CHAPTER TWENTY
Josephine’s head was throbbing. She was coming out of the darkness, being jostled about in an ungodly manner, and she struggled to open her eyes.
When the world came in to view, she saw that she was cradled in someone’s arms; a man’s arms. She was instantly confused. Where was she? What had happened? She twisted about and strong arms gripped her tightly.
“So, you are awake, my lady?” a deep voice asked, not unkind. “How do you feel?”
She couldn’t see the face of the man that held her, but she could see she rode atop a great roan destrier. The horse had a bristly mane, scratching her arm.
“Who are you?” she demanded weakly.
“Ridge de Reyne, my lady,” he said pleasantly. “I am the king’s bodyguard.”
She was more confused than ever at that revelation. Fear and anger ran neck and neck in her foggy mind.
“I do not know you,” she said. “What goes on?”
“I am taking you to the king, so that he may formally deliver you to your future husband,” Ridge replied.
Josephine stiffened. “He will not be my future husband.”
Ridge didn’t reply immediately. “That, dear lady, is for the king to decide.”
Josephine tried to sit up but Ridge held her fast. “Release me,” she hissed, slapping at his hands. “Where is everyone? Where are we?”
“On the road to Edinburgh, my lady,” he said, unmoved by her struggles.
Josephine’s eyes widened. “Edinburgh?” she repeated in shock. “How… what… what have you done? I am not going to Edinburgh!”
Ridge had a good grip on her. “My lady, I would suggest you stop fighting,” he said. “I have my orders and I will fulfill them.”
I have my orders.
His jaw was set, firm, and Josephine was genuinely shocked. She was also torn between her aching head and wanting to escape. But she was, frankly, terrified. She hadn’t formally met Ridge de Reyne at Torridon but she’d seen him with the king, one of the many men the king surrounded himself with, but Ridge was different. He was a very big man who moved with the grace of a cat. She hadn’t known his name, but she recognized his face.
Hard-set and cruel.
As she lay there, trying to clear her spinning head, it suddenly occurred to her that there was a great battle in progress at her fortress. With the terrible pain and confusion in her head, it had nearly slipped her mind. But she was no longer torn by her confusion. She was spurred into action with the desire to return to her castle, and she twisted forcefully in Ridge’s grasp. Now, the fighting began in earnest and she pounded her fists against him and kicked with all of her might until she fell from his horse.
In fact, she’d fought like a wildcat, so violently that Ridge lost his grip, and his balance, and toppled off the other side, trying unsuccessfully to grab hold of the saddle. Josephine rolled to her knees, ripping off her outer tunic and mail coat as fast as she possibly could while Ridge tried to right himself on the other side of the horse. She was soon racing back down the road, a road she knew she didn’t recognize, but she knew that they had come from this direction.
She hoped it would take her home.
Josephine was being irrational and she knew it, but she had to get back to Torridon. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious and, for all she knew Torridon was in flames and its occupants dead. But she only knew that she had to go back as her lungs began to ache and her head swam. But she didn’t stop. Ferociously, she ran full-force along the rocky road.
But she wasn’t fast enough. Ridge hit Josephine from behind like a runaway beer wagon and she fell heavily on the gravel with him on top of her, scratching her chin and hands as the two of them rolled down a slight incline. Before she could recover well enough to attempt to escape again, he was on top of her and pinning her hands down with his own as his heavy body lay atop hers.
Ridge’s helm was gone and his black hair was wet and spiky. His square-jawed, handsome face was inches from her own, and his dark eyes looked at her with irritation.
“You knew that you would never make it,” he said.
She looked at him defiantly, fighting him every inch of the way. “I have to return, de Reyne,” she said through clenched teeth. “My castle is under siege. Let me go!”
Somewhere under the hard exterior, she thought she caught a glimpse of compassion. But it was gone in a flash. “I cannot,” he said.
It was a simple answer, but it was also a final one. The words had impact on her. Josephine stopped struggling and suddenly, she burst into tears. “Please!” she begged. “I must return. I must save my fortress. Let me return now and I shall gladly go with you when the fighting is through.”
Ridge watched the lovely features crumple and felt a stab of pity for the little soldier. He knew exactly how she felt and, under different circumstances, might have told her his story. But right now, he had a job to do.
