My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (5 page)

“Maston indulged your every whim.”

She glared at him, but he didn’t budge. When she tried to jump from his horse, he caught her with deft grace, holding her hands tight in his own.

“Let go!” She tried to jerk her hands free. She succeeded only because he allowed it.

He ignored her after that. Calling to his men, they rode off. With the jerking stride of the large war horse, Ysabelle was forced to hold on to Nicholas once more.

*

Exhausted and hungry, Ysabelle had long ago given up trying not to touch the Scots Ram as they crossed the lonely hills and neared the River Tweed. Her bones would be rattled from her skin if they didn’t stop soon. Fatigue caused her to lean back against his wide chest, her face turned so she pressed her cheek against his throat to support her head. Slanting a glance at him, her gaze sought his.

“Please, let us stop to rest.” She spoke in a croaking whisper. If not for the desperation of her request, she would have kept her silence.

Longing for a drink of water, she also wished to lie down and stretch her legs. The hills rolled out before her in an endless sea of murky green. Puffs of breath floated on the frigid air with each breath she took. Though still dark, it would soon be morning, bringing the welcome warmth of the sun.

He must have heard her weary request for he reined in his charger and gestured to his men. Riding into the sheltering trees, Nicholas gave the order to set up camp. Ysabelle breathed a sigh of relief.

“We’ll rest a short time. I dare not tarry long,” Nicholas spoke to his brother.

“That’s wise.” Alex stepped off his horse. “Once his men catch the horses we chased off, Lord Marshal will ride hard to intercept us.”

Ysabelle stood where the Ram placed her, looking at the ground covered by rocks and thistles. Unable to see what she treaded upon, she dared not move around in the dim light. Her bare feet were quite tender, with few calluses to offer protection. By denying her shoes, Nicholas had effectively hobbled her.

The horrid man.

Placing his hands at her waist, he lifted her and set her upon a large rock. The heat from his body stifled her. Peering at her face, he studied her, and she flinched when he removed one gauntlet and brushed his fingers tenderly across her aching jaw.

“Your cheek is swollen. How did you get this bruise?” he asked.

So, he’d noticed Malcolm’s abuse. She pushed his hand away. He would soon learn that she couldn’t be won by gentleness. Though she longed to scream the truth at him, she kept her silence. It didn’t sit well with her to confide in a stranger.

His jaw hardened. “Was this Sir Malcolm’s doing?”

Lifting her chin, she refused to answer. Let him think what he may. All men were pigs, using women for their own gain. She trusted none of them.

His mouth tightened into a grim line, his eyes narrowed. She barely heard his harsh whisper. “I will kill de Litz for this.”

“Your brother has already done so. You cannot kill him twice,” she said.

The Ram’s brows crinkled in disappointment. Drawing away, he glanced at his stallion. “We’ve ridden hard and I must care for my horse. Will you be all right for a few minutes here?”

She wasn’t sure what to make of this question. Never would she have believed he would show her such consideration, and she couldn’t help suspecting his motives.

“I can wait.” Her voice sounded wooden to her ears.

Bewildered, she stared at Nicholas’s muscled back as he cared for the charger. Lifting the saddle trappings from the stallion, he offered the animal a long drink of water. Then, he bent to pick up a bag of grain and the horse nudged his shoulder with eagerness.

“Be patient, Samson,” Nicholas whispered fondly.

The warhorse nickered in response and Nicholas looped the strap of the sack over the stallion’s neck. Samson sank his muzzle deep into the feedbag.

Nicholas’s hands glided over Samson’s shiny coat. Mesmerized, Ysabelle watched him rub the animal down, thinking the man graceful considering his large stature. She would never have believed a warrior with such a horrible reputation would be kind to his mount.

Looking across the clearing, Ysabelle saw Ada being packed into the bushes by a burly Scotsman. The other men began to set up camp, gathering firewood and laying out bedrolls. Their low voices carried on the air, strangely comforting to her.

One man stood off by himself, cursing as he dropped a load of kindling next to the fire pit. In the moonlight, he peered at his hands, shaking them as if they stung.

Unable to resist, Ysabelle carefully picked her way over to him. “May I help?”

