by Julia Latham
“You do not, mistress,” he said, his tone gently chiding.
She could not stop her blush, remembering that she’d gaped at his near nudity when he’d been washing.
She backed toward the door, making her voice sound pleading. “Do not ask for my help again, my lord. I am…bound to this place; it is my home.”
She turned her back, ignoring him as he kept saying, “But mistress, please talk to me.”
Once she’d slid his supplies within his reach, she left, closing and locking the door behind her. Her fingers ached every time she had to use that stubborn key. She marched up the stairs, then quietly crept back down to hear how he behaved after her rejection. Would he shout his frustration? Throw the tray at the wall? Was his temper ungovernable?
But he did none of those things. There was only the sound of movement. What was he doing?
At the cell door, she crouched, glad she was wearing a hat over her blond hair. Slowly she raised herself just enough to peer through the bars of the window grill. To her surprise, she found him moving about the cell, acting as if he had a sword in his hand, thrusting, parrying, jumping over the invisible blade of an imaginary opponent. His face was a mask of angry concentration, as if he were using the movement of his body to overcome his frustration.
And he could move his body, she thought, feeling a little weakness deep in her stomach as she remembered the ripple of muscles down his abdomen. He had worked hard to have the skills a lord needed to train and lead men, and she could only admire him for that. He could have just accepted his inheritance as his rightful due, spent his money on a good life, but he’d wanted his men to know that he deserved it.
Another day passed, and Diana began to brace herself each time she entered the dungeon. Bannaster’s kindness and patience were only making her feel more and more guilty—and frustrated. Since he’d found no way to escape, she was his only hope. He would use his charm—and on most women, it would be successful. She could not understand how this was the same man who’d locked a woman in a tower while he went to secure permission to marry her.
Yet…was she seeing the true Viscount Bannaster? He was obviously playing a part to sway her. She would have to learn to see beneath the act, to watch for kernels of fact amidst the pleasant persuasion of his words.
Oh, how had she gotten into this mess?
By nightfall, Bannaster’s men had returned from another fruitless search for him. They were worried for his safety, Cicely alternated between angry frustration and bitter self-pity, and Diana felt trapped.
It would have to be this morn, Tom thought with determination. He awoke with the bells, knowing that up in the world, everyone would be at mass. If the maidservant followed her usual practice, she would bring him food afterward, when the rest of the castle had begun their daily work.
Tom paced, listening to the chain rattle behind him, his ankle suffused with a dull ache. He felt like an animal, trapped, desperate for light and fresh air. Though this was only the morning of his third day here, he almost didn’t remember what the sky looked like, what freedom felt like. He worked endlessly on the shackle, and he was making some progress denting the hinge, but not fast enough. His entire world had narrowed until it contained four rock walls—and the woman.
He didn’t even know her name, he thought with bitter amusement. Yet she filled his thoughts, when he wasn’t thinking about a way to escape. He could picture how she moved, confident yet demure, so controlled. Her very nature made him imagine her in bed. Was she hiding a fiery passion? Did those eyes she kept downcast smolder?
With a groan, he ran his hands through his hair and kept pacing. Last night, he had washed and changed into fresh clothing, but part of him didn’t know why. He would run out of clean garments soon. Yet he couldn’t bear to look like the animal he was imagining himself becoming.
He heard the echo of a door open and close, and he tensed. He had given up even the thought of the woman’s master coming to see him. Nay, ’twould be her again, taking care of him with more consideration than a prisoner usually deserved.
But her kindness—her desirability—did not sway him. He had a surprise planned for her. He had spent the last two days trying to persuade her to his side with every ounce of charm he possessed. He had spoken of his past to ensnare her sympathy, hoping she could not sleep at night thinking about him alone in the dank, cold dungeon.
But her behavior toward him had changed not a whit. So it was time for more drastic measures.
He was waiting for her in the perfect spot, the chain arranged just so, when the door creaked open.
A simple veil, dotted with melting snowflakes, hid more of her hair than was normal, and once again he felt a flutter of curiosity. Had he seen her before? She was not a woman whose beauty would make her stand out, but there was a quiet confidence to her that was rare in most of the women he knew—and doubly rare in a servant, except for those who held high positions within a household. Was she a lady’s maid to a noblewoman?
She brought her usual supplies, and as she set them down near the door, she eyed him, for he knew his silence must surely confuse her.
When she bent to push the tray toward him, he moved swiftly, catching her wrist. In that frozen moment, her wide eyes met his.
Wearing a fierce grin, he said, “You should have paid attention to the chain.”
And then he yanked, and she stumbled into his arms as the wooden tray flipped upside down. Her back was against his front, his arms around her. She was so warm and he was always so cold. Before he could even search for the keys at her waist, she drove her elbow into his gut. When he hunched in painful response, still bent over her body, she caught him by the hair and flipped him over her shoulder. He landed hard on his back on the rock floor in time to see her flee to the safety of the door.
Rolling over and coming up on his hands and knees, the chain clanking, he knew he gaped at her. His breath came hard, his scalp and his stomach ached. But as he rose to his feet, he studied her with a new intensity.
