by Lily Baldwin
Chapter Five
Isabella had been attacked, nearly raped, and then abducted when her only wish had been to see her sister. At once, she realized the empty significance of her thought. After all, her mother’s visit to the market had resulted in her death. On any given day, most people did not ask for much. Few were those who wanted it all and would kill to take it.
She lifted off the saddle, suspended in air for a moment while they presumably leapt over some obstacle in their path. She cursed the blindfold and the hand gripping her waist. At first, fear had clouded her every thought while she had set off into the unknown, enclosed within the arms of her captor. It felt as if hours had passed, although, in truth, she knew it might have been mere minutes so great had been her panic. Still, somehow along the way, her heart had ceased its race and her breathing slowed.
Her eyes had been rendered useless and so she tried to use smells and sounds to guess their location. But the large, hard man holding her dominated her other senses. His breathing, loud and hot in her ear through his mask, muffled bird song and the clomp of the horse’s hooves. She could smell his body, rich and woody and not unpleasant. His scent curled around her, wicked with persuasion, beaconing her exhausted body to lean back into his chest and surrender. She shook her head and straightened her spine. As if his scent had somehow penetrated her mind to peek at her thoughts, his hand shifted from her waist to her stomach. His fingers splayed wide and pressed her against his torso, forcing a gasp from her lips. Even through layers of kirtle, tunic, and surcoat, she could feel his muscles shift and move as they rode. Never had she been so intimately acquainted with a man’s body.
His hand swept down her hip and for a moment rested on her thigh. She grabbed it and jerked it back up to her waist. At the very least, he was a man and not the demon she had imagined when first she glimpsed their masked faces and flashing swords. Men could be reasoned with. She cleared her throat and summoned her courage. “Return me to my father. He will reward you when I tell him of how you saved me from those thieves.”
“Those men were not thieves,” he snapped.
“Of course they were thieves,” she said.
“Nay, Princess.” His masked lips brushed her ear. “We are thieves. Those men were murderers and rapists.”
Her hand flew to her throat. Thieves, murderers and rapists—how could this be happening to her?
“You really did save me, didn’t you?”
She heard him sigh; evidently, he had no wish to be reminded. “Aye, and if ye value yer life at all, ye’ll remain silent now until I tell ye to speak.”
She was about to remind him that from his own lips he was no murderer, but she decided to keep her silence and not push him toward a new occupation.
*
“Damnation, Jack! What have ye done?” Abbot Matthew said, eying the lass in Jack’s lap when the Saints galloped into camp. The abbot of Haddington Monastery had been awaiting their return. He was one of Jack’s gracious benefactors and allowed Jack and his family to live in hiding on monastic land.
“For pity’s sake, Abbot, what of the code?”
“Blast the code.”
“The code was yer idea.”
“Ye’ve kidnapped an English lady. Unless ye’re plannin’ on wearin’ that mask until we can figure out how to get her back over the bleedin’ border and into her bleedin’ fortress, then I’m afraid ye’ve rendered the code useless, St. Peter.” The abbot raked his hands through his thinning brown hair. “How could ye jeopardize all we’ve accomplished with this rash move? What are ye tryin’ to prove?”
“We had no choice. Her coach was attacked.”
The abbot threw his arms up. “Of course it was attacked. Ye attacked it.”
“Will ye just listen to me?” Jack said. “We were trailin’ her coach, waitin’ for the opportune moment, when villains, real ones, rushed the road, killin’ her guard.”
“Who were they?” Abbot Matthew asked.
Jack lifted his shoulders. “In appearance they were peasants, though they fought like warriors.” He motioned to Quinn. “Bring the sword.” Quinn held it out for the abbot to examine. “How would a peasant be in possession of such a fine weapon?”
“How indeed?” Abbot Matthew said as he ran his fingers down the gleaming blade.
Jack jerked his head toward the lady now huddled on the ground. “They would have damaged her had we not intervened. And then what were we to do? Leave her out there alone to fend for herself?”
The abbot scratched at the faint whiskers dotting his chin. He looked at Jack. “Well, that does change matters. I will go now and send a message to Bishop Lamberton, although I cannot imagine how he will react.” A breeze cut through the forest, ruffling his long, black robe. “Work out a way to ensure she can’t identify ye.”
