Once Upon a Pillow

by Christina Dodd

  Rion leaned over and slapped at them as they paraded past. “Good men. All of you. You always arrive in time.”

  Helwin waved her stick at them. “Just in time.”

  Sir Lathrop grinned at her. “Oxo, she’s going to hurt us with her twig.”

  “Indeed, I would not.” She dropped the stick. “I owe you my life, and more important, Lord Masterson’s life. For that, I thank you all.”

  Sir Lathrop tipped his disreputable cap at her. “We had to do it. You’re our mistress, now.”

  The other men murmured agreement.

  Helwin found herself blinking back tears.

  Rion turned the horse toward Castle Masterson. “Now we should return quickly home. I fear that little arrow will only infuriate Lord Smythwick.”

  “We’ll soon be at war with our neighbors.” Sir Lathrop rubbed his palms together, then shouted, “Let’s ride!”

  Samson stretched out his legs, flying across the landscape in an attempt to outrun trouble. Helwin held on for dear life, loving the feel of Rion in her arms, knowing she had the right to hold him thus for the rest of her life.

  Never had she imagined a kidnapping would free her from bondage and bring her to such pleasure.

  Rion must have felt the same way, for he shouted, “I’ve got you now, my lady Hellion, and I’m going to keep you.”

  But she knew how his feelings must be mixed, and she asked, “Are you happy?”

  “I’m damned happy. “ They rode hard, his men staying close at their backs. “Don’t I sound happy?”

  He didn’t. He sounded furious, and only a woman who loved him would understand that he must mourn the sacrifice he had made of his heritage…for her.

  But she had not counted on his resourcefulness.

  “I’ve got a plan,” he shouted. “I’m going to become a smuggler.”

  Startled, she repeated, “A smuggler? Why would you want to be a smuggler?”

  “I don’t want to be a smuggler, but I want you and I want my lands and people, and that’s the way I will keep them both. There’ve been smugglers here since the Conquest—I’ll ask the villagers for help and all will come out well.” Reaching back, he patted her knee. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Torn between amusement and horror, Helwin said, “Queen Elizabeth won’t like it.”

  “So we’ll make sure the queen never finds out.”

  “There is another way.” She picked her words carefully. “You see, one day I started thinking… Uncle Carroll never bothers with anything he thinks is below his notice.”

  Castle Masterson came into sight and the ride slowed.

  “I’m listening,” Rion said.

  “So why do you think he would bother with me?”

  The horse’s hooves clomped as they rode onto the stone of the courtyard.

  “Because the queen said you must be kept alive.” Rion dismounted and reached up to help her.

  She slipped down into his arms and stood, holding him in place with her grasp and her steady gaze. “True, and she occasionally sends a friend of my father’s to make sure I still live.”

  “That is good of her majesty.”

  “Yes. She is a good queen with a long memory, and I am thankful for that. But think, Rion! The fact remains that Uncle Carroll virulently hates me.” Remembering her uncle’s dead-fish eyes, Helwin shivered. “And why? Surely the existence of a niece should be of no importance to him.”

  She had Rion’s complete attention. “You have some worth that makes him loathe you.”

  “Exactly. And a few years ago, while Uncle Carroll and his family visited the court, I went in search of the reason for that loathing. I found it in his study. The title and the land for the earl of Smythwick was entitled to the eldest son, of course, and passed on my father’s death to Uncle Carroll.” Helwin smiled as she gave Rion the news. “But the fortune came from my mother, and that fortune has been inherited by…me.”

  Rion squinted disbelievingly at her. “You…you’re an heiress?”

  “A very great heiress.”

  He wet his lips. “The entire Smythwick fortune…?”

  “Is mine. Mine…and my husband’s.”

  Rion stared at her. Stared so long that she blushed and scuffed her foot. “I thought you’d be glad.”

  He shook his head as if she’d hit with his own cudgel…again.

  He gave an incredulous snort.