Startled, he frowned at her with suspicion. Then, he held out his hands, palms up. His fingers were black with filth, but she saw the cause of his misery. Blisters covered his palms, red and sore. To make matters worse, he had splinters in his fingers from gathering the coarse firewood.

She gave him a questioning look and he shrugged. “I forgot my gauntlets, my lady. It was my own fault.”

“What is your name?”

“James, my lady.”

Shaking her head, she stifled the urge to scold him. “Go wash your hands thoroughly, James. Then, return to me.”

Casting a doubtful glance over his shoulder, he sauntered off. Minutes later, he returned with slightly cleaner hands and a lighted torch. Holding it high so she could see, he let her pluck the splinters out and wrap his hands with strips of cloth she tore from the hem of her shredded nightdress.

“When we get wherever we are going, have someone help you soak the blisters in rue. It’ll ease the pain and promote healing,” she advised.

He grinned, his eyes alight with gratitude. “The pain lessens already, my lady.”

“That’s because we have closed off the air with the cloth. Until the blisters heal, keep them clean and wrapped and they won’t hurt you as much.”

“Aye, my lady. Thank you.”

He trotted off and she watched as James related to the other men what she had done. One-by-one, word spread among the warriors and she shifted with discomfort. The men looked at her with surprise and she thought these fierce Scotsmen quite silly to be so awed simply because she’d offered a service they seemed unable to provide for themselves. Men could be such daft creatures.

“No doubt you need some time by yourself. Allow me, my lady,” Alex offered in a pleasant tone.

Surprised by Alex’s sudden appearance, Ysabelle had no chance to respond before he picked her up and carried her toward the undergrowth.

“Put me down,” she ordered.

He took no more than three steps before Nicholas appeared. Glowering at Alex, the Ram pulled Ysabelle into his own arms.

“I will see to her,” Nicholas growled.

In the brief scuffle, Ysabelle feared Alex might drop her. Her eyes widened as Alex let her go and she clutched madly for the Ram’s neck. Alex merely crossed his arms and smiled as Nicholas pushed his way through the bushes.

Away from the scrutiny of others, Nicholas picked his way through the dark, as if seeking a sheltered place. Finding what he sought, he deposited Ysabelle on her feet. Soft grass tickled her toes. The clouds gave way and the moon glowed down upon them like an eerie nightmare. Seeing the ground carpeted with meadow, she sighed with relief.

“Thank you,” she offered in a tight voice.

Their gazes locked, his eyes gleaming. In the shadowed night, his chiseled face seemed harsh and she took several steps backward. She began to suspect he was not as ruthless as he appeared, but he was stronger and could throw her to the ground and brutalize her, if he chose. She’d been told he often did such heinous things. But he stood perfectly still.

He inclined his head toward the thicket. “You have only a few moments to relieve yourself. I suggest you hurry.”

“Turn your back, please.”

He tilted his head to one side as he considered her. “So you can escape again? I think not.”

“You are not gallant, sir.”

He took two steps toward her and she didn’t think to back up until it was too late. Her breath froze, her gaze locked on his face.

“Don’t!” she cried.

His mouth softened and an image of sultry kisses flittered through her mind.

“Don’t what?” he asked.

She swallowed and clutched the opening of her cloak tighter about her throat. Her mind screamed for her to flee. Not because he could harm her, but because he touched an inner corridor of longing in her soul, which she’d kept safely locked away.

Until now.

What it meant, she had no idea. He disarmed her in a way Sir Malcolm never could. Attraction blazed between them like bolts of lightning in the western sky. A look, a touch, a power of heat flowed between them, which she had no wish to explore. And she thought it must be fear that made her think such things.

He lifted a hand toward her face. Caution overcame her need to prove her courage. Bolting into the brush, she called to him. “Stay where you are.”

As she made her way through the sheltering trees, Ysabelle stumbled upon a stream bubbling over moss-covered stones. Dare she try once more to flee? In the dark, without shoes, she wouldn’t get far. And testing the Ram’s anger would be unwise.

Dipping her fingers into the cool water, she scrubbed Malcolm’s blood off her hands and arms. She splashed the clear liquid on her face and washed her neck, feeling refreshed.

Nicholas’s gruff voice broke into her reverie. “Speak to me, lady.”

