White Lion's Lady

by Tina St. John

  “If ’tis money you seek,” she managed to whisper, “I will see that you are rewarded. I give you my word. Just let me go now. Release us both, Felice and me.”

  “I cannot,” he said, whatever tenderness he might have shown her before suddenly gone. He backed off of her then, rising to his knees and reaching out to grasp her about the wrist and pull her to her feet.

  “What could my capture possibly mean to anyone?” Isabel persisted. “What could it mean to you?”

  He paused for the slightest moment, his strong fingers swallowing her hand, those hard green eyes meeting and holding her worried gaze. His smile was anything but reassuring. “What you mean to the man who wants you is anyone’s guess, demoiselle. What you mean to me, however, is a fat bounty. Fat enough to start my life over—far away from all of this.”

  He spat the last word like a curse, jerking his chin toward her. Isabel was not sure if his scorn was aimed at her or at himself and the crime he was committing. She had no time to consider it further, for in the next instant she was being dragged along with him as he barked an order to his men to wake, rousing the camp and setting them about the task of remounting with cold, efficient command. In a matter of moments, the party was off, making their way on a trail he seemed to know well.

  A trail that came to its end far too soon for Isabel’s comfort.

  Only a handful of hours later, their destination loomed ahead, a large castle perched on a high hill. The forbidding place rose out of the morning mist like out of a dream, a nightmare vision of dark stone walls and cold shadows. A feeling of bone-deep fear gripped Isabel as she, Felice, and their hired abductors approached the soaring curtain wall. She had to batten down a shiver of pure dread as they were admitted within the massive gates and rode into the center of the wide inner bailey. The party dismounted; Isabel and Felice were left to stand like chattel on the block before the soldiers who took them.

  She took in the sight of the tower keep and its outlying buildings, feeling that this was not the first time in her life she had stood in this very space.

  In a far corner of her mind she heard children laughing, taunting. She heard a little girl crying, felt the sting of her humiliation. A name whispered in the back of her memory, elusive, too many years distant for her to discern it now. She tried to coax the name forward, but then a dark-haired man emerged from out of the keep and said it for her.

  “Well, well,” he said, smiling as his gaze swept the group, lighting with interest on the two women. “Welcome to Droghallow, ladies.”

  Isabel’s heart lurched. Of course she knew this place.

  Droghallow.

  How could it be? She stared at the nobleman standing before her in his rich attire, a man of slight frame beneath the lush fabric of his fur-trimmed mantle and dark blue tunic and hose, his leering smile and wicked eyes recalling now the bully she had encountered on this very spot ten years ago. Dominic of Droghallow. What did he want with her?

  But a more alarming—some hundred times more distressing—realization made her turn away from the nefarious earl and look instead to the man he had dispatched to carry out his ignoble deed. The man responsible for the decimation of her traveling party and her subsequent capture.

  The man tethered to her by a short length of leather cord.

  “Griffin?” she asked, stunned, shaking her head. “No. No, I don’t believe it.”

  But looking at him now, Isabel wondered how she had not seen it before. In truth, standing in the stark light of morning, she realized that he had not changed so much at all. Save that the noble boy she recalled and had revered as a hero for nigh on a decade was the selfsame man who had delivered her into captivity for the sake of a few silver pieces. Her heart shattered as she gazed upon him now. The stunning green-gold eyes she remembered so fondly were still that beautiful shade, but colder, flashing at her when she said his name, not with charm and kindness, but with something unreadable. Something cold and dangerous.

  “Griffin of Droghallow,” she breathed, aghast. “It is you.”

  Chapter Four

  “You don’t remember me,” Isabel said, an absurd accusation when she stood shackled to him, a prisoner captured for reasons she dared not imagine.

  He said nothing; under the harsh slash of his brows, his eyes registered only the vaguest confusion, and she thought, perhaps a measure of mild annoyance that he was unable to place her. He cut her loose from him without a word as Dominic descended the steps that led down to the courtyard. Droghallow’s dark lord was smiling as he strode forth to where Isabel stood, cursing herself for feeling so wounded.

