Читать книгу The Prisoner Bride - Susan Paul Spencer - Страница 12

Kieran knew that he shouldn’t have used his well-honed wiles on his captive, especially after he’d vowed not to seduce her. He’d done so more out of habit than anything else, but that gave him little excuse. He shouldn’t have spoken to her in so dallying a manner, and would strive not to do so again.

But Mistress Glenys made it hard.

Her face was, indeed, just as he’d thought earlier, quite angular. Perhaps not as square as he’d believed, but possessed of the same intriguing angles and fine lines that a perfectly cut diamond might possess. Not beautiful, nay, but utterly fascinating. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Emotions played themselves out along her long, straight cheekbones and in her intelligent, wide-set gray eyes and high, arching eyebrows. And such emotions they were! Anger, frustration, rage—even outright dislike, which Kieran wasn’t used to seeing directed at himself. Aye, Mistress Glenys Seymour was a woman worth looking at. Far more interesting in expression and manner, and most certainly in speech, than most women he met. It was a pity that the maid, Dina, was so commonly pretty in her looks, else he might have been able to set his interest upon her. But she looked very like the hundreds of other blond, blue-eyed maidens he’d flirted with in the past dozen years, so much so that Kieran doubted he could pick one from the other if they’d all been lined up in a row.

A man would never have that problem with Mistress Glenys. Even now, as she was gazing out the window, aggravation stamped on every feature, the dwindling light, being rapidly swallowed by the imminent storm, teased the curves and angles of her face, bringing ephemeral shadows to life and causing her gray eyes to appear almost black. Her generous mouth—perhaps her only soft feature—was pressed together in a tight line, and a few strands of her sunset-colored hair had come loose from the braids atop her head, feathering lightly against her cheeks.

“’Twill not be long now before we stop,” he said, wishing that he might be able to tell her something else. The rain, which had begun to fall softly now, would make their journey far more unpleasant this night than he’d hoped. In a more positive light, it would also help to cover their trail.

“Good,” she replied tightly, not looking at him. “It appears that we will be obliged to lower the window covers soon. That will give us opportunity to do so.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “’Twould be wisest to do so before returning the carriage to London. I should hate to see such finery ruined by wet.” He ran one hand appreciatively over the red velvet covering the heavily cushioned seat. For a town carriage that wasn’t meant for travel of any great distance, ’twas both fine and comfortable. True, there wasn’t any glass in the windows, but the heavily waxed window coverings would do just as well for keeping occupants dry in a storm.

“Return the carriage?” Mistress Glenys asked, looking at him in the singular manner she’d displayed over the past half hour, which said, quite clearly, that she thought him mad. “What can you mean?”

Even as she spoke, Jean-Marc began to draw the carriage to one side of the road, bouncing them over small rocks and bumps as he drove into a copse of trees. Leaning toward the window, Kieran whistled in greeting to a man who appeared there, already leading a pair of horses from their hiding place.

Jean-Marc brought the carriage to an unsteady halt. Even before it had fully stopped Kieran opened the door and alighted, looking up first to where Jean-Marc sat to make certain all was well.

“No one followed,” Jean-Marc called down to him, tying the leads to the carriage post. “Had a bit of company, but that’s what comes from being on a main road.” He lightly hopped down from the driver’s seat. “Better hurry if we want to reach Bostwick’s before many more hours.”

“Aye, and without being found out,” Kieran agreed. Overhead, a loud rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, and the next moment the rain began to fall harder. It wasn’t a deluge yet, but that would happen soon enough. He stretched a hand into the carriage and said, “Hurry, now. We must be on our way.”

Mistress Glenys gave him a look filled with furious disbelief. “You can’t mean to…to ride on horseback in this rain?”

“’Tis just what I mean,” he told her, impatiently holding his hand more firmly out to her. “Come, mistress. We’ve a distance to cover before we’re safe away. Set your headcover about you, if you have one, and your maid as well.”

“We have none!” she cried angrily. “We had no plan to travel far beyond Metolius this day.”

“Then you must brave the rain as best you can. Thank a merciful God you had the sense to bring your heavy cloaks.” Behind him, he could hear Jean-Marc and Tom Postleheth readying the steeds for riding. Kieran cast one glance at them, saying, “Give Tom his gold, Jean-Marc, and let him be on his way.” Turning back to Glenys, he stated, “Come of your own will, mistress, or I will drag you from this carriage. I vow it before God.”

