The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “Look there.” Garreth nodded to the room as the miller flamed an oil lamp, suspended in an iron ring from a wall bracket.

  She followed his gaze to discover large, upright frames congesting the floor space, each filled with a length of material stretched on tenter hooks. With a start Ailénor realized ‘twas not a grist mill in which they stood, but a fulling mill for the finishing of wool cloth.

  The miller’s voice netted back Ailénor’s attention. He addressed Garreth while pointing to the rafters above. She lifted her gaze to match theirs. Above, planking overlaid a wide portion of the cross beams, creating a loft over the central part of the room, evidently intended for storage.

  Without further comment, the miller disappeared into the ebony depths of the room and returned with a long, narrow ladder. Bracing it in place against the rafters, he tested it, then scaled it straight up with the agility of a squirrel.

  Ailénor watched, her mouth sagging open.

  “We will pass the night in the loft,” Garreth apprised, bending to her ear.

  Ailénor’s lashes flew wide, and she swiveled to face him. “Up there?” The second word came out several notes higher than the first.

  He tipped his head in affirmation. “‘Tis a fine place to conceal ourselves from the scoundrels who dog us.”

  A shaft of fear passed through her. “Surely you do not believe they follow us still?”

  Garreth’s gaze held hers, calm but cautioning. “For whatever reasons they abducted you, ‘twas with purpose and likely for profit. They are not the sort of men to be easily discouraged.”

  Ailénor’s mouth went dry, knowing the truth of his words and recalling Wimund’s mention of a promised treasure. She glanced again to the ladder, then to the boards creaking overhead with the miller’s weight. Her stomach solidified in a rock-solid knot. After the trying events of the last two days, she held no wish to undertake yet another ordeal, especially not one involving heights. But neither did she wish to encounter Rhiannon’s hired men ever again.

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth as her gaze traveled to the ladder. “Even should we hide in the loft, what of the miller and his family? Can we trust them to keep silent as to our whereabouts?”

  Garreth nodded thoughtfully. “I believe so. They seem good, honest people. In any case, I have compensated them amply for their troubles, and they, in turn, have agreed to shelter us and keep watch for our Irish hounds.”

  “But what if our ‘hounds’ tempt them with even greater riches?”

  Garreth brought his eyes to her, their deep brown now black as midnight as they shone in the light. “The men who pursue us are foreign to these shores and naturally fall suspect to the villagers here. Like most Saxons, the miller and his wife prefer to succor their own kindred before any outsider of questionable ilk.”

  “But, Garreth, I, too, am for — ”

  He laid a finger to her lips. The warmth of his touch radiated through her and she felt her breasts tighten.

  “It matters not, sweet Ailénor. You are in my care. In truth, I have met the couple once before, and they know I am a member of the royal court. Since we are together, they consider us both under the grace and protection of the king.”

  Garreth withdrew his finger. Turning his hand, he lightly brushed Ailénor’s cheek with the back of his knuckles and smiled. Her pulse fluttered erratically. Before she could recover herself, the miller descended the ladder, turned, and urged them to climb aloft.

  Ailénor glanced to the ladder, then skimmed its length to the platform above. Her pulse fluttered again, but this time the reaction had naught to do with the warm stirrings of the moment before. To the contrary, she felt a sharp chill needle into her bones.

  Ailénor shored up her nerve and stiffened her resolve, knowing what she must do. But as she continued to mark the height, her spirit flagged miserably. She shrank back and shook her head.

  “Oh, Garreth, I cannot do this. Truly, I cannot.”

  Garreth’s breath stilled in his chest as Ailénor transferred her gaze to him. Her normally blue eyes were now huge and dark and filled with dread, all the more so set against her waxen features. His heart tightened. Would that he could spare her this trial. But for her own safety, he could not.

  “As I recall, you managed quite admirably in the pear tree,” he said gently, gathering her to him and bestowing his most captivating smile.

  She started to counter his words, but he stayed her. “Trust me in this, Ailénor. I shall climb with you every step, every rung of the way. I’ll not let you fall. Upon my sacred vow. Trust me.”

