Knight's Captive (3 page)

She nodded as her attention was drawn back to
Henry. His shirt was beginning to dry but it clung to his body and she spotted
dark hair curling under the loose laces of it. Her mouth was suddenly drier
than the sand under her feet. He wore his boots still, which were probably as
soaked as hers. The long leather length of them drew her attention to—

¡Dios mío!
What was wrong with her?
He was her captor, an Englishman. She had nearly drowned and now she was a
prisoner. She should not even be considering what he might look like underneath
those breeches.

“Where are we going?” she asked huskily.

“My house.”
He
motioned for her to climb onto the pale rouncey.

She stilled. “
No
.
My father.
I must see my father.”

“You will,” he assured her.

“
No, no, no
.” Antonia spun away but a
firm hand latched around her wrist, preventing her from trying to search
amongst the prisoners. He tugged and she lost her balance. Sprawled across his
chest, she tried to push away but he held her firm. “Take me to him!”

But her words lost any impact as her knees began
to buckle. He tightened his grip around her. Darkness began to colour the edges
of her vision.

“You’ll not be going anywhere today,” he said gruffly,
“aside from bed.”

She felt herself being lifted and heard Henry
issuing orders to someone but his voice sounded distant. And this odd idea kept
fluttering through her mind, even though it made no sense to latch onto it. Was
he taking her to his bed?

The
cold, limp woman in his arms made Henry’s heart throb a sickening beat. He’d
been trying to keep her awake and now she had fallen into a swoon. He only
hoped sickness had not taken hold. Not only had he lost a fine ship but he’d
seen no sign of the commander and now he might lose his daughter too.

He urged the horse into a quick pace as they
reached the top of the hill that overlooked the sea. He peered back only
briefly to eye the spot where the ship had gone down. A few planks of wood
still lingered on the ocean surface. He shook his head. Antonia had been close
to drowning but he’d stopped her from going under. He’d be damned if she died
now.

Which meant he wouldn’t tell
her about her father until he was sure she was well and able to take the news.
If he
had been forced to jump with a broken leg, he thought it unlikely the man had
survived and there had been no sign of Will on the jetty.

He followed the dirt road past the farm and
toward the village. Even from here, his manor house overshadowed the small
cottages that made up the bulk of the village. Built by his grandfather, the
stone building was modest by all accounts but large enough to ensure no one
doubted that the man who owned it had complete control of his lands.

His lands.
It had
been two years since his father’s death and yet he could not get used to being
the owner of all of this.

By the time he had brought the horse across the
bridge that spanned the small moat, several servants awaited his arrival. No
doubt news of the capture of the
Rosario
had already reached them but
whether they knew of its loss, he knew not. He motioned to the stable hand who
aided him with Antonia. Thankfully the woman weighed less than a sack of
feathers so the young lad had no troubles handling her, though uncertainty was
written on his face. Henry bit back a laugh. It was probably the first time the
whelp had ever held a woman.

Henry dismounted and took her from the boy.
“Take the horse down to the dock. They’ll have need of it,” he ordered. “The
ship sank,” he explained to the waiting servants. “This is Antonia. She will be
under house arrest until negotiations are made.” He motioned to the
housekeeper, a widow by the name of Kate who followed him into the front room.
“Have someone fetch the physician. She was in the water for some time. Then we
need clean clothes and a warm bath.”

“What about you, sir?”

“I’ll change in but a moment.” He pressed past
the dining table and carried Antonia into the hallway. “Is there clean bedding in
the rear bedroom?”

“Aye, sir.”
He
started up the stairs with Kate on his heels. “Will you
be
wanting
some hot food?”

He considered this. He’d only been aboard the
ship for a matter of weeks but Antonia would have been on the
Rosario
for
much longer. Was she normally so slender or was that the product of rationing
and illness?

“Aye, something warm for when
she awakes.”
If she awoke.
He
prayed she did.
When Henry glanced down at those inky lashes
against skin that had been much duskier before her spill into the water, the
thought of her passing away in his house made bile rise in his throat.
He could not let that happen.

