Ransom My Heart (4 page)

“Bloody hell,” muttered Hugo, rolling his eyes.

“Dick,” cried the innkeeper, leaving his taps and glowering furiously. “Let the man alone. I won't have fightin' in me place—”

“If the bloke tosses us 'is purse,” sneered the smaller man, who appeared to be known as Dick, “there won't be any fightin', Simon. We'll call it an even trade, won't we, Timmy?”

The giant grunted, giving Peter a shake. “Aye.”

Three things occurred simultaneously just then. The first was that Peter, suddenly discovering that he had a backbone, or at least
teeth
, sank them into Timmy's arm. Timmy bellowed and released the boy, just as Dick, trying to illustrate to Hugo the seriousness of his intent, lunged at the squire with the business end of a very sharp stiletto. Hugo, witnessing the gleam of the knifepoint, unsheathed his sword and flung himself at the evil-minded Dick, only to find himself tripping over Simon, the innkeeper, who had decided to dive for the gold Hugo'd left on his table, in an effort to keep it from being lost in the fray.

The innkeeper ought to have stayed put. Hugo, in a desperate attempt not to kill some innocent soul with his blade, smashed a heavy shoulder into the table, shattering it and sending the coins flying across the room. Sprawled on his back upon the floor, Hugo found himself blinking at the crossbeams, the breath knocked out of him. The next thing he knew, the ferret-faced Dick had pounced, both of his scabby knees pressing down upon Hugo's sword arm before he could raise the weapon. Dick's small, rodentlike eyes sparkled with greed as his stiletto pressed against
Hugo's throat, recognizing the bigger man's unexpected disadvantage.

“Nice somersault, that,” Dick complimented him with a smile that revealed a mouthful of rotting teeth. “Now cough up them coins—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hugo saw that Timmy had caught Peter again, and was pulling out tufts of the lad's hair as recompense for biting him. Peter caterwauled while the rest of the inn's clientele scattered in four directions, with the exception of the innkeeper, who was still scrambling about the floor, looking for his money.

Hugo sighed. He still had his dagger in his left boot, tucked there for occasions exactly like this one. He'd draw the blade across Dick's throat before the footpad could whistle fare-thee-well, though Hugo didn't much like the idea of getting his cloak bloodied. Lord, he was sick of death.

“Very well.” Hugo sighed again, feigning surrender. “Take it.”

But the moment Dick's hand went for the purse at Hugo's belt, something whizzed past the cutthroat's cheek and buried itself through the thick sleeve of Dick's jerkin, pinning his arm to the floor just between Hugo's legs. Hugo had jerked his own hand back just in time to keep it from being impaled.

Staring down his long torso in disbelief, Hugo saw that a violet-tipped arrow had embedded itself deeply into the floor-boards, missing not only his hand but his most prized treasure of all by a mere two inches. Dick's arm was trapped against Hugo's legs, and the shock of how close the projectile had come to splitting his hand in half caused the cutthroat to whimper.

Hugo looked up just in time to see the girl the innkeeper had called Finn turning to level an arrow at Timmy's broad back. This time, she calmly warned her intended victim.

“Let the boy go or I'll sever your spine.”

The giant froze. Then, rotating slowly, Peter writhing in his arms, Timmy looked from Finn to his partner, trapped against Hugo and the floor.

“Gor,” the simple man gulped. “Don't shoot, lass. Dick and I didn't mean nofink—”

He released Peter, who staggered away, clutching his head and moaning, Hugo thought, a bit louder than necessary.

The auburn-haired girl lowered her bow and approached Hugo, her lovely face as unconcerned as if she'd just brought in the washing. She studiously ignored Dick, despite his whimpered moans, and did not so much as glance at Hugo as she bent, wrapped slender fingers round the arrow's shaft, and gently worked the missile out of the wood in which it had been embedded.