  Their gazes mingled and held as she absorbed his words and deliberated them in the depths of her eyes. Beneath his fingers, he felt the tension locked in her spine. But suddenly her trepidation seemed to subside, like the tide returning to the sea. Her body softened, and she relaxed against him, ceding with a small nod.

  “Come,” he prompted, his voice calm and steady and full of assurance.

  Guiding her to the ladder, he encouraged her to mount the first few crosspieces. With that accomplished, he gave over the rush lamp to the miller and joined her, stepping onto the rung directly below the one she stood upon. As he gripped hold of the sides of the ladder, the length of his body covered hers.

  “Do not look down,” he said at her ear, his head even with hers. “I am here. I’ll not let you fall.

  Warmth rippled through Ailénor as Garreth’s breath grazed the shell of her ear and skimmed along the edges of her senses. Together they began their ascent, with Ailénor first progressing a rung, then Garreth. The feel and movement of his body against hers distracted her thoroughly. Unmindful, she stepped into the folds of her gown and trammeled her foot.

  Ailénor attempted to kick away the material with a swat of her toe, but to no avail. The cloth hung wet and heavy. When she attempted to position her foot on the next crosspiece, she succeeded only in further entangling her foot.

  Carefully, Ailénor loosed the grip of her left hand, reached down, and yanked the fabric free. This achieved, she caught her skirt up above her ankles, enough to execute the next step upward. Garreth moved with her, their bodies continuing to touch and brush and rub against one another.

  Ailénor paused and fortified herself with a deep breath. Painstakingly she repeated the process. Shifting her weight, she switched the grip of her hands and dragged up the right side of her gown. Unavoidably, she rubbed against Garreth once more as she secured her foothold on the next rung and began to mount.

  Garreth suddenly caught her hip with a hand and stayed her movements. “Ailénor.” he rasped, his voice oddly tight. “Allow me.”

  Shockingly, Garreth gathered up her skirt and draped its length over the crook of his arm, raising Ailénor’s gown to a scandalous height. She gasped aloud.

  At Ailénor’s intake of breath, Garreth remembered the miller below, standing silently at the foot of the ladder.

  “I do not think he can see,” he assured. “My body blankets yours and obstructs his view.”

  Ailénor did not respond, her lashes fluttering down to her cheeks. Her color appeared heightened in the dim light.

  “Do you have a better solution?” He inclined his head.

  “Non.” Author moistened her lips. “But ‘twas not he who concerned me.”

  Garreth chuckled at her admission, but then realized, where he gripped the rail, his forearm, wrist, and the back of his thumb pressed intimately against her naked flesh. The realization sent a rush of heat straight to his loins.

  He steeled himself. With all Ailénor’s moving and shifting against him, she had already aroused him to a most uncomfortable state. If she continued to do so much longer, he would surely embarrass them both with his bold and undisguisable need.

  His thoughts flickered back to their first encounter in the orchard of Rouen. Truly the maid excelled at torturing him in the most singular of ways.

  Garreth bent his thoughts back to their present task. Haltering his burgeonin
g impulses, he coaxed, encouraged, and talked Ailénor up the remainder of the ladder with as much speediness as he dared.

  Gaining the top, Ailénor stilled. The rails of the ladder did not extend much above the platform itself.

  “‘Tis all right,” Garreth assured. “I’ll hand you up.” He moved his hand to her waist, spreading his fingers to support her by the side and ribs and to better steady her.

  Ailénor, in turn, placed her hands flat on the platform and, after a small pause, mounted the next two rungs with decided caution. Her upward advance caused Garreth’s hand to slip from the curve of her waist to the roundness of her hips. As Ailénor drew up her knee and placed it on the platform, Garreth found himself staring at her curvaceous backside and at his fingers where they molded that lovely creation. He took a swallow.

  “Garreth. The boards . Will they shift?” She twisted to glance back at him over her shoulder, apprehension threading her voice.

  Garreth snapped his gaze away from the delectable vision she so innocently presented him and hauled his thoughts back into line. He cleared his throat, aware of the state of his anatomy below his belt that currently ignored all mental commands. He cleared his voice again.

