My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (3 page)

“I won’t go with you,” Ysabelle declared.

Nicholas grappled with her, his hands gentle but firm.

Alex sat his horse, leaning his forearms on the prong of his saddle as he watched them. His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Are you having trouble with your betrothed, brother? Perhaps I might be of assistance.”

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the man. Ysabelle raked her fingernails across the Ram’s neck and he roared with anger. Raising her arms, she prepared to dodge his heavy fists, but no blow descended.

Without a word, Nicholas took her by the waist and lifted her into the saddle, then came up behind her in one fluid movement. She sat stunned, clutching the edge of the saddle with whitened knuckles. With his right arm, he held her firmly before him, taking the reins in his left hand. As she squirmed against him, she felt him clutch her in a vise she could not break. Instinctively, she knew this man was no bumbling fool like Sir Malcolm.

“Sit still,” he urged in a growling whisper.

She gasped as the warhorse pranced anxiously beneath them. When the animal reared and pawed the air, Ysabelle clamped her hands onto the Ram’s forearm. As the horse settled its hooves on the ground, Ysabelle’s grip tightened. She had no desire to be trampled by the beast.

With her back pressed tight against his chest, Nicholas Ramsay lowered his head and spoke against her ear. His voice was a low rumble that accented his Scottish burr with rolling R’s. “What manner of mon would you think me if I ignored our betrothal and allowed your king to wed you to another? Think what Lord Maston would have to say on the matter. He would be verra displeased.”

How dare he bring her father into this? “My father would want his people safe.”

He smelled of spice and leather and his warm breath sent tingles of sensation up her spine.

“Maston would have fought any king that tried to force him against his will. You’re mine, lass. I willna let you go.”

Ysabelle stilled. Though she hated to admit it, he spoke the truth. If the situation were reversed, she would never stand by and allow another to wed her betrothed without a fight.

Looking up, Ysabelle saw Lambert, her dead husband’s corpulent son, standing in the doorway of the great hall. Lambert’s fat lips tightened, his gaze hateful as he stared at her. A younger version of his father, he was closer to Ysabelle’s age and a better marriage choice. But she knew Lambert had no liking for her, except for her vast lands, which he had hoped to inherit upon Malcolm’s death. At the wedding feast earlier that evening, he’d told her as much, when no one but her could hear his words. With the Scots Ram stealing her away, it looked as though Sir Lambert would once again be landless and poor.

“My lady!” Ada stood twisting her fingers together, her face drawn in a mask of anguish.

The handmaiden ran toward Ysabelle and almost threw herself at one of the mounted Scots warriors, trying to climb into the man’s saddle. “You will not take Lady Ysabelle without me.”

Ysabelle cringed. “Please don’t harm her.”

Nicholas Ramsay barked a command and one of his soldiers snatched Ada. The woman uttered an indignant screech as the Scotsman plopped her onto the back of his horse. Following the Ram’s lead, they all turned and galloped off into the night.

Chapter Two

The thunder of horses charging across the moors pounded in Ysabelle’s ears. Though she hated to touch her captor, his solid forearms offered the most security on the galloping horse. As her fingers tightened around his muscular arm, a blast of memory filled her mind. Not from the past, but a dream of her future. A dark, handsome man smiling at her, followed by screams of pain, the spray of arrows and an inferno of fire.

Shaking her head, she focused on the present. The brutal speed of the destrier left her weak and shaking. Even having lived here all her life, she had no idea how the men saw their way across the dark moors and into the formidable Cheviot Hills. They seemed to know every knoll, every twisting path of this desolate land.

Numb with cold and shock, Ysabelle stared ahead. Thick clouds scuttled across the sky, hiding the moon from view. Hours passed as they traveled over the barren ground. The pace proved no hardship for these men and beasts seasoned for war. But for Ysabelle, a staggering fatigue overwhelmed her.

Blinking her weary eyes, she slumped against the Ram, drawn to his warmth in spite of herself. The rocking motion of the horse lulled her to doze, then jerk awake. She had no idea how much time had passed when they finally rode into a wooded valley. Shrouded in the dark night and shuddering in the wind, the birch trees appeared sinister.

Ysabelle shivered and tried to speak through chattering teeth. “We must stop.”

