His Lady's Ransom. Merline Lovelace
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she was in this man’s power ate like a worm inside her belly, but she would, perforce, have to go with him. The manner of her going, however, was yet to be decided.
“Aye,” Madeline replied, lifting her skirts. “I’m ready. But I would…” She trailed off in surprise when he stood immovable before her.
“Aye, my lord,” he corrected softly.
Heat flooded her cheeks. For a long moment they faced each other, she and de Burgh, green eyes locked with blue. The stamping of the horses as they shifted on the hard cobbles and the murmuring of the men behind them went unheard. There was only this lean, unyielding man filling her vision, his breath brushing her cheeks.
One of the horses teamed in harness shivered in the cold and stepped back, causing the litter to shift and rattle on the cobbles. Madeline caught the movement from the corner of one eye.
She swallowed, and swung her gaze back to de Burgh. “Aye, my lord, I’m ready.”
He had half turned away when her low voice stopped him.
“But I would ride my palfrey, if it pleases you.”
He frowned and gestured toward the litter. “You will be more comfortable within.”
Desperate, Madeline sought some means to sway him. She would not, she could not, climb into that box. Even if she traveled with the curtains drawn open as far as they would go, the tight confines would choke her. Nor could she admit the fear that had haunted her from childhood to this man and give him a weapon he might use against her.
Of a sudden, Madeline remembered John’s assurance that she could make any man dance to her tune did she but try. She wet her lips and forced them to curve in what she hoped would pass for a smile.
“I’m well horsed, my lord. My mare was a gift from my first husband, and I…I would not leave her here.”
He hesitated.
Hating herself, but driven by a fear that made sweat bead between her breasts, Madeline stepped forward and laid a mittened hand on his arm. Tilting her head, she slanted him a look that had brought courtiers stumbling over their feet to do her bidding.
“Come, sir, I will need my mare wherever it is I go.”
“You go to Cragsmore, lady.”
Well, at least she knew her destination, although it meant little to her. One of the baron de Courcey’s lesser keeps, Cragsmore had come to her as part of her widow’s dower and been managed by castellans appointed by the king during her wardship. It sat close on the Welsh border, she knew, and provided her with a steady, if somewhat meager, income in timber and wool from long-haired mountain sheep. Madeline had visited it only once, as a young bride, and had a vague memory of lichen-covered stone walls and drafty corridors. At this moment, however, he had more immediate concerns than the journey’s end.
Swallowing the pride that lodged in her throat like a crust of dry bread, she pressed lightly against de Burgh’s mail-clad arm. “If I ride, mayhap we can have discourse during the journey and ease this…disharmony between us.”
He looked down at her hand, his brows lifting. When he met her eyes once more, Madeline could not quite interpret the look that crossed his face. Whatever he would have said to her was lost in the clatter of booted feet.
“My lady.”
Madeline snatched her hand back. Will strode across the bailey, leading her bay mare. The silver bells on the palfrey’s halter tinkled as it danced to a halt a few feet away.
Will’s golden hair was spiked with dried sweat, and his cheeks yet held the grime of the tourney, but none of that detracted from the huge grin splitting his handsome face. “When Ian told me that the king had given you into his keeping, I could scarce believe it!”
“Nor could I,” Madeline replied.
“I was even more surprised when he told me that you leave today for the north.”
“Not half as surprised as I.”
William blinked at her dry response, apparently recognizing that she was less than overjoyed at her change in circumstances. “I know ‘tis a somewhat abrupt departure, but I—I’m glad you’re in my brother’s care. He’ll hold you safe.”
Madeline flashed him a startled look, but before she could ascertain why he thought she needed safekeeping, he smiled shyly.
“I leave for the north soon myself. Mayhap I will find reason to journey to Cragsmore.”
Over his shoulder, Madeline saw the earl stiffen. The lad would not come to Cragsmore, she knew, not if de Burgh had anything to do with it.
“I had not time to find a suitable farewell gift,” Will continued, “but I beg you accept the barding that I won in the tourney this morning.”
He tugged the mare’s reins, causing her to skip in a half circle on her dainty hooves. Madeline’s eyes widened at the rich caparison that covered her mount from neck to haunches. Embellished with a wide border of gold and silver threads woven in a strange cursive pattern, the viridescent trapping gleamed in the winter sunlight. Madeline ran a hand over the smooth, shining fabric, marveling at its tight weave and shimmering thickness.
“’Tis from the East,” Will told her. “The knight who ransomed it said he won it at the siege of Jerusalem. He swears he had it of Saladin himself.”
“But you should keep such a treasure!”
A tide of red crept up his neck. “Nay, I want you to have it. ‘Tis the color of your eyes, though not as deep or as verdant. And the sheen is naught to that which shimmers in your…in your…” He stumbled, searching for an appropriately shimmering portion of her anatomy.
Madeline bit her lip, then thanked him gravely for his gift. When he looked as though he would launch into paeans once more, the earl gave a snort of disgust and stepped forward.
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