Authors: Diana J. Cosby

His Captive (14 page)

BOOK: His Captive

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“You came.”

Her shaky whisper dragged his guilt deeper. Intent on keeping distance between, he’d ignored her servant’s concerns. By her appearance, he should have checked on her from the first report, or asked one of his brothers to do so in his stead. But jealous, he’d wanted no one else in attendance of Nichola but his servant.

His guilt mounted higher until it stank like a dung heap. However she’d hurt him, she didn’t deserve to waste away. “What in God’s name are you doing to yourself?”

“I asked to see you . . . each day,” she said, her voice but a whisper. “You never came.”

He closed the door. “It is best I keep away.”

Did he hate her? Was that why he’d abandoned her? Or was it because she was his prisoner, a fact at odds with him wanting her?

“Why?” Nichola winced at the tremor in her voice, but was unable to hide it. She’d longed for this moment for days, and she had every intention of being strong. But now that he was here, all she could do was feast her eyes on him and wish they’d met under different circumstances. But she couldn’t allow him to see how his presence affected her. How she ached with wanting him.

’Twas the days locked inside this room that heightened her awareness of him. Though beautifully adorned and steeped with enchanting qualities, this chamber was a prison.

“If only for a short while, I would like to go outside. Please,” she added, desperation forcing her pride to take yet another blow by having to beg.

“So you can try and escape?”

A part of her died at his question. Aching, she summoned the courage to speak. “As if locked within these walls I could escape, much less survive in the forest on my own if I did? Or have you forgotten the pitifully failed attempt that landed me in the patch of stinging nettles?” Or how he’d cared for her with such tenderness during the hours after?

He grunted. “You would still try.”

Yes. If given the chance she would.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” Alexander said.

Nichola watched as the woman who tended her swept into the room. She placed a tray of food on the table and left as the rich smell of warm bread, roast venison, and herbs drifted through the room. She stared at the generous spread. The last thing she needed was to spend time with him alone.

Refusing to be swayed from her desire for a token of personal freedom, she turned toward him. “Will you grant me my request?”

“Break your fast, then we will discuss it.”

“I am not hungry.” Her stomach issued a traitorous growl.

“You will eat.” He moved to pick up the trencher topped with the thinly cubed meat and walked over. He halted a pace before her. The air pulsed around them as a silent battle of wills ensued.

Using his dagger, he speared a chunk of meat and brought it to her mouth. Slow, with intent, he brushed it across her lips. Her lower lip trembled, and his eyes darkened with longing, the way a man looks at a woman he wants and desires above all things.

The way she’d yearned for him to look at her.

Nichola’s breath caught in her throat. Her pulse grew unsteady. Her body tightened and heat pulsed through her to her very core.

The moment shifted to something intense.

Intimate.

On an unsteady breath, Nichola opened her mouth and he placed the savory morsel on her tongue. She chewed and swallowed, which, with him observing her every move, was an effort unto itself.

His scent, a potent mix of man and earth, filled her every breath and her blood grew hot. If he leaned forward a degree, their bodies would brush. His hard, lean, muscled length would press against hers. And he could sate his desire as well as hers.

As if able to read her thoughts, he shifted closer, his gaze upon her mouth, then lower. Beneath his burning stare, her nipples grew taut. Need built into a painful ache.

He set the food aside. Slowly, he backed her up until he had her pressed against the wall, caged within his powerful form. Then he leaned forward and slanted his mouth over hers, his hard body firm against her.

The taste of him stormed her senses, ripping away coherent thought. The ache inside her grew stronger, an instinctive response as primitive as time.

She shuddered. This was what she wanted, needed. More than food, more than her freedom. On a trembling exhalation, Nichola parted her lips.

And surrendered to what she could no longer deny.

Chapter Eleven

Nichola shuddered beneath Alexander’s mouth as it moved over her lips with soft determination, claiming her with a predatory intent. She should push him away, refuse him such intimacy; instead, she savored his strength, desire coursing through her body until every inch of her trembled. Aching with need, she wrapped her hands around his neck and drew him closer.

Without warning, he broke free. Desire burned in his gaze with a lethal brand as he stared down at her. Hot. Volatile. As if a mere touch would leave her blissfully singed. The scar on his left cheek tightened. He turned away.

“Finish your fare.” Hardness coated his voice, leagues from his lover’s touch of seconds before.

Nichola sank against the wall, a sharp longing radiating through her body. Alexander was angry, but she wasn’t afraid. She sensed his anger was toward himself, his battle between his desire for her and duty. She should be relieved one of them had sense. Yet, if he hadn’t backed away, she would have allowed him . . . everything.

Shame filled her as she moved to the table. Her stomach rebelled at the thought of food, but she’d eat day-old porridge if it would gain her temporary freedom. Between the goblet of wine and sheer determination to escape the confines of her chamber, she swallowed every morsel on her trencher.

She rose. “I am finished.”

Alexander gave a brusque nod. He walked over and opened the door. “Only for a short while.”

Disquiet swept through her as she entered the doorway. He followed in silence, his footsteps softly mocking hers.

They exited the great hall and the aroma of fresh-brewed ale entwined with the melting fat used by the candle maker greeted them. Happiness touched her as the sun-kissed air warmed her face. She struggled to dismiss his unnerving presence. And failed.

Nichola tried to empty her mind by absorbing everything around her. The well-maintained buildings, the peasants who passed them to purchase wares during market day, the pounding of the smith working near the stables melded with the clang of swords as knights practiced in the bailey.

Alexander stepped up to her side, his sheer size alone making it impossible to ignore him.

“It is a fine castle,” she said without looking at him, her body far from stable after his kiss in the chamber.

“It is at that. If you are able, would you like to see more?”

Surprised by his offer, she nodded. She’d half expected that once they’d walked outside, they’d remain but a trice before he escorted her back to her chamber.

His hand cupped her elbow.

Awareness whipped through her at the simple contact. She didn’t look up. Didn’t dare. The last thing she needed was confirmation he’d experienced the same need.

Alexander kept their pace slow as they strolled by the many shops displaying various wares. The people within called out greetings to him as they passed. A few nodded to her, but several others shot her a cool glare. The true reason for her presence at Lochshire had reached the residents’ ears.

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.”

BOOK: His Captive

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