While she was so close, Hugo could not help staring, and he did so unabashedly, taking in the smooth white skin, tinged pink at lip and cheek, the long, oddly dark eyelashes, the flowery fragrance of her. He was not generally dumbstruck in the presence of women—far from it, actually—but for the life of him, he could think of nothing to say to this maid, not even when her hand was but an inch from his—

“Ah,” the girl said, finally drawing forth her arrow, intact, from the floor. She examined the tip critically, thumbing the point to check its sharpness. She was apparently pleased with the result, since her pretty face broke into a smile that revealed a set of even white teeth. “Well, look at that,” she said to herself. “Thought for certain this one was lost for good.”

The minute he was free, the hapless Dick scrambled to his feet, cursing fluently and flapping the arm that had been pinned to the floor.

“Damned bloody bitch,” he howled. “What'd ye do that for? We was only havin' a bit o' fun. Weren't we, Timmy? Jus' a bit o' fun with the knight—”

Finnula Crais wasn't listening, however. She slid the undamaged arrow back into her quiver and calmly, with a last, appraising glance at Hugo, slipped out the door.

Hugo was on his feet in a split second, dodging the innkeeper, who was still on his hands and knees searching for coin, and the hopping-mad Dick, as well as the wreckage of the table he'd smashed. But though he reached the door perhaps a second or two after the girl, she had disappeared, as suddenly as she'd appeared in the first place. He looked up and down the cobblestoned street for some sign of the lass, but saw no trace of her.

He was swearing to himself when Peter approached, panting for breath.

“Did you see that, my lord?” the boy asked excitedly. “I never saw anyone in my life handle a bow like that. She lifted that thing like it was a part of her arm. Did you see it?”

Hugo, still scanning the crowded street for the girl, growled menacingly in response. The boy either did not hear him, or unwisely chose to pursue the topic in spite of his master's warning.

“Saved our lives, I think she did, my lord. Why do you think she bothered? Wee lass like that, you'd think it would be
us
that would be doing the rescuing, eh, my lord? But she fair took that Dick's hand off—” Then, in a different tone: “My lord, why do you look like that? Is aught the matter?”

Hugo shook himself. Was aught the matter? Who was this Finnula Crais, that she threw him into such a panic of emotion with a single look? Hundreds of women had looked at him in his lifetime, and he'd never reacted like this before. Nay, he'd quite naturally and happily lured them into his bed, and a pleasant time was had by all. What was it about that ridiculously dressed,
cunning little redhead that had sent him chasing her, like a tom after a she-cat in heat?

“Come, my lord,” Peter cried, excitedly. “She can't have got far. Let me run after her—”

Hugo caught the boy by the arm, nearly yanking him off his feet. “You'll do nothing of the kind. Go and fetch the horses. We're leaving this place posthaste.”

Peter stamped his booted foot. He had gotten over the scare the giant had given him, and had looked forward to an exchange of pleasantries with the pert little maid in the leather chausses, the like of which even he, used to every type of woman London could afford, from nearly naked dancers to princesses of the blood, had never before encountered. But the girl had run away, and his master, in a fit of churlish pique, would not allow him to search for her.

“She wouldn't be hard to find,” Peter grumbled. “A redheaded lass in braies is sure to be noticed wherever she goes. I wager we could find her in less than an hour. And we owe her our lives, my lord. Or at least a purse—”

Hugo's only response was to growl again.

“What ails you, my lord?” Peter demanded, unwisely. He could not, for the life of him, fathom why His Lordship wouldn't want to look for their rescuer. “Think you the maid a sorceress, that you run so feverishly from her?”

Hugo glowered down at the impertinent lad, his own gaze every bit as piercing as the maid's, though Hugo's eyes were a changeable hazel that even now glinted gold with anger.

“Nay,” he snapped, taking long strides toward the public stables. “But she showed overmuch interest in us, a wandering knight, returning from the Crusades, and his raw squire.”

“Aye,” Peter readily agreed. “And I was enjoying her interest mightily.”

“I could see that.” Hugo's tone was sardonic, although the humor in his voice was not reflected on his stern features. “But of what interest could either of us be to so comely a maid, who is surely spoken for by some village smithy or local knight?”

