The Earl's Captive Page 4

  In the light from the fire, she could make out his features: a strong, well-shaped nose, a broad brow from which his unruly black hair sprang like uncontrollable weeds, and a chin hidden by his beard. He looked younger than she had first thought, maybe only three or four years older than her. He was certainly more agreeable-looking than his ugly, ragged companions.

  But she had little time for reflection. Weasel-face began to whistle a tune which Lucy recognized as a crude ditty that she had sometimes caught her father's stable lads singing. Suddenly, she found herself wrenched from Rory's hold by the big man and whirled around in a kind of dance.

  Within seconds they had drawn close to the fire. Lucy, her hands bound behind her back, lost her balance, staggered and would have tumbled into the flames had not Rory noticed in time and pushed her out of the way.

  “Careful!” he yelled. “We don't want the little darlin' roasted, do we?”

  Gasping, her lungs burning from inhaling the fire-smoke, Lucy collapsed onto her knees, only to be hauled to her feet again by Weasel-face, twirled round, caught by Rory and flung towards the giant. She felt as if she were being used in some perverted game of pass-the-parcel. With Rory joining in the fun and so obviously enjoying it, she was bereft of the one man she hoped would be her ally and at the mercy of these three ruffians, who seemed set to torment and abuse her in the worst possible way.

  The left sleeve of her dress tore at the shoulder seam as she was spun wildly around. Soon, she was too dizzy and exhausted to notice whether her clothes were holding together or not. She felt fingers roughly tugging at her, foul breath on her face, hands fondling her breasts and buttocks and closed her eyes, praying to faint.

  “Smithy – here, catch!” called Rory, delivering her with a sharp slap across the rump into the arms of the next man. Opening her eyes briefly, Lucy discovered that “Smithy” was the weasel-faced one. The sight of his grey face and jaundiced eyeballs revolted her.

  She found herself in the arms of Rory again, who was grinning down at her, his teeth startlingly white and wholesome in comparison to those of his companions. “Please,” she moaned, hoping that perhaps she could touch some core of compassion in him. “Please … make them stop.”

  He didn't answer, just pushed her away from him, calling, “Pat! Your turn!”

  Lucy felt herself reeling and landed with a hard thump on the ground and lay there, winded.

  She was aware of someone crouching over her; male smells of sweat and spirits. Her face was tilted upwards and a prickly beard scratched her chin. A man, breathing hard, clamped his lips down onto hers so hard that her mouth was forced open. She didn't need to open her eyes to know who it was molesting her. It was the man from whom she stood the least chance of protecting herself – the giant, Pat.

  Desperately, she moved her head from side to side, seeking refuge from his revolting kiss. Her arms were twisted beneath her, her hands trapped painfully between her body and the stony ground.

  “Stop!” The word cut through the air like a whiplash. She felt the body above hers tense, the tongue withdraw from her mouth. “I found the bay stallion and the white mare! I know 'share and share alike' is our motto, but that's for the horses, not wenches. I'll do a deal with you. You can have the horse, sell it, split the money. But I saw the girl first. I captured her and brought her here.

  “I've been telling you for a long time, I need a wife. Well, here she is. My wife, Lucy.”

  Chapter Six

  Wife? Lucy's mind reeled. Only yesterday, she had run away from one unwanted suitor, yet now here she was, faced with another. How was she going to get out of it this time, with the odds so severely stacked against her? It was almost as if Fate had decreed that now was the time for Lucy Swift to get married and it didn't matter to whom.

  Still panting from being used in a game of pass-the-human-parcel, she rubbed her bruised arms, brushed a cleansing hand over her lips and sat up, tossing her tumbled hair out of her eyes.

  The bear-like figure of Pat was still looming over her, his eyes small and mean as they flicked over her in what seemed a mixture of lust and contempt. He gave Smithy a cuff on the side of the head, then turned to face Rory.

  “Me Oirish friend,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “pretty boy Rory. Always one for the ladies. I never thought you 'ad it in yer to get married.”