  He chuckled, and shook his head again, all the while never taking his eyes off her. Throwing his head back, he laughed loud and long. Laughed as he had that day when he kidnapped her off the beach. Laughed like a man who had only to reach out his hand to satisfy his greatest craving.

  Picking her up, he swung her around and around until the courtyard spun, and she held his shoulders and shrieked. When he stopped laughing and set her down, he didn’t let her go—but he didn’t laugh anymore, either. Sternly, he said, “You are an heiress and you made me suffer the torment of the damned while you went haring off to get yourself killed?”

  She looked fixedly at his throat while she confessed, “I was going to come back. I can only love a man who would put his duty to his men and his people before his desire—and you do, and I do.”

  He turned her chin up with his thumb. “You love me?”

  “Well…aye.” Silly fellow. “Of course I love you.”

  He sighed as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “How was I supposed to know that? You didn’t say it. Moreover, as soon as I said it you leaped out of bed and fled.”

  “I…I was sulking.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you weren’t willing to sacrifice all for me.”

  He looked honestly puzzled. “You just said you could love only a man who put his duty to his men and his people before his desire.”

  “I know.”

  “For an intelligent woman, you’re a fool.”

  She wrapped her fingers in his doublet and jerked him closer. “You are not always so brilliant yourself.”

  “Smart enough to take you and keep you.” He yelled at the huddle of men on their horses and the maids watching from the door. “Send to the church. I don’t care that the banns aren’t called. This is an emergency. We need to be married before Smythwick comes back with an army.”

  The cheer that went up from male and female sent a glow of pleasure through Helwin and made Rion grin.

  Sir Lathrop snapped his fingers and directed the men to defense and as messengers.

  Winetta set the maids to work.

  Helwin smoothed her hands down Rion’s arms. She peeked up at him through her lashes. “The clergyman won’t be here for at least an hour. Do you think we have time to…relax…in your marvelous bed?”

  “Aye, we do.” Picking her up, he swung her over his shoulder, just as he had done the first day he brought her to Castle Masterson. “Lady Hellion, we have all the time in the world.”

  The End of Kidnapped

  Her Captive

  by

  Connie Brockway

  In which the Lady makes her Bed…

  Prologue

  Masterson Manor

  Present day

  “Hey! These marks look like they were made by handcuffs,” Brian said.

  The comment brought an immediate halt to all other conversations. Everyone in the room, including Max, turned their attention to the teenage boy. Including his mother, Mrs. Plante.

  Max Ashton edged closer to the bed, inspecting the marks Brian pointed to. A series of ring-like gouges scored the surface of the post on the left side of the headboard. The marks were deeper along the inner face of the post than they were on the outer, as if someone had tried to drag the thing with a chain.

  “Probably how they moved the beastie,” Max offered.

  Mrs. Stradling gave him a fond, if oddly pitying, smile. “I doubt it. It wouldn’t make any sense to try and drag something this size from one comer,” she said. “There are no corresponding marks on the posts at th
e foot.”

  “Oh.”

  “Someone was chained to the bed.” With the astute vulgarity of the very young, Brian immediately tumbled to the crudest interpretation.

  Mrs. Plante smiled proudly at her offspring while the other two Americans, Miss Ferguson and Mrs. Stradling, nodded. Laurel, in no hurry to have the day end, sat down on the edge of the bed and let them speculate.

  “Sounds a little far-fetched, if you ask me. Like something from one of those old pirate movies,” the young groom John said. “Things like that don’t happen in real life.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Mrs. Stradling popped the Ray-Bans off from the top of her head and began polishing them on the hem of her shirt. “I mean, a bed this size would be perfect for keeping someone in his or her place.”

  “That’s true,” said Max Ashton. Apparently at some point he erroneously believed that he had been asked to join the group. “Are there marks on the post on the other side of the headboard?”

  Brian, finally having found something in the manor that interested him, scooted around to the other side. He peered closely at the post before returning with a disappointed, “Nope. No marks here. Blast.”