  “The planks are nailed fast, according to the miller. Do not be concerned.”

  The lines smoothed from Ailénor’s forehead. Heedless of the placement of his hand, she returned her attention to the loft and crawled forward, moving away from the edge and leaving Garreth with his hand upraised, cupping thin air.

  Garreth released a ragged breath as he mounted the last of the rungs. Composing himself, he joined Ailénor and crouched beside her.

  “You were very brave.” He smiled. “Are you all right?”

  He yearned to touch her but restrained himself with appreciable effort. Oblivious to his condition, Ailénor leaned forward and laid her hand upon his. Flesh fired flesh.

  “Thanks to you, I am more than all right.” Her eyes shone with appreciation. She gave a squeeze to his hand, then withdrew her fingers. They trailed away in a butterfly-light caress.

  Garreth’s breath wedged in his throat, and his loins ached in response. His smile faltered. Lifting it back into place, he rose and compelled his attention to their night’s lodging.

  Large chests occupied the loft, some stacked atop others. Two had been pulled over and opened. Next to them, the miller had fashioned a makeshift pallet.

  Stepping toward them, Garreth found the chest to be packed with wool cloth. This did not surprise him. ‘Twas common for millers to receive a portion of the goods they processed in exchange for their services.

  Examining the bed, he found it to be fashioned of dense, felted fabric, folded many times over into a thick padding. This was overlaid with softer, milled cloth, natural in color, having yet to be dyed. Additional fabric layered the top.

  “‘Twould seem the miller has prepared a fine pallet.” Garreth called over to Ailénor, avoiding comment on there being a single pallet to share. He debated whether to lay out a second.

  A feminine voice sounded from below, dispersing his thoughts. Crossing to the brink of the loft, Garreth looked down.

  “‘Tis the miller’s wife,” he informed Ailénor, then saw she held her breath at his nearness to the edge of the boarding. He stepped back. “She has brought us food and drink.

  Make yourself comfortable. I shall go down for them and return in a moment. I need to have a few more words with the couple about those ‘hounds’ who track us.” He flashed her a grin.

  As he started to descend the ladder, the woman’s voice sounded again from below. Garreth paused and looked back at Ailénor.

  “She says to toss down your wet clothes. She will dry them in the cottage overnight by the hearth. There are ample lengths of wool cloth in the chests. She says to use what you need. They will serve as fine blankets.”

  Ailénor watched the top of Garreth’s dark head disappear beyond the edge of the floorboards. She waited several minutes, then gingerly crawled forward and peeked over the planking. The miller’s wife waited directly below. Nearby, cloaked part in shadow, part in light, Garreth stood speaking with her husband.

  Seeing Ailénor, the woman motioned for her to undress and drop down her garments. Ailénor gave a nod of understanding and backed from the edge of the loft. She rose to her feet and, with a wobble in her step, went to the pallet and open chests.

  She quivered, of a sudden, but whether ‘twas from the cold, the climb, simple fatigue, or the thought of Garreth returning too soon and discovering her stark naked, she could not say.

  Ailénor worked apace. She removed her ruined slippers, then peeled away her sodden gown, exposing pebbly gooseflesh, damp and chill, the tips of her breasts beaded tight. Quickly she snatched an ell of cloth from the chest and wrapped it about her. Balling the soggy gown, she crossed the flooring gingerly, then knelt down and eased toward the edge.

  She peered below. The distance sent an instant shiver of fear sleeting down her spine. The miller’s wife glanced up just then and gestured for her to drop the gown. Ailénor complied, pushing the wad of fabric to the end of the boards and shoving it over. Several seconds later the dull slap of wet cloth sounded on the wood floor.

  Ailénor scooted back, then returned to the pallet. Catching up another length of cloth from the chest, she sat upon the bedding and toweled her hair. Readjusting the fabric that enwrapped her, she slipped between the layers of wool covers. Though the simple pallet could not compare to her fine eiderdown mattress at Héricourt, it seemed every bit as heavenly this night. She rolled to her side and tucked up her feet. They were as ice.

