Falling for Her Captor. Elisabeth Hobbes
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down the side. Aline’s stomach almost revolted as the memory of Dickon’s assault flashed through her mind. She redoubled her efforts to escape, beating against his chest with both fists and flailing wildly with her legs.
‘Don’t touch me!’ Aline screamed, grasping at his knife. ‘I will kill myself before I let you have me!’
Her attacker sat back, genuine surprise flickering momentarily across his blue eyes. His mouth turned down with distaste at the implication of Aline’s words.
‘You rate your charms very highly, my lady! Don’t fear—I prefer my partners to be willing.’
An unbidden sob of relief burst from Aline’s throat and her body sagged.
The man’s smile faded, replaced by a softer expression. ‘I promise you, your honour is safe,’ he said solemnly.
Without waiting for a reply he cut a strip of cloth from Aline’s dress and, lifting the pressure of his body, rolled Aline onto her front. He pulled her hands behind her back and bound them tightly. Though she dug her feet into the ground, Aline was unable to resist as the man put his arms about her waist and pulled her to her feet.
‘Walk,’ he instructed curtly. He gave her a gentle prod in the centre of her back.
Hoping to surprise him, Aline launched her body backwards, knocking him off balance. She lashed out wildly, kicking the heel of her riding boot into his kneecap for good measure, and ran screaming as he doubled over with a satisfying grunt of pain.
She had not run more than six paces before he caught her from behind by the neck of her dress. He knelt down and pulled her backwards against his body, his arm across her chest and throat. She felt the scratch of his beard against her neck. With the blood pounding in her throat, she writhed and twisted against the controlled strength in his arms. She had fought her hardest and he had barely raised a sweat!
The man cut another strip from Aline’s skirt and bound her ankles together. Aline let fly another volley of curses, bucking wildly. In response the man laughed, unwound the cloth from about his neck and gagged her. He sat back against a tree, cross-legged, and folded his arms as Aline lay writhing angrily on the forest floor. She glared at him, hoping hate was clear in her face.
The man did nothing, indifferent to her anger and clearly prepared to wait as long as necessary for Aline to surrender. She lay still as misery crept over her.
‘Good. You are beginning to see sense.’ He unwound himself and heaved Aline over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a bundle of straw. Whistling to himself, he carried her through the woods to the track, seemingly oblivious to the double-footed kicks she aimed at his chest.
After an undignified journey for Aline they reached the cart. Relief flooded the faces of the two guards as the man in black strode towards them. Aline saw that the young guard sported a livid red mark across his cheek.
‘Duncan, explain,’ Aline’s captor said questioningly. The older guard saluted smartly.
‘He was stupid. He won’t be again,’ he answered gruffly.
‘Then it’s done with,’ the man in black said curtly to the youth. ‘But if anything like that happens again you answer to me.’
The boy cast a reproachful look at Aline, then mumbled an apology. The man in black climbed into the cart and put Aline face-down on the mattress, turning her head towards his.
‘May I suggest you use this time to realise the foolishness of trying to escape, my lady?’ he said. He climbed down from the cart. ‘Move off,’ he shouted, and after a few moments they lurched forwards.
Waves of nausea washed over Aline. She strangled a sob, shut her eyes and concentrated on not vomiting again. She silently cursed Dickon for his betrayal, cursed herself for falling for it and for her clumsy escape attempt, and finally cursed the dark-haired man whose face swam before her eyes.
She did not know how, but she swore that one day the man would pay for his treatment of her, and she consoled herself by picturing myriad deaths and humiliations for the arrogant swine.
They travelled for what felt like hours. A brief struggle convinced Aline that her limbs were too tightly bound to give her any hope of freeing herself. The repetitive motion of the cart and sounds of hooves made her drowsy, and she kept slipping in and out of consciousness.
She awoke with wet cheeks, realising she had been weeping in her sleep. Now her mind dwelt further on the people she had left behind. When would anyone even know what had befallen her? It could be hours before Dickon returned to the city with his lies.
As much as that, however, she could not stop dwelling on why she had been taken. But for the gag in her mouth the lack of knowledge would have made her scream. Was she a hostage? The notion seemed ridiculous. There had been peace for many years, so why would the Duke of Roxholm risk disrupting it? But it had to be that, she told herself. Any other alternative was far too horrific to contemplate.
The movement of the cart stopped abruptly and Aline became alert once more. It was colder now, and the muted light coming through the curtains told her night was beginning to fall. They had been travelling for hours, so it was little wonder her body ached from lying on the rough mattress. Her throat felt rough and sore and she would have begged willingly for a drink. Her fingers were cold and numb, though wriggling them caused sparks of pain to shoot up her arms from where the ropes bit tightly into her wrists.
From outside the cart came voices and the clattering of equipment as the men set up camp for the night. Aline tried to twist her body round to see what was happening but all she succeeded in doing was covering her face with her hair and catching her skirt on a loose piece of wood. After minutes of fruitless attempts she gave up and lay still. Her throat tightened at the prospect of being left like this all night and she forced herself to breathe slowly. Finally, as her composure began to crumble, she heard somebody climb inside.
The person came closer and Aline gave a muffled cry as hands touched her shoulders. She was lifted briskly by the arms and pulled to a seated position against the side of the cart, with her legs curled underneath her. Loose strands of hair fell in front of her face, tendrils sticking to the saltwater tracks on her cheeks. The itching irritated her. That it was evidence she had been crying infuriated her even more. She wiped her cheek across her shoulder to move the hair from her eyes and saw who had lifted her upright.
The man in black sat back against the opposite side of the cart, too tall to stand upright. Aline studied her captor properly for the first time. He was well built, and she estimated no more than ten years her elder, though lines were starting to show on his brow and round his eyes. He sat silently, elbows on his knees and chin on his hands, returning Aline’s gaze.
Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Forgive me for not introducing myself before, Lady Aline. I am Hugh of Eardham, Captain of the Guard of Roxholm.’
He paused, as though he expected a response, though what did he expect her to do, given that she was bound and with a gag in her mouth? Aline thought scornfully.
When no reaction was forthcoming he continued. ‘I think it is important that we reach an understanding that will make the journey easier for everyone, so let me explain your situation. A message was sent back to Leavingham with your horses and the body of your groom. It states very strongly that the High Lord must take no action until he receives further communication or you will forfeit your life.’
He paused to let his words sink in, watching Aline closely.
‘If we have an easy journey it will take us several days before we rendezvous with the rest of my men. Now, I can untie you, and let you travel the rest of the way in comfort, but only if you give your word not to make things difficult for us. Otherwise you will remain as you are. The choice is yours.’
Aline glared at him, any number of sharp responses coming to mind. But her arms and shoulders ached from the unnatural