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Marianne looked away from the shimmer of high emotions racing across his eyes. Had she made a grievous mistake with her boldness? The queasy churn of nervousness fought with the butterflies in her stomach.
Surely his ragged groan and stark expression spoke of his horror at her actions. But when she tried to pull free, he tightened his hold.
“Forgive my boldness, my lord. Let me go.” The bands of steel surrounding her only strengthened at her plea.
Ashforde dipped his head, brushing his lips across her cheek. “Let you go? I thought you wanted me to kiss you into submission?”
His raspy tone of voice bid her do what she must to gain her freedom. “Yes—I mean no.” At this moment she wanted to run. “Please, I rashly spoke out of turn. I did not mean to sound so wanton.”
A low, soft laugh was his response. Before she could say anything else, he cupped her face. Strong fingers held her still.
He did nothing more than stare down at her. A mind-robbing look that kept her rooted to the ground. His hand on her face seemed to burn her flesh. Far from hurting her, his touch made her want to lean into the warmth.
Some wild, uncontrollable part of her wondered what his lips would feel like against her own, but ingrained self-preservation warned this was not the time, nor the place to make that discovery. Long-suffered caution urged her to be rational. To think of her safety at this moment and not of her wants.
Before his soul-searching gaze could cast any more of a spell about her, Marianne pushed hard against his chest. “For the love of God, please, let me go.”
For a moment longer he held her, an odd half smile curving his lips. To her relief he relaxed his hold. “You need not fear me.”
“Fear you?” Without thought, she admitted, “I fear myself more.”
Ashforde stepped away and glanced at the dead men on the ground. “With good reason.” He’d spoken more to himself than to her, so she remained silent. The last thing she wished to do was repeat the argument that had led her to act so foolishly in the first place.
“Let us go.” He grabbed the reins to the horse and helped her mount. “My camp is nearby.”
True to his word, Ashforde’s men were camped a short distance down the path. Though Marianne wouldn’t quite call it a camp. It was nothing more than a clearing with half a dozen men gathered around a crackling fire. Their horses were tied to nearby bushes. Beyond that, she heard the rushing of a stream. A small, hastily erected tent leaned toward the trees at the right side of the clearing.
And at the moment, it was the most wondrous sight she could envision.
She slid from the saddle and could not decide what she wanted to do first—seek much-needed slumber in the tent, slake her thirst with water from the stream, or fill her belly with the unidentifiable meat roasting over the fire.
The wildest-looking man she had ever seen in her life rose from his seat by the fire and approached, ending any thought of sleep, water or food. Marianne instinctively stepped behind Ashforde.
An ill-healed scar twisted one side of the man’s face, giving him a permanent sneer. White and gray streaks in his untrimmed, brownish-hued hair lent him the appearance of a wild animal.
“Jared!” Ashforde quickly stepped forward, meeting the man halfway across the clearing and grasping his forearms in greeting. “When did you arrive?”
“While you were out gaming.” The man nodded toward Marianne. “I see you won.”
“That’s debatable,” Ashforde mumbled before waving her forward. “Marianne of Faucon, this unkempt dog is Jared of Warehaven.”
The Dragon? He looked more like a war-scarred wolf than a dragon. She looked from Warehaven to Ashforde uncertain what to think, or what to say. As far as she knew, Warehaven was her brothers’ enemy. So, what did that make Ashforde?
Yet, Jared bowed slightly before fixing his off-colored green gaze on her and said, “Your brother Darius is well-known to me. He is an interesting man.”
The raspy timbre of his deep voice was intriguing. Pleasing to the ear, it invited one to listen, just to hear him talk. Marianne blinked. Obviously, too tired for clear thinking, she simply agreed, “Yes. That he is.” She then touched Ashforde’s arm. “Will we remain in camp for the night?”
“Aye.” He motioned two of his men forward before continuing, “The tent is for your use, and there is a stream a short distance down the footpath. Sir John and Eustace will guard you.”
She hesitated. While his men did not appear intent on harming her, they were strangers. The older white-haired man looked as unyielding as a giant oak tree, while the younger red-cheeked one appeared to be overly fond of his drink.
All of these men were strangers. And she wasn’t at all certain whether they were friend or foe. The rapid pounding of her heart made breathing difficult. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
Marianne glanced at the horses. None of them were saddled. Even Ashforde’s was being groomed by one of his men. She could ride a palfrey bareback, but wasn’t certain she could control one of the larger destriers without the proper equipment.
“Chase those thoughts from your mind, my lady.” Ashforde stared hard at her.