  His face lit up in a cunning smile. He came up to Rory and planted a fist like a joint of beef on his shoulder. Lucy gasped. He could kill Rory with one stroke. Yet Rory regarded him calmly and coolly, his body unmoving, his demeanour amiable.

  “So it's marriage you want now, my green little leprechaun,” the giant continued.

  Lucy saw the corner of Rory's mouth twitch, as if he were suppressing anger. She had to admire his self-control. She was also impressed by the quick-thinking way in which, by bringing an element of something legal and sanctified like marriage into the midst of an ugly, base scene, he had saved her from violation.

  Having feared for her own safety just minutes ago, now she was scared for him. If he were to pick a fight with Pat and be injured or killed, what would become of her then? There would be no one to stop the progress of the hideous giant's evil desires and she would sooner die than be forced to submit. But she couldn't understand the course the discussion was now taking. Rory had surely only suggested marrying her in order to save her, surely? Nobody could force him to carry out his inspired but impossible suggestion.

  Pat was regarding Rory with an ugly glint in his eye. A cunning smile flicked across his ugly, begrimed face. “If you're going to be selfish about it and keep 'er all to yourself, then by God, you'll 'ave 'er properly and honestly. Smithy!”

  The skinny little man scrambled to his feet, left the comfort of the fire and scampered to Pat's side.

  “You'll be the witness,” ordered the giant. “Now, fetch me 'oly book.”

  Lucy looked at them aghast. What on earth was going on? She shot a puzzled glance at Rory. He looked at her, unsmiling and then, with the same serious expression, took a knife from the pocket of his britches and sawed through the cord that bound her wrists. Her fingers were swollen and painful, her wrists marked with purple grooves where the twine had bitten into her delicate skin. She rubbed them ruefully, wincing as she touched the damaged flesh.

  “Come 'ere,” boomed the giant. “Let the service begin.”

  Lucy took a good look at the black book Smithy had brought, which now rested in Pat's hands. It was, indeed, marked Holy Bible. An uneasy shiver crawled down her spine. What was this mockery, this charade? The giant had a strange sense of humour. Perhaps it was better simply to let him act out his fantasy rather than risk incurring his fury and the possible resumption of his attack upon her virtue.

  Lucy had attended her sister Helen's wedding. She knew the wording of the vows. To her horror, the giant reeled off exactly the same lines. Rory took her hand and was clasping it firmly. She gave an experimental tug and his grip immediately tightened, leaving her in no doubt that it would be impossible for her to break free and run away.

  She struggled to catch Rory's attention. He was staring at Pat as if mesmerized, but, feeling the power of Lucy's gaze on him, he inclined his head to face her. There was so much she needed to say to him, so much she wanted to ask him.

  “… any lawful impediment,” intoned the giant.

  Lucy did her best to whisper without letting her lips move, hoping that Pat wouldn't notice. “He can't do this, can he?”

  A faint nod was her answer. Lucy felt the blood pound in her temples and her hands went icy cold. It was all a joke – it had to be. She must let Pat get this mock ceremony over with, let him firmly believe the fantasy that she and Rory were actually married, and then he would not try to molest her again. The words he was speaking would make her taboo to him and Smithy. But Rory? Surely he didn't believe these vows were legal?

  She had to make doubly sure, so she nudged him and whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “He's not
a real priest, is he?”

  Another nod.

  Lucy felt her heart hammer in panic. She had to get away, now, before it was too late – before these crazy men tried to make her believe she was married to a total stranger! Using her free hand, she tried to prise Rory's fingers off her other hand, but he just held onto her even more tightly. Emotions washed over her, each stronger than the one which preceded it; fear, pleading, fury, helplessness, hopelessness.

  Suddenly her hand was squeezed. An urgent whisper sounded in her ear. “Go on. You must speak. He'll kill you if you don't.”

  She found herself being led forward and forced to kneel before the cracked boots of the 'vicar'.

  Above her head, Pat asked, “What's her full name?”

  “Lucy Swift,” she heard Rory reply.