The rear chamber was the smallest but also the
one closest to his room. From what he had witnessed, the woman was wilful. He
wasn’t sure he could trust her if—when—she regained her strength. He’d be
better off putting himself between her and any escape.

Henry laid her down on the bed, struck by how
fragile she appeared against the rich carved wood. He flexed his hands. His
body remembered holding her—he suspected it would keep remembering. Only Kate’s
presence prevented him from doing something foolish and dishonourable like
touching her cheek or brushing her hair from her face.

He looked to the housekeeper. “See that she is
made warm and dry.”

Spinning on a heel, he strode out of the room,
across the hall and into his chamber. He moved purposefully, drawing clean
clothes from the coffer at the end of his bed and stripping down. Cool air
brushed his skin and he shuddered. Death had been far from his mind today. He’d
been too focused on victory.
But Antonia…

When they’d been in the water, awaiting the
boats he feared would never turn back and find them, she’d been steps away from
it, he suspected. Malnutrition and exhaustion had made the effects of the cold
water ten times worse than what he suffered. His attempts to keep her talking
and awake had worked—at the time. He only hoped she did not succumb now.
If
her father was alive, he’d be far less cooperative after his daughter’s death.

Henry grimaced and reached for a linen cloth to
rub his body vigorously. Warmth seeped back into his muscles and fatigue began
to slip away. Not one, but two people’s lives to worry about and around three
hundred men now locked away in the old barn. The local militia and those under
his command hardly seemed enough to handle that amount of prisoners.

Slipping on dry clothes, he eyed his soggy boots
and rooted out some dry ones. He shoved a hand through his hair and tied it
back. Then he bundled up his water-logged garments and marched out into the
hallway to snag a serving girl. “Get these washed and dried,” he ordered. “And
send Mr Fredericks up. I need him to go to Torre Abbey.”

The girl dipped and took the bundle from him
before hastening away. He stepped into the hallway and eyed the closed door to
Antonia’s chamber. He paused to listen for any indication that she was awake
and alert.

Nothing.

It was purely his sense of duty making his
stomach bunch. It had to be. After all, he hardly knew the woman.
Though he wasn’t heartless.
He had no wish to see a young
woman die. Women had no place in war and what her father was thinking bringing
her with him, he knew not.

Brushing aside thoughts of storming into her
room and finding out what was happening, he took the small flight of stairs up
to his office. Nearly a month at sea had put him behind in his duties, no
doubt. The tenant farmers would have many problems awaiting him and his
business dealings had been put on hold as soon as news of the Armada reached
Torquay.

He eyed the stack of missives on the wooden desk
and blew out a breath. Henry noted the jug of wine and platter of bread and
cheese awaiting him. A smile teased his lips. His staff knew him too well.
They’d guessed he would be straight back to work.

By the time he’d settled at the desk and taken a
moment to cast his gaze about the room, Fredericks, the estate manager arrived.

“Well done on your fine victory, sir,” the
grey-haired man said formally as he ducked through the low doorway.

“We do not have victory yet. Still need to chase
off the rest of the Armada,” he explained. “But I’m confident the navy can do
so.”

Fredericks nodded solemnly. “And your part is
done?”

“Aye.
The
local militia are to ensure the prisoners remain just that—prisoners—while I
make negotiations for their return to Spain. We have over three hundred souls
to watch over.”

The man’s thick grey brows rose. “Our men number
at only one and fifty. How are we to ensure they do not escape?”

“The commander is an honourable man I believe.
However, he was lost when the ship went down. I have hopes that he survived but
had no chance to find out as much.”

“And the woman?”

“His daughter.
It is
essential she is looked after properly. And essential she does not leave this
house. I trust not this woman. She was prepared to die rather than leave her
father.”
If
she survived her ordeal.
Henry
tilted the ink pot on his desk and eyed it with dissatisfaction. “Has the
physician been sent for?”

“Aye, Kate sent Bram.”