  “What’s this, another female heart broken?” Dom asked, chuckling. “My foster brother has quite a way with the fair sex; you’re doubtless not the first chit he’s forgotten.” His assessing gaze traveled over Isabel before sliding to Felice. “Which of you two lovely ladies would be betrothed to Sebastian of Montborne?”

  “She is,” Felice volunteered eagerly, pointing.

  Dom pivoted his head to Isabel, brows smugly arched. “Excellent,” he remarked. “You’re going to make me a very wealthy man, my lady.”

  “I suppose it should not surprise me to find that you are behind this,” Isabel said, refusing to cower under Dom’s arrogance. “Droghallow’s heir always was an ignoble bully, utterly lacking in honor. ’Tis not so far a stretch to think that he would stoop to building his future on bride stealing and ransoms.”

  “Ransom?” Dom chuckled. “I assure you, I haven’t the interest in trifling with something as pedestrian as that. Suffice it to say that for reasons of his own, someone of great influence preferred that your wedding to Montborne did not take place. I am merely the tool by which that feat was accomplished, and I expect to be handsomely rewarded for it.”

  “As do I,” Griffin interjected, his cold gaze narrow and fixed on Dom.

  Isabel was unsure which chilled her more: the unknown fate that awaited her at Dom’s hand, or the mercenary undercurrent in Griffin’s voice. She could sense the air of challenge in him, could feel the tension permeate from where he stood behind her, a lion, poised to kill and ready to strike.

  At Isabel’s side, evidently oblivious to the weight of their present situation, Felice daintily cleared her throat. “My lord,” she said, pleasantly addressing Dom, “as it appears to me that I am here only by a chance—and highly misfortunate—association, perhaps you would be kind enough to release me now and see me safely transported back to London.”

  Dom paused, breaking from Griffin’s steely gaze to regard Felice over his shoulder. She was smiling hopefully, blinking at him with every ounce of charm she possessed. “What is your name, my pretty, prattling little dove?” he asked.

  “Felice, my lord. Lady Felice of Rathburn, grand-niece to William de Longchamp.” She curtsied as if presented before the palace court, her deep, graceful dip somewhat undermined by her wrecked coif and rumpled state of attire.

  Dom seemed not to notice. “Fascinating,” he purred around a throaty chuckle, giving her an appreciative head-to-toe glance. “Your uncle refused to have audience with me on my last trip to London. Terribly rude of him, wouldn’t you say? Especially considering the fact that he was perfectly willing to keep my bribe. I wonder what the pompous dwarf will have to say when he hears that you are now a guest of mine here at Droghallow.”

  Felice’s bright smile faltered. “M-my lord?”

  “Take the ladies to the tower cell and lock them in,” he ordered of his guards. Then he raised his finger in hesitation. “On second thought, split them up. Put the blonde in the chamber adjoining mine.”

  When two men moved forward to seize the women, Griffin placed his hand on Isabel’s arm, possessively holding her back. “My payment, Dom. Where is it?”

  “In time,” Dom replied in an affable tone. “Certain arrangements will have to be made before either of us sees our reward. Have a little patience, brother.”

  But Griffin’s grip remained firm on Isabel; the look h
e gave the guard who would have taken her in hand at that moment was warning enough to make the man retreat a healthy pace. “I’ve delivered you the Montborne bride as promised. You said nothing about waiting for payment.”

  “Yes,” Dom conceded with a sigh. “I suppose you are right. I didn’t. But tell me you would have been willing to undertake this little errand had you known your compensation would not be immediate.”

  “I wouldn’t and you know it,” came the rumbling growl from beside Isabel. “And I’m not about to surrender your prize until I have what is owed me.”

  “Come now, Griffin. You’ve seen the sorry state of Droghallow’s coffers of late. The bulk of my wealth is tied up in London and abroad. I need this boon every bit as much as you do.” He grinned suddenly, his eyes gleaming with malice. “You needn’t worry. I’ll see that you get what’s coming to you. Then you can be gone from Droghallow, as is your plan.”

