Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (5 page)

At last they left the wood and rode over a ridge, and there, in the distance, on the other side of a large meadow, the curved prow of a Norse ship gently bobbed on the river behind the willow trees lining the bank. He could see it because he knew to look for it.

At about thirty feet long, it was not a particularly large ship. Normally, such a vessel was used for swift raids. This time, the ship and its crew had but one thing to do: take them and their prize out of England.

Alexander slowed his horse to a walk, which allowed Denis to come abreast of him. He wanted the Norsemen to see them clearly, so that they would be recognized as friends, not foes.

As he did, the lady stiffened and gasped with shocked surprise. Obviously, she had spotted the ship, rocking at its rest like a great beast.

“We could not stay near Bellevoire, of course,” he said, his lips close to her ear, “so we must take you on a bit of a journey.”

She smelled of roses, and it was all he could do not to press his lips to the curve of her jaw. His hips moved with the motion of the horse, bringing him again into contact with her. This time, though, he gave in to the temptation to feel the pleasure of arousal.

Her back as straight as if she had a lance up her gown, she inched away. “I might have guessed you would be allied with Norsemen,” she replied. “You share their morals, after all.”

Since they were nearly at Ingar’s ship, there was no way she could escape, and they were safe from Sir Connor’s troops, supposing he even knew where to look, so Alexander could afford to be amused by her fierce words. She was certainly not what he had expected, and as long as she realized who was master here, he might even find spending time with her … entertaining. “You know very little about me, my lady,” he said, his voice low and intimate.

“I know enough.”

“In the days to come, you may learn more.”

“In the days to come, I shall amuse myself contemplating your slow and painful execution.”

Perhaps “entertaining” was not quite the right word for the sort of conversation he would share with his “guest.”

“Alexander,” Denis said cautiously, “where are all the Norsemen?”

Looking over the lady’s head, he scanned the ship. Ingar, the broad-shouldered, broad-chested blond fellow who commanded the vessel, stood in the bow near the great dragon’s head, watching them approach. A few other Norsemen were also visible, sitting on chests that held their personal goods and any booty they divided, as well as doubling as rowing benches. But Denis was right; there should be more of them. “They’re probably sleeping in the bottom of the vessel, napping in the summer’s sun.”

“I do not see Osburn, either.”

Alexander sniffed. Lord Oswald’s son was probably drunk, lounging with his back against the curved side of the ship. “That’s not surprising. He’s probably napping, too.”

When they were nearly at the riverbank, Alexander pulled his horse to a stop and with some reluctance withdrew his arm from around the lady. He slipped off backward over the horse’s rump, then, coming around to the side of the beast, reached up to help her down.

She twisted away. With an expression of utter revulsion, and in spite of her bound hands, she lifted her right leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground unaided.

Then she winced.

“What is it?”

She raised her angry blue eyes, and they seemed to fairly flash fire. Dressed in a muddy gown and with her hair disheveled, she looked like an indignant young goddess as she glared at him. “What does it matter to you?”

He pulled out his dagger, and fear flooded her eyes before she closed them, as if expecting a fatal blow. “I told you, you will not be harmed,” he said as he sliced off the ropes binding her wrists.

“Really?” she replied, tilting her head skeptically as she rubbed her reddened skin. “I believe you will find a sizable lump on the back of my head and my wrists will be bruised for a week.”

“I see there is nothing the matter with your tongue,” he retorted. He glanced down at her ankle, noting that she was keeping her weight off it. “You will not be harmed if you do as I say. However, if you try to escape or refuse my help, I cannot guarantee that you will not,” he said as he turned and smacked the horse’s rump.

It bolted off. Denis dismounted and did likewise, and the mare ran off after the gelding.

The lady raised a brow. “Stolen, were they?”

“Yes. It was necessary,” he replied as he faced her.

“I’m sure it’s very easy for a man like you to justify whatever he does.”

“Just as you have, my lady. I’m sure it is easy for you to excuse the merry dance you led my father.” He glanced at his friend. “Denis, get aboard the ship.”

His friend immediately and obediently made his way through the willow branches and down the slippery bank. He waded toward the vessel, which was about a yard out.

“I do not have to justify anything. Your father was a traitor who died because he was trying to kill the king,” Isabelle declared, her fear growing and her effort to hide it becoming more desperate as she tried to delay boarding.

With such a ship and such a crew, these men could take her far away from Bellevoire, where Connor could not easily find her, provided he had even realized she was missing. The sun was but halfway down its course. He might not have noticed yet, or he might have assumed she was visiting someone in the village.

Her captor crossed his arms. “So it was claimed. Since my father was dead, there could be no trial—and a very convenient death it was for you and your lover.”

Lover? What lover?
She had never had a lover.

“Oh, I know all about what you’ve done, my lady. It is hardly a secret.” All hint of mockery left DeFrouchette’s face, as well as his voice. “You and your husband stole my birthright and Bellevoire, and now your husband must pay.”

Husband?
God in heaven, he thought she was Allis!

He had kidnapped the wrong person!

What should she do? Tell him of his error? But what would he do then? Hold her for ransom still? They could expect to be paid for Allis of Bellevoire, but her younger sister? Connor and Allis would pay, of that she was certain, but these brigands might not be so sure, and might prefer the sure profit of selling her into slavery. She could imagine the horrendous fate that would await her then.

There was only one thing to do. She must let them continue to believe she was Allis of Bellevoire, and pray to God she was either rescued or was able to escape before they found out the truth. “How much am I considered to be worth?”

“A few thousand marks in recompense will be sufficient.”

“A few
thousand?
” Connor didn’t have that much in coin.

