“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked. “Do you think I don’t know what game you’re playing? You hope to gentle the tigress and when you have me eating from your hand, you’ll return me to my brother, no doubt carrying another of your bastards. It will be a great triumph for you, both as a Montgomery and as a man.”
His eyes held hers for a moment. “You are a clever woman, Elizabeth. Perhaps I would like to prove to you that men are capable of more than savagery.”
“And how shall you do that? By holding me prisoner? By forcing me to endure your touch? You can see that I don’t tremble with lust every time you get near me. Is it that you hate to admit defeat? Pagnell likes rape and violence. What stirs you? The chase? And once you have the woman do you discard her as used goods?”
She could see that she’d asked him questions he couldn’t answer and it disgusted her that her own species had always succumbed to him so easily. “Can’t a man, just once, do something decent? Send me to my brother!”
“No!” Miles shouted into her face, then his eyes widened. Never had a woman made him angry before. “Turn around, Elizabeth. I’m going to wash your hair.”
She gave him a calculating look. “And if I refuse, will you beat me?”
“I am close to considering it.” He grabbed her shoulder and spun her about, pulling her down onto the cot so her long hair hung over the edge.
Elizabeth was quiet while he soaped and rinsed her hair and she wondered if she’d pushed him too far. But his manner infuriated her. He was so quiet, so sure of himself, that she longed to find his feet of clay. She’d already seen that he merely had to hint at an order to his men and they obeyed him. Did women come to him so easily, too?
Perhaps she was wrong to try to anger him. Perhaps he’d release her if she pretended to fall madly in love with him. If she wept prettily on his shoulder he might do as she asked, but besides the disgusting ordeal of voluntarily touching him, she refused to beg to any man.
Miles combed her wet hair with a delicate ivory comb and when he was finished, he left the tent and returned in moments with a lovely gown of red samite, a mixture of silk and wool. There were also underclothes of fine lawn.
“You may finish bathing or not, as you like,” he said, “but I would suggest you put the clothes on.” With that he left her alone.
Elizabeth did wash, hurriedly, wincing a few times at bruises but hardly noticing them. She was glad for the clothes because they gave her more freedom to carry out her plans to escape.
Miles returned with a loaded tray of food, and he lit candles in the dark tent. “I brought a bit of everything as I have no idea what you like.”
She didn’t bother to answer him.
“Does the gown please you?” He was watching her closely but she looked away. The gown was an expensive one, trimmed with embroidery done in gold wire. Most women would have been pleased with it, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice whether she wore silk or russet.
“The food grows cold. Come and eat here at the table with me.”
She looked at him. “I have no intention whatsoever of eating anything at your table.”
Miles started to speak but closed his mouth instead. “When you grow hungry enough, the food will be here.”
Elizabeth sat on the cot, her legs stretched before her, her arms folded, and concentrated on the tall, ornate candlestand in front of her. Tomorrow she would find a way to escape.
Ignoring the smells of the food Miles was eating, she lay down and forced her body to relax. She would need her strength for tomorrow. The long ordeal of the day made her exhausted body quick to fall asleep.
Elizabeth woke in the middle of the night and instantly she tensed, sensing some sort of danger but too sleep-befuddled to remember it. Within minutes, her mind cleared and quietly she moved her head to look at Miles, asleep in the cot on the other side of the tent.
As a child living in a household filled with horrors, she’d learned the art of moving about soundlessly. Stealthily, not allowing the noisy dress to make a sound, she tiptoed toward the back of the tent. No doubt guards were stationed all around, but at the back they’d be less alert.
It took her many minutes to lift the back of the tent enough to crawl under it. She compressed her body into a thin line and rolled, not in one movement, but inch by cautious inch. A guard walked past her but she clung to a bit of shrubbery and faded into its outline. When the guard had his back turned, she ran for the forest, seeking out and using every deep shadow. Only through years of practice, of dodging her brother Edmund and his “friends,” was she able to slip away so silently. Roger had chided her, saying she would make an expert spy.