How did he know what was on her mind? After closing her eyes and taking a long, deep breath, she looked up at him. “I was thinking nothing. I just…”
When her words trailed off, he provided, “You wondered what would be your best method of escape.”
“I am your prisoner then?”
“You are my prize—won by a lucky toss of the dice.” His softly spoken admission sent another sliver of fear rippling down her spine. “You are in my care. Until I reunite you with your brothers, I will see to your safety whether you like the idea or not.”
“I can see to my own safety.”
“Without coin or weapon at hand, how safe will you be?” He stepped closer, tipping his head and lowering his voice. “Your clothing is torn. You are disheveled. What will other travelers see when they look at you?” His eyebrows shot up in question. “A lady from Faucon?”
To her chagrin, she realized the truth in his words. “So I am forced to remain under your protection? A prisoner by necessity if not by deed.”
“You choose to look at it that way because you are tired. A decent meal and a good night’s sleep will put a different light on the situation.”
His presumption to know what she thought or how she viewed anything rankled. Did he think her stupid? He’d called her his prize more than once now. He ordered men to guard her—not to protect, but to guard her. As angry as she was becoming, she knew enough to keep her opinions to herself. Instead of arguing, she nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”
He stepped away with a laugh. “My men will take you to the stream, then bring you back to the tent.”
Marianne crossed her arms against her chest and nodded.
Ashforde sighed and shook his head. “I need to speak to Jared. When I am finished, I will bring you something to eat.”
He watched her walk with his men to the stream’s path and wondered momentarily if he had indeed made a mistake in not warning his men to be careful. But she was unarmed, and her steps were slow, her movements stiff and sluggish. If she did take it into her head to attempt an escape, it was doubtful she’d succeed.
Marianne wearily trudged down the path to the stream. The guard in front of her was young—close to her in age. His ruddy complexion and unsteady footsteps confirmed her first impression of his fondness for drink.
The older man behind her remained silent. His silence was not an oddity, but something about him spoke of danger. It could have been the deadly glare in his eyes when he waved her and the younger man forward. Or maybe it was the way he held his sword at the ready for no apparent reason—unless he considered her dangerous.
The only thing she knew for certain was that his steady, overly heavy steps behind her did not suggest a man who might be easily misled.
Once they reached the stream, they gave her a few moments of privacy before the younger one called out, “My lady, we need return to camp.”
She had no wish to return. But Marianne realized she didn’t have an option. At least not a reasonable option. She stared down the stream. Even if she could elude her guards where would she go? It would soon be dark and she feared the men who’d diced her away would not give up their quest to steal her back.
And Ashforde was correct—she did not have the appearance of a lady. Unkempt was a kind description of how she must look. She raised a hand to her hair. The braids had come undone days ago and she’d given up trying to untangle the snarled knots. She’d simply torn another strip from the skirt of her gown and tied the ebony mess behind her head.
Both her gown and undergown were filthy and torn. Each step she took exposed her legs clear up to her thighs. The sleeves of the gown weren’t any better. They hung like tattered ribbons about her arms.
If she somehow escaped, the first man she’d come across would think he’d found himself a well-used harlot. It would be impossible to make her way to Faucon without coming upon any men.
For now, she’d have to remain Ashforde’s prize.
She shuddered at the thought. While this situation was entirely her own fault, every fiber of her being rebelled at being considered someone’s prize.
Not more than a few hours ago she’d considered Ashforde a man Rhys would permit her to marry. Bah, she’d not plight her troth with a man who humiliated her so.
She understood none of it—he’d claimed to have rescued her and said he’d deliver her safely to her brothers. So, why was she now nothing more than winnings from a game of chance? And why was she under guard?
Dead leaves crunching underfoot let her know Ashforde’s men were coming to escort her back to camp. Marianne knelt by the stream. She splashed the icy water on her face. It would do little for her appearance, but perhaps the chill would help chase away the heat of useless anger.
“Come. It is time to return.”
She didn’t move. It was one thing to be ordered about by Ashforde. But he and his men needed to learn she’d not be ordered about by everyone at whim. The least thing the guards could do was to wait until she was ready to return.
Footsteps drew closer. “Did you hear me, my lady?”
She momentarily ignored the younger man and splashed some more water on her face before answering, “Yes.”
He poked her shoulder. “Then do as I ask.”
He’d not asked anything of her and if he so much as touched her again, he’d soon regret doing so. “In a few moments.”
“Now would be better.”