“Let us pray she survives long enough to see
him,” he muttered to himself.  “When Bram returns, send him down to the
barn to see if there is word of the commander and my lieutenant, and inform
them I’ll be there shortly to oversee the capture. As soon as I have sent word to
London of our success here, I’ll ride down myself.”

“Very well, sir. May I suggest you eat and drink
first?”

Henry tried not to give Fredericks a steely
glare. He was no babe, he didn’t need mothering. The man had been trying to look
after him ever since his father had passed.

“I have little intention of starving.” The man
lingered so with an inward groan, Henry poured himself a goblet of claret and
tore off a piece of bread to stuff it in his mouth. Around the mouthful he
said, “Send someone up with some ink, will you?”

Fredericks gave him a slow nod—one that had him
feeling like the man was humouring him in some way as though he was a young lad
playing at being a grown man. He swallowed down the bread and shook his head.
Was his life not already complicated enough? Not only was he trying to fill his
father’s boots but now he had this odd Spanish woman to deal with.

Darkness.
Antonia gripped the bed sheets around her, feeling that familiar panic rise in
her chest. She closed her eyes and opened them again but the darkness remained.
Why was it dark? She never slept without several candles burning. She forced
herself to take a few deep breaths and stare into the darkness.

Nothing to fear,
she
told herself.
Nothing to...
The darkness lessened as her eyes adjusted.
Where was she?
¡Dios mío!
Her breaths grew thick and heavy again, her
body rigid. What had happened? The ship, her father...
Si
, she
remembered that but after...

The man—Henry.
He had
taken her in his arms. This had to be his house. She was now under house
arrest.

A prisoner.

Antonia gulped and tried to draw in air but her
throat felt as though it was closing over. Did it have to be so dark? She needed
to find a candle and light it, but her body refused to move. If she put out her
hands, she’d be able to reassure herself that she wasn’t shut away in a box
again, but the room was so small. She peered up at the bed and the thick wood
seemed like that of a coffin lid to her. Her pulse pounded so loudly it was on
the verge of deafening.

First, she concentrated on her stiff hands. She
unfurled them from the bedding and tried not to sob with fear. The ache in her
chest grew more intense. Over the thud of her heart, she was sure she could
hear footsteps and the creak of floorboards. He was coming for her.

Except he wasn’t.
Lorenzo was dead. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. Not that the knowledge mattered
to her galloping heart. Reason played no part in her imaginings at night.

With her fingers moving again, she forced her
mind to think of her legs. They were achy and weary. Her skin was still cold.
Funny how nearly drowning didn’t create nearly as much fear as being trapped in
a small, dark room. She drew in a shuddery breath and gave her legs a twitch.
There, see, she could move. She kicked again.
Lots of room to
move.
Nothing to fear.

Antonia sat up in one swift motion. Her head
spun a little and she took in the gloomy room. Thick curtains were drawn across
the one window and at the end of the room appeared to be a large storage chest.
A sob bubbled out of her. It was no good, she couldn’t stay here.

Jumping from the bed, she nearly tripped as the
blankets tangled around her legs. They were trying to draw her back in, trap
her. She wasn’t sure if she thought they were the ocean trying to pull her to
her doom or Lorenzo dragging her home to lock her away. Either way, she
screamed and kicked at them until she was free.

She hauled the door open and spilled out into a
hallway. A sliver of light danced across the floorboards and highlighted the
tapestries on the walls. Figures and creatures seemed to jump out at her from
them. She put a hand to her chest and spun when a creak sounded at one end of
the hall.

Another creak.
She
whirled the other way and screamed when hands curled around her arm and thrust
her back.

“
No!”
she screamed. “Don’t make me go
back there...” She tried to tear from him, blind terror whirling through her
veins. She couldn’t be locked away again, she couldn’t...

“Antonia!” he barked at her.

She stiffened. He was going to beat her, was he
not? Beat her and lock her in the box so she could concentrate on the pain and
learn from it.

“Antonia,” came his voice again, but softer this
time and different.

