Chapter Five
“Did you finish writing out the letters?” Garrett asked.
Corwin sat at the trestle table, swinging his legs and holding a quill Garrett had loaned him. The boy sighed as the tip of the quill scratched aimlessly on a piece of parchment. “I do not want to do letters today.”
Crouched by the fire in the castle’s great hall, Garrett set aside the whetstone he’d been using to sharpen his dagger. “I did not give you many.” He’d spent the past few weeks teaching the lad the sounds of each letter and to recognize simple words, and today, he’d written a short sentence—A knight relies upon his honor and his sword—and had asked the lad to copy it five times.
Corwin grimaced. “What is the purpose of writing out letters?”
“To learn how to read.”
“How can reading help to win battles or hunt rabbits or…kidnap ladies?”
Chuckling, Garrett shook his head and stood, sheathing his dagger. “Being able to read is one of the most important skills a nobleman can have.”
“I am not a nobleman.” Corwin’s expression shadowed with defeat. “Not even a nobleman’s bastard.”
Garrett walked to the table and sat on the bench beside the boy. Beneath the sentence Garrett had penned, the parchment was covered with nonsensical squiggles, none of them even slightly resembling letters.
Corwin might not be of noble birth, but he was clever and capable, and Garrett wanted to give him the best possible life; the boy had already experienced the worst.
He set his hand on Corwin’s small shoulder. Shoving long hair from his face, the lad glanced up at him. “You might not have been born into a titled family,” Garrett said, “but you are part of mine now.”
“But, I am not your child.”
“Not by birth. In here, though,”—Garrett touched his hand to his chest, over his heart—“you are, and always will be, my son.”
Corwin smiled. “Son.”
“Aye,” Garrett said solemnly. “’Till the day I die.”
“Even if I do not write my letters?”
Mischief shone in the boy’s eyes now. Garrett mussed the lad’s hair and said, “You would be wise to finish those letters without delay. If you do your best work, I will grant you the extra chicken pie we bought in St. Agnes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The boy grinned and quickly set quill to parchment.
Addy sat near the door, her back to the stone wall.
Listening.
Waiting.
Her right hand rested on the jug, ready to snatch it up the instant she heard someone coming up the stairs.
The light slanting into her room was no longer golden, but tinged reddish-orange. The chamber remained well enough illuminated, but ’twould be twilight soon, and her captor hadn’t left her any candles or torches. She hated to think of spending a dark night alone in the chamber.
Courage, Addy. Be swift and brave, and you’ll be free by nightfall.
Addy’s pulse lurched, for she heard footsteps, growing steadily louder. Whether her captor was approaching, or one of his cohorts, she must seize this opportunity. She snatched up the jug by the handle and leapt to her feet.
Courage, Addy.
The footsteps stopped. The key grated in the lock.
Her heart pounded so fiercely, she was sure whoever was outside the chamber must be able to hear it. Raising the jug high in the air, she waited.
The door swung inward. Carrying two torches, her abductor strode in; there was no mistaking his broad stature.
Addy lunged. She brought the jug down toward the back of his head, anticipating the instant the vessel clonked against his skull—
In a blur of movement, the jug flew from her hand. She was vaguely aware of a clattering noise and the sound of earthenware shattering.
Her back hit the wall.
A hand clamped around her throat.
She coughed in a waft of smoke as her captor glared down at her, holding a torch just a hand’s span from the right side of her face.
“Did you really think you could overpower me?” He sounded astonished by her attempt.
“Whoreson,” she croaked. It was the foulest insult she could think of at that moment.
His mouth curved into an indulgent smile. “What a wicked word from a damsel’s lips.”
“I can think of more.” A few Garrett had taught her would apply perfectly to this knave.
Her captor laughed. Fury boiled within her, and she kicked, clawed, fought to wrench free of his grasp. The door was still open. If she could just break free—
“All right.” His smile faded. “Stop struggling. I do not want to hurt you.”
“Bastard,” she hissed.
“Stop. Struggling.”
She tossed her head, heedless of her hair catching on the stone. She must escape—
He kicked out with his left foot. The door slammed shut.
Still fighting, she shrieked at him. She brought her knee up, intending to hit him in the groin, but he dodged the blow. Cursing, he dropped the torch; it hit the planks. Before she guessed what he planned to do, his hand dropped from her throat, and he closed the gap between them, pinning her between his body and the wall.
Crushed against him, she could barely move. Her face was buried into the front of his tunic. The scents of fresh air, leather, and man again filled her senses. For some idiotic reason, all she could think of was Garrett.
This man wasn’t Garrett. He couldn’t be. Garrett was dead.
She tamped down her bewilderment and torment and turned her head against the hard muscle of his shoulder. Her hands clawed into his woolen garment, and she dug her fingers into his ribs, trying to dislodge him, but he was bloody big and strong. He remained steadfast, his breaths warming the crown of her hair.
