His Captive

by Diana J. Cosby

  With longing, she looked past the lowered drawbridge to where the ragged expanse of rock and rolling field cut upward to the steep edge of the forest. Mary help her, she would find a way to escape.

  As they closed on a small but sturdy shop, the odor of worked wood and sweat greeted her. Alexander guided her inside, blocking her view of freedom. Her chest tightened at the sense of being trapped within the confines. She calmed. Alexander showed her the castle. Their time within the cramped building would be brief.

  A strapping man surrounded by neatly stacked piles of various wood, along with other tools of his trade, worked to shape a bough into a long, narrow stock.

  “What is he making?” she asked.

  Alexander eyed her. “He is carving oak for the tiller of a crossbow. Like the Saracens, we use oak, maple, elm, and horn for the construction of the weapon.”

  “Horn?”

  “Aye. Horn is tough and springy and not as likely to break as if he used wood.”

  She skimmed her hand down the stock of a finished crossbow hung on the wall; the warm slide of polished wood, flawless in its design, reminding her of the hewn muscles of the man at her side. Shaken at the way her thoughts always turned toward him, Nichola lowered her hand away.

  “We use beeswax to protect the wood against the rain and cold,” Alexander explained.

  “You know much about the crafting of these weapons.”

  The strapping man winked. “And the lad learned it all from me.”

  At the warmth in his voice, her smile came with ease. The man could not be much older than Alexander. Yet, the teasing tone of his voice heralded him as his friend.

  “Me name is Blar,” he said with a nod. “If I wait for Alexander to introduce us, you might never come to know me name.”

  Alexander gave an indignant snort. “I would not trust my geese to this fox.”

  “Appreciative lad, is he not,” Blar said with a chuckle. His gaze slid down her with male appreciation. “And is this lass the reason you have been snapping at everyone? I have wondered at the cause of your foul mood.”

  A blush warmed her cheeks at his overt perusal.

  “Blar,” Alexander said, “this is Lady Nichola.”

  The humor on the strapping man’s face faded. “The English lass?”

  “Aye.”

  Coldness smothered any warmth on his face. “This is no place for a lady.”

  She understood. He didn’t want English eyes viewing weapons he’d made, arms that would be used against her people.

  “You are very skilled in your trade. My thanks for your time.” She turned, thankful Alexander didn’t stop her as she stepped past him. Outside, Nichola halted, her entire body trembling. She’d been foolish to allow herself that moment of pleasure. She would never be accepted here.

  Alexander moved to her side. “I should have thought better than to bring you here. I had but wanted to let you see where I work during the day.”

  Though his words held little warmth, his apology touched her as did the fact that he’d wanted to show her a part of him. “The crossbows are of fine quality,” she said, unsure of what else to say.

  Pride lit his face. “Aye, they are the best in all of Scotland.”

  She studied his hands. Skilled hands that had crafted the stout weaponry within the shop. Hands instilled with patience. Hands that could bend wood into a desired form, or a woman to his will.

  Unwanted needs stirred within her. Alexander did nothing by halves. What would it be like if they made love? Or if he loved her? The questions popped into her mind without warning, shattering her momentary illusion that she was in control of her emotions.

  “I had not thought you a craftsman. I took you as a warrior,” she said, needing to think of something else, anything else besides the sensual feelings he elicited. “I can understand where the demands necessary to create such detailed weaponry would appeal to you. A challenge.” Mayhap why she appealed to him?

  “I am merely an apprentice.”

  Which explained another layer of friendship between him and Blar. Friend and mentor. “How long have you worked under his guidance?”

  He studied her a moment, then his shoulders relaxed. “A year now. I am only beginning to understand the feel of the wood, the curves, how to cut and work with the natural weakness and strengths of the grain.” His tone softened, tempered by his obvious love of the craft.

  Although she wanted to remain outside, Nichola turned back toward the keep. Too aware of him, of the pleasure his mere touch could bring, it was a mistake to spend time with him. And the more she learned of the man, the harder it was to remember he was her enemy.

  Alexander caught her arm in a gentle hold and steered her toward the drawbridge. “Walk with me.”

  “Outside the castle walls?” she said, stunned. “I am surprised you have not put me on a tether as one would a hawk.”

  “You are too weak to give me much of a chase.”

  “Not so weak I cannot cut you down with my tongue.”

  The whisper of mirth on his face caught her off guard. After she’d wished him dead days before, she’d never thought he’d again gift her with such warmth.

  They walked into the cool shadows of the gatehouse, their steps a soft echo against the crafted walls. Warmth brushed against her skin as she stepped into the sunlight outside. A light breeze sputtered around them as if trying to take hold, only to fade away.

  “The wind will be picking up before long,” Alexander said as they ambled across the drawbridge. “On a fine summer morning, it is always the same.”

  She stared at him, the beauty of the day dispelling the last of her emotional barriers she needed to keep against Alexander in place. “Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “I cannot explain the why of it. But when the skies are blue as a fairy’s eyes and the morning still but for wisps of fog scattered about, it is the same.”

  As if to prove his claim, the breeze again sputtered around them, this time lasting longer before fading to calm.

