The Laird's Captive Wife. Joanna Fulford

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      ‘I wager you’ll live, but we need to get you out of those wet things.’

      For a moment the words made no sense. Then, as the implication dawned, her hands clutched protectively at the torn edges of her gown.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Dinna be a fool. You’ll catch your death.’

      He reached for the front of her gown. Seeing his intent she turned to run but staggered again and almost fell, prevented only by the arm about her waist. Ashlynn shrieked, struggling to free herself from his hold but it was like doing battle with oak. The arm yielded not a whit. It swung her round instead bringing her eyes level with a broad chest. Panicking now she struck out with clenched fists. They might as well have been bird wings and, as they had relinquished their grip on her clothing, her garments fell open affording him an uninterrupted view of what lay beneath. He caught his breath. The reality close to only served to reinforce his earlier impression.

      ‘Well now, not just a pretty face then.’

      As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them, realising they were hardly calculated to reassure, but his temper just then was not of the best. Thanks to her his quarry was away and free. Just why he hadn’t left the wench to drown was a mystery. Right now he half-wished he had.

      ‘Be still, you little hellcat!’

      ‘Let go of me!’

      ‘I said be still,’ he growled.

      For answer Ashlynn kicked out and felt the blow connect. He gritted his teeth but his grip yielded not at all.

      ‘All right, have it your way, you contrary little vixen.’

      Without warning his hands closed on the edges of her gown and dragged it down over her shoulders. Ashlynn began to fight like a cornered wildcat. In her panic she saw only Fitzurse’s men, felt their hands on her, restraining her while they did their will. It was all happening again. She wanted to scream but her throat was dry and suddenly it was harder to breathe for it was as though there was an iron band around her chest. The stranger’s face loomed over hers. Then all colour drained from her cheeks and she was vaguely aware of him catching her before she fell into a dead faint.

      She had no idea how long she was unconscious but when she came round it was to an awareness of voices, of men and horses. She was cold, her body shaking violently. Then something was supporting her shoulders and a hand was forcing a cup between her lips. She heard a man’s voice.

      ‘Drink this.’

      The tone brooked no refusal. Hot sweet liquid carved a path down her throat and all the way to her stomach. Ashlynn gasped. He made her drink it all, but slowly, and by degrees the heat spread and began to warm the cold core within, enough for the shaking to subside a little. Becoming more aware she realised that she was swathed from head to foot in a huge fur-lined cloak.

      Looking up for the first time she saw a black leather tunic. Above it was long dark hair and a face whose rugged good looks were only too familiar. Dark eyes met and held hers for a moment before turning their attention to someone opposite, out of her line of vision.

      ‘We’ll leave presently, Dougal. We’ve delayed long enough as it is and I want to reach Hexham tonight. Besides, the injured need tending.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘We need to be back at Dark Mount before the weather closes in.’

      ‘Aye, my lord.’ Dougal paused. ‘What about the lass?’

      ‘We’ll take her with us for the time being.’

      ‘I can see your reasoning. For a drowned rat she’s no so bad-looking. Dry, she’d be a welcome addition in any man’s bed.’

      Ashlynn’s heart lurched. The man beside her glanced down briefly, his expression sour.

      ‘This one would turn your bed to a couch of thorns.’

      ‘Well then,’ Dougal continued, ‘sell her. She’d likely fetch a good price were ye minded to get one. Or ye could ransom her, did she have kin.’

      He frowned. ‘I’ll decide later. In the meantime, where are the things I asked for? Where the devil is Archie?’

      As if on cue another man hastened forward and handed over a bundle of cloth. ‘Beg pardon, my lord. I’d a problem with the size.’

      The laird looked down at Ashlynn again and then at the bundle he was holding.

      ‘You’ll be needing this.’

      For a moment she stared at it and then back at him. Then, slowly, her dulled wits began to understand the significance of the great cloak around her and the immediacy of the soft fur against her skin. Her cheeks, so pale before, turned scarlet.

      If she could have hit him she would have but both hands were imprisoned beneath the folds of the heavy cloak. ‘How dare you treat me like this!’

      ‘Dare had nothing to do with it, you wee fool,’ he replied. ‘Your clothes were soaking and little better than rags anyway. If you’d kept them on you’d have gone down with a fatal ague for certain.’

      ‘Is that your excuse?’

      ‘It needed no excuse. ’Twas a matter of common sense.’

      Bereft of speech she looked away. The man neither appeared nor sounded even remotely apologetic. Instead he drew her to her feet and taking a firm hold on her arm led her aside to a clump of bushes. Then he thrust the bundle of clothing at her.

      ‘Put these on. They’re not the most feminine of garments, but they’re all that’s available and they do at least have the advantage of being intact.’

      Ashlynn glared at him. The dark eyes grew flinty.

      ‘Perhaps you’d like my help, lass?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then dress and make haste or by heaven I’ll finish the task myself.’

      Her jaw clenched but she took the offering without further comment and retreated a few yards behind a small clump of bushes. Bare of leaves, they were not ideal to the task but provided a degree of privacy from prying eyes. A glance over her shoulder revealed that her large companion hadn’t moved. Indignation surged: the brute had no shame at all! Then she reflected that it scarcely mattered; there was nothing for him to see now that he had not already seen before.

      Giving her attention to the bundle she found it comprised a cloak in which were wrapped shirt, tunic, belt, trews and hose all clean and of strong and serviceable material. With them was a pair of leather boots. With no little relief she hurriedly pulled on the hose and trews and dragged the shirt over her head before divesting herself of the big cloak. Finally she pulled the tunic on. Like the shirt it was decidedly roomy but, she reasoned, it would allow for greater freedom of movement. It would be a lot warmer too. She fastened the belt but even on the last hole it still hung loose on her waist. The boots completed the outfit. Like everything else they were too big but better than going barefoot. Finally she threw the cloak round her shoulders and fastened it. Then, having retrieved the borrowed fur she СКАЧАТЬ