White Lion's Lady Read online

“I'll have you know,” declared the noble brat, blowing an errant tangle from out of her eyes, “that I am Felice of Rathburn, grand-niece to William de Longchamp, King Richard's royal chancellor! When he hears what you have done to me, he'll have your churlish head skewered on a pike at the White Tower! When he finds out that I have been abused by the basest of criminals, ruining my chances to wed, he'll scatter your entrails to the vultures and feed your heart to the palace hounds!”

  She went on, colorfully describing the various penalties he was certain to suffer at her uncle's hands, but Griffin was not listening to a word of it. His attention was fixed on the auburn-haired beauty who stared at him through the wavering glow of the small campfire. She was stunning in her quiet scorn, regarding him with a level stare, her delicate chin held proud.

  “That must make you the Montborne bride,” he said, registering her slight flinch of surprise when he mentioned the name of her betrothed.

  “What do you want with us?” she demanded softly. “You did not attack us on the road for the purposes of ravishment or you would have likely done so by now.”

  Griffin acknowledged her logic with a slight curl of his lip.

  “You have been hired to take us somewhere,” she surmised rather astutely. “Someone has paid you to abduct us? Who--and why? Was it worth the lives of our escorts? Is it worth yours?”

  “You ask a great deal of questions, my lady. Perhaps you should first consider whether or not you are prepared to have the answers.”

  She stared at him in haughty disdain, but Griff could see the flicker of uncertainty in her amber-brown eyes. An unwed innocent cloistered past the marrying age of most girls, per Dom's description, the Montborne bride was not the plain, overripe plum Griffin had been imagining. Nay, this lady was a rare peach, fresh-faced and tart, with the fiery coloring to match.

  Beneath her gossamer veil of pale green silk, Griff could see that her hair was the burnished hue of rich copper, thick strands of silk that rebelled against the plaits and covering that held them in place. The lady was noble born and gentle bred, that much was clear, from her delicate brow and creamy skin to the aristocratic line of her nose and the slim, slightly mutinous, curve of her jaw. There was a cool, reserved quality about her features that seemed to clash with the spark of fire in her eyes, with the lush sensuality of her mouth. He found himself staring at her rose-colored lips far longer than was seemly, wondering what other delicious contrasts he was obliged to leave undiscovered.

  “I am prepared for any answer, so long as it is the truth.”

  Her quiet statement jolted him out of a rather wicked musing. He glanced up and met her steady gaze. “Is that so, my lady?”

  “Yes.”

  That her reply was little more than a whisper was proof enough of her trepidation despite her efforts at this show of bravery. Griff saw no point in frightening her further with the details of her abduction or his suppositions over what Dom might plan to do with her once she was delivered to him. She would have those answers soon enough.

  “It's late,” he said, dismissing her questions as he rose to his feet and motioned for Odo to come. “Untether the reins from the spare horses and bring them to me. I wager they'll make a sufficient binding for these fair ladies. We can secure them to that tree over there.”

  “Oh, God! No!” wailed the blonde in a renewed fit of hysterics. “Oh, please, help me! Anyone, please! Help! Help me!”

  Her shrill cries shot through Griff like the sharp pain of a raw nerve. It was enough to wake the dead, not to mention any forest outlaws lurking within a league of her senseless caterwauling. Griff had no intention of listening to her for a moment longer. He drew a dagger from a sheath on his belt then walked over to her. He knelt down at her level, weapon gleaming beside her face.

  “No, please! I don't want to die!” she sobbed, her plea cutting off as Griff took hold of her diaphanous veil and freed it from her head with one efficient swipe of his blade. He wadded the fabric into a ball, then stuffed it in her mouth.

  “Be quiet,” he said pleasantly.

  She obeyed. Within moments, he and Odo had secured her to the base of a sturdy oak. Next Griffin turned to the Montborne woman. She faced him with dignity and a good amount of stubborn determination, as if daring him to show her the same humiliation. He did not see the need. Nor did he think it wise to afford her even a meager distance from him while he tried to rest for a few hours. She would find a way to escape him, he could see it in her eyes.