Going still, she dragged her gaze up from the
wide chest that filled her vision. Slowly, the fear clouding her vision
dissipated. It was not her husband.

Henry
. It was Henry. A wild sob
escaped from her throat and she sagged. Any energy she’d had left deserted her.

“Why are you screaming?” He kept her propped up
by the hold on her arms.

What could she say? That she had thought her
husband had risen from the dead? She stared at him numbly, her voice trapped in
her raw throat.

He twisted her around and drew open the curtains
with one hand to view her. She wasn’t sure what he could see. Tear-stained
cheeks, mussed hair...a wretch probably. His gaze narrowed.

“Were you trying to get away?”

She shook her head.

That other hand came back to her arm and squeezed
a little. “Tell me the truth.”

She shook her head again. Any relief she had
felt began to fade and her heart picked up speed once more. Would he harm her
for being out of her room? She wriggled but Henry’s hands might have been made
from iron. He glanced down at her, his brow furrowing, and eased his grip. His
gaze skimmed her from head to toe, lingering on her bare feet then her breasts.
She fought the urge to cover herself.

“You had better return to your room,” he said in
a low, low voice that reached down inside her, skimmed past all the fear and
tension and did something odd to her stomach.

“
No,”
she whispered. Antonia couldn’t go
back in there. Not in the dark, not with the box at the end of the bed. She
would rather be on that sinking ship again or in the freezing water.

“Antonia...”

The warning tone to his voice made her shiver.
He took her arm and began leading her back.

“
No!”
she protested. “
No, no, no.
Not in there.
Por favor.”

She thrashed against his hold, trying to pull
back. If only she wasn’t so weak. Her legs felt as though she was on the deck
of a ship again, wavering back and forth. A hot tear spilled down her cheek.

Henry released her and eyed her with a sigh. “In
English,” he demanded. “What is wrong?”

She drew in a sniffly breath and rubbed her arm.
He glanced at where she chafed her hand over her arm and pinched the bridge of
his nose.

“Well?”

“Do not...” She heaved in a breath. “Do not make
me going in there,
por favour
. I beg of you.”

“Your chamber?”

“
Si
.”

“You cannot stay out here.” He reached for her.
“Return to your room.”

She backed away and a cry escaped her when he
reached for her. Antonia flinched and closed her eyes, waiting for the hand to
strike her. “
No!”
she begged.

“Hell’s teeth.” Henry took her arm and hauled her
into another room. The door slammed shut with a clunk, rattling the walls.

Antonia found herself stumbling back against a
bed—his bed presumably. Her calves hit the mattress and she toppled backward
onto the mattress. Her chemise tangled around her thighs and she stared up at
the fierce knight.

“Cease your noise,” he commanded, “or you’ll
wake the whole house.”

Antonia trembled from head to toe. He had
several candles lit here and she saw his features fully. His severe brow remained
dipped in annoyance. That dark hair was pulled back again, revealing his strong
jaw covered in thick hair. She hadn’t noticed his full lips before. They were
in a tight line but that didn’t stop them from being attractive. Even through
her fear, somehow she realised he was desperately handsome.

Foolish woman.
An
attractive face didn’t make him anything less than her captor and who knew how
dangerous he was.

His expression grew more severe as he cast his
gaze over the length of her. She wished she could reach down and tug the cotton
over her bare legs but her limbs refused to cooperate. Antonia tensed when he
stepped closer. Henry thrust a hand out and she scrabbled back against the
wooden headboard. He withdrew his hand and rubbed his chin, contemplating her.

“Are you ailing?”

Antonia tried to answer. She attempted to shake
her head. What did he want with her? Why had he taken her into his bedroom?
Would he—

“Antonia?”

“I am not ailing,” she said huskily. “Forgive
me, I intended not to scream. I shall be silent, I promise.” She bowed her
head. “Do not—”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He cast his
gaze around and stomped over to the coffer at one side of the room. He snatched
up a pewter jug and poured some wine before thrusting it toward her.

Antonia stared at the goblet.
Then
at him.