  “Lucy Swift, will you have this man to be your husband …”

  There was a roaring in her ears similar to that which she had experienced the previous day, just before she'd fainted. She felt herself starting to sway, but a sharp elbow prodded her urgently in the ribs.

  “Say 'I do,' ” begged Rory.

  Groggy as she was, she still caught the warning tone in his voice. She had never before had to struggle with so many emotions all at once. How could she speak these two words, the most momentous words any woman ever speaks during her lifetime? For all she knew, she really was committing herself to something legal and binding.

  The urgent whisper came again. “Say it.”

  “I do,” murmured Lucy. Seconds later, or so it seemed, she heard Rory repeat the same words.

  The huge bulk of the man above her shifted like a tree in a landslip. His booming voice declared, “You may now kiss your bride.”

  She was pulled to her feet and enveloped in Rory's embrace. She closed her eyes and puckered her lips, bracing herself for a mockery of a husband's kiss. Instead, Rory brushed her lips perfunctorily with his own and murmured, “Well done, girl. Don't worry.”

  “A drink! A toast to the bride and groom!” Smithy had a bottle of some kind of spirits in his hand, which he offered to Pat, who put it to his lips and took a deep draught.

  “Aagh,” Pat sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his filthy hand. “'Aven't married anyone for a long time.”

  “Not since you were thrown out of St Barnabas's, I'll be bound,” wheezed Smithy, chuckling catarrhally.

  “For squeezing that old girl in the vestry? Oh-ho-ho, that was funny! You should 'ave seen the curate's face when 'e came in and caught me wiv me 'and down 'er front. Oh, the sin of fornication was never one I preached against, Smithy me boy!” Pat thumped his hand between Smithy's shoulder blades for emphasis, forcing the frail man into another of his terrible, rattling coughing fits.

  Smithy was doubled up, his cheeks hollowing and puffing as he fought for breath. “'Ere, 'ave a drop of this.” The big man thrust the bottle against Smithy's grey lips and, between spasms, Smith reached out a trembling hand, took the bottle and sucked hard from it. At last, the dreadful, bubbling spasm ceased.

  “He's going to die!” observed Lucy worriedly, quite forgetting her own predicament in the face of the man's desperate state.

  “Yes, probably. Aren't we all?” answered Rory.

  Lucy, shocked by his callousness, gazed at him open-mouthed. “How can you be so cruel?” she demanded, ready to upbraid him for being so unconcerned about a fellow mortal.

  “Smithy's had that cough for years. Never gets any worse, never gets any better. Sure, it's the cross he has to bear.”

  “And what's yours?”

  “Hush up, wife!”

  “Wife?”

  Lucy rounded on him, feeling ready to strike him now that her hands were free again. The fire had died down now and the air was growing cold around them. She could hear the restless shifting and cropping as the horses moved over the ground, seeking grass blades among the prickly heather. Pat had guided Smithy to the fireside and was pulling a ragged blanket over him.

  “I'm no more your wife than you are my –”

  “Your husband,” supplied Rory, placing an arm round her shoulders which Lucy angrily shrugged off. “That I am!”

  “But you're not my husband!” Her shrill tone made Pat look up from his vigil by Smithy and the fire.

  “He is, you know. And if you don't stop nagging him, woman, 'e'll take his belt to you!” A guffaw rumbled deep in the giant's chest as he sank down beside the dying embers and pulled a horse-blanket round himself. The sky was still clouded over and, apart from the area near the fire, their whole surroundings were in pitch darkness.

  “You stay there. I'll fetch a blanket,” said Rory, walking off towards a heap of bags and saddlery.

  Lucy knew that if ever she was going to get a chance to escape, this was it. Yet something kept her rooted to the spot. She had no idea why she was staying and she examined her mind to see if it could be confusion at not knowing which way to run, or fear of retribution from the fearsome Pat.

  As she watched Rory delving among the baggage, a realization came to her which she was at first tempted to dismiss as being not worthy of her. But the more she thought about it, the stronger the conviction grew. In the end, she knew for certain that the thing which stopped her running was curiosity. She needed to find out the truth about this bizarre ceremony which had just been performed, and the only person who could aid her was Rory.