“Not yet.”

“I’m cold, and I must stop.”

She could feel him looking at her, his gaze boring into the back of her head like heated irons.

“You need to relieve yourself?” he asked.

The horrid man. Did he think her made of iron? Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as she nodded, praying he would relent.

With a sharp whistle and a wave of his hand, the Ram signaled his men. He slowed his stallion near a sheltering copse. The sloping specter of hills protected them from the frigid winds.

“We’ll rest here a few moments only,” he said.

Keeping hold upon the reins, he dismounted. Ah, he was shrewd. He must know how she longed to catch him unaware and kick his horse into a gallop that would speed her on to Sutcliffe and freedom.

Turning to clasp Ysabelle’s waist, he pulled her down against him. She had no choice but to place her hands against his shoulders for support. She was unprepared for the shock of contact with his solid strength. The heat of his body through the chain mail seemed to burn where it touched hers. As he set her on her feet, Ysabelle longed to move as far away from Nicholas Ramsay as possible.

Pulling away from his embrace, she cried out as she tried to stand on her left foot.

Ouch! A splinter from the shattered washbasin had imbedded itself near her toes and there had been no opportunity to remove it.

He pulled her close, taking her weight against himself. She looked into his eyes, which were visible beneath the darkness of his metal helm. She blinked and tried once again to move away. He held her firm and Ysabelle stood transfixed, intimidated by his size as he towered over her. A myriad of thoughts scrambled in her brain. Tales of ravished women left to die alone in the wilds, their bloodied and broken bodies never found on the desolate moors.

Would that be her end?

Taking a torch from one of the men, he handed it to Ysabelle and she held it like a dumb child. She was uncertain what he would do next, but his calmness certainly was not what she expected. He lifted her and she fought him, almost dropping the torch, thinking he planned to beat her.

“Hold still if you want your foot tended to,” he barked.

She had no choice but to trust him. For now.

Looping one arm around his corded neck, she held the torch high to light their way. He carried her to a boulder and set her on it, then removed his gauntlets. His long fingers appeared graceful, and strong. As he flexed his scarred hands, Ysabelle could just make out the hard calluses on his palms. No doubt he’d earned them wielding a sword. As a girl, she’d admired strong men who fought courageously in battle. Men like her father. Now, she felt intimated by such daring, highly conscious that she was a woman and could be used as nothing more than chattel.

His gaze locked with hers and she flinched at the coldness of his eyes. He didn’t speak. With more than a little trepidation, Ysabelle watched as he removed his helmet. In the next moment, she sucked in a breath of surprise.

His unruly hair was damp around his forehead and black as pitch. The length spilled to his shoulders like ribbons of water. Cheekbones high and saber-sharp graced his face along with a full, sculpted mouth. A slight cleft centered his blunt chin. Ysabelle could not help staring at it. Never had she seen a more handsome man and her throat tightened.

Ah, but his eyes! Dark as evil, they seemed harsh and cruel. Surely he had no kindness in his soul. Malcolm had repulsed her with his cruelty, but Nicholas Ramsay’s power and savage conduct were enough to make even the most valiant of men tremble.

What would her father say if he saw her quavering at the sight of this man? No doubt he would tease her for being such a coward.

Her hands tightened. She would not tremble like a frightened girl. The Ram was nothing to her but a captor she would soon be free from. She would be patient and bide her time, watching for a chance to escape.

He wore a bloody gash high on his forehead. The blow Malcolm had delivered with the ax must have been the cause. If the Ram had not worn a helm, he would have been killed. Versed as a healer, Ysabelle couldn’t contain the desire to help, but her tone sounded stilted. “You are hurt.”

“It’s nothing.” He knelt so he could take hold of her ankle.

“I can take care of it myself.” She tugged against his hand.

Ignoring her words, he turned her foot upward so he could peer at it. It looked puny in his large hands and she held her breath.

With a swift pinch, he extracted the splinter. Ysabelle breathed with relief and held still as he checked her other foot for possible damage. Seeming satisfied, he nodded once and released her.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t go far or else you’ll hurt your feet worse.”

Rising, he turned away and left her abruptly.

“My lady,” Ada called.

