Susan Paul - The Captive Bride

“Use it,”she dared with ill—concealed hatred, “and prove to my people what manner of man you are. Traitor. Usurper.”

His icy eyes held no emotion as he deftly set the gag about her lips, tying it securely so that she could say no more.

“Those are better titles than the one you now bear, my lady,”he told her softly, close to her face. “Titles you have taken of your own will. You are my prisoner, Lady Katharine.”His cold gaze held her own. “My captive, and, by God above, I vow that I shall treat you accordingly.”

He carried her back to Lomas tossed over the bow of his saddle, ignoring her squirming and muffled complaints. After a while she subsided, and the only thing he worried about was what deviousness she might be plotting. But perhaps Lady Katharine was too weary for any further adventures, for they arrived at the castle before dawn without mishap.

She renewed her struggles when he lifted her from his horse and carried her past the many servants who were yet awake and waiting for their return. They stared, murmuring, as he strode by them and started up the stairs. When he passed Katharine’s chamber and continued upward, her eyes widened and she made a long protest of, “Mmm-mmm!”

“That is the chamber for the lady of the castle,”he told her, understanding her complaint. “When you are the lady of the castle, as my wife, you will return to it. In the meantime, you will be kept in the north tower.”She began to struggle in earnest, and squealed furiously beneath her bonds. “Aye, you understand me well,”he said with satisfaction, hefting her wet, muddy person higher in his arms with ease. “There are no tunnels there from which you may escape. How foolish you are, Katharine, to think I would not find you out. I know every secret Lomas possesses, and probably many that you’ve yet to discover.”

The chamber he took her to was almost as dark and dismal as the one at The Bull and Dog, although certainly cleaner. Katharine had never allowed any part of the castle to be let run with vermin. He deposited her on the stone floor, which was barren even of straw, and, without a word, turned about and walked out, locking the door behind him.

Katharine lay in the darkness, too exhausted and miserable to be angry. He had left her to die, to lay upon the cold floor in wet clothing without heat or comfort, to freeze in the chill of early dawn. He’d not even removed her bonds, or the gag about her lips. She would die in silence, immobile.

She was almost too frozen to think, but she tried to send up silent prayers for Dorothea, Magan and Ariette. God alone could keep Dorothea now, wherever she was. It had been beyond foolishness for her to go off alone as she had, but Katharine could both admire and love her for it, and be thankful for the friendship that had caused her to attempt such a dangerous task. A woman traveling without escort on England’s roads was in no way safe. Robbers, thieves and worse would be glad of such easy prey—although Doro, cunning and brave, would certainly make any attack of her person a difficult chore.

In a way, Katharine was more afraid for Ariette, and even more for Magan. Ariette was tiny and delicate, and could so easily be harmed, while Magan was young and readily frightened. When they had left The Bull and Dog, Magan had been tucked under the arm of the dark, hugely muscular Sir Aric as if she were a child’s doll. She’d looked utterly terrified, and Sir Aric, scowling and unfriendly, had done nothing to reassure her. Poor, dear Magan. Katharine could only imagine how difficult the return to Lomas had been for her in the company of such a brutish man. Ariette had fared somewhat better, riding with Sir Kayne who, unlike his friends, appeared to take his knightly vows seriously in being courteous to ladies.

What would happen to them if she died? Katharine wondered. Would Sir Senet treat them well? And the people of Lomas? He might know the secrets of the castle itself, but how could such as that benefit the castlefolk and townspeople? He wouldn’t know about the agreement she’d worked out between the dye merchant and the town’s weavers; it was so uncertain that one wrong word would have the two sides warring again. And what of the new children in the convent? Senet Gaillard would not know of all that she’d promised to the tanner in exchange for leather for shoes for them, or to the cobbler for making them. The children had to have new shoes before winter. She’d promised them—indeed, all of her people—so much. They depended on her, day by day, to keep everything moving along, if not smoothly, at least in the right direction. To make certain there was food enough in the winter, and labor enough to bring in the harvest each fall. And pleasure faires in the spring. So many matters were beneath her command. So many things that Senet Gaillard would let go by, just as her father had done, while he played at being lord of the castle.

Exhaustion made it impossible to keep her eyelids open, and Katharine at last relented and let them drift shut. Sleep pressed heavily, a dark, alluring blanket, but before she could give way to it the door was unlocked and pushed open. Light spilled into the room, along with voices.

“Bring everything in. The pallet goes there by the wall. Make a fire in the hearth. Quickly.”

The chamber came alight and alive as what seemed like a dozen or more men entered.

Sir Kayne knelt beside her, concern filling his handsome face. “Lady Katharine.”

“Leave her to me,”Senet Gaillard said curtly. “And save your pity for Mistress Dorothea, who for the sake of this lady has exposed herself to every manner of danger. If John doesn’t find her soon, she may not live to see Lomas again. Now, be pleased to leave me with my lovely betrothed. Aric will need your help with the other women.”

Sir Kayne set a warm, comforting hand briefly against Katharine’s cold cheek. “John will find her, my lady,”he murmured, then stood and, with the other men, left the room.

Katharine heard the door shutting, then Senet Gaillard’s footsteps moving back toward where she lay. She was shivering too hard to protest when he pulled her into a sitting position.

“Kayne means to reassure you,”he said as he cut her bonds away. She gasped when the gag about her mouth fell to the floor. “But it is his misfortune to be possessed of a kind nature.”

“He is,”she said, fighting the cold pain that gripped her, “a ch—chivalrous kn—knight.”

When her hands were released she nearly fell forward on her face. Senet’s arm circled her waist, pulling her up.

“And you think I am not?”

“Wh-what will h-happen to D-Dorothea?”

He hesitated, then said, “John will find her, if any man can do so. He possesses a rare gift for finding the lost, for finding anything or anyone. I make no promises, but you may be easy at least that all is being done that can be done for Mistress Dorothea’s sake.”

“Th-thank God.”

“He will certainly be the one to thank, should she survive your thoughtless care,”he said, leaning her back until he could reach the laces of her surcoat.

“No,”she protested weakly, trying to push at the knife as he began to cut her dress away.

“You wish to lie in wet clothing and take ill?”He put the knife aside in order to pull the dress down her arms.

“Aye!”she said defiantly, forcing the words past chattering teeth. “M-mayhap I will be f-fortunate enough to die—p-p-please God—and be free of you! L-leave my chemise!”

“It is too wet. And filthy.”He began to strip it off, as well.

“No!”She was shaking violently from both cold and shame. “P-please.”

He paused. She could feel his indecision.