Ransom My Heart (33 page)

“Old Gregor told Mistress Laver that you were to stay abed a week,” John remarked, watching Hugo's weak efforts to rise. “You lost a considerable amount of blood, you know, when they dug out the arrowhead.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you, you old goat?” Hugo demanded, with a humorless chuckle. “You expect me to stay abed a week while you have my wife locked up in your own house? Not bloody likely. Fetch me a tunic and some braies from that trunk yonder.”

John de Brissac looked offended. “I will have you know, my lord, that your wife has been suitably chaperoned by my mother every minute of her stay in my home—”

“I wouldn't doubt that,” Hugo snarled. “Madame de Brissac probably longs for just such a daughter-in-law.”

“What? A daughter-in-law who cannot sew, will not clean, and likes her food ready-made?” The sheriff laughed. “You know not my mother. She considers your wife perfectly useless. Had I brought her home as
my
bride, my mother would have turned her out of the house by morning.”

“She might have tried.” Hugo grunted. “But Finnula's fairly handy with sharp objects, you know…” Hugo would have said more, but at that moment the light-headedness that had been bothering him became something considerably more serious. His vision swam blackly, and he found himself unable to sit up a second longer. Sinking back against the mattress, he groaned as his headache, which had lessened somewhat since waking, returned in full force. The pain was of such intensity that it blinded him.

Sheriff de Brissac was not in the least alarmed by the patient's sudden relapse. He chuckled and, reaching for the wolf pelts, drew them back over Lord Hugo's naked body.

“Serves you right,” he said. “Accusing me of lusting after your wife! Like I said before, you can't kill a man for his convictions, only his actions. And I'd never lay a hand on Finnula. Like as not she'd cut it off if I tried.”

Hugo only groaned miserably. The sheriff shook his head, perfectly unsympathetic.

“Rest easy, my friend,” he suggested. “And leave all to me. I will find Laroche, your bride will be returned to you, and all will be as it should.”

“The boy,” Hugo moaned, lifting a listless hand.

“Peter? Aye, him, too. I'll find them both soon enough, never fear.”

“No.” With a tremendous effort, Hugo reached out and managed to close his fingers over the sleeve of the sheriff's leather jerkin. De Brissac looked down, bemused. “Not that boy,” Hugo rasped. “The other one.”

De Brissac blinked confusedly. “What other boy, my lord?”

“My…son.”

For the first time, the sheriff looked less than self-confident. “Jamie,” he murmured. “Aye. Jamie.”

“Where is he?” Hugo wanted to know. “Has someone been watching him? He, too, might be in danger…”

“Jamie,” the sheriff murmured once more, and it was clear from the stricken expression on his round, bearded face that no one had thought of Jamie in quite some time.

Hugo let go of the sheriff's sleeve and sank back against the pillow, cursing his own weakness. “Find him,” he growled, from between teeth gritted in fury. “Now.”

I
n the three days that she'd been a prisoner in the de Brissac household, Finnula had received nearly nonstop instruction in the housewifely arts. She had been forced by Madame de Brissac to perform such tasks as her sisters had always gladly undertaken, leaving Finnula free to hunt. Madame de Brissac's horror over the fact that Finnula was unskilled in even the simplest household chores, like churning butter and spinning thread, had been profound, almost as great as her shock over the fact that Finnula refused to cover her bright hair with a wimple, even though she was wed nearly a week. Madame de Brissac waxed eloquent on the subject at every opportunity, which, since Finnula was not allowed out of her sight, was approximately every five minutes from dawn until dusk. Finnula had been forced, if only to shut the
woman up, into complying with Madame de Brissac's scheme of making the Lady of Stephensgate the perfect chatelaine.

By the end of the third day of her incarceration, Finnula had learned to make cheese as well as butter, bake a passable loaf of bread, mend any tear in any article of clothing, thread a spindle, and work a loom. She'd also received tutelage in the instruction of household serfs and had spent many laborious hours being taught to memorize a single passage out of Madame de Brissac's prayer book, a passage that dwelt heavily upon Eve's lack of judgment in the Garden of Eden and how women were solely responsible for the downfall of mankind.

Finnula bore with these hardships only because she knew that it was either Madame de Brissac's bullying or jail, and though she feared neither rats nor lice, upon the whole she disliked small, enclosed spaces. While she intended never to touch another spindle upon her release from the de Brissac household, she thought the passage from the prayer book might prove a valuable weapon the next time she chose to tease one of her sisters, who were frequent, though disbelieving, visitors to the de Brissac cottage. Never had any of them seen their youngest sister bear such rough handling so meekly. Patricia even whispered that Finnula was a fool not to try to escape, and offered her own services in an attempt to do so, services Finnula declined.

Still, despite the meekness, Finnula could not admit to being anything but miserable in her incarceration. She tried to tell herself that it was because she'd once again been wrongly accused of a crime she did not commit. She even told Brynn, who inquired worriedly after her pallor, that it was the effect of being so long indoors. She did not tell anyone that her unhappiness was due to her anxiety for her husband. She was careful that, though she cried herself to sleep each night—because even after having been
wed to him so brief a time, she could not sleep without Hugo's arms around her—she cried silently, so that Sheriff de Brissac and his mother would not hear her. She told no one, and she thought no one guessed, how very much she missed her husband, and worried about him, and prayed for him.

