Captive

by Louisa Trent

  “By no other means but love am I your captive, as you will someday soon be mine!"

  “Foolish child!” he shouted. “Love is merely a conceit, an excuse. A way of explaining why you allowed the enemy to bed you. You know not even my name."

  “I love you, whatever your name."

  “Then you love Geoffrey de Sage, newly appointed overlord of Cheviot Hills. I am the warlord who keeps you, Aeschine of Scotland, prisoner. If you are fortunate, that is. Otherwise, you return to the royal dungeon this day."

  Her brow puckered. “What insanity do you speak?"

  “Hear you the horses pounding outside?"

  She moved closer to his body. Oh, she heard all right.

  “Who are they?” she whispered. “Why are they here?

  “They are King Rufus’ men, and they are here for you."

  She caught his arm. “Is there another way out of this cave? A back entrance?"

  “We leave by this opening.” Sage seized her wrists, pushed them behind her back.

  “Are you mad? What do you think to do?” She struggled against his restraining grip. “Release me this instant! Your king's henchman has no authority over me. I am Scots. I am answerable only to God and King Malcolm. I bow to no man!"

  “You bowed to me and loved it."

  “Why do you say these hateful things to me?” She tried to shake him off. “Let me go, I say. You are hurting my wrists!"

  “This hurt is nothing compared to what you will feel when your neck is severed from your shoulders. If you wish to save your life, you must do exactly as I tell you."

  “Save my life? You speak in child's riddles!"

  “Political plotting is not child's play and those who enter into it pay a terrible price for their game."

  “Of what am I accused?"

  “Of the Scottish invasion of an English-held keep."

  “The invasion again!"

  “Prove to me that you are not a spy! Prove to me that you had no involvement in that invasion. Say something in your defense, damn you!"

  Her chin went high. “I am Aeschine of Scotland, niece to King Malcolm. There is royal blood coursing through my veins. I need prove nothing."

  He hissed in her ear, “Your pride will be your downfall!"

  “I repeat: I am Scots! I have naught but my pride. And I shall never betray my people."

  “Your pride will not prevent the henchman DuFont from raping you on the way to the royal dungeon. Where will your pride be after his men have had done with you? Your pride will not save you then, nor later when you are executed."

  “Ah, I see. I am to be executed,” she said softly. “'Tis already decided."

  “Not if I am your judge."

  The blood drained from her face. “Only God has the right to judge me."

  “Your God will not protect you if the King comes to believe LaTourne is guilty of treason. Rufus will have you beheaded beside the traitor..."

  “Then, help me! Let me make my escape into the woods. You need never see me again. Tell DuFont I was wily and managed to flee you."

  “You would not last the space of a heartbeat in the woods. If DuFont failed to find you, bandits most definitely would. Like it or not, I am your only hope, your last hope of survival. I offer you my protection until I find the truth in this matter."

  Breaking free, she rushed to the cave's threshold.

  One faltering step later, he reclaimed her with a hard pull on her leash.

  “Loose me!” she screamed.

  “Be silent! DuFont will hear you."

  “I shall not be silenced. You will not tell me what to do."

  They now struggled at the mouth of the cave, in clear sight of DuFont. “You will cease this at once or pay the penalty for your disobedience."

  “No surrender—not while there is breath in my body!"

  He raised the flat of his hand.

  “Go ahead!” she dared him. “Strike me. Your blow is no more than my stepfather and LaTourne have already dealt me."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sage observed the end of his arm. Did that violently trembling hand belong to him?

  He was always in charge. In control. He had always done what must be done, regardless of his feelings. Emotions never hindered him from discharging his responsibilities. Now emotion tethered him. How to deal with this latest weakness?

  He knew he must act, and act quickly. Aeschine was hysterical. Fighting him. He could not blame her; had their positions been reversed, he would have done the same. But while he admired his captive's raw courage, he knew he must crush the very valor he found so attractive. She must submit to him, for if she did not submit, if she refused to bend to his will in front of DuFont, she would undermine his authority in the henchman's eyes. And if that happened, saving her life would be next to impossible.

