Читать книгу My Lady Captor - Hannah Howell - Страница 11

“Ye told him what?”

Sorcha grimaced at Robert’s bellow. She had run straight from Ruari’s room to the armory shed and Robert. For a few minutes she had fidgeted about, babbled aimlessly, and paced the room pretending to watch Robert put the finishing touches on a scabbard for Dougal’s sword. Robert had finally cursed and demanded to know why she was plaguing him. She could not tell the man she was upset because one kiss from Ruari Kerr had her aching to crawl between the sheets with the man. Instead she explained how she had told Ruari the secrets of Dunweare and allowed Robert to believe she was upset about such disclosures.

“I told him all our secrets. Weel, the ones concerning the spirits leastwise. Euphemia went to his room, and he got a verra good look at the worst of our curse. I couldnae even get the door open. The spirits held it closed.”

“Ye could have told him the door was stuck.”

“Robert, we have spent the past three days mouthing such lies. He has heard the complaints, the crashes, the thuds, and all the noises that plague us all through the night. We have all twisted our tongues into knots trying to explain away those things. When Effie decided to creep into his room and play the budding whore, her ill-tempered spirits became quite enraged.” Sorcha sighed and sat down on a stool made from a thick old log. “I fear there was no lie big enough or clever enough to explain away all he saw.”

“Mayhap, but I am not sure ’twas wise to tell him the truth.” Robert moved to stoke up the fire in his forge.

“He didnae believe me.”

“That cannae be a surprise to you.”

“Nay, yet I wish he had. I fear he now thinks we are all quite mad. Effie telling him all about being a changeling, a fairy caught in a mortal life, certainly didnae help.” She smiled faintly when Robert leaned against the wattle-and-daub wall of the armory and started to laugh, although she was not sure what he found so amusing. “I am not sure I see the humor in all of this.”

“Ah, weel, ye would, lass, if ye werenae so heartsore for the lad.”

“I am not heartsore for Ruari Kerr,” she snapped, jumping to her feet, but Robert just smiled.

“Oh, ye are. ’Tis why ye have been hiding from the mon since ye first brought him here. ’Tis also why ye came running in here to hide now and looking like a weel-kissed lass. If he is behaving too boldly, ye just tell me. The two of you can play all the games ye want, but I willnae abide a mon taking advantage of you, or forcing ye to do what ye dinnae wish to do.”

Sorcha cursed and kicked at a stone, sending it rolling out the door. “The mon will begin to think we have brought him here to play the stud for a paddock full of mares in heat.” She ignored Robert’s guffaw. “He holds a strong allure for me, Robert, and ’tis a dangerous thing.”

“Dangerous? How so? Ye are both gentle born.” Robert moved to stand near her, slouching against the doorframe.

“I believe he is higher born than I.”

“Not by much.”

“He is also a great deal richer than I. I dinnae e’en have a dowry.”

“There is truth in all its ugliness.”

“And he thinks we are all quite mad.”

“He may change his thinking about that.”

“He may or he may even prove to be a mon who finds a touch of lunacy in a lass an attractive thing.” She exchanged a brief grin with Robert. “Howbeit, I have taken him prisoner for ransom.”

“Aye, and unless he is a verra forgiving mon, that could pour water on the fire in his heart.”

“Verra strangely said, but true. Nay, I dinnae think Sir Kerr will forgive this ransom matter verra easily. I am certain that his being taken by two lasses makes the bruise to his pride all the more tender.”

“Do ye think he will return to Dunweare armed and eager for battle?”

“Nay,” Sorcha replied and, after a moment of thought, knew she was as confident of her reply as she sounded. “He willnae raise his sword against us o’er this. I believe some of his anger is aimed at himself. Even though his first sight of me was upon the battlefield as I picked o’er the dead, he began to trust me.”

“And instead of rescuing him, ye took him prisoner. Aye, that would make him wonder if he had been a wee bit of a fool. ’Tisnae a feeling any mon enjoys. Is that why ye are fighting your interest in him?”

“I am not interested in the mon. Not in the manner ye infer.”

Robert snorted. The sound was so full of scorn it made Sorcha curse. She opened her mouth to reprimand him only to frown when he tensed and stared out into the inner bailey. Looking in the same direction, she saw the too-thin figure of Robert’s only son, Iain, hurrying toward them.