“I doubt that d’Vant would let you return with me,” Ridge countered. “It is very likely he would kill me the moment I pass through the fortress gates.”
“He would not if I asked him not to.” The tears were still flowing, but the sobbing had subsided. “I give you my word.”
Ridge seriously considered her request. He had no doubt that d’Vant would move heaven and earth for this lady. He had seen the looks between them and he could only imagine the power of their love. In his thirty-plus years on this earth, he had never had the privilege of experiencing that emotion for himself and envied them their happiness.
But he was sworn to obey the king, even though there was a lot to be said for the pleas of a beautiful woman. Still… he couldn’t weaken, no matter how distasteful the task.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said softly. “But I cannot.”
He rose to his feet and pulled her with him, firmly gripping her wrists. Josephine knew by the look on his face that nothing she could say would persuade him.
“Can you not understand that I need to return?” she pleaded quietly. “My soldiers, my sister… they need me.”
Ridge glanced up at the storm cloud filled sky. “My lady, it has been nearly five hours since we left Torridon,” he said. “Whatever was going to happen has happened, and your presence will not change that. I understand your desire to return, but I must obey the king. I must deliver you to him.”
Josephine was about to try the soft approach when the trees behind him spilled forth three men. All three of them were armed with crude swords. They were dressed in rags. Ridge heard the sounds a split second before he saw the look on her face. Drawing his sword and turning around in one fluid motion, he raised his blade just in time to prevent getting his head being chopped off.
Josephine instinctively fell in behind him, clutching his waist as he backed away from the thieves. She had no sword and wasn’t much for hand-to-hand combat with anyone other than her sister. Ridge was doing well, considering he was fending off three men, but she wanted to help.
“De Reyne!” she said urgently. “Do you carry another sword on your destrier?”
“In the pack,” he grunted, fending off another blow. “But I forbid you to…”
She was gone, racing off towards the distant horse. He managed to turn and see her, cursing at her flagrant disregard for their situation. He grunted loudly as two swords came down heavily on his blade, the tip of which caught his cheek.
The third man, the smallest one, ran off after Josephine. She had a good lead on him and made it to the snorting horse, patting down the pack rapidly in her search for the sword. It was there, on the top, and she drew it forth quickly.
The man was nearly at her, and she swung the heavy sword boldly in two successive upper cuts, effectively catching the thief off guard.
Josephine always made a point of looking into the face of any man she fought. It was a bad habit, for the soldier ceased to become the faceless enemy at that point and became a person. As she swung viciously at her opponent, she managed to look at his face between thrusts and saw that he was little more than a boy.
The brief stab of uncertainty she felt was replaced by self-preservation when the boy thrust recklessly at her and narrowly missed cutting her throat. In a flash, she spun in a circle and crouched low, coming in under his sword range. Before the boy could take another breath, she drew the sharp edge of the blade across his belly and effectively disemboweled him on the spot.
For a brief moment, she felt a surge of sorrow as she stared down at the dead young man. She knew if she hadn’t killed him first, then she would most likely have been killed. Shaking it off, she turned her full attention to Ridge.
One bandit lay crumpled on the ground several feet from where Ridge and the final bandit fought. Despite the enemy’s rotund build, he was good with a sword and matched Ridge blow-for-blow. She could see the sparks flying from their engaging weapons as she approached.
Josephine had always appreciated a good sword fight. When done correctly, it was like a well-choreographed dance, and was just as entertaining. Ridge was quite good, in fact. He wasn’t launching a strong offensive. Instead, he was waiting until the bandit exhausted himself before making the kill. Josephine just stood by, heavy sword in hand, and waited.
But the would-be robber did something unexpected. He charged forward and their swords locked, but then he threw his substantial body weight forward and knocked Ridge to the ground.
Grunting and sweating, Ridge brought his sword up to block the next blow in the nick of time. The man wasn’t stronger than Ridge but, with the added body weight, the swords were drifting closer to Ridge’s neck.
Josephine simply wanted to end the struggle. She knew Ridge would eventually come away the victor, but she was tired and her head was aching. Almost as an afterthought, she dropped the sword and drew forth the bejeweled dirk at her waist with the serrated blade.
Marching upon the two struggling men, she lifted the dagger high and plunged it into the back of the robber’s neck. She stood back as he collapsed, and Ridge pushed him away. Ridge looked at the man for a moment while he twitched and convulsed, and then turned an amazed face to Josephine.
