Merline Lovelace - His Lady's Ransom

“My lord, ye cannot come in here!” Gerda’s dismayed warble had Madeline scrabbling for a linen towel.

“Get you gone. I have business with your mistress.”

“Are you mad?” Madeline swiped the soap from her eyes, then clutched the linen frantically over her breasts. “Get out of here!”

De Burgh ignored her, addressing the maid. “You may wait outside and attend your lady when I have said what I will to her.”

Gerda sent Madeline a helpless look.

“Go,” she ordered. “Go and summon the king’s guard.”

When the maid scuttled from the chamber, de Burgh turned to face Madeline. His blue eyes surveyed her coldly, from the soap-filled mass of hair that tumbled over her shoulders to the swell of her breasts under the wet linen.

He must have come straight from the tourney, she thought furiously. He’d removed his great helm and the greaves that protected his shins, but under his mud-spattered tunic he still wore the heavy mail shirt and padded gambeson. The added weight made him look huge and formidable and altogether too fearsome.

Madeline ground her teeth at being caught on her knees before this man, but she could not rise without baring more than the towel could cover. Still, she refused to cringe before him.

“In the future, lady, you will attend me when I summon you.”

Her chin lifted. “In the future, sir, you are not likely to issue any summons. You will be dead when the king hears of this!”

His lips curled in a slow, predatory smile that sent chills down Madeline’s bare back. “I think not.”

“If not dead, then blind,” she spit out. “I’ll see your eyes put out with hot pokers! How dare you intrude upon my privacy!”

He strolled forward, his spurs scraping the rushes. Madeline fought the urge to shrink back against the far rim of the tub. Shivers raced down her spine, caused in equal part by the cold air wafting on her back and the fury that sizzled in her veins. Angrily she flung her hair over her shoulder and glared at him.

He seemed to find her defiance amusing. “A woman who defies her lord is not entitled to privacy. If he so wished, he could strip her before all and inflict what punishment he would upon her.”

“You took one too many sword blows to your helm this day, sir. You are not my lord, nor have you any say in what punishments I may or may not incur. I am in the king’s keeping.”

“No longer, lady.”

The flat assertion made her clutch her towel in suddenly tight fingers. “Wh—what? What say you?”

“You are mine now, as are your lands and revenues. To hold and to use as I will, until I decide where to settle you.”

Her voice sank to a disbelieving croak. “Yours?”

“Aye. I won you in the tourney.” A sardonic gleam flared in the blue eyes hovering over her. “You, my lady Madeline, are the Lord John’s ransom.”

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