Falling for Her Captor. Elisabeth Hobbes
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embrace that the sensation was almost painful.
She spotted Dickon as he appeared from behind a hut, his saddlebag slung carelessly over his shoulder. Bowing again, he held out an arm for Aline. They walked together through the village, Aline acutely aware of the nearness of Dickon’s body. She was glad when they returned to the horses and she could push such inappropriate thoughts away.
The sun had started to descend before they stopped again. The purple heather had begun to thin and clusters of trees appeared, providing some welcome shade from the sun. Aline had been happy for Dickon to choose the route and they had ridden close to the borders of the province. Now, as she dismounted, Aline’s stomach fluttered uneasily at being so far from the castle with only one groom for security.
After tethering the horses to a tree she scratched them between their eyes while Dickon unloaded his pannier. He handed Aline a goblet of cool wine and she drained it thirstily, pushing her worries to the back of her mind. The day was unexpectedly warm, so they removed their cloaks and sat lazily against the trunk of a tree, sipping the wine and picking at bread and cheese. Dickon was easy company, though the talk never moved much beyond horses and amusing snippets of gossip about the goings-on of the castle staff.
Dickon refilled Aline’s goblet once more and she lay back in the warm heather, eyes closed, sleepily enjoying the chance to leave behind her duties and her lessons. Somewhere not too far away a horn sounded and she idly wondered who it might be. She tried to pull herself upright to see but found her body felt heavier than usual. Her head started to swim. She looked up to find Dickon staring at her.
‘It didn’t taste strange in the slightest, did it, my lady?’ Dickon said, his mouth twisting into a smile but his eyes cold.
The look on his face terrified Aline more than anything she had ever experienced. Something was deeply wrong.
‘What do you mean, “taste strange”?’ she asked, alarmed to hear that her voice sounded a long way off and not her own. Dickon leaned over and picked up the goblet from Aline’s side. She flinched as his hand brushed her arm.
‘The wine, my lady. I put rock-poppy juice in your cup. Not the most sophisticated drug, but effective. It paralyses the drinker quickly and sleep follows soon after,’ he explained.
‘What do...?’ Aline tried to make sense of what the man was saying but she was finding it hard to concentrate. ‘What have...you...done?’
‘I just told you—I’ve drugged you,’ Dickon explained matter-of-factly. ‘The Duke of Roxholm has paid me very well to hand you over to him. In a short while a number of his guards will be here to take you to the Citadel of Roxholm.’
He sat back on his heels.
‘I will, of course, try to defend you from their “surprise” attack, but unfortunately I will be no match. I will be found with some minor but alarming-looking injuries, wandering near Leavingham Keep, dazed and with a ransom letter, some time this evening.’
With growing alarm Aline tried again to sit up. ‘You filthy traitor. You will hang...for...this...’ she tried to snarl, though her voice barely broke the silence surrounding them.
Dickon’s response was a smirk. ‘Ah, my lady, so fierce! Do you think I would tell you any of this if I thought there was a chance that might happen? I shall be far overseas by the time your fool of a grandfather has negotiated your return.’ He knelt down beside Aline and spoke softly in her ear. ‘I’m sorry we have to part like this. But, as attractive as you are, the price I was paid is even more so.’
He started to run his fingers through Aline’s hair, pulling the combs out and unwinding the long braid. Aline tried to push him away but her arms felt weighted and numb. She gave a scream that in her head sounded loud and piercing but which came out as half gasp, half sob.
‘Still,’ Dickon continued, as though he had heard nothing, ‘I imagine we have some time before my associates arrive. We may as well say our goodbyes thoroughly. I’ve been longing to do this since I first saw you.’
With one hand pulling at the laces of Aline’s bodice Dickon moved closer, so that his wine-scented breath was warm on her face. Aline had not thought she could be any more horrified, but at his touch she felt as though hot knives were being drawn across her skin. She tried again to scream, but before she could cry out his lips were crushing her own and his tongue was forcing them apart.
Instinctively Aline bit down hard. The groom pulled away with a cry of surprise, a trickle of blood leaking down his chin. He grabbed a handful of Aline’s hair and jerked her head sharply to the side, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Aline cried out at the pain that shot through her head, but again found that her voice was no more than a mewl. She glared at him, her face full of hate but her eyes pleading with him to stop.
‘Lady Aline,’ Dickon reproached her, ‘your modesty is charming but I know you find me desirable. I’ve seen it in your eyes so don’t be coy. We must take our pleasure while we can.’
Dickon moved so swiftly he was astride her almost before Aline realised, one knee forcing its way between her legs, the weight of his body crushing the breath from her chest. His mouth worked roughly down her neck while his arms pinned her own to the ground. By now Aline’s body felt leaden and the blood was pounding in her ears. She could no more fight his assault than she could prevent the wind from blowing.
She made one last futile effort to throw her assailant off, kicking her legs wildly, but the effort sent her head reeling. Her vision began to blur. From what seemed like a great distance she heard the sound of hooves, followed by raised voices. A shadowy figure loomed above them; a dagger glinted at Dickon’s neck.
‘Get off the lady now or I’ll slit your worthless throat,’ a harsh voice snarled.
The pressure of Dickon’s body lifted from her and Aline drew a rasping breath. Two figures spun like puppets before Aline’s heavy eyes: the groom in his rough brown jerkin and a black-clad man. Her last memory was of piercing blue eyes flashing in her direction, before darkness closed over her and she was lost to the world.
Aline was dragged slowly back to wakefulness from dreams of violence and fear. Her stomach was on the point of revolting, her head felt heavy, and her limbs were tender and bruised. She opened her eyes but closed them again hastily as a sharp spasm of pain burst across her brow. She swallowed with difficulty through a throat that was dry and raw.
A steady rocking informed her that she was in a moving vehicle, though she could not tell what. Gritting her teeth in readiness for the anticipated pain, she forced her eyes open again. It was less painful this time, and when her vision cleared she pushed herself with shaking arms to a seated position. Immediately an icy wave of nausea crashed over her. She lunged forwards and vomited into a bucket that someone had thoughtfully placed within her reach, clutching the rim as her stomach emptied itself violently.
‘Rock-poppy juice will do that to you, milady.’
The voice was male, and at the sound Aline’s memory attacked her with images. Instinctively she hurled herself back into a corner with a gasp, her hands curling into fists.
‘Who...? Where...?’ Aline asked in a voice far from controlled. She bit down hard on her lip in an attempt to control her chattering teeth.
A young man sat on a wooden chest, a short sword lying across his lap. He looked no more than eighteen, his hair cropped short in the manner of a soldier. His face was not the one she feared to see, and Aline felt her legs go weak with relief.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ the boy asked nervously, passing her a leather-covered bottle.
Gratefully Aline gulped the weak ale, taking in her surroundings as she did so. The vehicle was a small cart, long and wide enough for a couple of tall men to lie comfortably. The upper half was covered with fabric stretched over a wooden frame. The only light