  He tied one end of the leather reins to her wrist, knotting it so securely it would likely need to be cut from her arm upon their arrival at Droghallow. Then he grabbed the other end and fastened it around his own wrist.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped, staring in wide-eyed confusion at the tether that now bound them together.

  “You will stay at my side for the night, my lady. I won't have you and your friend plotting an escape while I sleep.”

  “Why, you arrogant--” Her eyes narrowed on him as if incensed that he had voiced her very intention. She tugged against the offending cord, huffing in frustration when the knot held firm.

  While his men prepared their own sleeping arrangements around the waning fire, Griffin led her away from her sniffling but now considerably more docile companion to a mossy spot of ground he thought would suit well enough as a makeshift pallet. He unfastened his mantle with his free hand and let it fall like a blanket on the forest floor. He sat himself on the warm swatch of wool, giving the lady a persuasive tug when she seemed reluctant to join him.

  “Relax,” he instructed her as she scrambled to extricate herself from where she had sprawled, practically atop him. “We'll be leaving before dawn. You'd do well to get some rest while you can.”

  “Not so long as you are breathing beside me,” she scoffed.

  Griff chuckled at her tenacious spirit. “Then do as you please, my lady. But be warned, I am a light sleeper. If you so much as jostle this tether, I will know it.”

  * * *

  Stubbornly, Isabel remained sitting for some hours longer, even after her captor had settled onto his side facing her, his eyes closed, breathing slowed in sleep. She stared at him, scowling, wondering what sort of mercenary rogue was attached to the other end of the slim leather line that held her prisoner. More to the point, where did he mean to take her, and for what purpose?

  Whatever it was, Isabel did not intend to sit there, waiting until the morn when she would find out. She had to get away. She had to find her way to Montborne. But how? She wondered, staring down at the thick, tight knot at her wrist. She would never get it untied.

  Through the canopy of oak and pine trees over her head, the slimmest shave of moon glow provided an answer. The milky ray of light poured down from the night sky to wink against the hammered steel grip of her chief abductor's dagger--the very same weapon he had drawn to help silence Felice's blathering.

  It was sheathed on his belt, scarcely an arm's length away. Closer, if she could dare to put herself beside him. That short distance was all that separated her from freedom. Could it be so simple? Her conscience hastened to remind her of his warning: He did not sleep heavily. Could she even hope to steal his blade and cut loose her bond without his notice?

  It was a fool's gamble, to be sure. But she had to try.

  Slowly, without a sound, Isabel eased herself down, stretching her limbs out as if in sleep. She hardly drew breath, heedful of the silence and praying not to wake him as she got into position at his side, facing him. This close, waiting some long moments to make certain he still slept and watching his face in repose, it was difficult not to take into full measure the harsh attractiveness of his features.

  His wide brow was nearly hidden beneath a forelock of sandy hair. The mane of long silky waves framed the striking lines of his tanned chiseled cheeks and square, stern jaw, giving him an air of wildness even in slumber. A silvery scar cut into his chin, a vicious arc of colorless skin that should not have added to his rugged
appeal, yet somehow did. His eyes, thankfully still closed, concealed their color but were fringed with thick dark lashes that any lady would envy. His nose was prominent and bold, its straight line marred only by a faint jag that bespoke of his violent living. If his sculpted, sensual mouth bespoke of anything, Isabel had to guess that it would whisper of wicked, sinful encounters and pretty, seductive lies meant to charm a maiden out of her senses.

  He looked like heaven in the moonlight, a fallen angel, heartbreakingly handsome yet undeniably dangerous--and oddly familiar to Isabel in some shadowy, inexplicable way.

  She weathered a queer chill that had little to do with the autumn air and focused her attention back on the task at hand. Holding her breath, she slowly inched her fingers forward on the mantle, pausing halfway between their parallel torsos. Nervously, keeping her eyes trained on his, she crept her hand a little farther. His chest and abdomen expanded as he drew each long breath, brushing the tips of her fingers.