  Isabel sensed a new tension in the air. Though his grip on her remained solid, Griffin’s body had gone utterly still at her side; indeed, she could scarcely hear him breathing in that moment.

  “What’s the matter, Sergeant? I daresay you seem surprised to hear me say it. Of course I know you’ve been plotting to leave Droghallow. Scrimping and saving every last farthing to buy your way out of here and finally make something of yourself.” The earl’s chuckle was as cruel as any blade. Even Isabel flinched to feel its cutting edge. “Old dreams die hard, don’t they, brother?”

  Isabel ventured a sidelong glance at Griffin. He stood unmoving, his hard gaze narrowed on Dom, nostrils flared, his mouth set in a grim line. If looks alone were capable of slaying a person, then the Earl of Droghallow would surely have been struck dead in that moment, his black heart ripped wide open by the anger burning in Griffin’s eyes. But Griffin made no move to act on the violence that was so apparent in his gaze, and Isabel knew that he was far more dangerous in his calm than he would have been had he raged and bellowed and beat Dom into submission.

  The earl must have come to the same conclusion, for all at once he adopted a less smug expression, his voice taking on a friendly, if somewhat placating tone. “My apologies for this little inconvenience, Griffin. I should like to make it up to you if I can. Perhaps you would be willing to accept a token of my good faith? Something to soothe your churlish mood?” He grinned, nodding in Isabel’s direction. “She’s passably attractive after all, and spirited, in a simmering sort of way. I wager she’ll make entertaining enough bed sport.” He pursed his lips and gave a careless shrug. “God knows, she will have no need of her virtue where she is going.”

  Isabel’s breath caught in her throat. At her side, Griffin swore an oath, but to her horror, he finally released his grip on her arm when Dom motioned again for the guards to take the women to the keep. Tears pricked her eyes as she was led away, but she refused to let them fall. She would give neither of them the satisfaction of seeing her break. Instead, she ground her heels into the hard-packed earth of the bailey, pulling against the guard’s hold, but her resistance was to no avail. She and Felice were walked up the steps none too gently and pushed into the entryway to the castle. Dom followed close at their heels.

  “Think on it, Griff,” he said, pausing in the tower doorway to toss the jovial offer over his shoulder. “She’s yours for the night if you want her. You need only say the word.”

  Griffin stared at the dark, yawning mouth of Droghallow’s tower keep for some long moments after Dom and his two prisoners had disappeared within, unable to purge the image of the lady’s face when she heard Dom’s plans for her. The look of fear in her eyes, her tiny gasp, her obvious struggle to maintain her dignity in light of this terrible circumstance. All of it haunted him.

  That she seemed to know him—that she would call him by name, seemingly hurt that he did not recall her—was particularly niggling. Had he known her at one time? He did not think he could have. She had been cloistered for most of her life, and even had she not, Griff felt certain he would have never forgotten an exquisite beauty like her.

  He stood there in the bailey, trying to reconcile in his mind what he had become this day. A kidnapper, certainly; bride stealing, the most cowardly form. Bad enough that an innocent be torn from her sheltered life and left to wait for ransom in some dank prison cell, but what Dom had suggested for the Montborne bride was something verily more nefarious.

  Someone of great influence wanted her out of the way, he had said.

  For what purposes, Griff did not know. But there was no reason to guess at who that influential someone was: Prince John, the king’s treacherous younger brother. Dom had been currying the prince’s favor in secret for some time now, feigning allegiance to King Richard so long as Droghallow’s bribes won him the lands and titles he wanted, yet making it clear to John that given proper incentive, the prince would have a certain ally in him. This latest task was clearly a further test of that alliance. Griff could only imagine what Dom stood to gain for the misdeed.

  And he was not fool enough to believe that his foster brother intended to surrender any of his pending boon to him—now or at a later date.