Once inside the forest, she allowed herself to breathe and used her will to calm her racing heart. Forests at night were no stranger to her and she began walking at a brisk, easy pace. It was amazing how little noise she made.
When the sun rose, Elizabeth had been walking for about two hours, and her pace was beginning to slow. She hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and her energy was flagging. As her feet dragged, her skirt caught on shrubs, branches caught in her hair.
After another hour, she was trembling. She sat on a fallen log and tried to compose herself. Perhaps it was understandable that she didn’t have a great deal of strength, since the combination of lack of food and the ordeal of the previous day had taken nearly all of it. The thought of rest made her eyes heavy and she knew that if she didn’t, she’d never be able to continue.
Wearily, she lowered herself to the forest floor, ignoring the little crawly things on the underside of the log; it wasn’t the first time she’d spent the night in a forest. She made a feeble attempt to cover herself with leaves but was only half finished when she fell back, asleep.
She woke to a sharp poke in the ribs. A big, burly man dressed in little more than rags grinned down at her, one of his front teeth missing. Two other men, filthy men, stood behind him.
“Told you she wasn’t dead,” the burly man said as he grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her upright.
“Pretty lady,” said one of the other men, putting his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. She went one way and his hand stayed where it was; the dress tore, exposing her shoulder.
“Me first!” gasped the third man.
“A real lady,” said the burly man, his hand on Elizabeth’s bare shoulder.
“I am Elizabeth Chatworth and if you harm me the Earl of Bayham will have your heads.”
“’Twas a earl that tossed me off my farm,” said one man. “Me wife and daughter died of the winter cold. Froze to death.” His expression was ugly as he looked at Elizabeth. She would have backed away but the log behind her imprisoned her.
The burly man put his hand to Elizabeth’s throat. “I like my women to beg.”
“Most men do,” she said coolly and the man blinked at her.
“She’s a mean one, Bill,” said another man. “Let me have her first.”
Suddenly, the man’s expression changed. He gave a strange gurgle and fell forward onto Elizabeth. Deftly, she sidestepped his falling form and barely gave a look to the arrow protruding from his back. As the two men were gaping at their dead companion, Elizabeth lifted her skirts and leaped over the log.
Out of the forest came Miles. He grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and his face made her breath catch. It was contorted with rage, his lips a single line, his eyes black, his brows drawn together, his nostrils flared. “Remain here!” he ordered.
For a moment she obeyed him and because of her hesitation she saw why Miles Montgomery had been awarded his spurs on the field of battle before he was eighteen. The men he faced were not unarmed. One held a spiked ball on a chain and expertly swung it at Miles’s head. Miles ducked while wielding his sword at the other man.
Within seconds, he had destroyed both men while barely quickening his own pulse. It did not seem possible that this killer could have washed her hair without so much as creating a single tangle.
Elizabeth di
dn’t waste time contemplating the complexities of her enemy but started running away from the battle area. She knew she could not outrun Miles but she hoped she could outsmart him. At the first low hanging branch, she caught it and swung herself upward.
Within seconds, Miles appeared below her. There was blood on his velvet doublet, blood on his drawn sword. Like a baited bear, he swung his head from side to side, then stopped and listened.
Elizabeth held her breath and didn’t make a sound.
After a moment, Miles suddenly turned on his heel and looked up at her. “Come down here, Elizabeth,” he said in a deadly voice.
Once, when she was thirteen, this same thing had happened. Then she’d leaped from the tree, straight onto the hideous man pursuing her, knocked him down and before he’d recovered his wind, she escaped. Without another thought, she threw herself onto Miles.
But he did not fall. Instead, he stood steady and held her tightly to him.
“Those men could have killed you,” he said, seemingly unaware of her attempt to knock him down. “How did you slip past my guards?”
“Release me!” she demanded, struggling against him, but he held her easily.
“Why didn’t you obey me when I told you to wait for me?”
That idiot question stopped her struggles. “Should I have waited for one of those ruffians if he’d commanded me to do so? What’s the difference between them and you?”