  “Do it! Hit me. Revenge yourself on me. Revenge has been in your heart all along."

  “Calm yourself."

  “You do not even bother to deny it."

  Nay, he did not. He would not deny the truth, though it was only a partial truth and not the whole story.

  In the cave, he had tried to show Aeschine in the most elemental way possible that he owned her. He had failed. He had not subjugated Aeschine to his will. Far from it. He had not conquered her at all; she had conquered him with her passion. Now he would need to use that same passion against her.

  Like a trapped animal willing to bite through its own paw to sever its connection to the snare, Aeschine fought him every step of the way as he dragged her against the wall. Ignoring her useless kicks, misplaced elbows, poorly directed knees, he stared into her hot blue eyes. Knowing the henchman could see them there, but not clearly, he bent his head.

  “Nay!” She twisted in his arms.

  Good! Let her twist and squirm; to DuFont, her writhing would look like passion.

  “Not now,” she pleaded. “Not this way. Please, I beg you! Do not do this to me! Not before all these men!"

  No choice left to him, he took her lips. Gently. No force. No assault. No plunder. Using only the soft persuasion of his tongue, he stroked the closed seam of her mouth.

  Whimpering, she opened for him. Willingly. Warmly. Passionately.

  The interior of her mouth tasted of a lifetime of tomorrows, the tomorrows he was not free to promise her. He slanted his jaw, and she yielded, her body softening against him. All fight drained out of her as he made sweet love to her mouth, a slow and deliberate claiming.

  When she sagged against him, he ended the kiss.

  “How could you use me so?” she asked tearfully. “I would have preferred your fist."

  “There was no other way. Otherwise, you would have continued to fight me."

  “You used my feelings for you against me."

  “You are my prisoner. My first duty is to keep you safe."

  “At what cost?"

  “Your damnable pride!"

  She hung her head. “There is naught more to lose when pride is gone, when freedom is lost."

  “You lost your freedom at the moment of capture."

  “Nay, I still had a choice. My freedom was not lost until now."

  He never cried. Not at the atrocities seen in the Crusades. Not after hearing of Joan's death. Had Aeschine's life not hung in the balance, he would have howled like a babe now. His was a hollow victory. Keeping a wild creature captive held no triumph; there was no satisfaction in taming a brave female meant to live free.

  “You still have your life,” he offered by way of condolence.

  She kept her silence.

  “Come.” His hand went to the small of her back. “We must face DuFont."

  “I have not agreed to go with you to your keep. I may yet decide to return with DuFont to your English court."

  Sage used his last bit of leverage. “Hear you this—if you do not agree to accompany me, not only will you suffer, your people will suffer too. Executed, you make yourself a martyr. Years of bloodshed will follow when you
r clan retaliates against my keep. Is that what you wish?"

  “Nay,” she said vehemently.

  “Then give me your allegiance. You are a pawn in this, as am I. But there is room for negotiation. For both of us."

  “ ‘Tis all bribes with you. First sheep, now the lives of my countrymen. You have no honor."

  “Geoffrey de Sage!” DuFont bellowed at them. “I am here for the King's prisoner."

  “We will discuss the smudged line of my honor later, should we live through this day."

  He marched her forward on the tether.

  At the very mouth of the cave, where he had piled his supplies, he came to a stop.

  He could not bring himself to do it; he could not take Aeschine out naked, as he should, as was the correct protocol for prisoners.

  Going against military rule, Sage recovered his fur-lined cape from the cave's floor and threw it over her shoulders. He had taken Aeschine's freedom; he would not take her dignity too.

  “I need you to trust me. In no way must you provoke the henchman, DuFont.” Sage pulled the cape grimly around Aeschine and tied it in place so that not a sliver of bare skin showed. He tucked the end of the leash under the leather belt at her waist. “Do you understand what I require of you?"

  But Aeschine looked obstinately away and refused to answer.

  * * * *

  “Bring the prisoner forward!” the henchman ordered.

