Knight's Captive (9 page)

Antonia’s gaze connected with his and he turned
his attention back to himself. The worst of the damage was to his breeches and
boots thankfully but his doublet was unbearable now and dirt clung to his shirt
sleeves. He rolled them up and bit back a curse at the cold water when he scrubbed
his arms.

Antonia giggled.

“Hell fire, you could have warned me.”

She snuck a sideways glance at him. “Like you
warned me of the mud?”

He stifled another curse. “Forgive me, I should
not have—”

She waved a hand and propped herself on the side
of the well. “You need no forgiveness. I am no—how do you say?—delicate
flower.”

With her legs dangling over the side and an
impish smile on her face, she looked remarkably youthful.

And attractive.

Far too attractive.
Now he
was almost grateful for the icy temperature of the water. He supposed she was
right. Antonia had been through so much these past days—not to mention the
journey here and the battles fought between the English and Spanish ships. In
truth, it astonished him she was not more traumatised. She had seemed to sleep
well in his bed, which was more than could be said for him.

Henry loosened the laces of his shirt at the
nape and tugged at the sleeves. “Damnation,” he grumbled when the dirt stuck
the sleeves to his arms and made it a battle to remove.

Antonia hopped off the well and came to assist
him. Up close, he noted a few smears of mud still on her face—one skimming her
forehead, another down the side of her chin and a faint splatter over her nose.
While she tugged at his shirt sleeves, he couldn’t bring himself to aid her.
Having her so close brought him far too much pleasure.
Would
the moment their bodies connected in the mud linger in her mind just as it did
his? Would she dream of him tonight? Because he was certain that if he managed
any sleep, she’d be haunting him for the rest of the night.

“Henry,” she huffed when she managed to loosen
the sleeve a little and tug it down, “I cannot do this alone.”

He snapped his attention away from where the
tiny little drops of mud lingered on her face, making him want to sweep his
fingers over her skin and perhaps follow it with his lips once he’d removed all
traces of dirt.
“Aye, of course.”

Together they hauled his shirt over his head and
he draped it over the stone side of the well. When he turned, Antonia was still
no more than a pace away. Her gaze skimmed him, leaving some strange fiery
trail over his body as if she had somehow scalded him with a mere look. He
noted her throat work and she stumbled back, forcing him to snatch her arm. The
contact made her stiffen, and a fleeting look of terror came across her face
before vanishing. Then he saw it...

The same look as when they’d been in the mud.
Desire.
Her eyes warmed and darkened. She glanced down his
body and her pale pink tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip. It would be so
easy to draw her into him, to kiss her.
To do more.
They were alone, no one would disturb them. Every instinct in his body screamed
at him to do it—to lay this vulnerable woman down on the damp ground and take
her.

His instincts were wrong.
So
very wrong.

Instead, he drew in a breath, released her arm
and skimmed a thumb over her nose to wipe away the dirt there. The intensity to
her gaze diminished but the need didn’t disappear. Henry cursed to himself. It
was hard enough battling his need for her without being aware she wanted him as
badly. The sooner he had this woman returned to Spain, the better.

While
her father slept, Antonia perused the small sacks of herbs in the physician’s
store room. Mr Willis seemed to trust her well enough now to leave her
unattended whilst he visited with the villagers. She understood his reticence.
After all, she was Spanish and Catholic and a potential invader. None of those
things would make her a friend to the English. She wasn’t wholly ignorant to
the suspicious looks she garnered even while accompanying Henry.

She sifted through a bag of lavender and brought
her fingers to her nose to inhale the scent.
¡Dios mío!
, she’d had need
of some lavender last night to soothe her to sleep.
And not
because of her usual fears but because she hadn’t been able to get the image of
Henry shirtless out of her mind.
She’d been aware of a strong body
underneath those doublets and linen shirts—she’d even felt it wrapped about
her—but being aware of
something
and seeing it was two
different things.

Now she had an image to add to her awareness.
Now she couldn’t look at him without recalling the flex of his stomach or the
slight scattering of hair across his chest and the way water droplets clung to
it.

If she was not much mistaken, he desired her
too. The look he’d given her after he’d pulled her down into the mud said as
much. It was intense—the sort of look she should have been terrified of.
Lorenzo had given her such looks before demanding use of her body. But Henry
didn’t even try to kiss her.

Antonia sighed. Mayhap this was all a symptom of
never having met a man like him. She’d spent too long under the crushing
influence of her husband and the men around him. They had all been the same.
Even the men she’d met before marrying Lorenzo at only six and ten. To them,
she was nothing more than a means to an end—a vessel for carrying a child and a
plentiful dowry. So it was understandable that she might find herself drawn to
a man like Henry. Even yesterday, when she had experienced the briefest bubble
of fear when he’d snatched her, it had dissolved within an instant. That
frightened her more than anything.
That
left her vulnerable. She needed
her defences to remain strong while she was his captive and while her father
was still at risk.