  She was almost there.

  Biting her lip in concentration, she reached down to touch the belt at his waist. Only a few finger lengths and she would have the handle of the dagger. She could almost taste freedom.

  Not much farther now.

  She stretched her arm, rolling not even a hair's breadth closer to him--and nearly jumped out of her skin when he stirred. Her hand flew back to her breast. She froze, staring at him in mute terror as he sighed and shifted slightly on the mantle.

  But he did not wake.

  Heart pounding in her throat, Isabel waited until her fear passed and she could breathe again, then started her quest anew. This time, she was bolder, knowing time was of the essence and that the real test would lie in pulling the dagger from its sheath without rousing the dragon. Praying for stealth and courage in equal measure, she reached out and went straight for her prize. She followed the smooth line of her captor's sword belt, pausing only when her fingers encountered the cool grip of the dagger. Swallowing past her trepidation, she seized the blade and began to slide it carefully out of its sheath.

  The next thing she knew, her arm was pinned beneath a firm, unyielding weight.

  She cried out in surprise, a small yelp of shock that she could do nothing to bite back. Even worse was the shock of glancing up and finding her captor's eyes open and fully alert, staring at her, his face nearly nose-to-nose with hers, his mouth quirked in a lazy, sardonic grin.

  “You'll find nothing but trouble there, my lady.”

  “Get off of me!” she cried in desperation, scandalized by the position in which she suddenly found her hand.

  Hard-hewn muscle and the ridge of his slim hipbone pressed her arm to the earth while her palm--dear Lord, her palm lay open beneath him, her fingers splayed across something that she could only pray was the hard outline of his sheathed dagger. Heaven help her, but she had never been so familiar with the area of a man's groin and she had no desire to be so now, particularly not when the scoundrel pinning her so awkwardly beneath him seemed to be so devilishly enjoying it. “Get off,” she sputtered. “I beg you, get off!”

  He eased up only enough to avail her the retrieval of her hand, but neatly hemmed her in with one arm braced on either side of her. Imprisoned by the presence of his powerful body, Isabel could only blink up at him, uncertain what he would do with her now. She had blatantly defied him. Felice had merely annoyed him and she now sat bound and gagged. What degradation would she herself suffer for her brash actions? She mustered a cool expression despite the fact that inside she was quaking, terrified to think on what her brazenness might have earned her from this man.

  “I warned you to give up any thoughts you had of escape. What was your plan, lady? To kill me while I slept?”

  “No!”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “For a lady who professes to relish the truth, I would think you'd be disinclined to stretch it so thin.”

  “I would have done you no harm,” she swore, surprised--and somewhat disappointed--that the idea had not even occurred to her. “I only wanted to free myself. I simply meant to cut my bonds and be away.”

  “To Montborne?”

  “Yes!” she cried. “Please, you must let me go! I have to get to Montborne!”

  “Your passion overwhelms me, demoiselle.” He stared at her for a long moment; she prayed that in his prolonged silence, he considered her plea. Prayed that he would show her some speck of mercy and let her loose. His lazy, spreading smile seemed to indicate otherwise. “Am I to understand that yours is a love match, my lady?”

  “I don't expect you to understand anything, least of all my reasons for wanting to marry.”

  His gaze bore into her. “Do you love this fiancé of yours?”

  “Would it make a difference to you if I did?”

  He exhaled a slight laugh. “Alas, no. I find I am merely . . . curious.”

  “Well, then, speculate on it all you wish,” she hissed up at him. “My feelings are none of your affair.” She tried to pry his arm loose from its position beside her, growing increasingly desperate to put space between her and this overbearing rogue. He did not budge, indeed, he only seemed all the more intense.

  “Nay, you scarcely know him,” he said as if he could read the truth in her eyes. He seemed to take some brand of wicked delight in the notion, his rakish grin deepening, setting off twin dimples in his beard-grizzled cheeks. “I would wager you've never so much as met the man. Have you?”

  She refused to answer, for all the good it did her.

