Ransom My Heart (16 page)

“Well,” Hugo said, clearing his throat. “Considering what we had to work with, I mean. A wrinkled kirtle, a brush and comb, and look at you. A knight's lady. You could easily pass for the wife of an earl, for all that—”

Finnula nearly dropped the tankard. Did he
know
? How
could
he know?

But no, he wasn't paying the least bit of attention to her, just picking at the pot of cheese in the center of the table, oblivious to her nervousness.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, lifting lids and peering into pots. “Because there's a lot of food here. That looks like stewed venison. One of yours, I presume. And there's glazed carrots, and roasted turnips, and plenty of bread, and that looks like parsnips, and—”

Finnula asked, keeping her voice low to hide her fear, “Why did you shave?”

He looked up at that, and Finnula wished she'd kept her mouth shut. She wasn't at all comfortable with his bright gaze upon her, and the comic twist to those sensuous lips didn't soothe her much, either.

“Why did I shave? Because I was tired of looking like a demented hermit. Why? Don't you like me like this?”

Finnula took a long gulp of ale. “You're assuming,” she said, with some of her old asperity, after she'd swallowed, “that I liked you before.”

“True,” Hugo agreed, with a chuckle. He speared a turnip with his knife and bit into it. “But I did rather get the feeling that you liked me, back there, at Farmer Fairchild's barn.”

Finnula blushed hotly, and was glad that the heat from the fire disguised her high color. “I thought you were much older,” was all she said in reply.

“Did you? I suppose I looked it. But you sound disappointed.”

She shrugged, and reached over to pick at the glazed carrots.

“You
are
disappointed.” Hugo set down his tankard with a thump and stared incredulously across the table at her. “God help me, you liked me better before, beard and all!”

Finnula, careful not to look at him, shook her head. “No, you look quite nice without a beard,” she said politely.

What she did not add was that without the beard, he looked like someone whom she'd have given a wide berth, back when she'd been hunting for a hostage. One did not want to hold for
ransom someone who looked as dangerously handsome as he did. No, such a kidnapping might lead to all sorts of complications. In fact, it already had. Look at the situation she was in now! She was having dinner with—sharing a room in an inn with!—a man who was so good-looking that she wanted to leap across the table and devour him. This had been a slight concern before, but now…
now
she had to hang on tight to her beer tankard to keep herself from doing so.

“I'll be damned,” Hugo said, and she did not think she was mistaking the mournful expression on his face. “You liked me better with a beard.” Then, brightening, he shrugged. “I'll grow it back.”

Finnula raised her eyebrows. “I hardly think we'll be seeing that much of one another,” she said mildly, “once you're ransomed.”

He stared at her. “I see,” he said, in an offended way.

“I mean, I hardly ever travel as far north as Caterbury,” she hastened to explain, pausing as she ladled herself a serving of Mistress Pitt's stew that she knew she'd never finish. “And I don't expect you'll have a lot of time for traveling to Stephensgate, what with managing your father's estate.”

“No,” Hugo said, his gaze downcast. “I suppose you're right.”

Finnula could not understand what ailed the man. Did he really think they could be
friends
after this? Why, she had a good many male friends, but none of them looked like
him
. She couldn't possibly be friends with a man that good-looking. She wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything except how very much she wanted to kiss him. He was either completely oblivious to the effect his looks were having on her, or dense as a board.

“I suppose,” Hugo said, taking quite a large gulp of ale, “that you'll be marrying your smithy, then.”

It was Finnula's turn to stare. “What smithy?”

“The village blacksmith. The one you're going to have the thirteen children with—”

“Oh,” Finnula said. “The drunk one, who'll demand his supper and beat me if I fail to produce it promptly? No, I don't think I'll be marrying a smithy. I tried it once already, you know.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing him drop his knife. At least she'd managed to shock him as much as he'd shocked her.

“You tried what?” he demanded, bending to retrieve his knife.