Peter would have liked to reply that he himself would quite obviously be of romantic interest to any maid, however comely, but he didn't like to pass himself off as a braggart. He was quite certain that it was he, and not his master, that interested the auburntressed maid. Why would any girl be interested in a thickly bearded fellow likely twice her age, and dressed quite scruffily in spite of his fortune and title? Whereas Peter himself wore the shiniest gold necklace at his throat, and an expensive velvet tunic that, though not exactly suited to sleeping outdoors, clearly indicated his elevated rank of royal squire. What did it matter that both items had been purchased for him by his new lord? The girl didn't have to know that.

But now his master was speaking again, in that deep, rumbling voice that Peter alternately envied and feared.

“I do not wish us to attract undue attention,” Hugo explained, in a tone he hoped did not sound condescending. Curse and rot his vassal for falling to that scimitar, and leaving him saddled with this pup! “Though any hope of that has been dashed by those men back there. Still, we'd best leave the girl be, since there is no attention worse than that of the father or brother of a virgin maid—”

“Ah,” Peter said slyly. “Like that dancing girl what you had in London last fortnight, my lord? The one who called her procurer when you—”

Hugo glared down at the boy, his eyes tawny with impatience. “Nay, not like her, lad,” he growled, but would not elaborate. Instead, he again bade Peter fetch the horses.

As he stood on the cobblestones, his hazel eyes alert for a
glimpse of auburn, all of Hugo's thoughts centered on the rounded derriere of the fetching Finnula. How had the girl learned to use a bow like that? And why had she taken it upon herself to save him? Women had certainly changed since Hugo had last been in England. Now they not only gadded about by themselves in boy's clothing, but slung quivers over their backs and arbitrarily shot at footpads. Although, Hugo thought, Lord knew that any woman who was going to dress like that needed to defend herself…most particularly from men like Hugo.

Trying hard to turn his mind to a higher plane, Hugo forced himself to think not of Finnula Crais's backside, but of Stephensgate Manor, and all the work that would be required of him to put right what his father had no doubt torn hopelessly asunder, as was his foolish wont. Still, those mist-gray eyes plagued him, even after he'd mounted his steed and urged the stallion forward. Had he looked back once more he'd have seen those very eyes boring a veritable hole into his back, as Finnula made some swift mental calculations of her own.

F
innula knew what it was she had to do. She had chosen her quarry, had protected it from being had by another, and now she would lay her trap. But she set about her task with a heavy heart—not out of pity for her prey, but out of anger at herself…and, though she'd be loath to admit it, at Mellana.

She knew she ought never to have agreed to this ridiculous undertaking. If Robert heard of it, and he was bound to, he really might wear a hole in the seat of her chausses, as he'd always threatened…or at least he'd attempt to catch her to try. Finnula was not some common-born milkmaid that she could act with such caprice and not expect the censure of her family. Though they were not titled or landed, the Crais family had operated the Earl of Stephensgate's mill for many a generation, and were one of the most respected families in the community. For a daugh
ter of Phillip and Helene Crais to take part in something so…
common
…was unthinkable. Why, what would people think?

And Mellana's insistence that “all the maids in Stephensgate” were engaging in man-napping in order to buy ingredients for ale brewing was small comfort. Finnula hadn't the slightest regard for the maids of Stephensgate, who seemed to have little on their minds save collecting hair ribbons and husbands. And, of course, there was the small matter of the church, which expressly frowned upon the practice, a fact Finnula had pointed out to Mellana, that day in the kitchen.

“Mellana, you've taken leave of your senses,” Finnula had declared tartly. “The fact that all of Stephensgate takes part in so pagan a practice means naught to me—”

“'Tis
not
a pagan practice.” Mellana sniffed indignantly. “Isabella Laroche has done it dozens of times, and she—”

“Isabella Laroche is a trollop and a fool.” Finnula's patience was wearing thin. “Don't you dare deny, Mellana, that she will lift her skirts for anything in chausses. God's teeth, she's mistaken
me
for a youth many a time and asked me into the manor house for a drop of ale. Of course a woman like that would think nothing of abducting a man and holding him for ransom. But you know as well as I that during his last sermon, Father Edward decried the practice most energetically—”

“And you know as well as I that Father Edward seeks his pleasure with Fat Maude in the village,” hissed Mellana.