  With her loose hair and bare feet, Aeschine of Scotland looked wild.

  And regal.

  Showing no fear, his leman stood tall. Sage had never known another female like her; Aeschine was a true warrior-woman, through and through.

  Yet, on the furs she was a passionate seductress...

  DuFont gave him a sly smile. “Was she any good?"

  Thought that show of crooked yellow teeth befouled him, Sage hid his disgust and contempt in a wink. “Excellent. I have never had better."

  “You do have the look of a contented man about you this morn.” DuFont spoke to him, but looked at Aeschine.

  The henchman gave his head a jerk. “Come here, prisoner. I would see what has changed celibate to satisfied."

  Not acknowledging the King's deputy one way or the other, Aeschine remained dispassionately at Sage's side.

  “I said, come here!” DuFont repeated.

  Calm. Sage told himself. He must stay calm. If he gave into emotion, if he clutched the gutter-whelp ‘round the throat, pressed his thumbs to his windpipe, snapped his neck with his bare hands, he would forfeit all hope of saving Aeschine. Sage would have the immense satisfaction of watching DuFont die, true, but there was no escape from his men; those soldiers would run them both through with their weapons before the henchman finished his death rattle. To save Aeschine, he must think and act as though she meant naught to him.

  Sage cracked his jaw in a loud yawn. Scratched his groin. “'Twas a long night, DuFont. The lady is too fatigued to come."

  A lecherous look came into the henchman's eye. “Say your name, whore."

  Sage nudged her.

  “Aeschine of Scotland."

  The henchman's brows lifted. “So, you admit to being a whore?"

  “I am what I have been made."

  “You possess a sharp tongue in a lush mouth. Let us get on with the formalities so that I might quell the former and test the latter. You stand accused of treason against the crown..."

  “ ‘Tis not a crown I recognize. I stand before you innocent."

  “Innocent, eh? Not since the cradle, I would say. Well, you will tell it to King Rufus.” He raised his gloved hand. “Guards! Take the prisoner away. Strip her to the skin and put her in chains. I will search her myself for weaponry. There is no telling where a crafty whore might hide a dagger."

  Sage stepped between the henchman and Aeschine. “Did you not hear the lady speak? She says she is innocent."

  “Sage, you fool! What do you expect her to say? Step aside, man, and let my vassals get on with my work."

  Sage took no step. “I tell you she took no part in the invasion."

  “Useless what you tell me. Have you proof?"

  After a quiet moment passed, DuFont shrugged. “I thought not. Guards! The prisoner."

  Sage stood his ground.

  DuFont's men would need to step over him to get to Aeschine. “The lady is not going anywhere. Rufus has given me authority to dispense justice in borderland disputes. I have jurisdiction here.” He held up his hand. “And before you bark at me, DuFont, I should tell you this: Rufus has grown increasing dissatisfied with borderland warfare. The fighting costs his coffers dearly, and this he will not tolerate. For that reason, I am to deal with the situation ... from the motte-and-bailey at Cheviot Hills."

  The henchman threw back his head and guffawed. “And you would declare yourself friend of the King? You are grievously misguided."

  “Explain yourself."

  “ ‘Tis only this; I once spent a most unpleasant evening at that keep. I must relate it is a decidedly dank and filthy abode. I had to actually fight a rooster for my vermin-ridden bed of straw. After passing the night scratching welts, I soon realized I should have let the cock win. I made my adieu at daybreak and glad of it too. I do not envy you your permanent possession of that ungodly fortress."

  “Ungodly or not, ‘tis mine now."

  DuFont's dull eyes all but disappeared, swallowed up within the slack flesh of his face. “Be that as it may, the King's decree supercedes all else. Hand the slut over to me before you place your own neck in jeopardy."

  “In borderland disputes, the King has given me full authority. Where is the jeopardy there?"

  “Rufus talks out of both sides of his mouth. He plans to add this Scottish whore's fair head to the royal collection. I tell you, skulls are literally rolling left and right at court. ‘Tis difficult to maneuver one's footings for all the bones lying about."