  “You've never met your bridegroom and yet you would risk your life and limb to go to him. Why is that, my lady?”

  “It is my duty, sirrah,” she told him in an imperious tone. “The king himself has decreed that I wed.”

  “Somehow, you do not strike me as the sort to blindly follow orders, no matter who they might come from.” His head dipped a bit closer to hers, so close their breath mingled, their faces almost nose to nose, sharing the same air. “Try again, demoiselle. The truth this time.”

  She thought about the many reasons she had for marrying Sebastian of Montborne--Maura's welfare, the restoration of her family's name, a good match to reestablish some of her house's former honor--each one compelling enough in its own right to make her risk the fires of Hell itself to see it through. She thought of all the deeply personal reasons she had for wanting the arranged union with the Earl of Montborne, but in the end she settled on the one that would expose the least of her pain to this coldhearted stranger.

  “I made a vow before God,” she said, her voice sounding very small, her chest rising and falling between the too-close press of their bodies. “I made a vow, and I am bound by my oath.”

  The rogue looked less than convinced. “Honor is a foolish master, my lady.”

  “Honor, sirrah, is all that separates man from beast,” she informed him tightly, appalled by his flippant declaration.

  “Indeed,” he relented, “so it is.”

  He chuckled as he said it, lifting one tawny brow and baring his teeth in a decidedly wolfish grin, leaving no doubt in Isabel's mind as to which of the two categories this scoundrel subscribed. She bucked against him once more, testing his hold on her even though she knew it was futile to fight him. He would let her go only when he was through toying with her, so much like a predator taking sport with his helpless prey.

  “So, tell me, my lady,” he said, watching her with those unnerving leonine eyes, “how did you come to be left so long in the convent? Were you a tax on your poor papa? Too willful for your own good, perhaps? After all, most women of your advanced age have been wed, bred, and widowed twice over by now.”

  “I am not willful and eighteen summers is hardly old,” Isabel retorted hotly. She saw his amusement deepen and took a calming breath, annoyed that she had let him goad her into defending herself. “As if it is any of your concern, I was sent to the abbey after my father . . . died.”

  Heaven help her, but though she tried to say it without choking, the word still caught
in her throat and drew her captor's attention. She waited for him to pounce on the show of weakness, certain that having smelled blood, he would take this opportunity to tear her emotions to ribbons, but instead he merely stared at her, saying nothing. There was no mockery in his gaze now, no amusement on his lips. Rather, there was a queer sort of empathy in his hard features, a distant look in his eye that said he knew what she was feeling. That, somehow, he understood.

  Isabel squirmed under the weight of his silent consideration, thinking herself mad for believing this rogue could know anything of heartache. Like as not, he was merely tiring of his game of cat and mouse. Perhaps in his boredom, he would decide to release her.

  “Please,” she said, “won't you just let me go?”

  He studied her for a long moment, his gaze drinking her in as he brushed aside her skewed veil and stared at her face. “I can see why he chose to take you,” he said at last. “Any man with eyes in his head would surely pay a king's ransom for a woman such as you.”

  His unsettling appraisal shocked her, but her mind locked onto his other confusing disclosure. “Who chose me? Are you telling me that you were sent to kidnap me…specifically?” It made no sense to her at all. Especially not when Felice, as beautiful and favorably connected as she was, had been taken alongside her. “I don't understand,” Isabel said, confused. “Who would want to take me prisoner? I am no one of import. The daughter of a . . .” She bit back the ugly word that had come to describe her fallen father. It still burned so painfully to admit it. “I am no one.”

  Her captor shrugged. “Mayhap you do not appreciate your worth, my lady.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles then, an unexpected and startlingly gentle caress that should not have made her pulse skitter for anything more than fear or revulsion.

  “If 'tis money you seek,” she managed to whisper, “I will see that you are rewarded. I give you my word. Just let me go now. Release us both, Felice and I.”

  “I cannot,” he said, whatever tenderness he might have shown her before now suddenly gone. He backed off of her then, rising to his knees and reaching out to grasp her about the wrist and pull her to her feet.