Jack watched the abbot disappear into the forest. Then with brows raised, he looked at his brothers. “Ye heard the good abbot, what are we goin’ to do?”
“The solution is simple,” Alec said before turning away and heading toward his hut. “Keep her blindfolded.”
“Nay,” Ian snapped. “That would be cruel.”
“Then put her in the hole,” Alec called over his shoulder.
“Ye needn’t be so unfeelin’,” Ian called after him. Then he turned to Jack. “Let’s just be clear. Ye will not put the lady in the hole. I’ll not have it.”
“’Tis not a terrible idea,” Quinn said. “We would give her some blankets.”
Ian shook his head, then turned about on his large feet.
“What are ye doin’?” Jack said as Ian marched over to the lady hugging her knees to her chest. Jack knew she must have been terrified. His conscience pricked again, but the desire to comfort her was chased away by the jewels adorning her headdress. Not surprising, however, was his youngest brother’s unfailing compassion. Ian’s kindness knew no limit, but danger to any man who invited Ian’s fury—his temper, once provoked, was a fearsome sight. Jack watched Ian closely as he dropped to one knee in front of the lass. She visibly tensed, clearly having sensed Ian’s presence.
Ian unsheathed his dirk. “I’m puttin’ an end to this debate.”
The lass scrambled away. “Hush now, lass,” Ian crooned, reaching for her. “This will not hurt.”
Both Jack and Quinn lunged for Ian as his knife started toward the lady’s head, but then, in one quick motion, her blindfold fell away.
*
Isabella blinked against the light as she scurried away from a large, black boot, but it followed after her. Her eyes traveled from the boot, up a thick, long leg. Corded muscles strained against the owner’s fitted hose. Her eyes journeyed further, beyond the impossibly large chest to the terrific masked facade. She screamed when the large man squatted in front of her.
“Oh, sorry.” He reached for the top of his head and pulled off the mask.
Her mouth dropped open in shock. A nervous giggle came unbidden to her lips. She had never been so surprised as she stared up into the kind, blue eyes of a young man no older than she. He had handsome features, a wide grin, and long, flaming red hair that fell below his chest. She had expected someone menacing, toothless, monstrous even…not a lad.
“Ian, get away from her.”
She looked passed Ian to one of three masked men standing in front of her. She recognized the voice as belonging to the man with whom she had ridden. The man she had assumed to be the leader. Ian winked at her. “I’m goin’ to pay for this one.” He stood up and backed away.
“Now what do we do?” It was the masked man on her right who spoke.
The man in the middle cursed before his hands reached out and yanked the mask off the heads of both men flanking him.
The man on her left flashed her a smile that might have made her knees weak if received at court, but in a primitive camp full of thieves, it served only to fuel her fear, so too did the lecherous glint to his eye as his gaze roved over her with slow deliberation. His tongue wet his full, sensual li
ps. “My name is Rory, my lady,” he said with a bow. His beauty was wicked. Thick, black lashes framed pale, blue eyes. Curly, black hair grazed his shoulders, framing his chiseled jaw. Without returning his greeting or making her own introductions, she tore her eyes away and took in the other unmasked man.
“Quinn, my lady,” he said with a bow.
Quinn appeared older than both Ian and Rory but only by a handful of years. Quinn’s good looks were not as flashy as Rory’s but his rich black hair shone in the sun and his dark eyes scrutinized her with an intelligent air. Once again, she returned no greeting nor did she reciprocate introductions, not that it mattered as they would have learned her family name from the coat of arms displayed on her carriage.
“Princess,” the man in the middle said, his voice dangerously soft. She narrowed her gaze as she strained to see through the mask still concealing his face. “Follow me,” he said. He started toward a small, thatched hut that stood beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Her feet froze in place. Even if she had wished to follow, she could not. Weary and afraid, she simply could endure no more. She had no intention of following the large, masked stranger into the small, enclosed space.