But John de Brissac could not miss the fact that each night when he returned home from his turn guarding Lord Hugo, Finnula was waiting for him just inside the door to his cottage, wearily enduring his mother's criticism in her impatience for news of her husband's recovery. He saw how pale she had grown in just a few short days, and though to spare her embarrassment he pretended otherwise, he was perfectly aware that she sobbed into her pillow every night.

That fact, more than all of Lord Hugo's swearing and threats, was what pricked most at John de Brissac's conscience. Finnula's secret tears were the reason behind his running his men ragged in his frantic search for the Laroches, his appeal to the king for even more manpower, his frequent outbursts of ill temper, and even, upon one occasion, his striking the lord mayor full in the mouth with his glove. The girl's worry and sorrow wore upon him like bristles from a horsehair shirt, and it was for that reason that he returned home the fourth night of her imprisonment with a heart even heavier than usual.

Finnula recognized his chagrin at once, and hung back, fearful to hear more bad news. Madame de Brissac, however, took no notice at all of her son's reticence, and flew at him like a scolding blue jay.

“And what do you think this flibbertigibbet did all this day long?” she demanded, pointing a plump finger accusingly at Finnula, who, wearing a plain gown her sisters had brought her, sat silently upon the hearth, sorting thread. “Nothing. Nothing except gossip with those sisters of hers, who are no better than
they should be. It seems the pretty one, the one who got herself in the family way with that troubadour, couldn't keep him, for all he married her a week ago. Disappeared into the night he did, taking all of the money Lord Hugo gave to her with him, along with his rebec, and Kate, his donkey. Apparently, the honest life of a miller was too dull for him, and so off he went, without a word. And many pretty tears did Mistress Mellana shed, for all she's better off without him—”

Sheriff de Brissac, wearily removing his boots, raised his eyebrows at Finnula, though he could not say he was particularly surprised. “Is this so?” he asked.

Finnula looked up from the bright threads she held and nodded, gravely. “'Tis true, I'm afraid. I do not think we shall ever see Jack Mallory again. Or, if we do, 'twill be at the end of my brother's blade, for he is like to kill him…”

“That I do not doubt.” John turned his attention back upon his boots. “That is another missing,” he grumbled.

Finnula heard him, and lifted her head sharply. “Another? Who else is gone? I know you search for the Laroches and for the boy Peter, but who else?”

Madame de Brissac cared no more that Finnula had married the Earl of Stephensgate than she cared that the sun set in the west. To her, Finnula would always be simply one of the miller's daughters, even if she married the king himself, and so was not an equal to her son, and never would be.

“How dare you speak to the sheriff in that bold and brassy tone, young lady?” she demanded. “Lower your eyes and do not open your mouth unless addressed first. Do you not ken that you are amongst your betters?”

John de Brissac cast his mother an aggrieved look and asked if there was not any ale in the house. When Madame de Brissac replied in the positive, he asked her whether she could not fetch him
a cup, and when Madame de Brissac tartly inquired why Finnula could not fetch it for him, instead of his aged mother, John de Brissac threw one of the boots he held very forcefully against the wall, driving the old woman screeching from the room.

The effect this action had, besides ridding the sheriff of his nagging matriarch, was to force a smile out of Finnula, who had been longing to throw something in Madame de Brissac's direction for days.

“You missed,” she pointed out.

“I know it.” The sheriff grunted. “Not all of us are gifted with your aim.”

Finnula winced at this reminder of why she was a guest in his household, and John immediately wanted to kick himself for his blunder.

“What I meant was…” he said, but Finnula held up a tired hand.

“I know what you meant. Now tell me what it was you could not say in front of your mother. Is…is Hugo—” She swallowed, then went bravely on. “…Is Hugo worse?”

“No, no.” Disgusted with himself, John strode across the room and flung himself onto a bench before the hearth. “Listen, Finnula. 'Tis not Lord Hugo for whom I fear, but Jamie.”

“Jamie?” she echoed. “What of Jamie?”

“No one has seen nor heard from the boy since the night…since the night your husband was shot. Lord Hugo fears that perhaps some mischief has befallen him—”

“Some
mischief
?” Finnula stood up so swiftly that the balls of thread that had rested in her lap launched themselves, bouncing about the room. “'Tis not mischief Hugo fears, but murder! Have they murdered Jamie, Sheriff? Has someone hurt him, do you think?”

John de Brissac sighed heavily. “I fear it to be so. In all his life, the boy has never before been so long gone from home and hearth. 'Tis my fear—and Lord Hugo's, too—that perhaps the squire, Peter, took Jamie with him when he left—”

“But Jamie would not leave the manor house with him,” Finnula said firmly, “except by force.”