“Marriage.” Finnula sipped a little more ale. She'd never much liked discussing it in the past, but then she'd never before had such a handsome conversation partner to keep at bay.

Hugo stared at her, his amber eyes turning, for the first time that she could remember, a dark brown. “You were married before?” he asked slowly.

She nodded, her heart in her throat. Lord, she hated this subject. But she supposed she owed him the truth. “Briefly.”

“I don't believe it,” he scoffed dismissively. “This is a fabrication, an invention on your part purely to annoy me.”

“I wish it had been a fabrication,” Finnula said. She leaned one elbow on the tabletop and rested her chin in her hand. “Unfortunately, it was very real.”

“I don't understand this,” Hugo declared irritably, leaning forward until his face was just inches from hers. “How old are you?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Nearly eighteen. What has that to do with anything?”

He looked worried. “How long were you married?”

“A day.”

He let out a bark of laughter and leaned back, strangely relieved. “I thought as much. What happened? Brother Robert forced an annulment when he heard of it?”

She scowled. “No, nothing like that.”

“Then where's your husband? Surely no man, once he had managed to win the Fair Finn, would willingly let her go.”

Finnula frowned. “Well, this one did. He died.”

“Died?” Hugo sat up straighter, his eyes amber again, and fastened upon her as inexorably as brambles. “What do you mean, he died?”

“He just died, that's all. As you can guess, it was hardly an enjoyable experience for me. So I won't be trying it again.”

“Try what again? Marriage?” Hugo's voice, as well as his expression, was incredulous. “Not ever?”

“No, never.” That said, she took a big bite of her stew, found it delicious, and washed it down with another swallow of Mel's Brew. Suddenly, she seemed to have recovered her appetite, and she ate hungrily, aware that the knight was eyeing her, but trying to ignore him. It wasn't easy.

“Strange,” Hugo mused, after a considerable silence. “I never would have taken those leather braies for widow's weeds.”

“Why should I mourn him?” she questioned indignantly, sampling a bit of cheese. “I didn't love him.”

Hugo let out something that sounded like a hoot. “Apparently not! Who was this unfortunate fellow, who died on his wedding day to a woman who didn't love him?”

“He wasn't a blacksmith,” she admitted.

“I assumed that. Was it an arranged marriage, then?”

“If you mean did I have any say in the matter, no, I hadn't, obviously. Why would I marry someone I didn't love?”

He looked up at the ceiling. “People marry for reasons other than love, Finnula.”

“Oh, of course. People like you.” When she noticed his wounded expression, she hastened to explain herself. “I mean landowners. You marry for wealth or property. But people like me and my sisters and brother, we marry for love.”

“And you don't think you'll ever fall in love, Finnula?” The soft question was accompanied by a smile of such gentle compassion that for a moment, Finnula was rendered breathless. How could this man, who had irritated and plagued her for two days straight, suddenly make her sigh with a glance, make her blush with a single word? Her gaze flickered to his hands, wrapped around his beer tankard, and she remembered the way those strong, callused fingers had felt on her skin.

Was it possible that she was in love with
him
? When he wasn't maddening her with desire, he was infuriating her with his words. She feared his touch because she longed for it, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to resist him again if he kissed her. He was the most exasperating man she'd ever met, an incurable tease, but he made her laugh, just the same. Was that love?

She turned the question upon the one who'd asked it.

“What about you?” she inquired. “Will you ever marry?”

“Most assuredly,” he said. “It's my duty to continue the Fitz, er, william line.”

“And will you marry for love?” Finnula teased. “Or money?”

“That remains to be seen.” His glance was bright. “I rather think that I have enough money, don't you?”

“You do seem to throw it about quite a bit,” Finnula agreed.

“Yes, it's a bad habit I have. When I see something that I want, I'm afraid I'll spend any amount I have to in order to get it.” He held up the pitcher containing the beer. “More of Mel's Brew?”