  Max smiled indulgently at the boy. He had, Laurel conceded, a very nice smile. “Don’t look so glum, mate. Maybe the owner of the bed tried to spare it by cushioning the chains and the ones on this side slipped out.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Could happen.”

  “Doubtful. I imagine it would be most uncomfortable being handcuffed between two posts,” Mrs. Plante, the most earnest of the lot, said in a troubled voice. “But from the position of the marks on this post I’d say it’s doable.”

  “Impossible,” Laurel disagreed. “Not with the marks being where they are.”

  “And why’s that?” Max asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  How had Max Ashton suddenly gained such prominence in this little group? Laurel wondered. Perhaps it was time she regained control—

  “Tell you what, Miss Whitney,” Max Ashton said. Her head shot up and she found herself looking into a pair of devilishly dancing eyes. “Be a sport and scoot to the middle of the bed. The folks here would like a demo.”

  He was mocking her. Daring her. She almost told him just where he could take his suggestion but then realized that her group—her last tour group—was watching her with innocent certainty that she’d be game and play along.

  Oh, she’d play, all right.

  “Of course, I would comply, Mr. Ashton, but don’t you think it a little, well, unkind to any surviving Masterson males, wherever they might be, to suggest that a lady was chained here? Look around.” She waved her hand at the portraits lining the wall. Although they were dimmed by hearth smoke and time and in need of cleaning, anyone could tell that the male faces looking down at them were from a handsome and well-made line. “Do you think a Masterson would need to chain a lady here?” She met Max’s eyes with a challenging lift of her brow.

  “Nuh-uh. No-way, no-how.” Mrs. Stradling’s sudden appreciative comment broke the tension.

  “Exactly,” Laurel said. “For the purposes of verisimilitude, I suggest we use a male volunteer. How ‘bout you, Mr. Ashton? You look like someone who might have been chained up at some point in time.”

  “Only by error,” he said.

  “Whose? Your accusers for getting the wrong man or yours for not slipping away quickly enough?”

  “I’m not the sort that slips away. Not in this life or any other,” Max said with a touch of tenseness. Then, abruptly, he shook off his darkening mood and moved on all fours to the center of the bed where he turned around, sat down against the piles of pillows, and threw open his long, muscular arms.

  “At your service,” he said, his eyes glittering.

  “Right.” She hadn’t really thought he’d do it and now the tour group was waiting expectantly. Well, she’d prove she was just as sporting as him.

  Resolutely, she got on her hands and knees and moved the short distance to where he waited. Once there, she looked around, spied the satin bed pull, and with a flick of her wrist dislodged it from the hook that joined it to an interior system of cables leading to the servants’ hall. “Thank you for being such a trooper, Mr. Ashton.”

  She deftly secured the satin cord around the post and then looped it around his wrist. The action necessitated that she move closer to him. She half-expected him to…do something. She wasn’t sure what, but her muscles tensed as if she stood in imminent danger as she secured his wrist.

  In contrast, Max looked utterly relaxed. He caught her eye and smiled lazily. This hadn’t worked out as she’d expected. She was the one who felt nervy and embarrassed while Max Ashton looked like being tied to a bed was nothing new for him.

  Maybe it wasn’t.

  After she secured his other wrist to the unmarked post she scooted away from him. “Well, there, now you can see why the prisoner wasn’t chained like Mr. Ashton,” she mumbled. “If they had been, the gouges would be quite a bit lower on the post, unless the prisoner was actually standing on the pillows.”

  “Thank you. That makes it all very clear, indeed,” Mrs. Plante said, looking decidedly amused.

  “You know,” said Miss Ferguson, her nose inches away from the bedpost as she studied the wood, “there actually do seem to be two sets of marks on this post. The deep ones higher up and another set, faint but there, low. Whatever do you suppose that means?”

  Max pulled off his satin bonds and rolled to his feet. “More than one prisoner?”

  “A series of prisoners,” Brian breathed. Laurel could almost see the idea forming in his fertile, teenage boy imagination. “Maybe some bugger of a Masterson kept the local hotties chained up here as his sex slaves?”