Suiting action to word, he leaned in to grasp her arm. She shoved him violently away before he could make his grip firm.

“Do not touch me or my maid,” she commanded in a tone so regal that Kieran could not countermand it, not even with one of his famous smiles. “Ever,” she added stiffly. Gathering her skirts, she spoke with equal sharpness to her maid, who had begun to weep again. “Come, Dina. I suppose we must make the best of this wretchedness, even if we take chill from the rain and die of it.” She descended from the carriage, head held high, refusing to accept Kieran’s steadying hand, right into the rain. Kieran didn’t realize that he was staring at her as she stepped away until the maid, Dina, cleared her throat and set her tiny hand upon his arm. Coming to himself, Kieran helped her descend.

It took but a few brief moments to fix the window coverings on the carriage and settle matters with Tom—good, proper thief that he was. Kieran made certain that he knew where to leave the carriage along the road, near London, hopefully before being discovered. The two menservants, John and Willem, would have been found in the alley where they’d been left and safely delivered back to Metolius by now, and the Seymour family would have alerted the London sheriff. An entire party of rescuers might already be on their trail, but Kieran believed they’d be able to evade them, and once they made Bostwick’s, they’d be well and safe.

“There are only two horses,” Mistress Glenys stated amid the rumblings of more thunder, pulling her heavy cape more closely about her. She had no hood, and the rain had begun to soak her hair, so that the wayward tendrils he’d admired earlier clung to her cheeks. The maid was faring somewhat better, for Jean-Marc had lifted his own cloak to cover her. Kieran would have done the same for Mistress Glenys—knowing full well that she wouldn’t have allowed it—but she was a tall female, coming up past his shoulders, and the attempt would have proved fruitless.

“Aye, just two,” he told her, taking her shoulder in a firm grasp that she couldn’t shake off. “You will ride with me, mistress. Come.”

She gave no fight, clearly realizing that it would do her no good now, but let him lead her to where his great destrier stood waiting.

“’Tis a very large, fine horse for so sorry a knave,” she stated, setting her hand upon the wet pommel as if she could possibly lift herself up into the saddle without aid.

“Aye, but he is mine, nonetheless.” Kieran bent, folding his hands together to give her a boost up. “His name is Nimrod,” he said, easily tossing Mistress Glenys upward and moving so that she could swing her legs about to sit in the saddle. As he wiped his wet hands against his leggings, he added, “My father named him that apurpose before giving him to me, which you will doubtless believe wise.” He swung up into the saddle behind her, reaching forward at once to take hold of the reins. He was glad that she hadn’t attempted an escape. It would have been fruitless, of course, but also unpleasant and a waste of time.

“Your father recognizes you, then?” she asked, her tone more one of disdain than curiosity. She had taken note of the “Fitz” in his name, knowing that it branded him as either bastard-born or descended of a bastard, and was purposefully stating the fact out loud in order to give him insult. Or so it seemed to Kieran, but the matter of his birth and family had ever been his sorest spot. She could hardly have aimed any arrow more accurately.

“I am well recognized,” he told her tautly, waiting for Dina and Jean-Marc to mount their steed before setting Nimrod into motion, “by all my family. It can be more of a burden, at times, than a blessing.”

She gave a mirthless laugh and muttered, “Aye, ’tis so.”

Kieran set one arm firmly about her, holding the reins with the other, and gently prodded Nimrod forward, away from the road and farther into the trees. Water dripped from the leaves, soaking them, and the wind began to blow even more coldly.

“Where do we go?” Mistress Glenys asked, holding herself as stiffly as a statue within the circle of his arm. Despite that, and despite the heavy cloak and clothing she wore, she was unmistakably female, warm against the front of him and clean-scented and far more soft—delightfully so—than he’d initially believed. He tightened his hold with gentle pressure, and felt her draw in a breath.

“To a place some miles away.”

A low, wet branch brushed against her face, and with a sound of aggravation she thrust it aside.

“Are there no decent roads leading to it, or must you take us only to such dens of iniquity as exist far out of the reach of civil establishment?”

