The Laird's Captive Wife. Joanna Fulford
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hundred yards before slamming her against a large rock. Her icy fingers clutched desperately at the slippery surface for the force of the current threatened to sweep her away again at any moment. Mentally she wondered how long she could hold on. Another minute? Two? A voice inside her head said it didn’t matter. If she did not drown the cold would kill her and then it would all be over. She closed her eyes.
The exchange of blows was fierce and evenly matched at first with neither man gaining the advantage until the Scot’s blade cracked against his enemy’s head in a savage back-handed slash. Had it not been for the helm the blow would have severed the top of Fitzurse’s skull. The Norman reeled in the saddle, temporarily stunned. Iain wheeled the grey round to go in for the kill. Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard the woman scream. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder to where she had been. The branch was gone and she too. He frowned. That moment’s diversion proved expensive for when he looked back Fitzurse was bent low on his horse’s neck, spurring away through the trees. A hundred yards away three other riders in helmet and mail appeared. Seeing Fitzurse they reined in and waited. As soon as he had joined them, all four rode away at a gallop. The Scot glared after them then back at the stream. Just then the woman screamed again and, hearing it, he swore fluently.
Ashlynn could no longer feel her hands, only the drag of the water against her body. Soon she would have to let go and it would take her. Then, through the numbing cold, a voice penetrated her consciousness.
‘Give me your hand, lass.’
She had a brief impression of a horse’s neck and shoulder and a man’s reaching arm. It towed her out and lowered her on to the bank. For a moment or two she lay there, gasping, unable to take it in, aware only of the cold, bitter, numbing and heart deep. Locked in its grip her body shook uncontrollably. Saddle leather creaked and then a pair of boots appeared in her line of vision. Her gaze followed them upward and came to rest on a face that was vaguely familiar. Memory began to return.
For a moment the Scottish laird was quite still, his gaze held by eyes the colour of cornflowers. They were the only colour in her face. The flesh on the delicate bones was deathly pale. He shuddered inwardly, reminded suddenly of another face and another time. This one would die too unless she got some warmth very soon.
‘Come, stand up, lass.’
In response to that firm command Ashlynn struggled on to her knees. However, when she tried to rise, the sodden gown tangled itself round her legs and she staggered. Strong hands dragged her upright. She didn’t see the swift appraising glance that took in every detail of her shivering form.
‘I wager you’ll live, but we need to get you out of those wet things.’
For a moment the words made no sense. Then, as the implication dawned, her hands clutched protectively at the torn edges of her gown.
‘No.’
‘Dinna be a fool. You’ll catch your death.’
He reached for the front of her gown. Seeing his intent she turned to run but staggered again and almost fell, prevented only by the arm about her waist. Ashlynn shrieked, struggling to free herself from his hold but it was like doing battle with oak. The arm yielded not a whit. It swung her round instead bringing her eyes level with a broad chest. Panicking now she struck out with clenched fists. They might as well have been bird wings and, as they had relinquished their grip on her clothing, her garments fell open affording him an uninterrupted view of what lay beneath. He caught his breath. The reality close to only served to reinforce his earlier impression.
‘Well now, not just a pretty face then.’
As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them, realising they were hardly calculated to reassure, but his temper just then was not of the best. Thanks to her his quarry was away and free. Just why he hadn’t left the wench to drown was a mystery. Right now he half-wished he had.
‘Be still, you little hellcat!’
‘Let go of me!’
‘I said be still,’ he growled.
For answer Ashlynn kicked out and felt the blow connect. He gritted his teeth but his grip yielded not at all.
‘All right, have it your way, you contrary little vixen.’
Without warning his hands closed on the edges of her gown and dragged it down over her shoulders. Ashlynn began to fight like a cornered wildcat. In her panic she saw only Fitzurse’s men, felt their hands on her, restraining her while they did their will. It was all happening again. She wanted to scream but her throat was dry and suddenly it was harder to breathe for it was as though there was an iron band around her chest. The stranger’s face loomed over hers. Then all colour drained from her cheeks and she was vaguely aware of him catching her before she fell into a dead faint.
She had no idea how long she was unconscious but when she came round it was to an awareness of voices, of men and horses. She was cold, her body shaking violently. Then something was supporting her shoulders and a hand was forcing a cup between her lips. She heard a man’s voice.
‘Drink this.’
The tone brooked no refusal. Hot sweet liquid carved a path down her throat and all the way to her stomach. Ashlynn gasped. He made her drink it all, but slowly, and by degrees the heat spread and began to warm the cold core within, enough for the shaking to subside a little. Becoming more aware she realised that she was swathed from head to foot in a huge fur-lined cloak.
Looking up for the first time she saw a black leather tunic. Above it was long dark hair and a face whose rugged good looks were only too familiar. Dark eyes met and held hers for a moment before turning their attention to someone opposite, out of her line of vision.
‘We’ll leave presently, Dougal. We’ve delayed long enough as it is and I want to reach Hexham tonight. Besides, the injured need tending.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘We need to be back at Dark Mount before the weather closes in.’
‘Aye, my lord.’ Dougal paused. ‘What about the lass?’
‘We’ll take her with us for the time being.’
‘I can see your reasoning. For a drowned rat she’s no so bad-looking. Dry, she’d be a welcome addition in any man’s bed.’
Ashlynn’s heart lurched. The man beside her glanced down briefly, his expression sour.
‘This one would turn your bed to a couch of thorns.’
‘Well then,’ Dougal continued, ‘sell her. She’d likely fetch a good price were ye minded to get one. Or ye could ransom her, did she have kin.’
He frowned. ‘I’ll decide later. In the meantime, where are the things I asked for? Where the devil is Archie?’
As if on cue another man hastened forward and handed over a bundle of cloth. ‘Beg pardon, my lord. I’d a problem with the size.’
The laird looked down at Ashlynn again and then at the bundle he was holding.
‘You’ll be needing this.’
For a moment she stared at it and then back at him. Then, slowly, her dulled wits began to understand the significance of the great cloak around her and the immediacy of the soft fur against her skin. Her cheeks, so pale before, turned scarlet.
If she could have hit him she would have but both hands were imprisoned beneath the folds of the heavy cloak. ‘How dare you treat me like this!’
‘Dare had nothing to do with it, you wee fool,’ he replied. ‘Your clothes were soaking and little better than rags anyway. If you’d kept them on you’d have gone down with a fatal ague for certain.’
‘Is that your excuse?’
‘It needed no excuse. ’Twas a matter of common sense.’
Bereft of speech she looked away. The man neither appeared nor