“Do ye think something is wrong?” she asked Robert.

“I think we are about to have guests,” Robert replied even as he moved to greet his son.

“Father,” Iain cried then paused to catch his breath. “Three men wait outside our gates. They are English and they ask to speak to someone concerning Sir Dougal.”

“The ransom demand,” Sorcha murmured. “Give me a few moments, Robert, then bring them into the great hall. Try to keep them from seeing our weaknesses too clearly.”

“I will, lass,” Robert said. “Howbeit, if they have the wit to see our weaknesses, they will also see our strengths. Dinnae worry o’er that. Just think on getting that fool Dougal back.”

Sorcha nodded and hurried back to the keep, cursing her brother with each step. She dreaded dealing with these men. They would be scornful when they realized they had to talk over a ransoming with a woman. She would have to be strong, to make them believe she could take on the task as well as any man.

As she entered the great hall, she saw her aunts seated in a circle near the huge stone fireplace arguing with the newly arrived Annot over what color yarn would best depict their father’s hair in the family tapestry they were working on. Sorcha hurried over to them, determined to enlist their aid. Although the Englishmen might be scornful toward one small female, she knew they would find confronting seven women a daunting experience. It was true that her nervous aunt Bethia and her shy aunt Eirie were not strong women, but when placed shoulder to shoulder with their more determined sisters, they were very skilled at pretending.

“The English have come to ask the ransom for Dougal,” she told them as she reached Neil’s side.

“Ah, ye want us to leave,” murmured the tall, silver-haired Annot, the eldest of her seven aunts.

“Nay, I want ye to sit at the head table with me. Hurry now,” she said as she shooed them all toward the long, heavy oak table set on a low dais at the head of the great hall. “I think even an arrogant Englishmon will be set aback when confronted with seven weelborn women.”

“Ye want us to look stern and forbidding,” said Grizel as she settled her short round body into the seat to the left of the high-backed oak chair Dougal usually occupied.

“Exactly.” Sorcha took Dougal’s chair, smiling faintly as her aunts lined up on either side of her.

“Do ye wish our help in the negotiations?” asked Neil as she sprawled in the chair on Sorcha’s right.

“Weel, ye may put in a word or two, Aunt Neil,” replied Sorcha. “I mean no discourtesy,” she told her other aunts.

“None taken, m’dearling,” Bethia assured her. “Long ago I learned how imposing we seven sisters can be when we array ourselves as one against someone or something. Howbeit, Neil is the one who can hold onto that strength even when she speaks, putting hard steel behind her words. I fear the rest of us begin to waver when we talk.”

“Here they come,” whispered Annot, who then clasped her hands in front of her and assumed a stony expression.

Three Englishmen strode into the hall, followed by Robert and his son. Their steps faltered slightly as they caught sight of the seven women staring at them. Sorcha saw Robert quickly hide a grin and knew he understood what game she played. She saw two more well-armed men take up the post of guards on either side of the wide door. Robert left his son standing behind the three Englishmen and moved to stand on Sorcha’s right. She was glad of his presence as she met the cold, steel gray eyes of the tallest of the three men.

“I am Sir Simon Treacher, and these are my men, Thomas and William,” announced the man, his voice as cold as his eyes. “I am here to discuss the ransoming of Sir Dougal Hay. He is your liege lord?”

“He is,” replied Sorcha, fighting the urge to shift nervously beneath his steady look. “What are your terms?”

“You expect me to discuss such a matter with women?”

“If ye want your blood money—aye. I am Sir Dougal’s closest kin, his only sister.”

“Ah, you are the Lady Sorcha Hay.”

“I am.”

“He said I would need to deal with you, but I assumed he was jesting. In England we do not allow women to play the lord of the keep, nor to take a part in such manly business.”

“’Tis probably why your twice-cursed country is in such disarray,” muttered Neil, glaring at the man. Simon ignored her, but the sharp lines of his long, narrow face grew noticeably tighter.

“Sir Dougal also mentioned a Neil Hay,” he drawled, hinting that Dougal had not said anything he considered complimentary. “I believe I would prefer to discuss the ransom arrangements with a man.”

