Knight's Captive (2 page)

Except... damn her. He passed her father over to
Will. “A broken leg,” he shouted. “You’ll have to lower him down. As soon as he’s
in, abandon ship.”

Antonia was already hurrying to his side from
the quarter deck but before she reached them, a crack splintered the air.
Henry’s skin prickled. He glanced up and saw the middle mast sway. The ship was
now at an angle—slightly back, slightly to one side. The mast began to tilt
that way too and as it went, it ripped the quarter deck with it, sending
Antonia sprawling. He half-expected her to be swallowed into the bowels of the
ship before he stormed up the stairs to her side, but he reached her before the
mast fell.

As the deck splintered into what seemed like a
hundred pieces, he snatched his arms around her and dragged her onto the main
deck. The ship spit up shards of wood around them. She wasn’t going down
without a fight, but she seemed determined to take them with her. Henry glanced
back to see Will and de Valdés were gone. He tightened his grip on Antonia and
wrapped a hand around the railing. They’d be lucky to make it to the longboats
waiting in the water. “We need to jump.”

“No.
My father.”

“He’s safe.” Henry had no way of knowing that,
but he wouldn’t have this woman on the ship any longer. “Can you swim?”

She nodded.

He helped her up onto the railing. Her body
trembled beneath his palms. “Jump now.” His world tilted further.
“Jump!”

She flew over the edge, her hair streaming out
behind her. He couldn’t hear the splash as he tore off his doublet and undid
his belt. He flung both aside, regretting that he’d lose his blade. That had
been a fine blade. Clambering onto the side, he took a breath and dove.

¡Dios
mío!
Antonia surfaced and drew in a gulp of air. The water bit at her skin. Salt
burned on her tongue. Why did English water have to be so cold? She shoved her
hair from her face and kicked her feet but her boots hindered her. She bobbed
under and had to kick out to surface again. She peered up at the ship. The end
was now almost submersed and she appeared to be splitting in two. It was like a
great beast with jagged teeth, looming over her and threatening to swallow her.

She forced her cold legs to move. Where was the
Englishman? She tried to swim away from the wreck but an invisible pull kept
drawing her back. Fear began to pound through her, making her forget the cold
touch of seawater but stifling her breathing and making it harder to work
against the lure of the ship. She was going to be pulled under with it, she
just knew it.

At that moment, she regretted her decision to
come with her father. Even after their ship had collided with another and had
become captured, she hadn’t. She was at her father’s side and that’s all that
mattered. She was no longer in Spain where memories of Lorenzo could haunt her.
However, she’d never envisioned a watery grave.

But, no.
She
would not give in. She had survived her brute of a husband, she would survive
this. Antonia would not die in these cold English waters. Using what little
strength she had, she fought and kicked against those invisible hands curling
around her legs and body, beckoning her to her doom. They drew her under again
and again while the groans of a dying ship rattled her ears.

She spluttered and surfaced only to be dragged
under again. But this time firm, solid hands gripped her and hauled her away
from her doom. She could hardly tell where was up and where was down now, but
she trusted those strong hands to draw her in the right direction. As the pull
of the ship lessened, she used her free arm to swim and keep her afloat while
she twisted to view her rescuer.

The Englishman.
Of course.
The man in charge of her capture.
He wouldn’t let a prisoner get away so easily. She had known that as soon as
she’d set eyes on him. He had a determined lift to his chin and blue eyes that
held such assurance she suspected men would follow him to hell to defeat the
devil if he assured them victory.  

He twisted them to watch the leviathan drop into
the sea with a gulp and a swirl of water. She’d expected it to go slowly but
with the prow of the ship jutting out, it went suddenly in a great rush. Where
once a fine Spanish Galleon had been now sat driftwood, ropes and torn
fragments of sail. If she’d had the energy to weep, she would have done.

“Are you harmed?” he asked her, his arm wrapped
firmly around her.

She felt his strong legs kicking to keep them
afloat and realised she had given up swimming long ago, her energy sapped by
cold and shock. This man was keeping her alive.

“No, I am unharmed.”

He pushed his dark hair from his face. It had
come free from the strip of leather that had tied it back. She let herself grip
his shoulders, even as her pride demanded she did not. Pride was a fine thing
but she had to stay alive to see her father again.

The man—she wished she knew his name but her
father had kept her in ignorance while he made his negotiations with him—peered
around, first at the coastline and then at the longboats.

“We cannot swim that distance, but they will
send a boat back.”

She eyed the collection of boats that had begun
rowing to the shoreline. A deep shudder wracked her already shaking body. “They
are leaving us!”

“No.” He held her close. “They had to move away
in case the ship exploded or created a wave and dragged them under.”

He eased her away and panic burst in her chest.
He was abandoning her to drown! She gripped his arm.

“Do not fear. Trust me.”