“You have had a man’s training,” he said with conviction, feeling stunned.
She shook her head fiercely. “I reacted with instinct to your attack.”
“Nay, you’re lying.”
They stared at each other, he trying to determine the truth, she obviously attempting to show nothing with her expression. But she seemed uneasy, as if her behavior had revealed too much. He was getting closer to the truth, he thought with eager triumph.
“Mistress Diana!” came a woman’s urgent voice from the corridor outside his cell.
Tom saw the shock on the maidservant’s face only a second before she fled the cell and shut the door, leaving most of the supplies out of his reach.
Diana. She had seemed so dismayed that he would hear her name. And in that instant, something in his brain clicked into place as he thought of her refined speech, her vague references to her supposed master, and the purposelessness of his capture. Fury erupted in him.
He shouted, “Diana Winslow?”
Sister to the baron—to Cicely, the woman he’d come to court?
Chapter 5
When Diana slammed the cell door shut, she found Mary standing at the bottom of the stairs, her face a mask of surprise and dismay.
They both heard Bannaster shout, “Diana Winslow?” For that brief moment, he had not bothered to mask his anger.
Diana winced. She wasn’t surprised he had deduced her identity so quickly. He was no fool.
Mary covered her cheeks with both hands, eyes widening in horror. “Ye hadn’t told him your name?”
Putting a finger to her lips, Diana leaned back against the frozen wall as she shook her head.
Mary came closer and whispered, “But I only said your Christian name, milady!”
“And apparently, ’twas enough for an intelligent man,” Diana said softly, glad that Mary had brought a lantern, because she’d left hers hung inside the cell. “Come, we will leave and let him suffer the punishment of se
eing the comforts that he cannot reach.”
“Punishment?” Mary echoed.
“His meals had become too much of a routine, and I grew lax. He misled me about the length of the chain and grabbed me to wrest away the keys.”
Mary stopped on the stairs to touch Diana’s arm. “You are unharmed?”
“I fought back and escaped, betraying my skill. I should have been more subtle, but my body just…reacted to the threat.” It wasn’t just the threat of defeat either, Diana mused, facing the fact that for a single moment, while his arms and his body had enfolded hers, she had not cared what they were to each other, had only felt the heat and strength of him. God above, what sort of sins kept occupying her mind?
“And then I said your name,” the maid continued, closing her eyes on a wince.
“’Twas not your fault,” Diana assured her.
Before they reached the door to the outside, Mary caught her sleeve. “Milady, I came for a reason. I should have waited until ye’d left the cell, but I panicked. Bannaster’s men are movin’ through the inner ward again, talkin’ to our people. I didn’t want them to see you come from behind the tower.”
Diana nodded. “I am grateful for the warning.”
“Ye don’t think they…suspect somethin’?”
“I think they’re just desperate.”
“And I have made things worse,” the maidservant said, glancing over her shoulder to the dungeon below.
“My behavior had already made Bannaster suspicious. He might have drawn his own conclusions soon enough.”
Mary bit her lip but said nothing as Diana pushed open the door. The winter wind caught it, but she held it firmly, glancing out to see no one.
But when they emerged from behind the stables and headed for the lady’s garden, following the path made earlier in the snow, they heard a man’s voice call, “Mistress Diana!”
Diana gave Mary a warning frown, smoothed the stressful lines from her face, and turned to give the soldier a pleasant smile. “A good morn to you, Talbot.”
“It would be, if I did not have to keep bothering your household.”
He looked behind them as if he were curious about where they’d been, but knew it was not his place to ask. She felt a cold shiver move through her. If it were discovered that she had imprisoned a viscount, she would have to answer to the king himself.
Of course, Bannaster had imprisoned an earl’s daughter, Diana thought bitterly. He had not suffered much in the way of punishment—unless one counted being unable to find a proper, subservient wife.
“I’m keeping you out in the cold,” Talbot continued contritely. But his gaze was sharp. “Why do you not wear a cloak?”
Before Diana could respond, Mary said, “My mistress be different from other women, sir. Did ye not know that she trains in weapons side by side with our men? The cold does not harm such a strong woman.”
Diana wanted to roll her eyes, but it seemed that Mary had succeeded in distracting Talbot, for his wary eyes widened in surprise.
“What is this, mistress?” he asked with amused disbelief. “Your maid speaks true?”
“My father indulged my love of all things military. I am no match for a soldier such as yourself, of course,” she added, hoping flattery would distract him.
“But ye should see her with a dagger,” Mary said with fierce pride.
“That I would like to see,” Talbot said.
Unclenching her jaw, Diana said, “Perhaps when the weather eases, sir. But tell me, how goes your search for Viscount Bannaster?”
His amusement faded, and his sober worry only added to the unease that continuously roiled in Diana’s belly since she’d taken Bannaster hostage.
“Not good, mistress. We have heard not a clue of his whereabouts. I have sent one of my men back toward London, just in case he returned that way, but I do not believe it of him. He would never simply leave us with no explanation. Nay, he has definitely met with foul play. But he is alive somewhere,” Talbot murmured, as if convincing himself.