“Ye may prefer it, sir, but I fear ye will be disappointed,” said Sorcha. She waved her hand toward Aunt Neil. “This is indeed Neil Hay, Dougal’s aunt. Now, do ye wish to discuss Dougal’s ransoming with his sister or his aunt?”

“His sister,” the man spat. “M’lady”—his tiny bow was riddled with mockery—“shall we begin?”

Sorcha nodded, mildly amused by his irritation. She ordered a page to fetch a bench for the men to sit on as well as wine for them to drink. Her amusement faded quickly when Sir Simon named his terms. He wanted a great deal for Dougal’s life. For one solid hour they bartered, always polite, yet each determined to win the bargaining. At one point Neil rose to her feet in anger, slamming her fist on the table, sending several tankards bouncing hazardly close to a fall, and causing all three Englishmen to forget their manners, staring at her in gaping wonder. Sorcha took quick advantage of their astonishment, but only gained a small decrease in the ransom.

Throughout the negotiations Sorcha’s unease grew. Sir Simon Treacher only took his eyes off her once—when Neil stood up in all her infuriated glory. The man was certainly trying to use the power of his unblinking gaze to make her bow to his demands, but there was more. As he bargained, a gleam of interest entered his eyes, a hungry look that made her skin crawl. She fought the urge to concede to his demands just to make him leave. Robert’s increasingly dark look told Sorcha she was not imagining Sir Simon’s lecherous stare.

When the negotiations were complete, the price and the place of exchange agreed to, Sorcha rose from her seat. She eyed Sir Simon’s approach and extended hand warily, but could not ignore him. Such an insult could easily cost Dougal his life. He took her hand, slowly drew it to his lips, and kissed her fingers. There was nothing specifically offensive in the way he kissed her hand, but she could not shake the feeling she had just suffered an unwelcome advance. The moment he left, she sat down, poured herself some mead, and took a long restoring drink of the sweet honey wine.

“I feel as if I have just been privy to a seduction,” muttered Robert as he helped himself to some mead.

“Aye,” agreed Neil, scowling at the door. “That Sassenach wriggled in here like the adder he is and was eager to coil himself around our Sorcha.”

“How verra colorfully put, Aunt Neil.” Sorcha sighed, slumping in the chair and idly drumming her fingers on the ornately carved arm. “Between his looks and his touch, I do feel almost ravished.”

“Mayhap someone else should go to the meeting to pay for Dougal’s release.”

“Nay, Aunt. I must go. The English may scorn the idea of a woman dabbling in a mon’s business, but they understand that I act as laird in Dougal’s place. They could deem it an insult if I send someone they consider an underling. And, if they dinnae see the emissary they expect, they could also fear a trick, and that would endanger Dougal.”

“Aye,” said Robert, “and we cannae afford to insult the English. They need no new reason to raid our lands.” He looked at Sorcha. “Howbeit, that mon looked too eager to get his hands on you. Ye will go to that meeting with at least four men and Neil. ’Tisnae a big enough force to cause any alarm or insult to those cursed English, but enough to make Sir Simon Treacher think again about attempting to sate his lust for you.”

“Mayhap ye are right, although I dinnae like the idea of taking men away from Dunweare.”

“We can spare them. Now, ye had best prepare the message ye wish to send to the Kerrs of Gartmhor.”

“I shall take great pleasure in throttling my brother when next I see him.”

“Sorcha, I cannae find Beatham,” Margaret cried as she raced into the hall, not slowing in her reckless pace until she stumbled to a graceless halt in front of the table.

“I dinnae think he has escaped,” Sorcha said as Neil handed the disheveled Margaret a tankard of mead.

“Then where is he? He certainly isnae in his chamber.”

“The lad was up and about this morning,” said Neil. “He was also asking a great many questions about his cousin Sir Ruari.”

“Have ye looked in Sir Ruari’s chamber, Margaret?” Sorcha asked.

“Oh. Nay.” Margaret gulped down her mead and headed out of the great hall.

“If ye dinnae find him there, we shall begin a search,” Sorcha called after her cousin.

“Mayhap ye ought to go with her,” suggested Robert.

