They had been healthy hands, the flesh unblemished, unbroken. So he was not a leper; he hid his face for another reason. Was he horribly scarred, or an outlaw wanted by the crown of France with such ardor that he dared not show his features anywhere? As she reflected on the possibilities, the door opened. She hugged her knees to her chest once again, looking around, instantly defensive. It was the blonde, Helene. "You have finished, m'lady? Ah, you haven't started on your hair. I'll help." "No. I will do my own hair." "As you wish." Anne-Marie entered, coming to Helene, whispering. Eleanor could make out almost nothing, but then she heard, "... bargain for her." Helene turned back to her. "There is a towel, there, beyond the stool. And clothing. Not what you are accustomed to ... but, better than what you had, eh, m'lady?" Helene left the room. Anne-Marie started after her, but paused, bending down to the tub to whisper at the back of her neck, "Do your hair well, m'lady. He likes the sweet smell of clean hair and perfumed flesh!" Eleanor gripped the tub. "I do not care in the least what he likes." "But you should. Because if you don't... well, we'll have to see that you do. Do you understand, English?"
Anne-Marie left the room without awaiting her reply. Eleanor braced herself, wishing for the power to slap Anne-Marie silly. But aware that the woman would return—and hopeful that someone was indeed out there bargaining for her, she sank into the water, washed her hair, and forced herself to enjoy the warmth. But then, suddenly, the tub seemed as cold as her future. She glanced to the door, afraid it would open. It did not. She jumped up, found the towel, and dried quickly. She had been left an unbleached linen shift, and a pale blue woolen tunic to slip over it. She dressed, glad of the clothing—even if it did belong to the despicable Anne-Marie. She had barely smoothed the fabric when the door did open, and the woman in question came for her.
"You must return to your room. Quickly. You have a visitor." "Who?" she asked, swallowing hard. She tried to control her shaking, hoping that they didn't mean the "he" who liked his women with clean hair. "Move!" Anne-Marie said. On simple principle, she stood her ground. Anne-Marie cocked her head to the side. "Shall I call for help?" "Move to where?" she asked. "Back to the room." "I will do so," she said regally, preceding Anne-Marie from the room, aware that the woman was right behind her. She glanced longingly for the stairs, but she didn't want to chance another encounter with the French cutthroat who had brought her here, not when she was being returned to the room with the window that just might promise freedom, and not when the overheard words "bargain for her" kept hope flowing in her heart.
She stepped into the room. The door slammed shut behind her. She hurried to the window, opening the shutters, looking out again. The hope she had felt began to wane. There were no trees near the window. The ground was a sheer drop that seemed very far away. How far would she get if she leaped out—and broke a leg? She heard the bolt sliding and once again closed the shutters and spun around, stepping away from the window. The door flew open. She gasped, stunned. It was Brendan who had come. A mile high, filling the doorway, his tartan around his waist and cast over his shoulder. He was very much the Scotsman in this land of the French, and in all her life, she had never even begun to imagine that she might be glad of a Scotsman.
"Brendan!" she whispered his name, and without thought, went flying across the 500m, throwing her arms around him. Startled, he caught her, lowering her slowly against him, lifting her chin, meeting her eyes. "You don't know!" she told him. "Thank God, you've come. You don't know how bad these people are!" "Worse than Scots?" he inquired, appalled. She stepped back, aware of his mockery, her cheeks flaming as she realized the way in which she had greeted him.' 'Brendan, have you come to get me out of here? I loathe your murdering countrymen, yes, and I was convinced life was far worse when you first came upon the pirate's vessel, but... Alain will reward you if you have come to help me. Surely, you have ... ?"
He stepped completely into the room, closing the door behind him. "This is a very grave situation, grave indeed. We are not Frenchmen, we are not an army, we are rather at the mercy of the thieves here." "But, surely, there is some kind of law, and you can send to Paris, and—" "Ah, yes, well, we can send to Paris, but that will take time. And I'm sure you've realized just what kind of place this is for wayfaring ... sailors. And travelers." "You mean murderers and thieves!" "Well, yes." "But, Brendan, you've come—" "I came as soon as I could, knowing you were here," he assured her. "I was stunned, of course. What happened? When you were so close to reaching your beloved fianc6 and the French king? Did you fall overboard?" he asked, and she didn't know if he was concerned, or mocking her.