  Bugger of a Masterson?

  “I doubt it.” Laurel regarded the young man with something less than warmth.

  “Why?” Brian demanded, unwilling to let go of his fantasy.

  “Trecombe is a very small, very tightly knit community. There are families here that trace their ancestry back to the Domesday Book. If some mad Masterson—and I am by no means disallowing the possibility of a dissolute, odious Masterson—stole a local girl, don’t you think there would have been some legend attached to the event?”

  Brian looked sullen. The American ladies looked deflated. Only Meghan, the new bride, perked up. “Not if she found she fancied being a sex slave. Could be the affair turned into a love match and ended in a nice chapel wedding. And you know what locals say in that case: All’s well that end’s well.”

  The Americans laughed. Meghan turned to Laurel for support. “It could happen, couldn’t it?”

  Laurel smiled. “I hate to pop anyone’s bubble, but actually we have an explanation for those marks, how they were made, and by whom and, again sorry to disappoint, but there was no love slavery involved.”

  “Come now, Brian,” she cajoled the crestfallen boy, “don’t look so woebegone. The real story is very dramatic, too. You see, as I mentioned earlier, the coast ‘round here was once a prime spot for smugglers to put in with their contraband. Lots of caves and inlets.

  “Those marks were made by Ned Masterson, the captain in charge of cleaning up the town, so to speak. Legend has it that he chained the leader of the smugglers here, as the bed was the heaviest thing in the house, while he rode off and routed the rest of the band.”

  “You’re sure?” Brian obviously preferred the love-slave notion.

  “Fairly sure. It’s a local story but they most often have their basis in fact.”

  “Wasn’t a female smuggler by any chance?”

  “Not unless she was strong as an ox,” Max Ashton said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, kid,” Max said with a kindliness Laurel wouldn’t have suspected him capable of, “look at how deep the gouges are. Whoever had flung himself against the chain was either very strong or very, very angry and while I’ve met my share of irate women—”r />
  “I just bet you have,” Lauren muttered.

  He ignored her. “I’ve never met one that strong.”

  “You know what I’d like to know?” Mrs. Stradling suddenly asked. “I’d love to know what this Ned Masterson was like. I mean think of what he must have been like if he could overcome a man strong enough to move this bed…”

  Chapter One

  Masterson Manor

  1815

  Stopping to gloat proved Philippa Jones’s undoing.

  If she had simply manacled Ned Masterson—Captain Ned Masterson—to his infamous bed and left, all would have gone according to plan. But no, Philippa Jones who, as everyone in Trecombe could attest, was as incapable of hiding her feelings as a rabid dog is incapable of snarling, would never pass up the opportunity to enjoy the downfall of her enemy and her onetime lover, the despicable, deceitful, and treacherously attractive Captain Ned Masterson.

  Especially since disaster had been so nearly averted. Indeed, only happenstance had led her to uncover Ned’s stratagem. She and her brother John, orphaned gentlefolk that they were, had been invited to the Masterson Manor weekend house party by Ned’s widowed Cousin Merry, an elderly gentlewoman recently arrived for a visit.

  Obviously accepting had been a mistake, because the affair between Ned and her had ended months ago and it had most definitely not been amicable. No one had bothered to mention this to Cousin Merry who’d sent them a handwritten invitation.

  John had, of course, thought it spectacularly amusing and had insisted that they go. She’d resisted, explaining to her reckless brother how stupid it would be to place himself under even closer scrutiny by their host. Especially when that host suspected him—and not without warrant, Philippa feared—of being a smuggler. And most especially when that host had recently been revealed to be an agent of the Crown, sent here specifically to purge the coast of smugglers.

  But John had affected not to understand her fears, countering with an appeal to her pride. If they accepted the invitation, all of Trecombe would see that she wasn’t pining after Ned Masterson. The idea that anyone thought she was languishing was, of course, laughable as well as intolerable.