She stamped on his booted foot, but that didn’t seem to affect him at all.
At last, she sighed. Her shoulders slumped.
“Have you finished fighting?”
“Mayhap,” she snapped. “Swine.” That oath had been one of Garrett’s favorites.
“How your insult wounds me, milady.” Her captor didn’t sound insulted; he sounded as if he was trying not to laugh. “Unless you are certain you are done fighting, though, I will remain here.”
“I am finished.”
He eased away, but only enough to let her breathe easily.
“You can move away now,” she said frostily. Being so intimately close to him, feeling the heat of his broad body against hers, was causing the oddest sensations to course through her. “You should see to the fallen torch before it starts a fire.”
“No need. The torch has gone out.”
Disappointment wove through her. She’d hoped he’d try and pick it up. Then she could have shoved him to the floor and bolted.
“If I step away, will you run for the door?”
Aye, at the first chance I get.
He must have read her answer in her expression. “You would be foolish to try,” he warned. “Even if you got out the door, you would never make it down the stairwell. You will not escape me.”
Addy refused to acknowledge the challenge in his tone. Giving him the stoniest look she could muster, she remained silent.
Slowly, his gaze skimmed down her face to her lips.
Her stomach somersaulted, for he was looking at her in that familiar way again; the way Garrett had gazed upon her just before he kissed her.
“Move away,” she bit out.
“’Twould not be wise. Not when I sense you have not really yielded.”
How did he know her so well? She averted her gaze.
She startled at the press of his hand on her cheek. With his thumb, he forced her chin up until her gaze met his again. Oh, mercy, how she ached inside at the feel of his flesh against hers. Why did she feel this way? She didn’t understand, and that only served to make her even more angry. “Do not touch me—”
“I thought to be chivalrous with you,” he cut in, his thumb stroking her skin. “I gave you freedom to move around this chamber as you wished, but I can easily take that freedom away.”
“W-what do you mean?”
“I have rope, milady. I can bind your hands and feet.”
“You would not dare!”
“Oh, I would dare.”
Garrett could hardly believe what he was saying. Yet, he had to frighten Addy, and not just because of his agreement with Ransford. The rebelliousness he’d discovered within her years ago that had drawn him to her was as strong as ever—and he’d never forgive himself if she did something rash and got hurt or fell to her death fleeing down the cliffs by the castle.
As they stared at one another, locked in a war of wills, his hand still cupping her cheek, he wished he could tell her that soon, she’d be released unharmed and her captivity would be no more than an unpleasant memory. Even if he did deign to tell her, he doubted she’d believe him.
Her face had gone pale. “If you try to bind me, I swear—”
“You will not attack me again.”
He’d used a similar tone to command soldiers in France. He expected her to swiftly nod her agreement, but instead, her expression remained defiant.
“You will not try to escape again. Aye?”
“Why would I agree to that condition?”
“Milady—”
“I know you are a nobleman. No lord sworn to uphold chivalry and honor would ever consider binding a lady, or imprisoning her, for that matter.”
He raised his brows.
“You know I am right.”
She was. The last thing he’d do was restrain her; he couldn’t bear the thought of rope burns on her skin. However, he was not going to let her draw his focus from making her cooperate. “We are not discussing my honor—”
“Mayhap we should be.”
In one deliberate step, he claimed the distance between them again and pinned her against the wall. He forced her chin to tilt, until the back of her head grazed the stonework.
She shivered in his hold, but her eyes flashed with fury. “Unhand me.”
“I will, once you agree to my terms.”
“To your orders, you mean. I am not a servant, bound to do your bidding.”
“I am well aware you are not.” Standing this close, he was exquisitely cognizant of just how sweet-scented, softly curved, and utterly desirable she was. “That does not change what I expect from you.”
“If you were being held captive, would you not try to escape? Would you not consider it a matter of honor to get away, to spare the friends and family you dearly love from unnecessary anguish and hardship?” Her voice shook. “If you have even the slightest shred of honor, you will acknowledge that what you have done to me, what you have threatened to do to me, is very wrong…and you will release me.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, for her words stung. Honor was the primary reason he’d agreed to Ransford’s reckless plan to abduct her. Without chivalry to guide him, he’d never have survived on his own. “You are unwise to speak so carelessly,” he grated between his teeth. “I am an honorable man—”
“I do not believe it.”
Garrett’s heart constricted. She’d believed in him once. Completely.
“Prove to me that you are chivalrous,” she insisted. “Release me.”
“Cease,” he snarled. “I am not letting you go. I promise you, if I did not believe in gallantry, we would not be standing this close and merely talking.”
“What would we be doing?” As soon as the words left her mouth, her eyes widened, as though she wished she hadn’t been so bold.
She had been, though. And now, she’d face the consequences.
“You and I would not be—”
Garrett pressed his thumb over her lips, silencing the rest of her words. As her startled exhalation warmed his fingers, he leaned in and covered her mouth with his.