A cleansing wave of relief flowed through her. Although she was still accountable, her sin had been unintentional. But she harbored no doubt that Steffan had ordered his lackeys to kill her guard.
She could do nothing yet, but she’d find a way to send this fiend to hell if it killed her. Swallowing her rage, she stood silently while he traced his fingers down her neck, sliding them into the neckline of her gown. “They told me you were dead. But I knew they were wrong. You cannot die before I’ve had my vengeance on you.”
He turned his gaze toward Gillian. “And you are an extra prize. I didn’t know if I could get my hands on you, but fate has been most kind. I may gain l’Eau Clair after all.”
“Not likely,” Gillian snarled with surprising vigor. “Do you believe my husband will allow that? You’re not fit to walk through the gates, let alone rule in my place—or Rannulf’s.”
Steffan’s face darkened. “He’s a man like any other, capable of dying. I care not whose body I step over to claim what is rightfully mine.”
“You are mad,” Gillian cried, pushing herself to her feet. “Whatever made you believe you have a right to l’Eau Clair? ’Tis a Norman keep, built by a loyal Norman
lord. You delude yourself, Steffan. My father would never have approved you as a suitor for my hand.”
Gillian crossed her arms over her breasts, a slight look of discomfort on her face. Catrin had no doubt that by now Gillian’s body ached, more than ready for her to suckle her child.
“Do you think I care what your father intended?” Steffan sneered. “I know ’tis my due. Once you’re rid of FitzClifford you’ll see I’m right. And if you don’t, I don’t really care, so long as I’m master of l’Eau Clair—and you.”
Grabbing a blanket from the bed, Steffan tossed it at Gillian. “You might as well sleep. You’re of no use to me yet.”
He turned to Catrin and seized the rope binding her wrists together. “But I do have a need for you,” he said, jerking her close. His eyes glittered viciously in the candles’ glow. “All our lives you’ve taunted me with your beauty, then spurned me when I honored you with my attentions. Arrogant wench!” He dragged her toward the bed. “And you ruined my plans to gain l’Eau Clair with your meddling ways.”
Catrin’s mind went blank when he tossed her onto the bed and swiftly tied her ankles to the bed frame. ’Twas the nightmare of her past repeated.
She didn’t know if she had the strength to withstand it all again.
But she’d be damned before she allowed that slimy worm to have his way with her. She’d tear out his throat with her teeth if necessary.
Steffan climbed atop her, his body pushing her deep into the soft mattress. His eyes eager, he pinned her wrists to the pillows above her head with one hand and crushed his engorged manhood into the cradle of her hips. She bucked beneath him, but she couldn’t throw off his weight.
Her stomach heaved with revulsion. Gathering herself, she thought to try for one burst of strength to push him away. But before she could make the effort, Gillian moved quietly behind him, her still-bound hands clutched around the base of a candelabra.
She brought it down on Steffan’s head with a sickening thump. His eyes rolled back and he slumped over Catrin with a groan.
“Thank you,” Catrin whispered, her voice scratchy and faint. She squirmed ou
t from beneath him while Gillian rolled him aside.
“Is he dead?” Gillian asked.
Catrin could hear him breathing. “No, unfortunately he’s still alive.”
“I’ve got his knife.” Gillian tugged it from his belt. “Should we tie him up?”
“Let’s not waste any time,” Catrin said. “You hit him hard. He’ll be sleeping for a while.” She tried to sit up, but was brought up short by the bindings about her ankles. “Hurry, cut the ropes,” she cried, frantic to get away. Gillian sawed through the cords and Catrin scrambled off the mattress. Pausing only to cut their bonds, they hurried to the door.
Catrin heard a faint sound behind her. Before she could yank the door open, Steffan grabbed her from behind.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Steffan’s trail had been easy to find. Nicholas, Rannulf and Ian wasted no time before setting out. Considering what both Catrin and Gillian had endured of late, neither woman was in any condition to be dragged through the woods by a lunatic.
And who knew what he might do to them?
Nicholas wondered what would happen once they caught up with Steffan. Although he had no doubt they’d free the women, the question of who would deal with Steffan had yet to be answered. They each had ample reason to challenge him.
Unfortunately, it probably wouldn’t go that far. From what he’d heard, Steffan had managed to evade battles for most of his miserable life, the craven bastard. When faced with three bloodthirsty warriors, Steffan would probably slit his own throat, Nicholas thought with disgust.
The trail narrowed. Rannulf halted his mount and got down to examine the ground. After poking around a bit, he made a sound of triumph and raised his hand. He held a scrap of cloth in his fist. “Gillian was gagged—this cloth has her hair caught in it. Two horses took that trail—” he pointed to a steep, barely discernible path “—and one horse carried a double load.”
He leapt back into the saddle. “We’re getting close,” he said, determination glowing in his eyes. “Come on.”
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