“As ye wish, my lady,” he growled. Then he stormed toward her. If she had sprouted wings, she would have been no less surprised. Lifting her skirt far too high for decorum, she bolted across the small clearing. For three blissful seconds she thought she had escaped; that is, until a hand clamped down on her upper arm. He jerked her around, tossed her over his shoulder, and stormed toward the hut. Once inside, he set her on her feet. The room was as poor and rustic as the thatched exterior. She glanced at the pallet and table with two roughhewn chairs, her gaze lingering on the thick loaf of bread at the center of the table. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her captor. He still wore his menacing mask. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He stepped toward her, causing her breath to catch. She backed up several steps, never taking her eyes off of him.
He pointed to one of the chairs. “Sit.”
She eyed the chair but then shook her head. She wanted to stay poised to flee or to ward off an attack.
“Suit yourself,” he said as he collapsed in one of the chairs with a heavy sigh. His hand reached over his head and pulled the mask off. Then he laid his head back against the thatched wall, closing his eyes. Confused by his casual air, she did not know what to do or say. Had he dismissed her? She eyed the doorway, wondering if he would notice if she slipped out. She looked at him once more. Wavy, black hair fell away from his upturned face. Long, thick, black lashes rested on his cheeks as he continued to close his eyes. She shifted her gaze from his face to the door and took one step in that direction, but his hand shot out, grabbing her forearm. “Ye’re not goin’ anywhere, Princess,” he said, his voice low and husky.
She yanked her hand free and pressed her back against the wall. They locked eyes. His were black and intense yet not unkind. A smile, seemingly sad and pensive, tugged at one corner of his mouth before he turned away from her once more. It was clear he was not ready to deal with her, or mayhap he did not know how. His fatigue was apparent, but she sensed there was more to his meditation. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Then he stared transfixed at the wall and his features relaxed as if he gazed at peaceful beauty. She imagined he stared beyond the thatched wall at a conjured meadow or steady sea, like a quiet soul in the midst of a world on fire.
His hand reached above his head and grabbed the back of his tunic, yanking it off. Her mouth dropped open as she stared at his bare torso. His wide chest was sprinkled with black hair that thinned into a line down the ridges of his stomach, disappearing beneath the narrow waist of his hose. He stood up and in two strides crossed the room and opened the lid to a wooden chest. A gasp tore from her lips. His hose hung low. She could see the curve of his buttock. He did not flinch when he heard her outburst, nor did he acknowledge her obvious discomfort. Pulling on a fresh linen shirt, he returned to the table, taking up a hunk of bread. The renewed sight of food made her stomach growl, betraying her need.
Hunkered low over his meal with both elbows on the table, he took a large bite and said, gesturing with the bread to the chair across from him, “Ye’re welcome to join me, Princess.”
She shook her head. She would have loved to eat but dared not go any closer.
“Sit,” he snapped. “Eat.” His black eyes flashed with anger. The quiet soul had given way to the thief. Her heart quaked. She felt like a cornered mouse surrounded by a hungry wolf. Perhaps she could request a change of guardsman. Not Rory, his roving eyes revealed exactly what he would do to her if they were alone near a soft pallet and warm blanket. There was Quinn who had seemed like a perfect gentleman, allowing she overlooked that his voice belonged to the man who had seemed amenable to sticking her in the hole—whatever that was. Ian, with his kind, blue eyes, was perfect, although given the great unmasking he instigated, she seriously doubted she would be left in his gentle care. Anyway, none of them were there, just she and this man who moved like a sleek cat, smelled like the woods, and exuded power. He was a man clearly used to being obeyed—a dangerous man, an unpredictable man, a man who was very unhappy that she was there—a terrible combination with her at its perilous center.
She closed her eyes, and squaring her shoulders, she sat down, fanning out her soiled tunic. After crossing her ankles, she tore off a piece of bread and took a bite. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her. Sweet Jesus, she wanted to run. But what would happen to the mouse if the wolf caught her?
He looked at her. His eyes started out cold, then flashed with fire. “What’s the question bitin’ at yer tongue?”
She jumped a little in her seat but then swallowed her fear. “Are you going to kill me?”
He smiled. And then to her surprise he threw his head back and laughed, showing white, even teeth. Her eyes widened with surprise. She certainly found nothing at all diverting about her question.
“Fair enough, Princess. Let me put yer mind to rest. I have no wish to hurt ye. Earlier today I would have taken yer last coin and all yer bonny jewels, but my brothers and I would never have harmed ye.”
