Held For Ransom Read online

  “You are still a maid?” he asked to redirect the conversation. Engaging with her about the mission could be dangerous. He did not know the extent of her abilities, but it was said she saw into the future. Mayhap she also read minds. The less he revealed, in conversation or thought, the better his chance of escaping this endeavor with his life.

  She played the same game of ignoring questions. "You are holding me for ransom?"

  "Yes."

  “Who are you?”

  “No one of consequence.”

  She continued to consider him. "You will not survive." She said it matter-of-factly, not as a threat.

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “But I have walked from death’s blade more times than I can count. Mayhap I will escape death at the king’s hands, too.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  His mind flitted to Kendra, the pain of not knowing his young sister’s fate sharp as a blade before he cleared his thoughts so she could not read them. He sank into the chair near the door to guard her for the night.

  “My brother will not allow you to live. He may pay the ransom, but he will not rest until he has hunted you down and killed you.”

  “I expect no less. Nor would I do differently if you were my sister. Dawn will come soon. Can you rest, highness? I promise no one will molest you as you sleep.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  “I will not,” he said. “I will remain here in this chair.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a single nod, walking to the pallet and picking up the blanket, which she attempted to spread over herself with her bound wrists. Seeing her struggle, he walked to her and took it, spreading over her, tucking the edges in around her body as she gazed at him with wide, green eyes.

  He extinguished the lamp to conserve oil, though he would have preferred leaving light in the room to be better prepared for any attempted escape. She lay very still for a long time, her breathing never deepening into the sound of slumber.

  He knew when she sat up, though she did not make a sound. “There is no way out, highness.” He sensed her irritation.

  “I need to use the chamber pot,” she said petulantly.

  He stood and took hold of her arms to help her to her feet. Leading her to the corner, he turned her to face the chamber pot. “It is there, in the corner. Do you wish me to light the lantern?”

  “I wish you to untie my hands,” she snapped.

  “I cannot do so, my lady.”

  “I will soil my chemise, as I cannot lift─”

  He turned her to face him and lifted the hem of the chemise and his tunic, placing the bundle of them in her bound hands. Holding her beneath the arms, he pushed her backward, so she fell into a squat over the chamber pot. “If you cannot do it yourself, I will help you,” he said, not quite successful at keeping the mock out of his tone.

  She gave a huff, but used the chamber pot. When she finished and he lifted her away from it, she dropped the skirts and threw her shoulder into him to give him a shove.

  “Mayhap next time you will manage it on your own,” he suggested drily.

  “I hope your death is long and painful,” she spat, shoving past him to the pallet.

  ****

  His mockery bothered her more than the Saxon’s attack. Why should that be? Because she had somehow aligned herself with him, against them, mayhap? But she noticed how he bristled when she called them swine. And he spoke their tongue with fluency. It was hard to judge the shape of his face with the mask, but his eyes were blue. Could he be Saxon? Or part Saxon?

  He had courtly manners with her, though, as if he were well acquainted with the inside of a castle.

  She curled up on the pallet, attempting again to manage the blanket without his aid. He snatched it from her, spreading it across her body with a flick of his wrist. She imagined there was nothing he did not do well–he was an incredible specimen of manhood–strong and capable, confident in his abilities. She noticed he had left his weapons in the anteroom, as if he knew he could manage her with his bare hands. As well he could. And it left her without the opportunity to use his weapons against him.

  But she had managed a small success. When the Saxon had been upon her, his eating knife had fallen and in the chaos after her captor entered to rescue her, she had had a chance to slide it under the pallet. She hoped to use it to free her wrists for starters, then mayhap the Goddess would guide her hand. The thought of killing made her shudder, but she would do whatever was necessary to escape.

  She waited, hoping to hear sounds of snoring or deeper breathing from her guard, but every time she moved in bed she sensed his alert attention. She would need more of a distraction before she had the chance to cut her wrists free.

  She drifted to sleep just before dawn, exhaustion finally overriding her fear. When she woke, her captor was eating a bowl of porridge, still in his chair watching her.

  “Good morning,” he said and called out something in the Saxon tongue. A few moments later, her previous night’s attacker entered carrying a bowl of porridge, which he handed to her.

  She bit back the customary thanks that rose to her lips, taking it in silence. She attempted to rest the bowl in her lap and pick up the spoon with her bound hands, but it was impossible to maneuver. Her imprisoner crossed the room and knelt beside her.

  Dear Goddess, she could not stand the man feeding her, too.

  He took the bowl and set it on the floor, untying the knotted linen binding her wrists. She exhaled in relief. When her hands came free, she twirled them in circles to get the blood circulating and rubbed her cold palms together.

  “Thank you,” she said. It was too difficult for her to withhold courtesy or gratitude, and she knew from Avalon, the giving of thanks actually blessed the giver more than the receiver.

  As usual, he did not reply, merely returned to his chair to sit and observe her. Once she began eating, she realized just how hungry she had become and she finished it all, despite the dulling effects it would have on her intuition.

