Medieval Rogues (75 page)

Her lips set in an angry line, she marched forward, her silk gown rustling.

He caught her arm, his hand sliding down to lock around her wrist. With just that simple touch, desire leapt within him, feeding the hunger focused in his groin. “There is one more thing you will do, milady.”

She glared at him, a hint of fear in her eyes, while he took a spare hood from one of his men and held it before her. When confusion touched her gaze, he said, “You will wear it so the eye slits are at the back of your head.”

“Why? So I will not see where we are going?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “Neither can you run away.”

***

Miranda walked along, fallen leaves crunching beneath her shoes. With her eyes covered by the snug hood, she saw only blackness.

A hostage of that darkness, though, her senses awoke in ways she’d never felt before. She was intensely aware of the sweetish smell of the soft leather against her skin, the voices of the outlaws farther away in the woods as well as those surrounding her, and the warmth of the rogue’s hand on her arm as he led her forward. His firm grip, while guiding her, also prevented her from reaching up and pulling off the hood.

She shivered, for she loathed him walking so close that his leg brushed her cloak. His scent, too, teased her, for its mix of leather and soap seemed odd for an outlaw who called the damp, earthy forest home. She wished she hated the way he smelled. To her shame, his scent enticed her and left curious warmth in her lower belly.

His manner of speech, too, was far more refined than she’d expected. His flawless French hinted at an educated, noble breeding.

Was he a lord turned mercenary? He might be a rogue nobleman with a grievance against Bram, who’d taken her hostage to blackmail her betrothed or demand a ransom for her release. Her innards clenched. She couldn’t bear to think of her beloved Bram being coerced into negotiations with dangerous outlaws to win her freedom.

Her foot knocked a fallen branch. She stumbled, throwing out her bound hands to break her fall.

“I have you.” The rogue’s voice rumbled close to her ear, sending a spiral of wicked heat down her spine as he drew her upright and forced her to continue walking.

Anxiety cut through the relief that he’d caught her. The fact he looked after her meant she was valuable to him, as a pawn for ransom.

Or worse.

She’d never forget the way he’d looked at her, with such sensual hunger, her breath had frozen in her lungs. He obviously desired her. Had he taken her captive to ruin her before her wedding night?

Terror raced through Miranda, quickening her pulse to a sickly pounding. That would
not
happen. As soon as possible, she would escape.

“Get the door,” the rogue said.

“Aye, milord.”

Footfalls beside Miranda quickened, telling her that several thugs hurried on ahead. Even as she made a mental note that they’d soon enter a building, shock wove through her. The lackey had called the rogue ‘milord.’

A
creak
sounded, and the rogue drew her into an area that smelled of wood smoke. A door thumped shut behind her, and he released her arm. He was nearby, though. She sensed his stare prowling over her, while he spoke in hushed tones to others with him.

Unease licked through her. Whatever his intentions, she wouldn’t stand here, hooded like an obedient falcon, awaiting his command.

Reaching up her bound hands, she yanked the hood from her face and looked about. She was inside a dirt-floored cottage, sparsely furnished. Her gaze flicked over the scarred oak table with benches on either side, the stocked cupboard with its doors hanging ajar, and, across the room, several straw pallets. The rogue stood beside them, speaking with four of his men.

Miranda spun to face the door, desperate hope pounding inside her. She might be able to get out the door and run . . .

As she reached for the handle, a broad arm looped around her waist and jerked her back against a hard body that smelled dangerously familiar.

The rogue’s snarl rumbled against her ear. “You are mine now.”

His?
Never. She belonged to Bram.

Tears burning her eyes, she kicked out at the rogue and thrashed in his arms, even as two more men moved in front of her and sliced her bonds. Before she could strike out at them, the rogue grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms behind her, tying them again with a swiftness that brought a scream of frustration wrenching up in her throat.

Pulling her backward by her hands, he forced her to sit upon the bench, the lower half of her cloak sliding to her sides to reveal the blue shimmer of her gown. He leaned in behind her, and his hands brushed against her lower back. Through her cloak, the feather light touch caused a hot-cold shiver to trail through her.

“Do not touch me!” Miranda cried. Even as she fought anew, he caught hold of her ropes and pulled her hands slightly backward. Oh, mercy. He was securing her to the table leg.

He stepped away, tugging down his tunic sleeves, and waved his men away. They left, shutting the door behind them.

She was alone with him.

Swallowing down a frightened moan, she looked up at him, standing before her with his hands on his hips. As their gazes locked through the slits of his mask, he smiled.

“You smile now,” she said. “My betrothed will find me. When he does, he will kill you.”

***

Defiance blazed in her beautiful eyes which glinted as hard and bright as gemstones. This was the Miranda he remembered.

A fresh stirring of desire whipped through him. With it came intense rage toward the man she called her betrothed. She spoke of him as if he were an honorable knight who’d ride to her rescue, not a soulless, murderous thief.

He claimed the distance between them, aware of her sharp intake of breath, the hardness of her knees pressing against his shins. Catching her face with his hand, he forced her chin up. “He will kill me for forcing you from your horse and taking you captive?”

“Aye,” she bit out.

He slid his thumb along the warm silk of her jaw, feeling her tremble. How he longed to caress her naked skin, to nibble the tender spot behind her ear, to finally make her
his
. “He will kill me for touching you.”

“Aye.”

Leaning toward her, he said, “Then he will certainly kill me for kissing you.”

She tried to wrench her face away, but he held her firm. Covering her mouth with his, he slid his tongue over the plump softness of her lips. When she gasped, he claimed the warm wetness of her mouth. Again and again he thrust his tongue, hungry for her sweetness, starved for her shocked little whimpers that made his manhood as hard as stone.