The latter, she was certain. "Yes, I fell overboard!" He nodded and turned toward the door again. "Brendan!" "What?" He turned back. "What are you doing? You can't just leave me here, you can't!" "My lady, you have brought about this situation." Fear and anger filled her. "Oh? Did I attack my own ship?" He arched a brow. "Nay, lady. But neither was I the first to do so. Our intent was to deliver you to the French court. Now ..." "Brendan, don't you dare leave me here." "I will do my best to negotiate your release." He hesitated. "We, are, of course, nothing more than poor outlaws ourselves. I'm afraid I need your permission to seek compensation among your belongings on the ship."
She exhaled, staring at him. "I ... I was wearing what I had on my person!" she whispered. "Ah ... when you fell overboard." Again, he started to turn. She went to him, placing a hand on his arm. The turned back to her, staring at her hand. She drew it back quickly. "There must be something you can do." "Oh, my lady. I will try. I will try everything in my power. God knows, we wouldn't want you left in the clutches of a crazed, mute cutthoat, would we? The fellow is probably more than half mad, a leper—" "He isn't a leper." "Oh?" He arched a brow, staring at her intently. "I saw his hands. When he wore no gloves. Perhaps he is scarred." "Ah, yes. Maybe his face was slashed severely in the battle that lost him his tongue." "Brendan, you must do something!" she whispered. "Naturally, of course, I will do so." ' 'You wouldn't leave me here—for vengeance, would you?'' He paused, leaning against the door, assessing her with a slow smile. "Vengeance? Against the rare beauty who asked me for mercy just seconds before a complete betrayal?"
"We were on a battlefield!" she reminded him. He didn't reply. She lowered her head, then could bear it no longer. She crossed the two feet between them, placing her hands on his chest, looking into his eyes. "Please, for the love of God, Brendan, please ... I am begging you, help me. If ever ..." "If ever what?" he demanded sharply. "If ever I could help you again, I swear I would!" He stared down into her eyes for a long moment. He took her hands in his. She was startled when he placed a light kiss on each, his eyes meeting hers all the while. "My lady, I will do my best." He turned. "Don't go! Don't leave me!" "I must." He removed himself from her, firmly setting her from him. He left the room. She heard the bolt slide. Then she heard voices.
The sounds faded. She sat at the foot of the bed, unable to stop shivering. She threaded her fingers through her still damp hair, trying to loosen the tangles. Time passed. No one came. Perhaps an hour went by. Then another. Then the bolt slid. She leaped to her feet, anxious, hopeful. It was Anne-Marie who entered; she brought a tray bearing food and a wooden tankard. She set it on the one piece of furniture there Was. "Bread, cheese, fish, wine. Ah. And a brush," she said, her back to Eleanor. Then she turned, her smile smug. "He likes his women with smooth, flowing hair." Eleanor's eyes narrowed. "I have told you that I don't care in the least what he likes." "Shall I stay then?" Anne-Marie inquired, her tone falsely sweet.
"I will not be here long," she said. "Oh? Because of the Scotsman? He has sent the Scotsman away." ' 'What?'' Despite herself, Eleanor asked the question quickly and sharply. Her panic provided Anne-Marie tremendous pleasure. "The Scotsman had nothing to offer, not on him. He knew that to fight would be to die. Jacques told him that no Englishwoman was worth dying for, and to that, he had to agree. You will see Jacques yourself. Later, of course. Now, do I stay and do your hair—my lady?" "No
." But Anne-Marie didn't move. Desperate to be alone again, Eleanor picked up the brush and nearly ripped out what felt like half her hair in her attempt to make it smooth and tangle free so that she could rid herself of the Frenchwoman.
At last, Anne-Marie turned and left the room. The bolt slid into place. Eleanor raced back to the window and threw open the shutters. Night had come. She was dimly aware that she hadn't eaten at all, and that the fish smelled wonderful, but her desire for escape was stronger than even her hunger. Opening the shutters still provided no real answer. She looked back to the bed. The fur blanket that had nearly smothered her earlier remained. And there was more. The rope bed had been covered in linen sheets. If she ripped them off ...