That tone of hers, so proper and rigid and filled with disapproval, made him smile. It reminded him greatly of his mother during one of the many lectures she’d given Kieran over the past years.

“’Tis warm and dry, and that is what will concern us most once we reach it. And, nay, we will take no roads for some while. The rain will cover our tracks well enough, but I’ll take no chances till we’re well away.”

Another branch slapped at them, and another clap of thunder sounded overhead. The rain began to pour heavily, and the late afternoon grew dark as night. It was altogether a miserable time to be out in the elements, and Kieran couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at dragging two innocent females far from shelter. When Mistress Glenys pushed her wet, straggly hair off her even wetter face, that guilt increased.

“We’re going to a tavern where the innkeeper, a fellow by the name of Bostwick, is a friend of mine,” he said, not certain why he offered the information. “’Tis not a particularly fine place, but there will be a fire to keep you warm and a roof to keep you dry. If fortune favors us, there may even be a private chamber where you and your maid can find a few hours of peace in which to sleep, though I will admit…”

She turned her head slightly toward him. “What?” she asked, her voice filled with suspicion.

“Well, ’tis merely that Bostwick’s is often filled with much merrymakng. ’Tis far more likely to be loud and cheerful rather than given to any peace, though we must pray ’tis not so this night.”

“Merciful God,” she said dismally, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “It could not become worse than it already is. Please God. It cannot.”

It was worse. Much, much worse. Glenys stood in the midst of the hovel that Kieran FitzAllen had brought them to and stared about her with utter dismay. It was a filthy, crude, poorly built dwelling that looked as if it might collapse beneath the weight of the ongoing storm at any moment. The large chamber they stood in was filled with heavy smoke, foul odors and so many loud, coarse, drunken people that there was scarce room to move, and certainly nowhere among the many tables to sit. Glenys had never seen—or smelled—anything to compare. In the farthest, dimly lit corner she could make out, beyond the thick, stale smoke, the figures of two people engaging in an act of intimacy that Glenys knew full well the church demanded should be undertaken only in private and by a lawfully wedded man and wife. That the pair drew very little attention made it quite clear that this particular crowd was well used to such public displays. In truth, the sudden arrival of Kieran FitzAllen and his accomplice drew far more attention and reaction.

They had but just arrived, and the tavern came to life with shouts of greeting and drunken, earsplitting cheers of glad tidings. A sea of arms and smiling faces surged upon them, sweeping Glenys and Dina aside in order to embrace the two knaves who stood just behind them. The body smells and fumes of ale and bitter wine that followed nearly made Glenys swoon. She looked down at Dina, who had gripped her hand, and saw that the girl was deathly white. Glenys set an arm about her shoulders and drew her closer, striving to protect her from the jostling crowd.

In the midst of it all, she could hear Kieran FitzAllen’s voice booming merrily, returning each greeting as if these filthy creatures were his dearest friends, each and every one. Women, especially, were rushing at him—crude, ill-dressed females with unbound hair and the look of harlots, which was, Glenys knew, most likely what they were. She didn’t have to watch to know how happily he received their particular greetings.

“Now,” a great, loud voice boomed over the din, causing the entire dwelling to shake, “here are my lads, come at last! Make way! Make way!”

“God save us,” Dina murmured, her voice quavering. “’Tis a giant.”

“Nay,” Glenys said, but it was a lie. The man coming toward them was a giant. A great, black-headed, swarthy giant, whose substantial girth was almost equal to his tremendous height. His arms were so long and heavily muscled that he looked as if he could squeeze a great tree and split it into tiny, crumbling bits.

“Bostwick!” Kieran FitzAllen greeted in return, pushing his way through the swarm of dirty bodies surrounding him and embracing the giant just as warmly and heartily as the giant embraced him. “Well met! God above, ’tis good to see you again!”

“Aye, and ye, ye great rogue!” Bostwick pounded him on the shoulder until Kieran nearly doubled over from the force. “And Jean-Marc, as well, ye damned rascal!” He picked the smaller, towheaded man up off the floor and shook him playfully. Jean-Marc flopped like a child’s doll. “How are ye, lad?” He set Jean-Marc down so suddenly that he collapsed upon the rushes. “And here are the lovely captives, brought to me for safekeeping, eh?” He turned to grin down at Glenys and Dina.