“I’m still here, Ram. There’s no need to call out another chase.”

Realizing he was restless, Ysabelle hurried about her task. Joining him moments later, she noticed he hadn’t budged at all. His gaze took in her damp skin and he grunted with approval. Picking her up, he carried her back to camp.

With her arms wrapped around his neck, Ysabelle noticed he stared straight ahead and she had a moment to study his chiseled face. He ate, bled, and could die like an ordinary man. But anyone who saw him would not call him common. His life, his appearance, even his name were amazing. The Scots Ram. He had surely earned the title.

Back in camp, he placed her beside a fire someone had started. With an exclamation of delight, Ysabelle leaned forward and rubbed her hands together. Praise the saints for this bit of warmth after their long, chilly ride. Nicholas went to his trappings and rummaged around in his saddle packs and she stared after him.

Ada appeared on the other side of the clearing and Ysabelle came to her feet, thinking to speak with the woman.

“Stay where you are, lass.”

Did he have eyes in the back of his head?

She dared not move until Nicholas returned with a skin of water, dried meat and bread.

“I wish to see that Ada is all right,” she said.

“She’s fine, as you can see. You’ll remain here.”

Though his order annoyed her, his countenance was so dark she dared not defy him. When he offered her the food, Ysabelle took it and ate ravenously.

He watched her for several moments, as if satisfying himself that her needs had been met. Ysabelle squirmed on her hard seat, losing her appetite. Rude man.

“Both of your horses have been fed and watered,” she grumbled.

Nicholas raised his brows in puzzlement. Speaking several harsh words to three of his men, he walked away.

“Does it truly take three men to keep me from escaping?” she called to his retreating back.

He paused, having heard her sarcasm. Though he didn’t turn around, she tensed. What a fool she was to bait him. Her father had frequently reprimanded her for speaking out of turn. She had too much of his pride.

Nicholas disappeared into the night and she resumed chewing on a tough piece of dried meat. The three soldiers stayed nearby and Ysabelle had little doubt they would intercede if she tried to run away. As if she could go anywhere without shoes in this rocky terrain.

“I see he’s fed you.” Alex came to sit beside her on the fallen tree trunk.

Frowning, Ysabelle turned away. She didn’t wish to converse with the enemy.

“Ah, come now, Lady Ysabelle. I had hoped we might become friends.”

Though she didn’t trust Alex any more than she trusted Nicholas, she had to admit she was drawn to his warm smile and boyish charm. But she wouldn’t take him for granted. He could be quite lethal, having slain Sir Malcolm earlier.

“You killed my husband.” A bit of guilt nipped at her for making the claim. After all, she’d tried to escape Malcolm and had no desire to wed the man. Although she was relieved to be rid of him, never had she wished for his death.

“I did what I was compelled to do. Surely you understand I couldn’t let him slay my brother. You and I are family now. It would break my heart if you hate me.”

She didn’t respond and Alex glanced at the trees where Nicholas had disappeared moments before.

“Under the circumstances, don’t you think we should be allies?” he coaxed.

She snorted. “Absolutely not. I’ll not make friends with my abductors.”

“Perhaps after you wed Nicholas, you might consider being friends with me.”

Shaking her head, Ysabelle brushed the long hair back from her shoulders, wishing she had a brush or comb. Her hair had become quite unmanageable, her clothes nothing but rags. “I think not. I don’t intend to marry ever again.”

“He is verra determined to wed you.”

She didn’t reply and the meat she’d been eating lost its flavor.

Biting into a crust of bread, Alex chewed thoughtfully. “He fancies you, my lady.”

She laughed. “I think he prefers his horse, though I’m sure he fancies my wealthy lands.”

“That too,” Alex conceded. “Any mon would covet Sutcliffe. But Nicholas knows what to do with land. He’s not sure what to do with you.”

What nonsense! “I’d be happy to return to Sutcliffe alone, if the Ram would allow it.”

“Why do you call him Ram?”

“It’s what he’s called, isn’t it?”

“By his enemies.”

“Because they consider him a cruel murderer?” she asked.

“Many men are given names falsely.”

“Then, it’s not true?”

“No,” shaking his head, Alex gave a heavy sigh. “Nicholas isn’t cruel, nor a murderer, but he is haunted.”