  When she finished, he returned to her side, this time pulling her arms to tie behind her as he had done the first time. “What are you doing?” she asked, greatly preferring to at least have use of her hands in front of her body.

  “We will alternate so your arms do not become too fatigued,” he said with the practicality of one who has had his wrists bound before.

  “But they will fatigue far sooner behind me,” she complained.

  “I know.”

  “But then─” she sputtered, then gave up, sensing the unbendable steel of this man’s will. She sat on her pallet, giving him a dose of his own silent treatment and intense observation. Staring at him in his chair, she gathered every bit of anger and hatred she could muster and projected them to him.

  The priestesses did not teach them to send curses at Avalon. They trained them to bless, to elevate spirits, to bring harmony and peace. Yet she knew the elders understood magic well enough to send evil, too. If she could send love to heal, she could also send hatred to harm.

  After some concentrated effort, her captor’s eye began to twitch and a sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Lift your curse, highness.”

  Her lips curved into a satisfied smile. She did not know what he felt, but it seemed her darkness had an effect. “What curse?” she asked innocently.

  “Lift it.”

  “Or what?”

  “Please.”

  She expected a threat, rather than supplication and his appeal unsteadied her. In truth, she feared the power coursing through her. It had an unfamiliar, dense darkness and her naval center felt heavy and sick.

  “Do you tell me you do not deserve it?”

  He rubbed one temple as if she had given him a headache. “Aye. I deserve it. Yet it does not serve either of us. Do you wish to be guarded by a wounded dog? I am far meaner when I am in pain.”

  She exhaled, feeling rather mean herself. His words had logic.

&nbs
p; “Very well. I will lift it, so long as you converse with me. I do not wish to sit in silence with you staring at me all day.”

  He gave a half-grin. “All right, your highness. I will converse.”

  She blew out her breath, releasing the stored anger and darkness she had gathered. It took several more minutes to clear it from the space between them, from his body and from the room. She filled the room instead with a light rose-colored energy, the energy of the Goddess.

  “Thank you, highness.” He seemed sincere. She should not feel so gratified by his reverence for her power, or even by his ability to sense it, but she did. Like a maid of fourteen, rather than twenty-six, she felt her cheeks grow warm. When she looked up, she saw fascination in his gaze, as if he had noticed her blush.

  Curses.

  ****

  How could such a creature so powerful be so innocent? He had been shocked when she said she was still a maid. If she lived in the castle with her brother, he might have believed it, but the priestesses still followed the old ways with fertility and sex rites. They did not take long-term partners, but they certainly engaged in acts–they bore children and sent the boys to castles to be fostered as knights or to the druids to become priests. To hear that a full priestess had not participated surprised him.

  And yet, she had just blushed at his thanks, as if she received little attention from men. Or mayhap in general. Not for the first time, he felt a stirring in his heart toward her. She was a woman like no other he had known. If only their fates had been different.

  “What is your name?”

  He grinned. “I said I would converse, I did not say I would answer your interrogation.”

  She looked torn between a smile and a frown. “Well, what should I call you, then? How can we talk if I do not know how to address you?”

  “Are you opposed to ‘sir’?” he said, allowing his lips to curl to show he teased.

  “Are you a knight?”

  “Aye,” he admitted, deciding the topic was safe enough. “I was knighted at age sixteen, after fighting the First Battle of the Picts. You remember it?”

  She nodded, her eyes unfocused as if she was exploring the inside of his head for more information. He made his mind completely blank, erasing the memories of the battle which he had fought at his maternal grandfather’s side.

  “Crow,” she said, sending a shudder through his entire body.

  “Yes.” He swallowed. “They call me Crow.”

  Her intuition of his nickname did not bode well. He had not been thinking of it, yet she had sensed it just the same. What else would she discover? His heart picked up speed, the hair on his nape standing up.

  “How much gold did you request for my return?”

  He said nothing for a long moment, then decided hiding his thoughts from her was probably useless. “I asked for something else.”

  He projected an image of a scene to her, part of him wanting her to know how justified his actions were.

  She gasped, mayhap seeing what he saw in his mind’s eye–the utter destruction of the Saxon settlement where his sister had lived, bodies mangled and bloody in the huts, the rest of the inhabitants missing, all at the hands of the king’s men.

  “What did you ask for?” she queried, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  “Did you see it, lady?” he demanded, his sense of vengeance filling him with the single-minded goal. He stood and paced.

  “I saw...something. I saw something terrible. What was it?”

  “A village after your brother’s visit.”

  “No…”

  “I seek just recompense. I requested the return of the prisoners taken. And yes, I asked for gold, not as payment, but as punishment.”

  He whirled to glare at the princess, but softened when he saw her reaction to his story. Her face had paled, her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  “My brother did not do such a thing,” she insisted.

  He shrugged. “You are mistaken.”