  “Like a babe kicking its way to life,” Alexander said. They reached the shore and stopped. Rocks, battered by wave and wind, lay strewn along the uneven shoreline.

  Nichola watched the water. An errant ripple tickled the surface. “I would not have thought you would be interested in anything as mundane as the variances of the wind.”

  He leaned down and picked up a multicolored rock. Though not of the same quality or beauty, the smooth stone reminded her of the four polished gemstones in her room.

  Alexander skipped the rock over the mirrored surface of the water. It skimmed in a rhythmic trail, then submerged. “There is nothing mundane in nature or what it creates. Too many people overlook the everyday treasures before them.”

  His simple words touched her. How true. Caught up in their own strife, most people passed through life without enjoying it. As Griffin did. Lost in a sodden turmoil, his life lay battered by women, drink, and now possibly murder. What would it take to bring back the caring brother, the family she so craved? Where was her brother now?

  Please let him be alive.

  She looked up to find Alexander watching her with unnerving intensity as when he’d kissed her in her chamber a short while before. Emotion tightened in her throat.

  “There is a bowl in my chamber that holds four halved stones,” she said, before she softened and did something foolish like leaned toward him, or told him the truth about her brother or their lack of coin.

  “They belonged to my grandmother.” Alexander picked up another rock, this one angled with strong lines of white racing through layers of black. He rubbed the rough stone with the edge of his thumb, love for his revered ancestor spilling into his smile.

  “The room is hers, isn’t it?” The warmth of the chamber, the little touches that made the room so personal, finally made sense. With the cold distance between them when they’d arrived at Lochshire Castle, she hadn’t expected him to deposit her in a chamber of such luxury; especially
a room of a family member he obviously cherished.

  “It was.”

  “Then why did you give it to me?”

  Why indeed. Alexander stared at her then, her question one that haunted him still. “I do not know,” he replied with complete honesty.

  He drew his arm back and threw the rock. It landed a great distance away with a plunk. Waves moved out in a perfect circle from the point of entry.

  How odd to be standing here at her side sharing such intimacies. He should have returned her to her chamber when he had the chance and gone hunting with his brothers. Instead, he’d deluded himself in thinking he could be with her and keep her at a distance.

  Except, with every glance, he wanted her more.

  Another gust of wind spurted to life. Ripples shuddered over the water to merge with those created from the rock, blurring where one began and the other ended, like his desire blurred the reasons why he should keep away from Nichola.

  “Would you tell me about her?”

  “Why?”

  “I have no right to ask something so personal, but there is something about the room that draws me. I cannot explain why.” A steady flow of wind teased at her auburn locks as Nichola turned toward him. Confusion filled her gaze along with the need to understand.

  Touched by her admission, though not wanting to be, he explained. “Some say her spirit still lives in the room.”

  Her gray eyes widened. “The chamber is haunted?”

  Alexander smiled, warmed by the memories of his grandmother’s mystic life. “No, she believed the room is touched by magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “My grandmother was a woman filled with the zest of life, a healer and optimist who had the second sight.”

  Her brow wrinkled in thought. “Is the room filled with magic or is it haunted?”

  Disarmed by her confusion, he relaxed completely. “In a sense, both.”

  “You are but teasing me.”

  He shook his head. “She was a wondrous woman. It is that I am surprised you have sensed her presence. I would not have believed you would.”

  “Being an Englishwoman, you mean?”

  “Part of the reason,” he admitted, not wanting to acknowledge that she had felt his grandmother’s presence in the room or the magic. Neither made sense.

  She turned away, but not before he saw the hurt on her face. He should have remained quiet, allowed his silence to put much needed distance between them.

  “I had not meant my words as a barb,” he said, his heart overruling common sense.

  She shrugged. “Does it matter how you meant it?”

  It shouldn’t. But it did, because Nichola mattered.

  “The sight?” Nichola asked, breaking into his unsettling thoughts. “She could foretell the future?”

  “Bits, pieces, an event here or there.”

  “How?”

  “Sometimes through a dream, other times by touching someone’s hand. Often, she would walk through the forests where she claimed the fairies spoke to her.” He remembered how his grandmother’s eyes had glittered with mischief, the delight of spinning a yarn rich on her face as she told of her exploits, or the event she said the fairies had foretold.

  “And the colored stones in her room?”

  He tensed. “Why do you ask?”

  “It is just when I touched them I felt . . .” She hesitated as if not daring to admit what she felt for sounding foolish.

  “A power?” he finished with a grudging acceptance.

  She nodded.

  And why should he be surprised? She’d sensed his grandmother in the room along with the magic, something only possible for he and his brothers. Until now. It was logical she would feel the energy of the stones.

  “And warmth as well.” A rosy hue warmed her cheeks. “It sounds daft to speak of such things.”

  It was ludicrous to continue his torment of being with her and not touching her. It was ludicrous to talk of family matters with her. It was ludicrous that all the reasons he shouldn’t be around her didn’t matter when she was near.

  This closeness she inspired was dangerous indeed. He and Nichola could never be together. He exhaled a long sigh. “No, it does not sound strange.”

  Relief swept her face. “It does not?”