“As soon as I decide what message to send to the Kerrs, I will go and see what our prisoners are doing.” She sighed wearily and shook her head. “They are no doubt plotting an escape. The good Lord clearly feels I dinnae have enough trouble upon my table.”

“I dinnae think ye look weel enough to attempt an escape, Cousin,” Beatham told Ruari as he helped the man get a drink of hearty cider.

“I will be in another day or two.” Ruari winced and softly cursed as he eased his aching body into a seated position. “Most of my pain has eased, and my wounds already begin to close.”

“True, but ye are still weak.” Beatham made himself comfortable at the foot of the big bed.

“It willnae be long before I have the strength to crawl out of this vulture’s nest.”

“Vulture’s nest? Come, Cousin, ’tis not so verra bad here. I ken that being held for ransom isnae something to be enjoyed or wished for, but the women here seem verra nice.”

“They are all quite thoroughly mad, their wits scattered to the four winds like thistledown.”

“Margaret’s wits arenae scattered.”

“Margaret simply lacks enough wit for it to be scattered.”

“Here now, ye shouldnae speak of her in such a scornful manner.”

“Cease acting the outraged suitor, ye great dolt, and cut me some bread and cheese.”

“Weel, ye still shouldnae speak that way about Margaret,” grumbled Beatham as he moved to obey Ruari’s command.

Ruari studied his young cousin for a moment, taking careful note of the youth’s sulky expression. Beatham was a good-hearted lad, but his fair looks far outweighed his intelligence. He had thought Beatham sneaking off to battle, despite all orders to the contrary, was a problem, but realized that it was a petty nuisance compared to the trouble he could see his cousin courting now. As he chewed on the plain but hearty fare of bread and cheese, he watched Beatham retake his seat.

“Ye can cease wooing that lass,” he said bluntly, his suspicions confirmed when Beatham blushed.

“She is equal in birth to me,” Beatham protested. “And she doesnae push aside my attentions.”

“I dinnae care. Ye arenae to get yourself entangled with a Hay.”

“And why not?”

“It appears ye have forgotten that she is one of those who hold us for ransom.”

“’Twas her cousin Sorcha’s idea, not Margaret’s, and she must obey Sorcha just as I must obey you.”

“Aye, and ye do that so weel, too.” He held up his hand when Beatham began to protest. “Dinnae trouble yourself to explain your disobedience. Your rushing to the battle despite my orders that ye stay at Gartmhor is the least of my concerns. Ye are to cease playing love games with Margaret Hay for many reasons. She is poor, and your family cannae afford ye making a match for love or passion alone. By taking us prisoner and demanding money for our lives, the Hays have destroyed what meager chance they may have had of making any marriage with the Kerrs. And your lass’s heart will surely go cold when I exact my revenge for this insult.”

“Ye dinnae mean to go to battle with the Hays, do ye?” Beatham demanded, going a little pale.

“Nay, but there is little else I will try. I willnae let this affront pass without some revenge. I cannae.”

“But, Cousin—” Beatham began, only to jump to his feet when the door opened. “Margaret.”

Margaret frowned as she strode over to Beatham and grasped his arm. “Ye shouldnae be in here. I was verra worried when I looked into your room and ye werenae there.”

“Did ye think your full purse had fled?” Ruari drawled, earning a cross look from Beatham.

“He isnae weel enough to be out of his bed. He suffered quite a blow to his head and could easily grow faint.” She started to tug Beatham toward the door. “Ye shouldnae have him in here, Sir Ruari. ’Tis most inconsiderate of you. Ye should have more sympathy for Beatham’s injuries.”

“Er—actually, Margaret, I came in here of my own accord,” Beatham said.

“Then he should have had the sense and kindness to order ye back to your bed.”

Beatham fought Margaret’s pull long enough to say good-bye to Ruari. For a long moment after the door shut behind his cousin and Margaret, Ruari stared at it in amazement, then shook his head. It was a shame Margaret was poor and a member of Sorcha Hay’s family. She and Beatham made a perfect match, he decided, and laughed softly. They would undoubtedly have the most beautiful and the most witless children in all of Scotland.