“I know that. Which is why I have redoubled my efforts at discovering where the Laroches hide. But 'tis all in vain thus far. There is no sign, not even a hint of their whereabouts—”

With an anxious sound, Finnula turned from him and quickly paced the length of the room, her long skirts making soft swishing noises against her legs. In the slanting light of the setting sun, which glanced into the room from a west-facing window, John could see that her expression was one of earnest concentration—the same one she wore when holding prey within her sights.

“What measures have your men taken at hunting for Jamie?” she inquired, after a pause.

John hesitated, then replied, with brutal honesty, “They have dragged the river. They have beaten the underbrush in the woods. They have searched every haystack—”

“Then you think him likely dead.” Her voice was cool.

“…Aye.”

“And have you tried hounds?”

“Aye.” Standing abruptly, the sheriff reached into his pocket, pulling what looked to Finnula like a scrap of cloth from the pocket of his jerkin. Then she recognized that it was a tunic Jamie had often worn. The garment was filthy. It had probably never once been washed. In this particular case, that was a blessing.

“They scented on this,” the sheriff said, holding the small shirt between his large, hairy hands. “But never got farther than the woods before breaking off in confusion—”

Finnula stepped forward and drew the garment from his fingers, inspecting it closely. “Gros Louis could track him farther,” she said flatly.

“Indeed he could. But you know the dog will track for none but you, Finnula.”

Finnula bit her lower lip, not daring to look up at the sheriff. “And you would not…you would not allow me…”

“Do not even think it.” Abruptly, the sheriff took the small tunic from her hands, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “What you ask is impossible. Until I have a confession from Reginald Laroche and the squire, I cannot allow you to so much as set foot outside that door.” Seeing Finnula's crestfallen expression, John de Brissac heaved a sigh. “Do not look at me like that, Finnula. You know Miles Hillyard wants nothing more than to see you hang.”

Finnula made a face. “I do not ken why he hates me so. He ate the venison I brought him all winter readily enough.”

“Mayor Hillyard hates only to look foolish, and the fact that no one was arrested for the murder of Lord Geoffrey made him look foolish indeed. He intends to see that this time around, someone pays for the crime. Whether 'tis you or another, it matters not, but it must be
someone
. 'Tis not a personal grudge against you, Finnula, though 'twould seem convenient for him that his daughter is no longer to wed so lowly a man as your brother, Robert.”

“Aye,” Finnula agreed quietly. Running her hand thoughtfully along the stone mantel, she sighed. Hearing the soft sound, Sheriff de Brissac looked up from his inspection of his own fingernails and cleared his throat.

“What is it, Finn?” he asked, not without some trepidation. Finnula wore an expression he did not recognize, and he thought he had seen her every mood.

“Reginald Laroche wants only one thing,” Finnula said matter-
of-factly. “And that is to see Lord Hugo dead and himself placed as the Earl of Stephensgate.”

“Aye, that's so,” John admitted with shrug. “What of it?”

“So in order for him to get what he wants,” Finnula said, “Lord Hugo has to die. When he does, Monsieur Laroche will reveal himself.”

“Aye. But Lord Hugo isn't dead, Finnula, and if my men and I have our way, no one will be able to get near enough to him to do him any harm.”

“But supposing,” Finnula said, “that Lord Hugo was not to recover from his wound. Supposing—just supposing—Lord Hugo were to die tonight…”

Sheriff de Brissac stared down at the girl in horror. “Know you what you say? Are you suggesting—”

“—that we announce publicly that Lord Hugo has died, and that I am to hang for his murder,” Finnula finished for him, shortly.

“But—”

“That news will bring Laroche out of hiding far sooner than any effort on our part to find him.”

“But 'twould be a lie!”

Finnula looked impatient. “Of course 'twould be a lie! Think you I meant we should kill my husband in truth? Are you a lack-wit?”

Taken aback at being called a lack-wit, the sheriff could only stammer wordlessly as Finnula paced the room, outlining her plan.

“'Twould be a simple thing to convince the world that Hugo has died. Keep him out of sight and do not let even Mistress Laver know he yet lives. Orders for a coffin can be sent, and plans laid for a fine funeral. Word spreads that Lord Hugo has died of his
wound, and that I am to hang. The Laroches return, with Peter. You promptly interrogate them, and, when the truth comes out, because the boy Peter will crack like an egg, I assure you, arrest them for kidnapping and attempted murder. How difficult is that to understand?” She shot him a disdainful look, remembering all the times he'd threatened to arrest her for significantly less than murder.

Sheriff de Brissac shook his head. “But will your husband go along with it? He was a soldier, remember, long before he was ever an earl. For a man of his nature to play dead…'twill not sit well with him…”

“Would he rather his son die?” Finnula's asperity was ill-disguised. “I think not. Explain it to him as I have explained it to you, and he will agree to the scheme readily enough.”

Sheriff de Brissac lifted a hand to his beard and stroked it, obviously deep in thought. To Finnula the pause was dreadful. She knew her plan had merit; indeed, it was the only way she could perceive of ever catching a man of Reginald Laroche's cleverness. She liked John de Brissac, liked him very much indeed, in spite of the fact that he had arrested her and subjected her to his horrible mother.