She did so. Even tying together what she had, her makeshift rope wouldn't quite reach the ground. But if she could come within a few feet of the ground ... She set to work. Carefully, silently she moved the bed inch by inch to the window; it was all that she had to secure her linen rope. She ripped the material with her teeth to best tie it together, and secure it to the foot of the bed. She worked quickly, aware of the darkness, aware that any minute the bolt might slide—and the door open again.
At last, she was done. She crawled over the rough wooden windowsill. And slipped down, down, down ... into the night. She reached the end of her linen escape line. The ground was just below her ... a small drop. She swallowed hard, prayed ... And dropped. Yet even as she let go, a scream began to form in her throat. The night had suddenly come alive. And she fell ... fell ... Not to the earth, but into the arms of the scarred French rogue who had seized her.
Chapter 7
Naturally, she fought. She fought like a wild thing. She kicked, writhed, screamed, bit, and scratched. All to no avail. He wore a coat of light chain mail beneath his tunic and cloak. His hands were gloved again. The leather mask protected his face. She was like an eel, twisting and turning, but still, she did him no harm, and as he made his way around the house and to the front door, the others were there, laughing at her, shaking their heads, amused by her desperation.
The slim little Frenchman was in the main room when she was brought back in. He shook his head as she was set down to stand before the fire. She wanted to attack them all, but she refrained, standing dead still, staring at them with all the regal fury in her soul. "You idiots! You cannot begin to know how you will pay for this!" Still, they laughed. The slim little man, and the two male companions who had been there with him on the beach. Anne-Marie and Helene were there as well, though Helene was quickly sent up the stairs to retrieve the bedding she had cast from the window.
The man in the mask stood before the fire then, his back to her. Jacques. That was his name, wasn't it? That's what Brendan had said—before the great brave Scot had deserted her! She whirled on him, talking to his back. "Jacques! I can get you a pardon from the king. I can reward you richly. What I carried in my clothing was nothing, nothing at all! Don't you need money?" He spun on her, and stared at her. It was the little Frenchman who spoke for him. "My lady, there is a lesson you must learn. Not everything in life can be bought. Many things are far greater than riches."
"But ..." "You must go back upstairs." "Why?" she whispered. "He will come to you. You will understand." ' 'No, you don't understand—'' she began, but he was coming toward her, and she backed away. "I am an heiress in my own right! You can't do this!" Jacques remained with his back to her. The slim man was coming toward her; the other two were also hemming her in. But before they could reach her, Jacques suddenly turned away from the fire, his cloak flying in the firelight. He stepped past the other men and caught her hand, pulling her to him. "No!" she shrieked, trying to free her hand from his hold. "No!"
But she couldn't free herself, and when she fought his hold too wildly, he merely picked her up, his arms like bars, and no matter what her fight and fury, he traveled up the stairs, came to her room, and threw her down upon the rope bed that was now barren of sheets. She gasped for breath, ready to fight again, to scream . .. But he turned away, leaving her. The door slammed. The bolt slid. She lay still—exhausted and desperate. She breathed for long moments, staring dismally into the shadows of the room. Then she rose and paced.
The bed had been pushed back in place. The tray remained. She poured wine and drank it thirstily. She poured more and noted the knife that had been left to cut the bread, fish, and cheese. She stared at it, then clutched it in her hands. She'd kill him! It was a very dull knife. She'd do little more than bruise him with it! She lowered her head, then turned back to the door. The knife was dull, but long. She stared at it, then flew to the door. She slid it through the opening, holding her breath. It went... she pushed deeper and hit the long wooden bolt.
She fell to her knees, lowering the knife, bringing it up again. This time, she hit the bottom of the wooden bolt. It was heavy. Wedged into place. She would never move it She had to, and she had to do so quickly. Sweat broke out on her brow as she tried again and again, winding both hands around the handle of the knife, working slowly, up, up. Her wrists ached, her fingers felt as if they'd break. She kept at it. She almost had it... Her grip slipped; the bolt fell back with a thud. She sat back, terrified, listening, her heart thundering. Nothing. They hadn't heard below. She waited, then started again. She forced herself to concentrate; she ignored her aching fingers, burning wrists, and the pains that seemed to shoot through her arms and straight to her torso. Slowly, slowly, slowly ... The bolt raised ... She kept her fingers on the knife handle and used her shoulder to shove the door. It creaked open.