Finnula conceded the fact with an uncomfortable shrug of her shoulders. She had not known that Mellana was aware of such matters and wondered who'd told the girl. That damned Isabella, no doubt. That the priest was a hypocrite, Finnula would be the first to agree. But he was basically a good man, doing what he could with a poor parish and a manor that had been lordless for over a year. Seeing that none of her arguments bore any weight
with her suddenly willful sister, Finnula accepted her fate with ill grace.

“All right,” she grumbled. “I'll capture a man for you, and bring him here, and you can hold him for ransom and use the cursed gilt you get for him for hops or a dowry or whatever will you. Just don't, I beg you, Mellana, let Robert find out.” Finnula shook her head. “He'll kill us both.”

Mellana, her sapphire eyes sparkling with jubilation over her victory, chose to treat her younger sister magnanimously. “Oh, you exaggerate. Robert loves you best of all his sisters, sweet Finn. He lets you walk all over him.”

“You didn't see him after the sheriff's visit.” Sighing, Finnula looked down at her hands, which, despite the calluses on her fingertips, were quite slim and beautiful. “I'm well-used to trapping dumb animals, Mellana, but how am I ever to snare a man?”

Mellana, having gained her way, had lost interest in the details of the matter. “Lord, I don't know,” she declared, fluffing out her hair so that she could join the rest of the family in their merrymaking in the room next door. “Just make sure he isn't from Stephensgate.”

“
What?
” Finnula looked up, her large gray eyes filled with dismay. “Not from Stephensgate? You want me to abduct a
stranger
?”

“Well, of course. Isabella has already ransomed every man in the village at least once. And Shrewsbury and Dorchester, too. Their families won't pay a second time. The practice does lose its charm if overused—”

Finnula let loose some of her finest expletives, and Mellana, genuinely shocked, huffed away, leaving her younger sister glaring at the flagstones.

To abduct a stranger, Finnula fretted to herself, she'd have to travel the two days' distance to the nearest large village. She
was a frequent visitor to Leesbury, of course, since her poaching forays sometimes took her in that direction, and Patricia's brother-in-law, Simon, ran the inn there and he wasn't stingy with the ale, but she didn't have much faith that the residents of the slightly more cosmopolitan village would find the practice of man-trapping amusing.
Their
parish priest wasn't nearly so liberal as her own, and might very well frown upon what in Stephensgate and Dorchester was considered a piquant custom.

But when Finnula saw the gold coin that the bearded traveler had thrown to Simon at the Fox and Hare, she knew that she'd found the ideal quarry. Obviously not from Leesbury, the tall man had both purse and a manservant, and, she soon saw, with just a little investigation, a fine destrier for a mount. Here was a man well-placed in life.

That she sparked an interest in the man equal to the one he sparked in her, she saw at once, though she knew it was for entirely different reasons. Finnula did not consider herself at all beautiful. No, Mellana, with her voluptuous figure and blond curls was the beauty in the family.

But Finnula couldn't help noticing that of late, she'd been attracting more and more masculine stares, and the fact was the cause of no little discomfort to her. Indeed, the change her passage from lanky girlhood into graceful womanhood had wrought on her looks was a primary source of irritation for her. It had, after all, caused the disaster that had been her short-lived marriage, and proven quite a hindrance during her pursuit of game: She was constantly being admonished by well-meaning husbandmen that she ought not to roam the countryside in chausses, and that it was a needle, not a bow, she ought to be wielding.

But conversely, her newfound attractiveness to the opposite sex had proven useful at times. She had all but charmed the shire reeve into overlooking her various violations of poaching laws.
And there wasn't a merchant in the village who wasn't paying more handsomely than ever for the legally obtained game she sold them, and boasting to his customers that the fowl had been shot by none other than the Fair Finn. Like Diana and Artemis, the pagan huntress goddesses of old, Finnula's reputation as a lovely archer did not harm as much as help in her endeavor to feed the hungry of Stephensgate.