Marianne smiled to herself. Without moving, she lazily stirred the water with her fingertips. “Do you have a name?”
“I am called John—Sir John.”
She blinked. Never would she have picked him as the knight of the pair. “Sir John, I will be ready soon.”
A twig snapped beneath the feet of the older man as he moved closer, too. He cleared his throat before asking, “What is taking so long?”
Marianne shrugged. “I lost a bauble in the water.” Realizing her tone of voice needed a little more urgency to sound convincing, she swished the water again and quickly added, “It was given to me by my brother. I must find it.”
The older man sighed heavily. “Oh, for the love of—let us be gone from here.”
“It is very special to me.” She glanced between the two men and added, “I think he said it was an heirloom.”
“It will not hurt to help her.” Sir John’s tone was sharp. He knelt beside her and peered into the stream. “I see nothing.”
Marianne pointed to a spot just beyond her reach. “I think it is right there. See? Something is dangling between those two larger rocks.”
The instant Sir John reached out, she pretended to lose her balance and bumped into him, knocking the man into the ice-cold stream.
She jumped up in a rush. “Oh, forgive me. I am sorry.” Marianne looked to the older guard. The scowl on his face deepened. But he moved forward to help his partner out of the water.
When he leaned forward to grasp John’s outstretched hand, Marianne placed the bottom of her booted foot against his arse and put all of her weight into the shove.
She stooped to grasp a large rock and hid it in the folds of her gown. Without waiting for the unsuspecting guards to come after her, she took off for the camp at a run.
After Marianne and his men left the camp, Bryce took a seat on a fallen log.
Jared joined him, asking, “Was it wise to send her off with only two men?”
Bryce shrugged. “If she tries anything foolish it will be two men against one tired woman.”
Instead of responding, Jared grunted. A noise that from the time they fostered at Redvers had made Bryce want to gnash his teeth together.
“I hope your hunt for me was not too strenuous.”
Jared admitted, “One of Redvers’s men pointed me toward Hampshire. Once there, it took nothing more than the promise of coin to discover the direction you took upon leaving there this morning. I simply followed the road until I found the men.”
“Then I assume you came here for some reason other than to grunt at me.”
“Curiosity drew me here. I wanted to see if you won the prize you sought.”
“And now that your curiosity has been satisfied, you will be departing on the morn?”
“Not alone. I’m to escort you and your…charge…to Baldwin.”
Bryce’s breath left him in a rush. The Earl of Devon, Baldwin de Redvers had taught him much. Even though Baldwin had had to give Carisbrooke over to Stephen, or lose his head, he still respected the man. But he also knew that when a notion struck Baldwin, there was no swaying him.
Bryce should have known the earl was up to something when he was sent the information on Marianne’s whereabouts. Because of Carisbrooke, Baldwin wanted revenge against King Stephen, or one of Stephen’s men. Taking possession of Faucon’s sister would serve the earl’s thirst for vengeance.
An event he should have foreseen. But he’d been too intent on righting his own thwarted plans to give the earl’s fortuitous help any thought. “I am to take refuge with the earl?”
“Nay. You, my friend, are to give custody of Faucon’s sister over to Redvers’ wife. And since I knew you would not be agreeable to that plan, I volunteered to bring you the news.”
“The earl will not take custody himself?”
“No. He has joined up with Gloucester and Anjou in Normandy.”
“And after I hand over Faucon’s sister?” Bryce assumed they would also join the battle for Anjou’s conquest of Normandy.
“We are to head toward Cambridge.” Jared attempted a halfhearted laugh before adding, “Just to see if we can convince the Earl of Essex not to destroy all of England.”
“And who issued those orders?”
“It was not precisely an order.” Jared shrugged. “It came as a request from the empress.”
Both men were intelligent enough to know a request from Empress Matilda was a rare, albeit nicely worded order. Bryce shuddered. “Has Mandeville run out of new methods of torture, or has he just run out of victims?”
“I am of the opinion he has only begun. True or not, I do know we will be unable to locate him.”
“Agreed.” The last thing Bryce wanted to do before he died was to get anywhere close to where Geoffrey de Mandeville might be. No one had ever called Bryce a coward, but Mandeville had become inhuman.
The man had lost all reason when King Stephen forced him to surrender the Tower of London along with two of his other castles. Since then, the earl had taken to burning, pillaging, raping and torturing not only those men who opposed him, but women and children. Not even men of God were safe from Mandeville’s wrath.
“I thought perhaps you would like to make use of my lair until you are able to rebuild your keep.”