His eyes showed anger. “Damn you, Elizabeth! What do you mean that I’m like those scum? Have I harmed you in any way?”
“So you found her,” came Sir Guy’s voice and there was a hint of amusement in it. “I am Sir Guy Linacre, my lady.”
Elizabeth, her hands pushing hard against Miles’s shoulders, nodded at Sir Guy. “Are you finished mauling me?” she snapped at Miles.
He released his grip on her so suddenly she almost fell. The quick change of motion was too much for Elizabeth’s empty stomach. At once, she put her hand to her forehead and as things grew black, she put out her hand in search of something to steady herself.
It was Sir Guy who caught her and swung her into his arms.
“Do not touch me,” she whispered from inside the fog she was experiencing.
As Miles took her from Sir Guy, he said, “At least it isn’t only me she repulses.” When Elizabeth opened her eyes, Miles was giving her a look of disgust. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Not long enough to make me welcome you,” she answered tartly.
At that Miles laughed, not one of his little half-smiles but a deep-down laugh, and before Elizabeth could react, he bent his head and kissed her lips soundly. “You are utterly unique, Elizabeth.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand so hard she threatened to remove her skin. “Put me down! I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“And let you try and run again? No, I think I’ll keep you chained to me from now on.”
Miles put Elizabeth on his horse before him and together they rode back to the camp.
Chapter 3
SHE WAS SURPRISED TO SEE THAT THE TENTS HAD BEEN taken down and mules were packed and ready to leave. Elizabeth wanted to ask where he was taking her but she kept rigid in the saddle, touching Miles as little as she could, refusing to speak to him.
He led the horse away from the waiting men and into the woods, Sir Guy remaining behind. Inside the forest was set a table laden with several steaming dishes. A small, old man hovered over the array, but left when Miles gave a dismissing motion of his hand.
Dismounting, Miles held up his arms for Elizabeth, but she ignored him and slid to the ground without aid. She did this slowly so as not to repeat her ridiculous act of half fainting.
“My cook has prepared a meal for us,” Miles said as he took her hand and led her forward.
She jerked from his touch and glanced at the food. Tiny roasted quails lay upon a bed of rice, surrounded by a cream sauce. A platter contained raw oysters. There were sliced hard-cooked eggs in a saffron sauce, sliced salted ham, fish eggs on twice-baked bread, flounder stuffed with onions and nuts, poached pears, cream tarts, a pie oozing blackberries.
After a look of astonishment, Elizabeth turned away. “You travel well.”
Miles caught her arm and when he spun her around, Elizabeth again felt dizzy and clutched at a stool at her feet. “The food is for you,” he said, helping her to sit down. “I will not allow you to starve yourself further.”
“And what will you do?” she asked wearily. “Put hot coals to the bottoms of my feet? Or perhaps you have your own special ways of forcing women to do what you want.”
A frown crossed Miles’s face, drawing his brows together. He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to stand before him. “Yes, I do have my own forms of punishment.”
Elizabeth had never seen this look of his, with his eyes just this shade of gray, looking as if tiny blue fires burned behind the gray. Bending, he put his lips to her neck, ignoring her when she stiffened and tried to pull away from him.
“Do you have any idea how desirable you are, Elizabeth?” he murmured against her neck. His lips nibbled upward, barely touching her skin, just enough to impart warmth to her, while his right hand played with the shoulder exposed by her torn dress. His fingers moved inward slowly, caressing the top of her breast while his teeth gently touched her earlobe.
“I would like to make love to you, Elizabeth,” he whispered, so low that she felt more than heard his words. “I would like to thaw your cool exterior. I’d like to touch and caress every morsel of you, to look at you, to have you look at me with all the desire I feel for you.”
Elizabeth had stood quite still during Miles’s touching of her and, as always, she felt nothing. He did not truly repulse her as his breath was not foul and he didn’t hurt her, but she felt none of the blood-quickening rush the girls in the convent had giggled about.
“If I swear to eat will you stop this?” she asked coolly.