“You must be thirsty.” He lifted a shoulder in a
sort of apologetic shrug.

Hesitantly, she reached for the goblet and
curled her fingers around it. She took a sip under his watchful gaze and felt
the claret slip down her throat and warm her blood. Her pulse began to slow.
Perhaps he wouldn’t harm her after all.

“Are you hungry?”

“
No.”
She should be. They’d been
rationing their food on the
Rosario
and she couldn’t remember the last
time she had eaten but her stomach felt bunched and the idea of trying to eat
made her nauseated. Instead, she took another sip of the wine and eyed him.

Henry rocked back on his heels and stared back.
Unsure what he expected of her, she drained the wine and thrust it back at him.
He took it and placed it down on the side. The slight clunk of metal on wood
made her jolt. The memory of darkness and confined spaces still lingered in her
mind, and it seemed only the slightest provocation made her heart leap. She
tangled her fingers into her chemise and tugged it down over her bare legs. She
thought she had been on her way to conquering this fear. All she needed was a
few candles and she was fine. But this night had proved her wrong.

“You do not like your chamber,” he stated.

How could she explain? From what little she had
seen, it was well furnished and likely decorated much like his room was with
tapestries and painted gold flowers on the walls. Antonia gave a shudder and
tried not to recall the darkness closing in around her.

“You’re cold.” 

Before she could protest, he dragged up the
blankets and tucked them awkwardly around her. His hands brushed her thighs,
and her skin pricked. The scent of castill soap washed over her and she had to
force herself not to inhale deeply. He must have bathed after bringing her back
here. 

When he straightened, she couldn’t help but meet
his gaze. She drew in a sharp breath at the darkness in his gaze. It should
have been intimidating—frightening even. But something about his uncertain
movements softened her to him.

He stroked his beard and considered her. “I’ll
get some food,” he said abruptly and stomped out of the room.

The candles flickered with the sudden movement,
and Antonia stared at the spot where he’d been. The golden glow soothed her and
the warmth of his blankets began to loosen her limbs. She shifted back to rest
her head against the headboard and eyed the red canopy above. This room was
much bigger than the one she’d been in but if it was dark, she knew she’d be
swallowed up by panic.

Antonia let her gaze trace the swirling golden
flowers painted on the wall. How long would she be here? What would he do with
her? She didn’t think anyone would pay a ransom for her. Only her father—and he
was a captive too. However, the king would want her father and his men back so
she would be sent back with them she assumed.

Henry ducked into the room, holding a platter of
bread and what looked to be dried figs. She gulped. He seemed to take up all
the air in the chamber. The walls closed in on her and not in the way they
usually did. Now the grey haze of panic has vanished, she was able to study him
properly. His loose shirt hung open a little at the neck and he wore chausses.
He must have taken the time to slip them on. Thank the Lord. How would she have
felt confronted by his bare thighs?

He placed the platter next to the wine jug,
picked up a few figs and chunks of cheese and passed them over. Her fingertips
brushed his, sending a tremor through her.
And not one of
horror.
She swallowed hard and tried to murmur a
gracias
but no
sound came.

Standing over her, he watched—
no
,
waited—for her to eat. She cautiously plucked up a fig and nibbled on the end
of it. The tangy sweetness eased the dryness in her throat and a slight pang of
hunger struck her. He nodded with satisfaction as she popped the whole thing
into her mouth.

“M-must you stand over me so?”

He blinked at her, unfolded his arms and
scowled. He likely had no idea of the intimidating sight he made. Or mayhap he
did. Mayhap he intended to ensure she was intimidated so she did not try to
escape. At present, escape was far from her mind. She needed him to take her to
her father and she would not be going anywhere at night—not when darkness was
all around her.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, easing his large frame
into an ornate wooden chair not far from the foot of the bed.

It struck her that he barely fit in it. A giddy
bubble of a laugh threatened to escape her when she imagined him trying to
stand and coming away with the chair still stuck to him.
Santa Maria
,
she must be addled from shock if she could laugh while she was in this
precarious position.