And of course, now that she had gotten herself into the man-hunting business, she intended to use her own winsome beauty as bait.

That the tall, bearded stranger might not rise to the lure never crossed Finnula's mind. She had seen the way his eyes had raked her when she'd entered the inn. There was hunger in his glance, though she'd seen caution there, too. Not enough of the latter, since he'd managed to get himself into that scrape with that pair of footpads. Still, perhaps he'd learned from his mistake: When she'd followed him apace, she saw with approval that he steered clear of main thoroughfares.

His cautiousness, however, would be his undoing, because by sticking to sheep trails instead of the road, he'd be drawn directly into her most heavily hunted territory, the hills surrounding Stephensgate, and in particular, the earl's demesnes.

When the tall man and his boy set off in such haste from Leesbury, they unknowingly picked up a third member to their party. Finnula followed at a discreet distance, keeping to the shelter of the trees and allowing a slack rein to her mount, an unremarkable-looking mare she'd had since childhood that was nevertheless as highly trained as any knight's destrier. The horse, whom Finnula had named Violet in an unguarded moment of ten-year-old fancy, had learned to tread quietly over forest bracken and to stand as still as stone while her mistress was in pursuit of quarry, and also knew enough to amble back to the millhouse when Finnula set
her in the right direction and whacked her on the rump. In all, the two made an awe-inspiring team, working together as well as any partners in crime.

Finnula watched the pair of travelers with keen interest, taking in as many details about them as she could. The man, the one she sought, was carefully dressed to reveal as little as possible about himself. Like the thick, tawny beard that hid his features, the untrimmed cloak, shapeless tunic, and plain chausses revealed nothing about the size of the purse carried upon his belt. There was no disguising his size, however, which was impressive. Why, he was probably taller than Robert, who stood over six feet tall.

The boy, however, hardly looked a challenge. Of medium height, he aped his better by overdressing in a velvet tunic and brightly colored hose. He, she thought, would definitely benefit from a treetop snare. The man, though. The man would require more finesse.

Unlike many hunters she knew, it was the pursuit, not the kill, that Finnula most enjoyed. The game she shot, she shot because she knew of families without meat on their tables. The good Lord had seen fit to give her unerring aim and a steady arm, so she felt it her duty to see those less fortunate well-fed.

But she didn't enjoy killing, and did so only when strictly necessary. Stalking prey was much more to her tastes, and trapping it in her own nonlethal traps even more satisfying. That she invariably released the animals she trapped few people knew, and even fewer were aware of the number of animals that, finding them in the traps of others, she also set free. She particularly disliked the cruel metal traps that the earl's woodsman set out to catch wolves, and whenever she encountered one, she quickly buried it where she knew old Tom would never find it again.

But there was something to be said for the chase, for the stalking, and though she never would have admitted it to Mellana,
Finnula thought there was a chance that she might just enjoy pursuing this particular quarry. How much more interesting to hunt an opponent of some intelligence, and not some dumb animal. Of course, he was a man, which automatically made him her intellectual inferior, since Finnula had never encountered a man whose wit rivaled her own—and that included her now-deceased husband. But still, it would be a challenge worthy of the Fair Finn, and it was with a happily thumping heart that she trailed him.

But when it became apparent to Finnula that the stranger seemed to know the countryside and was heading toward Stephensgate, she realized with a sinking feeling what she was going to have to do. She was loath to try it, since the last time it had produced such dreadful consequences. But if she didn't act soon, she'd lose her prey, and who knew when she'd find another so promising? She couldn't let Mellana down, not after she'd promised. Besides, she was a year older and wiser now. And this time, she would be in control. She'd be expecting him, and she'd be prepared.

Taking up Violet's reins, she urged the mare well ahead of the traveler and his servant, and hastily, but with practiced care, made the preparations.