His Lady's Ransom

“Aye,” she acknowledged with a sigh. “Would that it were any man other than this one.”

“I don’t know him well, but he has a reputation for being fair and evenhanded with those in his care.”

“Oh, so? He threatened to beat me but a few moments ago.”

John’s black brows flew up in astonishment. “Lord Ian?”

“Aye, Lord Ian.”

“What start is this? You can twist any male old enough to wear braies around your finger with your lightsome laugh and slanting, sloe-eyed looks. I’ve seen you do it often enough.”

“’Twould appear the earl cares not for my laugh, nor for my looks!”

John appeared thoroughly taken aback for a moment. Then he curled one knuckle under Madeline’s chin to lift her face to his.

“If he does not, I do.”

Madeline felt her breath catch at the dark, lambent flame that flared in his eyes. Not for the first time, she wondered why she didn’t give in to the invitation John issued each time he touched her of late. She was no stranger to desire, for all that she’d tasted it briefly enough in her short marriages. She’d seen it more and more in the looks the prince gave her since she’d returned to the king’s ward this time. From the way his finger now moved softly on the skin of her underjaw, Madeline knew she had just to smile, to give the barest nod, and he’d take her to his bed. As the court believed he already had.

The thought flitted into her mind that if she lay with John, mayhap he would try again to convince the king to give de Burgh gold or some other rich widow as ransom. As quickly as the thought came, she dismissed it. She had little enough control over her life, but she had her own sense of honor. Were she to whore with John—whatever the troubadours chose to call it—she would lose that small part of herself she held dearest.

In that tiny corner of her soul, the one she kept private, Madeline knew she wanted more than what John offered. Much as she loved this friend of her heart, she felt no passion for him. No shivers raced down her spine at his glance. Her blood didn’t leap in her veins when he pressed his lips to hers in greeting. She experienced none of the wild tumult at John’s touch that she had in de Burgh’s rough embrace. Feeling as though she were about to take the first step down some unknown path, Madeline slipped her chin free of John’s caressing hold.

“What,” she teased, “such sweet words from the one who put a beetle down my back that time your lady mother came to inspect the maidens’ progress with the bow?”

Accepting the gentle rebuff, John let his hand fall and stepped back. “You know you have but to call me, Madeline, and I will come to you.”

“Aye, my lord,” she said softly. “I know.”

He gave her a twisted grin. “Just smile that way at de Burgh, and you’ll soon have him dancing to your tune.”

“But for now,” she admitted, resignation threading her voice, “I must dance to his.”

“If I know you, ‘twill be a merry dance.”

“Well, a lively one, at any rate.”

Madeline hesitated, reluctant to say farewell, yet knowing she must. A wrenching sense of loss filled her. Somehow this leaving seemed more final than when she had left the king’s ward—and John—before.

“I must go, my lord,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “The accursed man gave me but an hour to ready myself. I leave this very afternoon.”

“Get you gone, then. And God be with you, Maddy.”

“And with you, my lord.”

Madeline swept him a deep curtsy, elegant despite the wet hair that tumbled over her shoulders and the bare ankles that showed over her boot top.

John bowed, then opened the chapel door for her. He stood unmoving for long moments, watching her slight figure disappear around a bend in the high-ceiling corridor. The hand resting on his jeweled belt tightened until the stones cut into his palm.

The journey did not begin auspiciously.

By dint of frenzied effort, Madeline was almost ready when a page knocked on the door and announced that the earl awaited her in the bailey. With a last, resigned glance at the garments still spilling haphazardly out of the wardrobe, Madeline directed her second serving woman to bring them later and slammed the lid of a small trunk.

De Burgh had said to take with her only what she needed for the journey. It would’ve helped considerably in her packing if she’d known just how long a journey she faced, and to where. As it was, she’d stuffed clean linens, two extra robes, her jewel casket and a small case with her pots of cosmetics, her combs and the silvered mirror her first husband had given her into the leather trunk.

Signaling to the page to shoulder the trunk, Madeline sat down to pull on an extra pair of stockings, then laced up her boots. She stood and smoothed the skirts of her warmest robe, a fine merino wool dyed a rich crimson and adorned with tabard sleeves that draped nearly to the floor. With her now neatly braided hair caught in cauls of woven silver yarn and covered by a silken veil held in place with a guirlande of beaten silver, she felt ready to face the earl. Gerda handed her a hooded cloak, silvery gray in color and lined with marten fur. Wherever their destination, Madeline decided, she would be warm enough for these cold days.

With the maid clumping behind her in thick-soled boots, her own bundle of possessions clutched to her breast, Madeline led the small procession through Kenilworth’s halls and out into the bailey. She stopped abruptly on the steps that led down from its main entrance.

“What is that?”

The squire who’d stepped forward to guide her down the worn, treacherous steps, glanced around uncertainly.

“What, my lady?”

“That!”

Madeline jerked her chin toward the wheeled vehicle with two horses harnessed in tandem that waited below. Its rounded roof was ornately carved and hung with thick curtains.

The squire looked completely baffled by her question. “’Tis…’tis a litter, my lady. My lord arranged it for your comfort on the journey.”

Madeline shuddered at the thought of being enclosed within those smothering curtains. Lifting her skirts, she descended the rest of the steps. A tall figure detached itself from the group of men who waited beside the horses and strode toward her.

“Are you ready, my lady?” de Burgh said, courteously enough, as though he’d not mauled her in her bath but an hour since.

The knowledge that she was in this man’s power ate like a worm inside her belly, but she would, perforce, have to go with him. The manner of her going, however, was yet to be decided.

“Aye,” Madeline replied, lifting her skirts. “I’m ready. But I would…” She trailed off in surprise when he stood immovable before her.

“Aye, my lord,” he corrected softly.

Heat flooded her cheeks. For a long moment they faced each other, she and de Burgh, green eyes locked with blue. The stamping of the horses as they shifted on the hard cobbles and the murmuring of the men behind them went unheard. There was only this lean, unyielding man filling her vision, his breath brushing her cheeks.

One of the horses teamed in harness shivered in the cold and stepped back, causing the litter to shift and rattle on the cobbles. Madeline caught the movement from the corner of one eye.

She swallowed, and swung her gaze back to de Burgh. “Aye, my lord, I’m ready.”

He had half turned away when her low voice stopped him.

“But I would ride my palfrey, if it pleases you.”

He frowned and gestured toward the litter. “You will be more comfortable within.”

Desperate, Madeline sought some means to sway him. She would not, she could not, climb into that box. Even if she traveled with the curtains drawn open as far as they would go, the tight confines would choke her. Nor could she admit the fear that had haunted her from childhood to this man and give him a weapon he might use against her.

Of a sudden, Madeline remembered John’s assurance that she could make any man dance to her tune did she but try. She wet her lips and forced them to curve in what she hoped would pass for a smile.

“I’m well horsed, my lord. My mare was a gift from my first husband, and I…I would not leave her here.”