  Alexander swore he heard the faint strands of his grandmother’s amused chuckle and wondered if her spirit had sided with the fairies.

  “No,” he replied. “The stones she kept within her chamber hold different energies for the healing of a body or the spirit.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  Which only added to Alexander’s mounting frustration. An innocent in the healing arts, no way could she have known about the purpose or potency of the stones.

  Nichola brushed away a tendril of hair that fluttered across her lips. “In the bowl, one of the stones is halved and has what appears to be moss within. The outside is rough and the color of crushed gold.”

  “That would be the moss agate.” He remembered he’d had the same impression when he’d first viewed the unusual stone. “It holds the ability to makes warriors powerful and shield them from those who would bring them harm. Seathan wears the other half around his neck. A gift to him from our grandmother when he was knighted.”

  Intrigue sparked in her eyes. “When you were knighted, did your grandmother gift you with something as well?”

  From a finely crafted chain he wore around his neck, Alexander withdrew his grandmother’s gift from the day he received his knighthood; the half of a dark, greenish blue stone mixed with swirls of a lighter green like a core of a cut tree staggered toward the center. He lifted it over his head and handed it to her.

  She held it suspended from its chain. It twirled before her in the morning sun. “It is beautiful. I have never seen anything like this before.”

  An ache built in his throat as he watched her, her face innocent in its pure joy. “It is azurite. It is said to aid in control over your emotions and reactions, and to give the wearer greater insight.”

  Gray eyes lifted to his. “And does it?”

  His mouth grew dry as the need for her shifted to something dangerous. “Usually.” Except with Nichola. Whatever existed between them held its own force. One neither the powers of the stone nor common sense could overrule.

  She handed his amulet back.

  Shaken to realize that the anger he’d nurtured for the last four days had somehow fled, he lifted the draping chain from her palm and ensured their hands didn’t touch.

  “Your other two brothers have similar gifts as well?” she asked, her voice unsteady, the awareness in her eyes making his blood heat.

  “Patrik was given malachite, which promotes inner peace. My grandmother gifted Duncan with a sapphire, known for its powers of prophecy and wisdom. Sapphire is also called the stone of destiny, because of its ability to aid the wearer in clarity of mind for those who seek the truth.”

  “The gifts are so unique. So personal. She must have been an incredible woman.”

  A yearning crept into her eyes, and an emptiness so intense that Alexander fought the need to reach out and embrace her. “She was at that. And what of your family?”

  Pain lanced through her eyes. She looked away, and he immediately regretted asking. “Never mind.” He stepped closer until he was but a hand’s breadth away. “Your family will be worried.”

  “No,” she said on a rough whisper. “They will not.”

  At the sullen hopelessness of her response, he frowned. “Your brother—”

  “My brother,” she interrupted, her voice weary. She nodded. “Griffin indeed will be most concerned over my disappearance. I am tired and my thoughts are tangled.”

  Except her half-hearted reply left him far from convinced. “You are very close then?”

  Nichola hesitated. “Yes. He is the only person I have trusted since my parents’ deaths.”

  But the sense that she was withholding something nagged at him
. Their informant within Rothfield Castle confirmed her words that the brother and sister were close. Alexander dismissed any concern on that front.

  So what was she hiding?

  Or was there another person to whom she gave her trust?

  Jealousy raked through him at the thought of another man touching her, awakening her passion. Why wouldn’t men seek to court her? Besides being wealthy, she was intriguing, intelligent, and beautiful.

  As if he hadn’t already added enough risks for the rebels by abducting her instead of her brother? With the days passing and the absence of the baron leading a charge against the castle, ’twould seem they’d avoided inviting her brother’s wrath. Mayhap the Baron of Monceaux had decided to pay the ransom and avoid a confrontation. Or perhaps he’d sent away too many of his knights to support King Edward’s bid to claim Scotland for retribution. Whatever his reason not to attack, Alexander gave silent thanks.

  “At six, it must have been difficult for you as a child.” God’s teeth, why had he said that? He already knew the answer; and her past, future, and whom she chose to make romantic liaisons with, was of no consequence to him.

  “It was.”

  His heart reached out to her. “I am sorry you endured such.”

  She shrugged, but he saw the sadness she couldn’t hide. “Tragedy is a lesson of life we must all deal with.”

  The pain of his father’s death still overwhelmed him, and he was a man full and grown. “But your grief is great.” Their time together had taught him that Nichola was a woman of deep emotions. A fact that appealed to him overmuch.

  Nichola brushed away tendrils of auburn hair fluttering across her cheek. “We were close.”

  He easily pictured the shattered youth, her struggle to cling to the fragile bond of unity with her sibling. From the grief lingering in her eyes, she’d never fully recovered from her loss. And now he’d stolen her from her home.

  Guilt ate at him, but he couldn’t change the way of things now. If given the same circumstance and awareness of her past, would he have left her until her brother’s return? Caught between the loyalties to his country and his feelings toward her, at the moment he wasn’t sure.

  “Walk with me, Nichola,” he said, torn by the turmoil, wanting to heal the emotional wounds of the child that had grown into a woman. Those scars he’d added to by her abduction.