Grateful to see a friendly face, Ysabelle picked her way over to join the woman. Together they made their way into the privacy of bushes. Guards stood close by and the women weren’t allowed to go far. It didn’t matter. Ysabelle couldn’t run away without shoes.

“Where will they take us, my lady?” Ada asked.

Ysabelle shrugged. “I suppose to Dalhousie Castle, or else Castle Ramsay. I don’t know which.”

Ada’s mouth rounded. “The Ramsay strongholds? Both are close to Edinburgh. Do you think the Scottish king will lend his aid to the Ram’s cause?”

“I’ve no doubt his king would be pleased to claim Sutcliffe for Scotland.” Ysabelle shrugged and shifted her feet carefully on the pebbled ground.

If taken to Scotland, Ysabelle doubted she’d ever see Sutcliffe again. So, what might become of her home and people? Undoubtedly King William would hand the castle over to another man of his choosing.

Something hardened inside of Ysabelle. She couldn’t let that happen, but how could she stop it?

Noticing her torn clothes, Ada’s eyes widened. “Did the Scots Ram ravish you, my lady? I heard the men talking about his cruel ways, all the women he has raped, and the infants he has killed. Oh, you must escape him. I won’t see you end up like your dear mother.”

“I don’t plan to die in childbirth.”

Tears filled Ada’s eyes. She blinked and her mouth opened several times as if she knew not what to say. “Oh, my dear Ysabelle, you must never bear a child. You are too small, too delicate, just like your mother. It would kill you.”

“Be at ease, Ada. There is still a chance we might escape.”

“Yes, you must flee.” Ada spoke in a frantic, almost desperate voice. “It is all happening again. You mustn’t let them hurt you as they did your mother.”

Ysabelle squeezed Ada’s chilled fingers. “Don’t be so distressed. It was Sir Malcolm who tore my gown.” She spoke with disgust as she explained all that had occurred, including her husband’s death.

Ada shivered. “Sir Malcom is a fiend and you are well rid of him. Your father would have castrated him for treating you so vilely. Now, you’re faced with another heathen. Who knows what the Scots Ram will do to you? Flee, dear Ysabelle. Flee, I tell you.”

Nodding, Ysabelle contemplated her predicament. “I’ll need a horse.”

Ada hunched her shoulders. “You dare not steal one of their animals. They’re vicious stallions, bred for war. Even if you could take one, it’s uncertain if you could ride the nasty beast. And the Ram posts guards to watch over them.”

Giving a confident smile, Ysabelle shook her head. “You are right. I don’t think I can steal one. But have you forgotten what a good rider I am? Even father could not beat me when I was on a horse that was fleet of foot.”

The handmaiden gave a tremulous smile. “Yes, Lord Maston was so proud of you.”

The snapping of a twig caused Ysabelle to jerk her attention back to the waiting horde of men. Lighted torches flickered through the bushes and highlighted the shadows of soldiers standing close by. If she had shoes and was nearer to Sutcliffe, she might be able to make her way there before the Ram caught her. Then, the castle could be secured against these brutal warriors who sought to take her lands and home.

Looking down, Ysabelle stared at the hard leather shoes Ada wore and her mouth curved into a dour line of determination. “Ada, let me borrow your shoes.”

*

“She is uncommonly fair, is she not?” Alex asked as he dismounted and checked the harness on his horse.

Standing beside his brother, Nicholas drank water from a leather skin. His gaze lifted to the thicket where Ysabelle had disappeared with her handmaiden only a few moments earlier. “Do you refer to the servant?”

Alex’s bark of laughter filled the night air. “I mean your betrothed, and you know it.”

Of course Nicholas had noticed. She was more beautiful than any woman he’d ever seen. But he would never admit that. At least, not now. Instead, he grunted as he wiped a drop of water from his chin. “She is passing fair.”

“Ah, so you did notice her,” Alex prodded, a devilish grin on his face. “It has renewed your men’s hope for you.”

Nicholas snorted. “The dolts. If I pay attention to her it’s merely because she’s the key to our success. Without her, I cannot take Sutcliffe.”

Alex’s gaze narrowed. “Then you don’t wish her for any other reason than the lands and wealth that come with her?”

“She is a woman, like any other.”

“But she is your woman. Doesn’t that make a difference?”