“Your father is sleeping?”

She turned to find the physician dipping in
through the door.
“
Si
.
I gave him some more
poppy tonic as he was in pain.”

The balding man nodded and unpinned his cloak to
drape it over the back of one of the chairs at the table in the middle of the
small room. “I hope ‘twill not
take
long to heal and
he shall be as strong as he was before after some time.”

“I must thank you for your help. I am aware that
we are your enemies, but Father said you attended to his bedside for most of
the night.”

The man waved a hand, dismissing her thanks.
“These battles are between kings and queens, not us mere men. I pay little heed
to them though I cannot speak for my countrymen. Besides, Sir Henry would not
see any of his prisoners suffer, I’d wager. I would not wish to displease him.”

“He is a fair man, is he not?”

“Aye.
Count
yourself lucky ‘tis him in charge of you all and not his father.” Mr Willis
strode over to the herb table and gathered a bunch of mint leaves before
bringing it over to the chopping block. He laid out the leaves and lifted the
large knife that rested upon it. “That you are left here alone...” he glanced
at the knife in his hand, “is a sign of his trust in you.”

Antonia swallowed. She hadn’t repaid that trust
well when she’d left him at the mercy of those men. She told herself she hadn’t
known the sort of man her captor was but now she was deeply ashamed of her
actions. His prisoner or not, she should never have betrayed his trust. The man
was right. At the hands of anyone else, she could have been treated poorly
indeed.

“What was his father like?”

He lowered the chopping knife and eyed her. “Sir
Edmund was not like Sir Henry, to be sure. Let us just say that your fellow countrymen
would think themselves lucky to be locked away in a barn should they have been
under his care.”

She couldn’t help but wonder how such a man
might sire a son like Henry. He had his moments where he seemed fierce, she
supposed, but she was becoming increasingly doubtful that was his true nature.

Mr Willis turned his attention back to the mint
leaves and set about chopping them roughly. Antonia wound her hands together
and attempted to turn her attention away from Henry by inspecting the herbs
once more. There were a few she didn’t recognise that she had to assume were
native to England but most were much like the ones she had grown in the herb
garden in Spain.

“What is this?” She lifted the stem of a dried
purple flower.

The physician paused chopping and rubbed his
hands together to remove the mint leaves from his palms.
“’Tis
Scottish Primrose.”

Antonia nodded. “We have primrose in Spain but
not of this colour. Are the properties the same?”

“It soothes and calms. ‘Tis a great help to
women when they are overwrought.”

“
Si
, that
is how
we use it.”

He peered at her, his grey eyes narrowed with
interest. “You understand the use of herbs?”

 
“
Si.
I
had an herb garden that I tended in Spain. We use primrose in tea.” She twisted
the dried flower in her hand and eyed its purple petals. “You have English
primrose do you not?”

“Aye, but ‘tis thought the Scottish primrose is
more potent. I buy it from a merchant in Plymouth.”

Before Antonia could question him further, the
door burst open and a young lad ran in. “A fight,” he puffed.
“By the church.
Sir Henry...”

Antonia didn’t wait to hear more. She’d
abandoned Henry to a fight before and she wouldn’t do it again. She raced out
of the cottage and down the muddy road that twisted around a corner and dropped
toward the church. Already people were gathering around the building, pressing
against the stone wall and trying to clamber over it to get a better view. She
hurried as fast as she could in her borrowed gown and leather shoes, her heart
beating a sickening tattoo in her chest.

She reached the edge of the crowd and tried to
peer over the angry shaking fists but could not see Henry. An elbow jabbed in
her side, and she bit back a yelp before trying to press her way between the crush
of bodies. The scent of sweat filled her nostrils. The air grew thick around
her. Someone’s cry rang in her ears, but she struggled to make out what they
were so furious about. As she pushed farther into the crowd, she narrowly
avoided being shoved over and several limbs nearly connected with her face.

Where was he?

She burst out of the crowd and her knees jarred
against the stone wall surrounding the church. Biting back a cry of pain, she
froze.

“Henry.” His name left her lips before she could
summon it back. And she wanted to. He couldn’t be distracted. But he glanced
her way, his expression severe, dark,
dangerous
. Her
breath stuck in her throat. Sword held out, he kept back the braying crowd
while a man cowered behind him.

“Get back,” he shouted, using the tip of his
sword to keep distance between him and the few brave men who had stepped over
the wall to confront him.

What this man he was protecting had done, she
knew not.