  Dom was toying with him somehow, and Griff had little tolerance left for his continual games. Not that he’d ever had much. For too long he had banked his scorn of the arrogant lord, carrying out his orders and tempering his own disapproval because he pitied the weak-hearted, sickly boy Dom had been and he understood the bitter man he had become. Indeed, Griffin reflected for what had not been the first time, he may well have been to blame for some of Dom’s viperous nature. Dominic had long resented Griffin’s presence at Droghallow—and made no secret of the fact that he would have preferred him gone, though surely no more than Griffin himself had come to want that very thing.

  But to leave would have been to break a vow, a promise made to Dom’s father, Robert, the old earl. Sir Robert was a hard man and a strict lord, but Griffin had respected him as he would his own sire. If not for him and the gentle-hearted Lady Alys, Griff would have had nothing at all in this life. He would likely have been dead if not for the benevolence of the noble couple who took him into their home when his own kin had deserted him to the charity of strangers.

  Sir Robert loved his son, but Dominic was a source of frequent strife and constant concern. Though he tried to school his sole heir in the ways of responsibility and honor, on many occasions, Droghallow’s earl expressed his fears to Griffin that Dominic might never be fit to rule his demesne. He had stunned Griffin the day he made him swear to stay on after he was gone. Griff’s assurances that Sir Robert would have a good many years before that was an issue that seemed to fall on deaf ears. In an uncustomarily bleak mood, the earl made him vow then and there to look after his interests and see that Dom did not make a mockery of his good name.

  That pledge, spoken before Griffin could really know what he would be giving up—and put to the test when Sir Robert died later that year—had kept Griffin’s feet rooted firmly in Droghallow’s soil. It had kept him from pursuing his own dreams, from seeking answers to questions that had plagued him his entire life. Who was he? Where did he come from? Where did he belong?

  Griffin did not recall the precise moment that he finally decided it was time to find out. All he knew was that one day he was staring at a pot full of hard-earned silver—more than two years’ wages—and he suddenly knew why he was saving it. He was leaving Droghallow. He would collect enough money to afford him a decent start somewhere else and then he would go. This last task for Dom, odious as it was, would have ensured the commencement of that new life. And now, despite Dom’s assurances, Griff was certain that inside the castle his foster brother was gleefully maneuvering a way to cheat him out of the chance at freedom he so desired.

  Incensed that he had trusted Dom’s word in the first place, Griff ground out an oath and shouted for one of Droghallow’s squires to stable the horses stolen from the caravan. It took no coaxing at all for him to join Odo and the other men at the village tave
rn, where he proceeded for the next few hours to drink himself into a wicked black haze.

  He guessed it to be somewhere around midnight when he finally decided he’d had enough. He was drunk, but he was not about to let Dom’s present manipulation go unmet. Downing the dregs of his ale, he pushed himself away from the table and stalked across the tavern’s earthen floor.

  “Something wrong, Griff?” Odo called from around the neck of a serving wench who had seated herself in his lap. “Where ye goin’?”

  “To collect on what’s owed me,” he replied, and let the door slam behind him.

  Chapter Five

  The night was half expired before exhaustion finally claimed Isabel, but despite her fatigue, she slept restlessly, jolted awake in stark fear by every bump and movement that sounded in the corridor beyond her locked chamber door. Every voice that echoed through the tower keep made her sit bolt upright on the cell’s crude bed, listening, waiting in dread for the nightmare of this new existence to truly begin.

  Whatever fate Dom had in store for her, whatever reason he had for ordering her kidnapped—and for whom—Isabel was certain of one thing: her life now was as good as forfeit. And of all the people in this world, Griffin had been the man who delivered her here. It was too horrible to contemplate, too terrifyingly real to acknowledge.

  She heard the heavy fall of footsteps nearing the other side of her door and rose up off the thin, down-filled mattress of the bed. The guard Dominic had posted outside hailed the person who approached with a chuckle and a friendly greeting.

  “Come to take Dom up on his offer of the wench, have ye?” he asked knowingly. “Can’t says I would’ve turned it down either.”

  “Shut up and open the door,” the visitor ordered in a gruff drawl as he approached, his voice heavy and slurred with drink.