“Of course he is,” Diana said firmly. “Who would harm a viscount? His very title protects him.”
“Only in some ways, mistress. But to many, that title makes him a target.”
“To an anxious heir, perhaps. And who is that?”
“A distant cousin, mistress, who resides in France and has no wish for the title. He wants Lord Bannaster to have a son almost as much as my lord does.”
Diana forced herself to smile. “Now come inside out of the cold, Talbot. At least we can give you that comfort before you continue your search.”
“I have seen that you invite the villagers to enjoy the comforts of Kirkby Keep.”
As they walked up the stairs to the doors leading to the great hall, Diana glanced at the soldier. “They are my people,” she said, wondering what he implied.
“I have been to the village, mistress, and although it is well cared for, it has obviously seen better times.”
When she opened her mouth, he continued before she could speak.
“And it is not simply because of the winter season. Nay, it is obvious that you have not had the means. Your walls are breached. I can see wild grass beneath the snow on fields that should have been planted this season past.”
Diana felt embarrassed, even though their troubles were not her fault. She didn’t know how to answer him.
“Does not your brother see to his property?”
There was kindness in his bearded face, and it stabbed her with guilt and remorse for things other than the state of the castle and its countryside.
“My brother has much property, Talbot,” she said, knowing her voice sounded cool. “He does the best he can.” For the property that matters to him, she thought with bitterness. Keeping Diana from his sight was not enough; did her brother hate her so much for having the favor of their father? Or was he simply making sure that she could not feel at home here, because of the neglect her presence brought these people?
Perhaps she was misjudging him, and he was having more difficulties than he’d ever let on.
She had to force her mind from her brother. She had Talbot to distract—and later, notes to write on what she’d learned about Bannaster.
Gathering in his anger and submerging it, Tom sat down on the edge of his pallet and drew a blanket about his shoulders. His mind whirled in several directions, wondering at her ability to overcome him physically, but mostly focusing on her name.
Diana.
Was it truly Diana Winslow?
When he’d been captured in Richmond, he had only been a half-day’s journey from Kirkby Keep, a remote manor. How many other Dianas of noble descent could there be?
Perhaps the baron had taken him hostage so that he could not court the man’s sister. But Tom had been in London only weeks before, and Winslow had been there. It would have been easier for the man to confront him in London.
Tom leaned his head back against the wall, letting the cold rock cool his fevered brain. Nay, his capture had happened just after he’d sent word to Kirkby Keep to expect his arrival. His reputation could well have spread this far north. He’d done foolish things trying to help his king, perhaps cost himself the king’s respect.
Tom had hoped for a fresh start with Cicely, but she might prefer spinsterhood over marriage to him. His plans were crumbling around him, all because of the past, the beginning of which had been out of his control.
But why was Cicely’s sister seeing to his care, rather than a servant? Of course, Diana was well capable of defending herself against him, unlike most women.
The last chunks of coal were burning in the brazier, and he looked longingly at the sack Diana had left out of reach. He had upset her; he only hoped he wouldn’t freeze before she finally came to him again, before he could have answers.
There was one way he’d found to keep warm, to ease this frustration that never went away. He picked up a rock and began to bang on the hinge of the shackle.
By sup
per many hours later, when his arm ached, sweat ran in his eyes, and his ankle was freshly bleeding, the old hinge broke. Triumph burned through him.
The cell was dark. Diana winced as she hurried along the dungeon corridor. Setting the lantern down on the small table, she carefully held Bannaster’s supper tray propped against her hip as she unlocked the cell door. As the door swung wide, she picked up the lantern and held it aloft.
“Bannaster?”
In the gloom, she saw him unfold his long frame from the pallet and shield his eyes. The chain rattled as he stood. It was dreadfully cold in here, and her breath misted before her. She stared at his supplies still resting undisturbed right next to the door, and the tray of food upended, its contents scattered across the earth floor out of his reach.
She faced him again, chin lifted.
“Aye,” he said quietly, “I know the lack of heat and light was my doing.”
“I cannot fault you for trying to escape,” she answered. “I would have done the same.”
“I know you would have.” He looked down her body in an appraising way. “Your gown conceals an unusual strength.”
She felt a momentary pride, as if at last a man appreciated what she’d made of herself, how hard she’d worked. But she quickly realized that he was only looking for weaknesses he could exploit. “Women are strong, my lord,” she said coldly. “Ask the villagers who work in the fields. Ask the woman who’s just given birth.”
“Do not try to tell me that you are not a special woman…Diana.”
Hearing her name on his lips chilled her, as if he were one step closer to discovering every way they were connected. “That is my name.”
“Diana Winslow?”
She did not answer, only took the sack of coal and torches from the floor and pushed them toward him. He made no move to retrieve the items, as if he could sense how skittish she was and wanted to placate her.
“There is no need to deny your identity,” he said.
The fact that he showed no anger made her even more cautious.