One of the large men dashed forward, forcing
Henry to swing his blade around.

“Let us have him,” the man yelled. “He’s a
traitor.”

“I’ll do no such thing. Get back or I will use
force.”

Antonia gulped. She didn’t think Henry would but
the strong set of his brow and the way his muscles seemed to strain against his
linen shirt certainly made him appear intimidating. She suspected it was the
only reason the crowd hadn’t pushed forward yet.

She tugged her skirt free from where someone had
trampled on it and fought to clamber over the wall. It wasn’t high but the
crush of bodies prevented her from doing it easily. As she put one foot over,
she had to fight to free her leg and hop over the other side. She hastened to
Henry’s side and caught his glare.

“Antonia, ‘tis not safe,” he hissed.

“I can help,” she said.

However, when she looked to the crowd that he
was keeping at bay with a mere sword, she gulped. She had thought perhaps the
voice of a woman would calm them, but now her thoughts seemed foolish. These
people wouldn’t listen to her—particularly not a Spanish woman. Angry words
simmered through the air and though she couldn’t hear them all, she recognised
many of them as insults.

Henry snatched her arm as the same man took
another step forward. Grip tight on her sleeve, he dragged her behind his body
and placed himself between her and the crowd. She glanced down at the young man
he’d been shielding to see blood trickling down his face. She kneeled and drew
a handkerchief out of her sleeve to press it to his head. She longed to ask him
who he was, what he was doing, why Henry was risking his life for him but the
noise around her grew in intensity.

Antonia swallowed as the crowd seemed to bulge
and wash forward like waves on the beach. Several more bodies spilled over the
wall, and Henry took a step back. She fought the need to close her eyes when a
group of men began inching forward.

A crack ricocheted through the air. Her heart
bounded against her chest and she waited for something awful.
Henry toppling forward perhaps or collapsing to his knees.
But a puff of smoke drifting lazily into the sky told her the shot had been far
away at the rear of the crowd. Many dispersed as soon as the sound rang out
between the buildings.

Henry snatched her arm and hauled the young man
to his feet. “Make haste.”

He led them around the building while the crowd
was distracted. Another crack made her jump, but Henry urged them forward. They
ran behind the church and paused when they came to the cliff edge. “Follow the
path down to the beach.” He pointed along a narrow strip of dirt that had been
worn into the grass. “Stay hidden until I find you. Look after this lad,
Antonia. He has had a knock to the head.”

“Henry, you’re not—”

“If someone is shooting at the crowd, I cannot
leave them.”

“But you might get hurt—killed even!”

He gave her a look that told her he would not be
denied his duty. And she couldn’t help admire him for it. He would lay his life
on the line for those who had wanted to take it from him only moments ago.

“Be careful,” she whispered as he turned away.

Henry paused to give her a nod and a slight
smile before he made his way back to the church. His royal blue cloak billowed
out behind him and his hair ruffled in the wind. Her heart panged in protest of
watching him go. However, the young man at her side forced her to turn her
attention away.

“Come then.” She began the walk down the narrow
pathway, aware of the drop on one side. “I’m Antonia, what is your name?”

“Richard,” he stuttered.

“What happened?”

“I was caught bringing food to the prisoners.”

She paused and eyed the boy who couldn’t be much
older than six and ten. “Why?”

He glanced around as though fearful of being
overheard. “My mother was Catholic.”

Antonia tugged his arm to keep him moving. If
one of the men decided to follow them, she didn’t think they would be able to
defend themselves. Once they’d made it onto the beach, she pointed to one of
the many caves that littered the cliffs. “We shall wait here,” she said and led
the way.

Once they were settled in the mouth of a cave
with only dripping water and the sound of the waves not far from them for
company, she turned her attention to Richard’s head, pushing back his fair hair
to inspect it properly. The bleeding had ceased, and she was pleased to note it
wouldn’t need stitches.

“Not too much damage,” she announced.

“I thank you.” He touched the sore spot. “I must
have struck it against the wall when Byron pushed me.”

She sat on a relatively dry rock and eyed the
young man. “Are the prisoners not being fed?”

“Not well enough. Some are sickening.”

Antonia wrapped her arms about herself. She
didn’t know all the men—her father had kept her away from all of them apart
from the officers—but they were her countrymen. It was likely some would die
whilst in captivity in England. But Henry had wanted to ensure they were
well-fed, she knew that from their visit with the farmer, so why were they
going hungry?

“Sir Henry asked the farmers to provide extra
food. He offered extra coin too.”

“Aye, but the villagers stopped Mr Palmer
bringing in the corn this morning. They say they don’t want to share with the
invaders.”

“And you hoped to help them because of your
mother...”