“Oh, m-m-mistress!” Dina sputtered, shrinking against Glenys and trembling mightily.

“Hush, Dina.” Glenys held her more closely and glared up at the giant. “I’ll not let him so much as set a finger to you, I vow.” She meant it, too, though she was just as afeard of the huge man. He was approaching them with open arms, as if he intended to scoop the both of them up into a ferocious embrace.

“Gently, Bostwick,” Kieran FitzAllen said, stepping forward to stop the giant before he reached them. “These are indeed the prisoners I sent word of, and I pray you’ve readied a suitable chamber for them. They are ladies of good family, as you can see, and not used to such rough peasants as we are. If you greet them too closely, they are like to swoon, merely from the foul smell of you, by the rood.” He laughed aloud at his own jest, and all those surrounding him laughed, too, Bostwick louder than the rest.

“Aye, ye speak well, Kieran, ye great rogue. And what good would these pretty prisoners be to us if they faint away, eh?” All present laughed again.

It was a fine jest, Glenys thought bitterly, knowing full well just what she and Dina looked like. They were sopping wet from crown to sole, their hair and clothing limp and bedraggled after more than three hours riding upon horseback through a raging storm. They were weary and hungry and chilled to the bone. All in all, they probably looked as uncomely and unappealing as two wet mongrels. If not Dina, then certainly herself.

“Well, they do look as if a tiny breath might knock them down, wet and weary as they’re like to be,” Bostwick said thoughtfully, surveying Glenys and Dina with a knowing gaze. “’Tis a pity they must be fine ladies, for they will give ye much trouble on your journey, my friend.”

“Doubtless, this is so,” Kieran agreed with a sigh.

“But naught can be done about it, I suppose,” said Bostwick. “We must all take what fortune falls our way, is that not so, my friends?”

The surrounding crowd cheered the words drunkenly. Two of the more attractive women among them had attached themselves to either side of Kieran FitzAllen, Glenys noted, and another had draped herself lovingly about Jean-Marc’s smaller person. Neither man appeared to be distressed by such brazen possession. In truth, they appeared well pleased.

“Bring them over to the fire, then, and let us have a better look at such fine, rich prisoners,” Bostwick commanded in his booming voice. “Mayhap they’ll be more seemly once their color has returned, and they have some ale and bread in their bellies. Gently now, lads,” he instructed sharply as Glenys and Dina were poked and pushed and prodded toward the huge, heavily smoking hearth. “They don’t want such rough handling as you’ll give them. Margie, girl, leave Kieran aside a moment and fetch our guests some ale and victuals.”

Despite Bostwick’s words, rough hands grabbed at them, and Glenys felt a sharp tug at the small leather pouch Uncle Aonghus had given her, which was yet tied on her girdle. Without thinking, she turned about and soundly slapped the man who’d dared to touch her. He reeled back, a hand held to his reddened cheek, and stared at her in momentary shock. Then he growled in fury and charged forward. Glenys scarce had time to blink before Kieran FitzAllen was in front of her, shoving the man back.

“Calm yourself, Hiram, and give me no trouble,” he said in a warning tone as the noise of the tavern began to die away. “These women have no gold upon them, nor anything of value. All of you, listen to me well.” He lifted his voice and looked about. “They’re not to be touched, nor robbed. They are in my care and I’ll not suffer them to be harmed in any way. If I should hear aught—even the smallest complaint—I vow I will deal with the culprit myself.” He turned abruptly and pointed to another man, shorter and stouter than the first, who had begun to move to the back of the crowd. “Coll of Chester, come you back. Now.”

The smaller man shuffled slowly back, already putting his hand in the pocket of the coarse tunic he wore. When Kieran FitzAllen held out his hand, the man placed what he’d stolen into it—the small white, glowing stone. Seeing it, Glenys gasped and pressed her hand into her inner pocket, feeling, with intense relief, that the valuable chess piece was yet safely within.

“’Twas only a rock,” the man said sullenly. “Naught more.”

“A rock, by the rood!” Bostwick exclaimed, laughing as he gazed down at the small, smooth white stone in Kieran’s palm. “’Tis the truth you speak, Kieran, my friend. They’ve naught of value upon them if the flame-haired wench carries rocks about. A tiny little rock, by God!” He laughed again, and the crowd laughed, as well, regaining their loud merriment.