“All of those men are your brothers?” she asked, her voice sounded small and soft, unrecognizable to her own ear. She was Lady Redesdale. She too was used to obedience. She sat a little straighter, imbuing her posture with strength she hoped would spread to her whole person.
He nodded in answer.
She took another bite of bread. “Why did you save me?”
He shrugged and looked away.
“Have I wronged you somehow? Or are you merely angry because you did not get your chance to rob me?” She felt her ire rising. She was tired of being afraid, and she would be damned if she was going to explain herself to a common highwayman. She jumped to her feet.
“I demand you return me to my father, or if you wish you can take me on to my intended destination, my sister’s home at Ravensworth Castle.”
“Ye can keep yer orders to yerself, Princess. As I’ve said before, ye’re not goin’ anywhere.”
“If it is money you desire, then I assure you, my father will pay handsomely for my return.”
“Ye’ve had my answer,” he said.
She scowled, turning away. Sweat had gathered on her brow. The heat and stress of the day were undeniable. She pulled a handkerchief from beneath the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed at beads cascading down her temples. He grabbed her arm and jerked her back around.
“I’ll never ken a noble woman’s attire. Ye’re suffocatin’ yerself in all that fuss.”
“You speak as if I had some say in what I wear.” She paused and blatantly passed her gaze over his homespun shirt and hose. “Like your own attire, my dress is befitting my station.”
For a moment, a sneer twisted his rugged features. She had pushed too far. He stepped forward, and to her surprise, his face softened. He cupped her cheeks between his rough palms, and leaned close. She trembled bene
ath the warm currents of his breath.
“Why must convention cover a woman’s hair?” His fingers slid under the sides of her wimple where it met her cheeks. “It is almost always her greatest beauty.” His lips grazed her skin causing her heart to skip. Before she could draw her next breath, he ripped the fabric, exposing her head and neck. Her body betrayed her as a sigh of relief escaped her lips, having been released from her own personal prison.
“What is yer name?” he said, uncoiling her hair.
“Bella,” she breathed. “Is…Isabella.”
He laced his fingers through her freed hair. Did he think the color beautiful? Her sable brown locks had always seemed plain to her at court—oh for pity’ sake, what did it matter? She should have been fighting his presumptuous attention. He was a thief and her abductor. She met his gaze with the intention of telling him exactly what he could do with his wandering hands, but the moment their eyes met, she was struck by his intensity. God’s blood, if he had wished to unnerve her, he had succeeded; she felt vulnerable and exposed. His hands dropped to his sides, and he turned his back to her. Her courage returned.
“If you were a gentleman, you would take me home.”
He whirled around and crushed her against him. “Never mistake me for a gentleman, Princess.” He pressed a kiss hard to her lips. She pushed against his chest and struggled in protest, but he held her fast. Then his lips softened. His hold softened. She softened, lulled by his whispered caress. He tore his lips away. He was as unpredictable as a summer storm. Without thinking, she drew her hand back and slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side. She held her breath, thinking the end was nigh.
He rubbed his cheek. His lip tugged into a lazy sideways grin. “Ye’ve gumption, my lady,” he said before turning to leave. Then over his shoulder he said, “I like that in a woman.”
Chapter Six
Jack stormed from his hut. His mind raced. God’s Blood, she was beautiful. He raked his hand through his hair. But she was the enemy. He had no business kissing her or pitying her. By God, he had robbed dozens of English nobles. She was no different. Her title belonged to King Edward. Were it not for the support of his nobles, nobles like her, his cruel hammer would not have possessed the power to thrash Berwick to oblivion. No doubt she remained oblivious to her king’s cruelty, living within the confines of her gilded cage. The attack against her today had likely been her first taste of suffering. Her smooth, flawless palms had never known toil. She could not imagine the heartache of a world torn asunder or the murder of ones so dearly loved. He closed his eyes against the images that flashed in his mind: A little girl with a basket of apples, a woman whose laughter had been as warm and rich as her black eyes, a man who had taught Jack self-worth. His parents and youngest sister had perished during the massacre, their bodies buried in one of the mass graves. He shook his head, chasing away the painful images. Nothing could bring them back.