  Besides which – and this realization was even harder to come to terms with than the last – there was something about him that prompted her to stay. She needed to talk to him, to thank him for saving her from Pat – and maybe for saving her life, too. After she had spoken to him, after daylight had come and she had got her bearings, then perhaps she would look for some means of escape.

  Yet part of her longed to feel the touch of his lips on hers. Not a perfunctory peck such as he had given her earlier, but a warm, full, lingering kiss. She smiled drowsily as she imagined herself on her wedding night, receiving her husband in clean, soft linen sheets, blushing coyly as he peeled down a strap of her white nightgown.

  Chapter Seven

  Her shoulder ached abominably. Lucy wriggled, seeking a comfortable indentation in her feather mattress. Her pillow, too, was lumpy and hard, unyielding to the butting of her head. She raised a fist to pound it and redistribute the goosefeather filling – and felt something stay her arm in its downward swing.

  “Wisha, girl, ye'll hurt yeself.”

  That's not Geoffrey. What's he doing in my bedroom, anyway? No, Geoffrey left, he isn't at home any more. “Father?” Lucy's sleepy, inquiring tones met with silence.

  She stretched out an arm and encountered not soft, warm coverlets but pebbles and sharp bracken stalks beneath her hand. Her eyelids blinked open. Her bedroom ceiling had lifted off. There was blue sky above her, with wispy white clouds like streaks of spilt milk. What had happened? Where was she?

  Lucy's heart raced in panic and she sat bolt upright, feeling a breeze on her face. Immediately, her eyes fell on the face of a man who was lying next to her beneath a ragged blanket. He was staring at her, as if she were as much a stranger to him as he was to her. Scattered recollections came back to her – her flight, her capture, her ordeal round the fire. She remembered Pat holding a Bible, Smithy and his coughing fit and her terrible anxiety about whether or not the ceremony she had undergone had resulted in her being married to … to whom, exactly?

  She looked at Rory again. His long-lashed brown eyes met hers and he gave her a smile and touched her arm familiarly. No, it was all a joke. They were drunk, they had played tricks with her. Now, the fun was over and she would be able to explain her position and the true reason for her being alone on the moor. They would take her with them wherever they were going, help her get far away from Prebbledale.

  The thought suddenly occurred to her that she had no recollection of having fallen asleep the previous night. Surely she couldn't have …? Surely he …? She scrambled half out of the blanket and drew a deep breath of r
elief at finding herself still fully dressed and, it seemed, untouched by the man who had shared her resting place.

  She realized that she must have tumbled straight into a deep, exhausted slumber as soon as she had settled her head on the pillow. She felt beneath her and discovered that the 'pillow' was, in fact, a folded cloak: Rory's. She had no memory of his having placed it there.

  He was still regarding her with an amused expression. Maybe he had saved her from a hideous fate the night before, but that didn't mean she owed him a place in her life or a share in her body. She pushed the blanket right back and started to get to her feet. Her mouth was dry, her head ached and she felt tired and bruised and was painfully aware of the scars left by her father's punishment.

  As her feet touched the ground, she winced and discovered that the soles of her thin leather slippers were split and her feet lacerated and tender.

  “Don't worry, Lucy. We shan't be movin' on today. It's the Sabbath and there's no markets or fairs on the holy day. You just take your rest and heal up. I'm sorry about the way me fine friends treated ye last night but ye don't have to bother about them ever again. Not now you're me wife.”

  The same cold dread that had afflicted Lucy the previous night washed over her again, clouding the fresh blue day with grey uncertainty, as if she'd just woken from a bad dream to find it still continuing in her waking hours.

  “Rory McDonnell – if that's your real name …” She paused, but there was no reaction from the bearded young man who lay, fully dressed, propped on one elbow, grinning at her. “Tell me, what are you and your ill-mannered friends? Highwaymen? Gypsies? Are you on the run for some crime? You used me last night as some kind of plaything. I'm not used to that kind of treatment.”