Kieran turned to Glenys and set the stone in her trembling hand. She was faint with gladness that it hadn’t begun to glow, and quickly shoved it back into her pocket to join the druid queen. God help her, but what would have happened if anyone had seen the stone glowing, or the ancient chess piece, with its lively eyes? How could she ever have explained to these thieves—aye, most especially to Kieran FitzAllen—what they were and why they seemed to possess such magic?

The touch of Kieran FitzAllen’s warm hand upon her cheek caused her to look back up at him. He was gazing down at her, his blue eyes possessing a measure of concern.

“You tremble,” he stated. She could scarce deny it. “There is naught to be afraid of. I’ll let no one bring harm to either you or your maid.”

“No one save you,” she muttered, then was sorry for it. He was a knave and a fiend, but he was their only protection in this hellish den, and he had meant to reassure her. “We are cold and weary,” she said more calmly. “The fire here smokes far more than it gives heat, and these people…these friends of yours…”

“Aye?” His eyebrows rose. All about them the noisy crowd chattered and laughed and jostled one another.

“Is there no place where Dina and I can be left in peace?” she asked more softly, lest one of them should overhear and become angered. Already she could see Bostwick striving to get close enough to listen to what they said. “You mentioned that a room may have been readied. Can we not go there now, Dina and me?” She would plead with him, if she must.

“You should sit by the fire for a while first,” Kieran told her, “and dry yourselves. And eat.”

Glenys shook her head. “’Twould do us far more good to lie down, if we could but have some blankets to warm us. And cannot some food and drink be brought to us there? Please,” she said, searching his face for some measure of softening, “I beg this of you. You cannot think we would be comfortable here.”

He glanced about at his comrades, clearly unable to understand such a sentiment. It occurred to Glenys that Kieran FitzAllen and his servant, Jean-Marc, were looking forward to spending the coming hours drinking and eating and making merry with these people.

“You need not come with us,” she said quickly, touching his arm. He looked down to where her fingers rested upon his sleeve. “Dina and I will be content with our own company. You and Jean-Marc must stay here and be as merry as you please with your…your good fellows.”

His eyes were fixed upon her hand for a long moment, then he at last lifted his gaze to hers.

“But I do not know if I can trust you, Mistress Glenys, not to try for an escape while Jean-Marc and I take our ease. Though ’twould be foolish indeed for you to make such an attempt, for ’tis wet and muddy without and you know not where you are. But I do not doubt you would try to rid yourselves of us even by such means.”

He was right, of course. Glenys did plan to escape as soon as she might, but even she wasn’t so foolish as to try such a thing in the dead of night and in the midst of a storm.

“If I give you my oath that we’ll make no attempt to escape this night, will you allow us to retire?”

He looked at her consideringly. “You would make such a vow?”

“Aye, and readily.”

Nearby, Bostwick boomed, “What keeps ye there in conversation, Kieran, lad? Ye have many a day to speak to yer lady prisoners. The ale has been brought. Come to the fire!”

Kieran was obliged to shout above the din in answer. “A moment, Bostwick!”

“What’s amiss?” Jean-Marc’s blond head suddenly appeared, at about the same height as his master’s shoulder. The younger man held a tankard of ale, which he offered to Dina, but the maid silently shook her head and turned away.

“Naught,” Kieran replied to him, holding Glenys’s gaze. “Go and tell Bostwick that our prisoners wish to retire now, and that we will take them to the chamber that has been readied for them if he’ll but lead the way.”

Glenys released an unsteady breath. “I am grateful, Master FitzAllen.”

He smiled and gave a shake of his head. “Wait until you see the chamber that has been prepared for you before saying such as that, Mistress Glenys,” he advised. “If I know Bostwick, he has cleared away the small room that his whores use to be private with whoever pays for their skills. ’Tis like to be such a place that you may pray to be here beside the smoking hearth, instead.”

“It could not be worse than this,” Glenys said, then grew hot with embarrassment to think that she had spoken the same words earlier.

Kieran laughed as Bostwick arrived at his side to escort them to the chamber.

“We will pray it is so, mistress. Come.” Kieran set a hand beneath her elbow. “Let us see for ourselves.”