She stood a few feet away, clad in a linen tunic and her heavy leather breeches. Her long hair hung wildly about her and her scratched face was like stone as she stared back at him. In her hand, he noticed the knife. Without a word, she turned and walked back to the horse.
Ridge watched her go as he rose a bit unsteadily to his feet. She could have just as easily killed him to gain her freedom, but she didn’t. He hadn’t seen her fight the boy, but he noted as he came upon the thief how neatly he was gutted. She had every opportunity to escape but, instead, she chose to help him. He shook his head in wonder; why?
Josephine stood silently by his horse, staring up the road. Ridge packed his spare sword, the one she had used, and then sheathed his primary weapon. The entire time, he stole glances at her, but she never acknowledged him.
Josephine’s mind was a million miles away. She knew, in the end, there would be no escaping from the king. If she had killed Ridge, Alexander would have simply sent someone else to retrieve her, and it would only delay the inevitable. Like it or not, she was going to Edinburgh, and eventually to Haldane, and she decided that it would be better to have an ally on the inside, someone who owed her a debt. It had been a smart move on her part to kill Ridge’s opponent.
Ridge would be of more use to her alive than dead.
But what of Andrew? Did he even realize she was missing? If the fighting was heavy, probably not. If he was de… nay, she couldn’t even finish the thought. She could not comprehend the thought of him dying. But she knew deep down he was not dead and that he would come for her and take her away, forever.
Already, she missed him, and her arms ached to hold him. They had had so little time together. Josephine was not particularly religious, but she found herself praying honestly to the Got she’d heard stories told about. If He would only allow her to see Andrew once more, then she would become devoutly religious.
If not, then she would be dead.
Ridge paused before mounting his destrier; his eyes riveted to Josephine. She had yet to say a word.
“You disposed of that thief quite handily,” he commented.
She nodded. He searched for something more to say, but could think of nothing. After a moment, he spoke.
“My thanks,” he said simply.
Then she looked at him. “For what?”
Ridge wasn’t used to thanking anyone. He cocked a black eyebrow at her for forcing him to say more than he wanted to.
“For killing my fat opponent,” he said. “I thank you for your help. You are a brave young woman.”
She clenched her teeth and squared off with him. “Allow me to make myself perfectly clear,” she said bluntly. “I did not kill that man to save you. I did it because I want something from you. You are taking me to a dark realm where nothing is familiar, including the man the king would have me marry. I do not know what lies ahead for me, de Reyne, and I may have need of a strong knight to assist me. I will not ask you again to return me to Torridon, for I know you will not. But in the future, should I call upon you to return the favor that I have bestowed, then you had better come running.”
He looked at her, somewhat impressed at the delicate blackmail she had woven. She had killed his opponent to extract a favor from him. Fair enough; but what type of favor? Despite any misgivings, he nodded chivalrously and mounted the destrier.
He settled himself and extended a hand to help her. Begrudgingly, she placed her hand in his and he pulled her up as effortlessly as one would lift a pillow. It was impossible to sit on the same saddle with him and not be intimately pressed against him. He wouldn’t put her on behind him for fear she’d slide off and perhaps run again, so he put her on his lap. She stiffened indignantly as her bottom rubbed against his crotch.
But Ridge wasn’t paying attention to the fact that her bottom was against his groin. He liked women, of course, but he wasn’t thinking of the lady in that way. He held the reins with one hand while his other went around her waist instinctively to lend support. She hated it at first but, eventually, she became used to it as the horse pranced down the road that was quickly darkening with sunset.
With each step, Josephine moved further and further away from Torridon, and hot tears sprang to her eyes again. The motion of the horse was hypnotic, and her head soon fell gently back against his broad shoulder. She was very tired from the day’s events and, soon enough, sleep claimed her.
Ridge knew she had been lulled into an exhausted sleep when she went limp in his grasp and started to snore. He pulled her closer to him so she would not topple over. He found himself feeling a good deal of pity for her situation. She was a beautiful and intelligent woman, and she did not deserve the fate that awaited her. The bodyguard for the king, a man efficient and emotionless, had a deep, softer side that no one saw. He wasn’t as emotionless as he pretended to be.
His hate for his king grew in that dark night as he traveled the road to Edinburgh.