  “No,” she said, struggling to stand without the use of her hands. “You are mistaken. My brother is a just king. A kind king. He does not visit terror upon his people–even those who settle without permission,” she said, a slight question in her voice.

  “Yes,” he answered the query. “It was a Saxon settlement. Do you still think it unfair?”

  “He would not,” she said, raising her voice. “Not even to Saxons.” She flushed, then, mayhap realizing how her words offended him. “I’m sorry. What concern is it to you?”

  He threw himself into his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He would answer no more of her questions.

  She stood, her side to him, staring straight ahead. After a moment, she spoke again. “Who is the woman?”

  “Enough,” he growled. “Enough conversation. I have said too much already.”

  She walked to him, her bare legs showing beneath the short chemise and tunic, distracting him from his anger and making it difficult not to imagine how they would look over his shoulders. But no, she was a maid.

  “What happened to her?”

  “How is it you are still a maid, highness?” he shot back.

  She paced away from him again, the shapely bare limbs impossible not to follow. He did not expect an answer to his inappropriate question, but she gave him one. “My brother and I both had marriages arranged from the time we were children. Though I was trained at Avalon, I always lived halfway between it and the castle, torn between the customs of the two.

  “Stonecroft is Christian?”

  “My father was Roman but my mother was a priestess, born of the old families. I was raised to be given as a bride to strengthen the relations with another kingdom, but until that time, to serve the Goddess in the House of Maidens.”

  He waited for her to go on.

  “My intended did not come for me when I turned fifteen, at the arranged age. He sent word he was in battle and it was not safe. My father had just died and my brother took the throne with his arranged bride. He knew I loathed the idea of moving north and marrying a man twice my age. He did not push King Crewe. Crewe’s excuses continued over the next several years, but because the agreement was still intact, I did not give my maidenhead in any of the fertility rites at Avalon. Broderick did not have the opportunity to visit him and discuss it in person until a year ago, when he discovered King Crewe had a wife, but had not wished to offend. I would have participated in the rites last year, but…” she broke off, the pretty blush returning to her cheeks.

  He sat very still, hoping she would go on. When she did not, he prompted, “But?”

  “I felt foolish, I suppose. A twenty-five year old maid. I told the high priestess I would keep my maidenhead for a time when we had some real call for it, and she allowed it.”

  “You felt foolish because you had no experience?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose. With men, anyway. The priestesses give pleasure to one another at times.”

  His cock, already firming with the discussion, surged to attention at the thought of the beautiful princess being pleasured by another priestess. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and she turned, as if catching his thoughts. Her eyes fell to his lap, the color blooming across her cheeks.

  “That excites you?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “Aye,” he groaned. “Goddess forgive me, it pleases me to hear you have not known a man, and the idea of you being pleasured by a woman…” He groaned. “I long to see such a thing.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  He gave a quick shake of his head, heat flushing through his body. “You cannot think how beautiful it might be for a man to watch two women together?”

  She cocked her head. “No. Would you not rather see a woman with a man? If you prefer women, I mean?”

  He shifted in his seat again, trying to find comfort for his straining cock. “I should not like to see you with any man but me,” he clarified, hardly believing they were having such a conversation and he
admitted his attraction so openly.

  She looked uncertain. “You should not like to see a woman with any man but you?”

  “No, I should not like to see you with any man but me.” His heart thudded at the daring of it, but then, what harm could there be in his honesty? She already wished him dead, it certainly could not make things worse.

  She blinked at him, as if not sure she believed, then pressed, “Who is the woman, Crow?”

  Chapter Two

  Crow clammed up again, refusing to speak to her, pacing the room like a caged animal, the tension of his aroused sexual energy flooding the room. Her own sex pulsed with a desire for knowledge. What would it be like to know a man that way?

  If she were to choose a mate for Beltane, it would be a man like Crow–a man so different from her, so different from the druid priests, even from her brother’s knights. The sort of man who could make her tremble with his masculine power, yet would worship at her feminine alter. She stole a glance at him, tracing the outline of muscle under his thin undershirt, of his stubbled and scarred jaw. Rugged. Handsome.

  The Saxons served a midday meal of hot meat and vegetables, and Crow once again freed her hands so she could eat. She considered her options. It seemed her hands would only be unbound at mealtimes, which meant if she wanted to use the knife it would have to be then. She sent a silent message to the Goddess, asking for guidance, but heard none.

  Should she try to use the knife on Crow? What then? Could she slip past the Saxons and find a horse? And if so, could she find her way back to Stonecroft? The idea of harming Crow made her hands turn cold. And yet, she could not see what other choice she had. She had no way to notify her brother, and her intuition told her he did not have the prisoners Crow sought, so he would not be able to trade for her ransom. No, she had to rely on her own wits to escape.

  Her entire body trembled as she nibbled the food and contemplated her plan. It would be necessary to kill Crow with a single blow, and considering the size of the small knife in her possession, that left her with only one option–stabbing him through the eye. She shuddered.