He stepped back, forcing out a breath on a hiss.

She stared up at him, eyes huge, looking dazed. “I-I promise you, Lord Bramwell Hawksley will—”

A growl tore from his throat. How foolish, that he’d thought that kiss would tell her who he was. She’d obviously forgotten him long ago.

Reaching around his head, he unfastened the ties of his mask and yanked it off. “
I
am Bramwell Hawksley.”
 

Chapter Two

Miranda glared at the rogue. “You lie.” He claimed to be her betrothed? What wickedness!

As the mask drew away from his face, she stared at the door across the room. She would
not
honor him by acknowledging him unmasked, as he clearly wanted.

In truth, though, she
had
to look away. The thrilling heat of his kiss still scorched her lips, still fired a sinful wanting in that secret place between her legs. Such sensations were forbidden to a betrothed maiden.

“Do I lie, Miranda?” the rogue said, his voice akin to a caress.

His words, though, challenged her to look upon his features. They also revealed he knew her first name. That didn’t prove he was Bram. He could have learned her name from any of the folk in the village, including the merchants she frequented in the local market.

Still avoiding his gaze, she bit down on her lip and fought a hot blush of shame. By yielding to his kiss, she’d betrayed the man she was to wed. Kisses were an expression of love. This brazen outlaw, one she’d never willingly kiss, had managed to claim her mouth most thoroughly.

She should have stopped him. She should have been repulsed by his violation of her mouth. But, of all mortifying things, she’d craved more. The sweep of his lips, the lash of his tongue, had stirred such emotions within her, feelings she still hadn’t experienced in the presence of the lord who was to be her husband.

The only time she’d felt such sensations had been years ago, when Bram had kissed her.

“I can make you look upon me,” the rogue said with a rough laugh. “Is that what you want? For me to force you? For me to touch you—kiss you—again?”

Fighting the shivers of anticipation roused by his words, she found strength in her anger and shifted her gaze to look at him. His dark hair, thick and straight, fell back around a face defined by bold cheekbones, a strong nose, and squared jaw.

A gash cut across his right cheek. The injury looked weeks old, and not fully healed.

Her belly swooped, for despite the wound, he was very handsome. His features did remind her of the lad she’d known years ago. How perplexing, that both he and the man awaiting her at Dreyswell looked so much like the Bram she remembered—as though they could be brothers.

She’d heard long ago that Bram had a brother, although she’d never met him.

As the rogue’s eyebrows slowly raised, a gesture implying he expected a response from her, she mentally snatched at all she remembered about Bram. He’d arrived on foot at her father’s castle one blistering summer day, sent by a lord who’d had enough of Bram’s insolence. Miranda’s sire had agreed to take Bram in, as long as he’d honor the rules of the keep.

Bram had only been at the keep a couple of weeks when Miranda had arrived to visit her family. Watching the lanky newcomer train with the other squires, Miranda hadn’t perceived unruliness, but sharp intelligence and determination to be the best of his group. His wry wit had given him the self-confidence to laugh at his own mistakes, as well as those of his colleagues.

This rogue’s hard expression held not a hint of teasing laughter. His eyes, hard with determination, held none of the mischief she’d loved about Bram.

“Do you believe me?” The rogue’s voice held the faintest trace of longing.

As she studied him, she wondered, with a tingle of unease, if he could be Bram. He looked the age Bram would be now, and his features held a resemblance. But the Bram she remembered had aimed to become a knight, sworn to champion the king’s authority in England with his sword and unflinching loyalty. He’d spoken of one day ruling his father's fortress. ’Twas, after all, his noble duty, being his sire’s first-born son and heir.

Nay, this outlaw couldn’t be Bram. He must be Bram’s brother.

For some reason yet unknown to her, this rogue planned to use his resemblance to Bram to his advantage. However, she’d do all within her means to thwart him.

Only one man was Bram: the lord expecting her to arrive at his castle. The lord who owned the very ground this cottage was built upon, and who’d send his army to find her when she failed to arrive.

Twisting her bound hands to ease the pinch of the ropes, she leveled the rogue a cold stare. “You might resemble the Bram I once knew—”

“—because I am.”

“The lord awaiting me is my Bram.”

As she spoke the words “my Bram,” the rogue’s gaze flickered. Bitterness tightened his features.

“The man you know as your betrothed is my half-brother, Roden. We had the same father, but different mothers. When my mother died soon after birthing me, my sire remarried.” As though sensing the protest welling up inside her, the rogue added, “Roden is fourteen months younger than I. He and I were told many times that our looks favored our father.”

Miranda swallowed hard. What he’d said about the older Lord Hawksley marrying twice was true. Still, that didn’t mean this rogue was Bram.

More likely he was Roden, trying to undermine Bram.

Through her.

He took a step closer, the leather of his boots creaking, the raw masculinity of him so silently powerful. How keenly, shamefully, her body responded to the silent call of that maleness. Her breaths quickened, heat sparked low in her womb, and her skin tingled as though waiting for his forbidden touch.

Oh, mercy, if he kissed her again . . .

He wouldn’t. She couldn’t let him, for her body would betray her.

Determined to stay in control of her senses, she forced herself to hold his gaze, to pretend she wasn’t afraid of his nearness. “If you are Bram, why are you living in the forest among outlaws?”

A harsh chuckle broke from him. “Why indeed.”

“Why hide behind a mask, when you are a lord?” she rushed on, determined to have answers to the questions whirling around in her mind. “What is the purpose of concealing your features, except to terrify those who look upon you and add to the impression you are the worst kind of criminal?”

Wry humor touched his dark gaze. “You are well versed in what makes the ‘worst kind of criminal,’ Miranda?”