Ruari finished the last of his cider and was just wondering how or when he would get more when Sorcha arrived. She shouldered the door open, her hands full with the heavily ladened tray she carried, then kicked it shut behind her. He watched her closely as she took away the empty ewer and tray and replaced it with a full one. Despite his efforts not to, he thought about the kiss they had shared earlier and felt his whole body tighten with an eagerness to enjoy another one.

“So, your young cousin came by to visit, did he?” she asked as she gathered a bowl of water, a cloth, and bandages to clean and redress his wounds.

“Aye. Your cousin dragged him away not an hour ago.” He bit back a curse as she eased off his bandages. “Any sign of poisoning in the wounds?”

“Nay. Everything appears to be healing swiftly and nicely.” Trying to be gentle, yet knowing there was no way to avoid causing him some pain, Sorcha bathed his wounds. “Within a few days the stitching can be removed.” She sighed and shook her head. “There will be scars, although I believe my stitching will prove good enough to make them neat and, mayhap, less noticeable than they might have been otherwise.”

“Your healing skills are to be admired.”

“Thank ye,” Sorcha muttered, his tone making it clear that she had very little else he considered admirable.

“I will soon be returned to my full strength.” As soon as she rebandaged the last of his wounds, he started to sit up, reluctantly accepting her assistance.

“And then ye mean to try to escape.” She poured him a tankard of cider. “’Tis what ye and young Beatham discussed whilst he was here, was it not?”

“Nay.” He smiled faintly. “We didnae have the time. Your cousin arrived to drag Beatham away ere we could make any plans. I did, of course, advise him against succumbing to your cousin’s lures and wiles.”

“Did ye? I advised her to stand strong against his attempts to seduce her.” She was pleased to see that her slur on Beatham annoyed him as much as his insult to Margaret did her. “Ye shouldnae waste your strength trying to plot an escape. Ye willnae be here much longer.”

“Have ye finally come to your senses and decided to stop this dangerous game?”

“I wouldnae call sending ye home without collecting a ransom, thus allowing the English to cut my brother’s throat, coming to my senses.”

Knowing that she would not fight him, at least for a while out of fear of damaging his wound, Ruari grabbed Sorcha by the arm and pulled her close. Once she felt he was healed enough to endure a little rough treatment, he knew he would not get ahold of her so easily. He intended to use his advantage to its fullest while he still held it. The annoyance darkening her deep brown eyes made him smile, for lurking behind it was the passion he had so briefly tasted earlier.

“I see that ’tis dangerous to stand too near you,” Sorcha murmured, gently trying to wriggle free.

“It could be e’en more dangerous if ye get on this bed.” He curled his arm around her tiny waist and tried to pull her slim body on top of him, but she tensed just enough to prevent his doing so without pain.

“Aye, verra dangerous indeed, especially for a mon with as many stitches in him as the tapestry on yonder wall.”

Ruari laughed softly, grabbed her thick braid, and pulled her face close to his. He brushed his mouth over hers, and his body echoed the faint tremors rippling through her. Sorcha Hay was a passionate woman, the heat in her veins equal to his; Ruari was certain of it. He ached to enjoy that fire in its full glory. For now he would have to satisfy his hunger with a few stolen kisses.

Sorcha did not fight him as he took her mouth in a fierce kiss. She savored the heat it ignited within her. It was a dangerous path she was allowing him to pull her along, but she knew he did not have to pull too hard. When the kiss ended, she remained still in his arms, fighting to catch her breath as he traced the lines of her face with tiny soft kisses.

“I am a wee bit surprised ye wish to kiss a madwoman,” she whispered. “Are ye not afraid of catching my madness?”

“Nay, I dinnae fear succumbing to your delusions. I do wonder, howbeit, if ’tis your touch of madness that gives your kisses that hot sweetness.” He touched his mouth to hers, lightly sucking on her lower lip. “Ah, lass, I wish I wasnae injured. I am eager to spend the night all asweat with you.”

Sorcha abruptly shook loose of the haze his kisses had plunged her into. She scrambled free of his hold and stood by the bed, torn between hitting him for his insulting words and accepting his crude invitation. He was looking at her as if he knew her thoughts, and she cursed. Fighting the temptation to pour the jug of cider over his head, she strode out of the room, swearing to herself that she would fight his seduction. She viciously silenced the voice in her head that laughed mockingly.