  DuFont slapped Sage on the back. “Come now, let me carry out my orders. The slut is naught but a pair of malleable thighs. No matter how white, and how eager those limbs are to wrap themselves around a man's waist, the pleasure found within is fleeting at best. Hardly worth the sacrifice of your own head."

  The henchman's sly eyes danced irreverently. He smacked his fleshy lips, which caused an abundance of spittle to dot his chin like bubbles rising from the mouth of a mad dog. “Though, ‘tis difficult to linger in conversation with those thighs beckoning. May God forgive my wicked lust! I am but a man and women are the source of a man's wickedness."

  Sage folded his arms over his chest. “Man is the source of his own wickedness."

  “Woman has tempted man since Eve in the Garden, and this whore has certainly tempted you."

  “And the celibate happily succumbed. The lady really is quite adventurous. Why should I give up her talents when I have not yet tired of them? Rufus is a man; he will understand."

  “The King only understands his tenuous hold upon the throne. Rufus will not have living reminders of treachery. There is unrest in the ranks of nobility. The barons are grumbling. The betrothed of the pervert-traitor must die if only to show the King's strength in dealing with dissidents."

  A predatory gleam came over the henchman's fox-like features. Bloodied gloves went to the edge of Aeschine's borrowed fur-lined cape. “This slut must hide a multitude of tricks under this wrapper. Why else would you let her involvement in your wife's murder go unpunished?"

  Aeschine tugged at his arm. “Captor?” She tilted her chin up to him. “Your wife died in that raid?"

  “Look at that show of concern! The whore actually acts surprised.” DuFont's hooded gaze dropped to the dark stain on his leather gauntlets. “Will you look at these gloves! A fine mess have I made of them.” He smiled, making a mockery of the show of uneven, discolored teeth. “As you must plainly see, discharging Rufus’ edicts are rather messy affairs. This is the third pair I have ruined this sennight, alone. While the King grows rich, I grow more shabbily garbed. Already, I resem
ble a peasant in attire."

  “ ‘Tis a pity you are so overtaxed in your endeavors. Perhaps you should retire your axe for a spell."

  “Retire my axe, indeed!” DuFont blustered. “Believe me, I have no great love for the red-haired blasphemer. The King is a conniver when he feels threatened, and he always feels threatened. But for all that, the throne has my loyalty. ‘Tis only the sad loss of my wardrobe I lament. As I am accustomed to having my neck fastened to my shoulders, I continue to carry out the King's orders. Any wise man would do the same."

  “Does it not worry you, DuFont, that royal justice appears less exact than your axe?"

  “Justice is never exact. There are always two sides to every tale. But a headless corpse does not rise up to fight another day. A dead Scots does not invade English territory. And a perverted nobleman buried deep does not stir up trouble. So does William Rufus keep his sovereignty inviolate. Thus, does he keep himself in power, and so too does this country remain at peace. The barons may hate the King, for he grows rich at their expense, but the common folk love him. And I should think you, of all people, would be grateful that a wiggling worm like your cousin is about to be squashed so very exactly."

  “You will get no argument from me about my cousin's unsavory inclinations. In the matters of his personal life, my cousin is beneath my contempt. In regards to his complicity in treason, that is for the King to decide. But, in the murder of my wife, I would need question him."

  The henchman tried a new tactic. “You call yourself the King's friend, but be forewarned: William Rufus’ is capricious; his friends become his enemies as quickly as warm spit travels in flight. Without knowing which way the wind doth blow, one cannot duck expectorate. Do not allow the phlegm to come back and hit you."

  Thus said, DuFont undid the fur-lined cape and reached inside for Aeschine.

  “Maggot! Do not presume to touch me!” She backed up. “I am niece to King Malcolm, you scurvy dolt-wit. My royal uncle will feed your gizzards to the swine if you but lay a finger on me! If my clan receives word from their leader, they will attack..."

  And who was that leader, now that Aeschine's natural father was deceased? Sage wondered. Who was this powerful, omniscient chieftain? His identity remained a mystery.