DeFrouchette’s lips curved into a mocking smile. “Do you not think you are worth that much, my lady? Lord Oswald certainly thinks so, and now that I’ve met you, I cannot disagree.”

Oswald!
She might have known that blackguard was behind this, waiting patiently for his chance to have his vengeance on those who had destroyed his ambitious, traitorous plans.

He must have hired this ship and this crew. He had promised money to this scoundrel and his friend and the Norsemen to kidnap her. That was always his way—to find someone with a grudge to do his evil deeds for him.

Even worse, Oswald would know who she was. “Where is your master? Waiting on the ship? I don’t see him.”

“He is not my master.”

He didn’t say Oswald was aboard the ship, and she began to hope he was not there. That would buy her more time before they found out the truth.

“Alexander! What are you doing?” the Gascon called. “This is no time to be flirting with a woman!”

DeFrouchette shot a condemning glance at his friend. “I’m not—” Then sudden understanding, quickly followed by ire, flashed across DeFrouchette’s angular face. “Enough of your delaying tactics, my lady,” he growled.

Not nearly enough
. And maybe Lord Oswald was on that ship.

She grabbed her skirt and took off toward the ridge as fast as she could run. Exhausted, she pushed her legs to their limit as she scrambled up the slope.

DeFrouchette caught up to her and grabbed her arm. As he yanked her to a stop, she thought he was going to wrench her arm from her shoulder. “That was a stupid thing to do,” he snarled.

“Let me go!” she cried, pummeling him with all that remained of her strength. “Beast! Varlet!
Bastard!
”

He hauled her close, embracing her so that she couldn’t hit him any more, his fiercely enraged face inches from hers. “You had better get this through that pretty head of yours, my lady. I have you and I will keep you until the ransom is paid. You can make this easy or difficult for yourself. It does not make any difference to me—but you will
never
escape from me.”

With that, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of her.

Gasping, she had no more energy to try to free herself as he clasped her legs tight and strode toward the ship. He skittered down the bank and waded through the water. She thought he was going to toss her over the side into the vessel like a sack full of rocks until she felt two large hands take hold of her.

Somebody—and it was most certainly not the slender Gascon—lifted her up and set her on the curved bottom of the ship. She grabbed the side to steady herself on the uneven deck, then looked up to see who had pulled her inside.

She found herself staring at a hulking, bearded Norseman whose blond hair hung in a tangled mass to his wide shoulders. He wore a silver band around his neck and a gold torc on his upper arm, and his tunic and breeches were of very fine wool sumptuously dyed in purple and red. His saffron yellow cloak, held by a large and ornate brooch of bronze, was thrown back over his shoulder. He was well armed, too, sporting an embossed swordbelt with a finely worked leather scabbard and a battle-ax stuck through it. As if this were not bad enough, his smoke gray eyes shone with greed and lust as he ran his gaze over her. It made her feel soiled, like an unwanted bold caress.

“By Thor’s hammer,” the Norseman cried, using the language of the sea traders that was a mixture of Norse, Norman and the language of the Celts. “Nobody told me this woman you wanted was so fine a creature, or I would have been easier to hire. Still, I’ll wager she will bite and scratch and fight you with every kiss and caress.”

As Isabelle’s stomach turned with new revulsion, the Norseman looked past her to DeFrouchette, who had climbed over the side behind her. “I will give you a good price for her.”

She would rather die than be that man’s property!

She inched backward, away from him, and collided with DeFrouchette, who briefly put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

At least DeFrouchette had said she wasn’t to be harmed. But what
exactly
did he mean by that? Did that mean he wouldn’t do anything else?

“She will be worth more to her husband,” DeFrouchette replied.

The Norseman laughed—a low rumble, like an amused bear. “Well, you may be right.”

She couldn’t move forward, for the Norseman was there, and she couldn’t move back, for DeFrouchette was there. Struggling against the terror building within her, she sidled sideways, toward the center of the ship, which was filled with oars, stores of food and skins holding wine or ale or water, various other bundles whose contents she couldn’t guess, a furrowed sail and the yardarm lying beside what must be the ship’s mast. At least five other Norsemen were in the vessel, staring at her as if she were on display at a marketplace.

God help her, maybe she was.

If there was one good thing, it was that Oswald was obviously not aboard that ship. Besides the huge blond man and the five other Norsemen watching her, there was only one other man sleeping in the stern of the vessel. He was far too thin to be Oswald.

“She is not for sale, Ingar,” DeFrouchette repeated. “She is for trading, and until she is traded, she is to be treated as an honored guest.”

She knew better than to believe a man of that ilk, but his words relieved her nonetheless. Between that and the realization that Oswald was not there to reveal who she was, her fear lessened a little.

Ingar shrugged, as if to say, “That is your loss, then.”

DeFrouchette’s stern gaze flashed over the other Norsemen watching. “Any man who forgets that will rue it.”

Any
man? Did that include him?

He glanced at her sharply. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable for the voyage, my lady,” he commanded.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.” His lips curved up. “There will be no escape, for there is nowhere to run.”

“If I had known before that I was your
honored guest
, I might not have been so keen to flee,” she lied, feeling a very small measure of triumph at the look that crossed his face.

Although she would have tried to escape anyway—and she still meant to even if she was as trapped as if she were imprisoned in a dungeon—she wanted to confuse him and make him wonder if he had erred.

She could not slip over the side now, though, so she reluctantly joined the Gascon, who was seated with his legs crossed as easily as another man sat in a tavern. Later, when it was dark and the ship was moving too quickly to be brought to a sudden halt, she would slip over the side and swim to shore.