Finnula nodded, holding out her tankard. Now that she had eaten something, she felt a little more relaxed. She was slowly becoming accustomed to Sir Hugh's new appearance, and it did not seem nearly so threatening anymore. Talking to him had helped. He was still the same irritating man he'd always been, just with a better-looking face.

Hugo poured her the last of the ale, and she blew on the foamy head as she watched him pick at the remnants of the food on his plate. He'd eaten even less than she had, and he was twice her size. She wondered what ailed him.

“What did you think of it?” she asked, indicating the beer.

Hugo smiled, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. “A fine brew, overall. Not too rich. I'm honored to be kidnapped in an effort to make more of it.”

Finnula giggled. She stopped herself, realizing she shouldn't have had so much to drink on an empty stomach.

“How is your side?” Hugo inquired.

Finnula smiled at him sleepily. “Fine,” she said.

“Do you want me to bandage it again before we go to bed?”

Before we go to bed.
How domestic that sounded! As if they were an old married couple who climbed into bed together every night. “No, thank you,” Finnula said, and she could not think of the intimate way his fingers had probed her flesh without blushing. She had blushed so many times this evening, he must think her face was always ruddy in hue.

“Finnula,” he said, but when she glanced up at his face, it was unreadable. He looked quickly away. “Never mind.”

He stood up, the legs of the stool scraping against the floor. “Mistress Pitt said to leave the dishes in the corridor.”

“Oh,” Finnula said, setting down her tankard. “Let me.”

“No, I'll do it,” Sir Hugh said, a little snappishly, she thought.

The blond knight collected the dishes and then carried them, rattling, to the door, where he bent to stack them in the corridor. He made several trips, but never said another word to her. Finnula wondered what she'd done to offend him. Perhaps she oughtn't have told him of her ill-fated marriage. It was a topic she was generally loath to discuss. The fact that she'd brought it up with him surprised her. He seemed to have a talent for drawing
her out on subjects she generally preferred to let alone. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that she liked him: She had the feeling she could say anything to him, however shocking, and he would not think ill of her.

But obviously, she'd done something to annoy him, because he was studiously avoiding her gaze. Well, if he wanted to sulk, she wasn't going to stop him. Shrugging, Finnula left the hearth and went to the bed, pushing experimentally on the feather tick. She could not sleep on too soft a bed. This one seemed firm, but not uncomfortably so. Finnula felt they'd been lucky that on so horrid a night, there'd been such a nice room left, even if they did have to share it.

There was a single window in the room, much like her dormer window back at the millhouse, only smaller. This one was paned in wavy, expensive glass, against which the rain and wind outside beat. In the only pane that was not cracked, Finnula could see her reflection, a slim girl in a white dress with a large green stone hanging from her neck. Her red hair hung in a single braid across her left shoulder. She looked, even to her own eye, small and woefully defenseless. This, though, was only a distortion of the glass, because Finnula knew herself to be far from defenseless.

When the door closed and the bolt slid back into place, Finnula didn't move, watching Sir Hugh's reflection. She wasn't entirely surprised when she saw him come up behind her. Her heart thumping, she spun around to face him. She knew what was about to happen.

She also knew she had no intention of stopping it. God help her—she now understood exactly why Mellana had acted such a fool with that idiot troubadour.

And yet there didn't seem to be a bloody thing she could do to stop herself from doing the exact same thing over this exasperating, heart-stoppingly handsome…and yet frustratingly kind
knight, who
would
see that he did the right thing by her, even if it meant driving her to distraction.

“Finnula,” he said again, and this time she recognized the need in his voice. It matched the need she felt in her own heart, in the thrum of her own pulsing veins. “I know I gave you my word I wouldn't touch you, but—”

Finnula wasn't at all certain how what happened next transpired. It seemed as if one minute she was standing looking up at him, wondering if he'd ever stop talking and just
do it
, for heaven's sake…

…and the next, she was in his arms. She didn't know if he'd moved or she had.