Miles pulled away from her, studied her face for a moment, and Elizabeth prepared herself for the coming abuse. All men, when they found she was not over-whelmed by their lovemaking, responded by calling her many ugly names.
Miles gave her a quiet smile, caressed her cheek one more time, and offered his arm to lead her to the table. Ignoring his arm, she went to the table alone, not allowing Miles to see her confusion.
He served her himself, placing choice tidbits upon an ornate silver plate, and smiled when she ate her first bite.
“And now you are congratulating yourself on having kept me from starving myself,” she said. “My brother will thank you for returning me to him in good condition.”
“I am not returning you yet,” Miles said softly.
Elizabeth refused to allow him to see how he upset her, but continued eating. “Roger will pay you whatever ransom you ask.”
“I will take no money from my sister’s murderer,” Miles said, the sound coming from a closed throat.
She threw the quail leg she was eating to her plate. “You have said this before. I know nothing of your sister!”
Miles turned toward her and his eyes were the color of steel. “Roger Chatworth tried to take the woman who was promised in marriage to my brother Stephen, and when Stephen fought for his bride, your brother attacked his back.”
“No!” Elizabeth gasped, standing.
“Stephen bested Chatworth but refused to kill him, and in retaliation, Chatworth kidnapped my sister and, later, Stephen’s bride. He raped my sister and, in horror, she cast herself from a window.”
“No! No! No!” Elizabeth shouted, her hands over her ears.
Miles stood, grabbed her hands, held them. “Your brother Brian loved my sister and when she killed herself, he released my sister-in-law and brought the body of my sister to us.”
“You are a liar! You are evil! Release me!”
Miles drew her closer, held her loosely in his arms. “It’s not pleasant to hear that someone you love has done s
o much wrong.”
Elizabeth’d had much experience in getting away from men and Miles’d had no experience in women struggling against his grasp. Quickly, she brought her knee up between his legs and instantly he released her.
“Damn you, Elizabeth,” he gasped, leaning against the table, cupping himself.
“Damn you, Montgomery,” she shot back as she grabbed a pitcher of wine and flung it at his head just before she turned to flee.
He ducked the pitcher and caught her arm in the same motion. “You’ll not escape me,” he said, pulling her toward him. “I’m going to teach you that the Montgomerys are innocent in this feud, even if I have to die proving it.”
“The idea of your death is the first pleasant notion I’ve heard in days.”
For a moment Miles closed his eyes as if in a silent prayer for help. He seemed recovered when he looked back at her. “Now, if you have finished eating, we must ride. We are going to Scotland.”
“To—!” she began, but he put a finger to her lips.
“Yes, my angel”—his voice was heavy with sarcasm—“we are going to spend time with my brother and his wife. I want you to get to know my family.”
“I know more than enough about your family. They are—”
This time, Miles kissed her and, if she did not react to his touch, when she turned away she was silent.
They rode for many hours at a slow, steady pace. The many baggage mules behind them bearing furniture, clothing, food, armor, weapons, made their progress ponderous.
Elizabeth was given her own horse but a rope was tied to the saddle and attached to Miles’s horse. Twice he tried to make conversation but she refused to speak to him. Her mind was too busy thinking about, and trying not to think about, what Miles had told her about her brother.
For the last two years the only contact she’d had with her family was through Roger’s letters and snatches of gossip from traveling musicians. Of course the musicians were aware she was a Chatworth and so had said little either way about her family.
But the extensive Montgomery family was another matter. They were a favorite subject of songs and gossip. The oldest brother, Gavin, had jilted the beautiful Alice Valence and on the rebound she’d married Elizabeth’s brother Edmund. Elizabeth had begged Roger to stop the marriage, saying that the poor woman didn’t deserve to be shackled to the treacherous Edmund. Roger said there was nothing he could do to prevent the marriage. Only a few months later, Gavin Montgomery had married the magnificently wealthy Revedoune heiress, and after Edmund’s murder, the jealous heiress had tossed boiling oil on poor Alice Chatworth’s face. Elizabeth had written from the convent and begged Roger to care for her brother’s widow and Roger had quickly agreed.