Despite the agony in her hands and arms, she forced herself to let the bolt fall slowly, slowly ... and then it was down, against the door frame. She stood, shaking. Barely able to believe her good fortune and determined not to be caught again, she moved silently and oh, so, carefully into the upstairs hall. They were all below, she thought, for she could hear voices coming from the room with the long table and the hearth and fire. ''Well, my fine sir!" Anne-Marie was saying.4'You certainly owe me! She kicked me! You should see my shin!" Helene laughed then, delightedly. "You should have seen her face when she thought Anne-Marie and I might have at her! Ah, but then we told her we were neither one fond of other women—"
"Unless the price was right!" Anne-Marie laughed. "Indeed, she surely thought herself in the gravest danger!" Helene said. "But we could have been hurt, you know! She fights like a tigress!" Anne-Marie sighed. "She is a wild thing, all right," the skinny little Frenchman added. Eleanor crept along the stairway, looking down, concentrating on moving in complete silence. The room was off the entryway; if she could keep from being heard, she could creep very, very low—and make the front door and freedom.
Someone turned from the fire and took a seat at the table. The masked man. Jacques. But his gloves were gone again, and he had taken off the mask. She couldn't see his face. His back was to her. One booted foot rested upon the table; he idly played with a wooden trencher on the table with his left hand. The Frenchman was shaking his head. "She could have killed herself, crawling out a window like that!" "That is the point," came a different voice. There was another man in the room. She nearly gasped aloud when she saw who it was, but she caught herself, clamping her hand over her mouth. Eric! The big Norseman was unmistakable as he spoke and took a seat at the table across from Jacques.
"Ah, the point!" the slim Frenchman said. "She kills herself, and what have you—nothing! I admit to feeling a certain degree of guilt. I have never come across a young woman so vibrantly determined on her freedom!" "She will never have her freedom," the supposed mute Jacques said then. "She is an heiress, bartered, bought, and sold, but since she has a penchant for death-defying swims and dangerous leaps, she deserves a lesson in the real horrors that might happen upon such a lady. She hates Scotsmen too much to trust us to see her to safety? Then she must see what else the world has to offer."
She was close, so close to the door, but at the sound of Jacques' voice, she went dead still, the fury inside her like a li
ving fire. In all her life, she had never been so angry. Brendan! She should have known, oh, God, she should have known! No wonder they were laughing at her so. They had done this to her on purpose, left her to ponder in terror and anguish. He had done this to her, made her think that they had left her, that she was at the mercy of a common murderer and a den of thieves.
She wanted to throttle him. She was so angry that she thought she might be able to do so, but she forced herself to stay still, to think. It would be a far greater vengeance, she knew, to really escape him than to try to get in one good blow against him. So she swallowed her anger, kept moving, and listened as they all laughed over a question Eric had asked about some part of the charade. She reached the bottom of the stairs. She was ready to move to the door when H61£ne, sitting by Eric, suddenly looked up. She stared straight at Eleanor. Eleanor stared back. "Mon Dieu!" Helene gasped.
Eleanor ran. She sped for the door, jerking it open. She was nearly outside, into the night, into the yard before the house where a half dozen horses grazed, where real freedom awaited. But a hand clamped on her arm. Crazed, desperate, she tried to bite. She was jerked around, picked up. Her hair blinded her. She didn't realize that it was Brendan again who had come to retrieve her until he stood her before the fire, and she tossed back her hair and met his eyes. How had she been so fooled? How had she failed to see the blue of those eyes, even beneath the mask? How had she missed the blue-black sheen of his hair, the size of him, the height...
His hands! "All right, so we tricked you. You deserved it—" he began. But he didn't see just how thoroughly she had been tricked, or how angry she was. "You bastard! You, you ... Scot!" she raged. They had been eating. A knife lay next to a slab of beef. She seized it, wielding it at him. "You want to be a tongue less mute? Well, sir, that can most certainly be arranged!" "Eleanor, put the knife down." "Eleanor, put the knife down?" she repeated incredulously. ' 'Are you out of your mind? I will slice you into tiny little ribbons! You want a scarred face? That as well can be arranged!" "Eleanor, stop!"
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