  Curling deeper into a ball, she lay listening to the sounds of the mill — the creaks and groans, the steady drum of the rain on the thatching overhead. The murmur of voices drifted from below, while in the distance thunder rumbled as it moved away.

  Ailénor’s lids grew heavy as she waited for Garreth, a bone-deep exhaustion claiming her. Her lashes slid downward, and she sank into a velvet sleep, her last thoughts of Garreth, her gallant champion.

  »«

  Garreth gained the top of the ladder and hefted the earthen pitcher he carried onto the planking. Extracting a small sack from his tunic, he set it beside the pitcher and finished his climb.

  “We have food and ale aplenty,” he said with cheer, skimming a glance at Ailénor’s back as he caught up the items and strode toward the pallet where she lay.

  Kneeling beside her, he unknotted the sack and withdrew a wooden cup, a meat pasty, a wedge of cheese, an apple, and a pear. He also retrieved a flint and steel and set them out. Again Garreth reached into his tunic.

  “And, for my lady’s pleasure, a small luxury . . .”

  He produced a slim, tallow-dipped candle fitted on a small spiked stand. The item brought no response from Ailénor. He pondered the back of her head and wondered whether she listened. Flaming the candle and filling the cup with ale, he moved to the other side of the pallet and gazed down on her.

  His lips curved as he discovered her fast asleep, her head propped on her arm and her pale, delicate features profiled against her dark red tangle of hair. He felt another throb in his loins. Lord, but she was ravishing.

  He absorbed the sight of her a moment longer, before setting aside the candle and cup and returning to the ladder. Drawing it up, he lay it aside on the floorboards. No sooner had he finished the task than the miller’s wife called to him from below. She wanted his clothes.

  Garreth darted a glance at Ailénor. She appeared to sleep soundly enough. He feared shocking her maidenly innocence clear to the core should she awaken at an inopportune moment.

  Plucking a wool cloth from the open chest, he retreated into the shadows and began to slough off his wet, clingy garments. Cloaking his lower torso, he bundled his wet clothes and headed back toward the edge of the loft. Signaling the miller’s wife, he tossed them down, followed by a wave of thanks.

  With that, the couple bade him good night. They extingui
shed the oil lamp and departed, leaving him in darkness, save for the light of the solitary candle.

  As their footsteps faded below, Garreth moved to Ailénor’s side. He stood in pensive silence, gazing on her elegant features in the flickering light. She slept deeply now and, to his eyes, peacefully. Only the dark smudges beneath her lashes betrayed her exhaustion and hinted of the trials she had endured these last two days.

  Garreth lowered himself to the pallet. Spying the cup of ale, he took it up and sipped it thoughtfully as he continued to watch Ailénor and contemplate the tumultuous events they had just survived.

  Truly, there were moments this day he’d questioned whether he could gain the advantage before Ailénor came to harm. Such powerlessness in the face of Ailénor’s peril had ignited a white-hot anger in him. And a dread — nay, a fear staggering and soul-devouring — that she might be defiled before he could . . .

  Garreth extinguished the thought, unable, even now, to face the possibility. He allowed his thoughts to drift back to their last morning in Rouen. What had befallen Ailénor in the ducal garden? How did she come to be on the ship?

  And what dire fate had awaited her in Ireland?

  He brushed back Ailénor’s hair from her temple. By God’s providence, their paths continued to entwine. ‘Twas that providence that saw them both upon the same ship out of Rouen and safely to this mill tonight. He deemed it a favorable portent, — a divine blessing — not only for the past and present hours, but also for the future days he and Ailénor would share.

  Danger still shadowed them, Garreth knew. On the morrow he would conduct Ailénor to the most well-fortified burh in all of England — the royal capital of Winchester.

  Draining the cup, he set it aside, slipped beneath the covers, and blew out the candle. Stretching alongside but just behind Ailénor, he conformed his length to the curve of hers and draped his arm over her waist.

  Their bodies quickly warmed one another. Ailénor stirred and turned over, then nestled against his chest. A gladsome warmth spread through Garreth’s heart. He lay his head atop hers.