Foolishly, she did. That same determined
expression had also told her of his honour. Here was a man who would dive into
the bowels of a sinking ship to save his prisoners. But had she not learned not
to trust men?

He hooked his arm around her waist and began
dragging her back toward the wreckage. Antonia attempted to aid him but her
arms were numb and useless. He did most of the work until they reached a plank
of wood large enough to support them both. He looped her arms over it and moved
behind her to press his body into her back, thus anchoring her to the flotsam.
For the first time since their capture by the English, a sense of safety
blossomed through her chest.

Foolish indeed.

Antonia rested her head on her arm. “Are they
returning?”

“They will.”

Perhaps they hadn’t realised there were
survivors. Perhaps she would die here this day, wrapped in the arms of an
Englishman.

“What is your name?”

“Henry Bainbridge.” His voice brushed her cheek
and his breaths puffed over her cold skin.

He had to be as cold and as exhausted as she yet
she felt no tremor in his body, only tense strength as he kept her secure on
the wood.

Henry. It suited him.
The name
of England’s last king.
She could see why his parents had named him so.
Commanding, assured, powerful. The name conjured up images of this sort of a
man.

“Are they coming yet?”

“Aye, soon.”

Soon didn’t seem quick enough. Her legs no
longer felt like they existed. Her teeth chattered. She longed to close her
eyes.

“Why were you on the ship?”

She drew open her eyelids, not realising she’d
even shut them. “My father...” Antonia tried to control the tremor in her
voice. “My father took me with him.”

“Aye, but why bring a woman on board?”

“I am not the only one.”

“There were more women on the
Rosario
?”

“
No
.
On the other
ships.
They thought the invasion would be easy. Men wanted to bring
their wives and fiancées when they landed. I wanted to be with my father.”

What foolishness it was. The Armada’s ships
could not outrace or keep up with the English ships. Their victory should have
been easily secured—after all Spain had the best naval force in the world—but
they had not counted on inclement weather, the inability to make port and the
pure wiliness of the English.

“They are all dressed as men too?”

She almost smiled at that. Her father had wanted
her to remain in women’s clothes after their capture in the hopes that they
might treat her better but she didn’t wish to leave his side. She had hoped to
pass for a young boy but it seemed Henry had seen through it.

“Only me,” she murmured. “The boats...?”

“On their way.”

She had no way of seeing if what he said was
true. Her head could not seem to lift from its resting position upon her arm.

“How old are you?”

Antonia scowled. Why would he not cease asking
her questions? She felt as though she were under interrogation. Perhaps she
was. Mayhap it would benefit him in some way to know more of his prisoner.

“How old are you?” she bit back but the shaky
quality of her voice stole any fire from it.

“Seven and twenty.”
He
shifted so that his body pressed more firmly into hers. Warmth flowed through
her, almost counteracting the icy coldness that currently ebbed around her.
“Antonia? How old are you?”

“Two and twenty,” she offered.

“Have you any brothers and sisters?”

“No.”

“A husband?”

She tried not to stiffen—if stiffening was a
possibility. Her body already felt frozen as though encased in ice and yet as
cold as the English water was, it was not like that of the Atlantic. She had
heard tales of how cold it could be and how it could freeze you to death in
moments. Was she dying? Did that explain the muddied sensation in her head?
Why, then did he insist on talking? Could she not die in peace?

“No husband.”

“Do you have any—” He paused and he lifted a
hand. “Over here!” His shout made her jolt at the same time as relief coursed
through her.

“They’re coming?”

“Yes,” he
said,
that
same relief clear in his voice. “They’re coming.”

Antonia couldn’t be sure how long it took for
the boat to reach them. Henry continued to talk, drawing answers from her—all
of mundane things—her home, her town, how many cats she had. When he moved away
from her, a flutter of panic made her heart beat like butterfly wings.

“Henry!” She gripped his shirt sleeve to keep
him from leaving her.

“Do not fear. I’m here. We must get you into the
boat.”

Boneless and at his will, she allowed herself to
be manoeuvred off the wood and to the side of the boat. With the help of
several men, they drew her into the vessel. She sagged against the hull and
closed her eyes. But firm hands began to move her again, this way and that
until she was resting against something warm. She dragged open her eyes and
realised it was Henry’s chest. His shirt was soaked through. How
was it
his skin remained warm? He had a lot more on him than
her, she supposed. She was fairly thin and reedy whereas he...well, there was
muscle covering every part of him.

“A blanket,” he demanded. None were forthcoming
so he jabbed a finger at one of the rowers.
“You, your
mantle.”

The man handed over his cloak and Henry
ensconced her in the warm wool. Then he took her fingers between his hands and
began rubbing. She tilted her head to view him, her cheek pressed against his
chest. Dark damp hair covered all of his jaw and his hair hung almost curly
around his face, brushing the tops of his shoulders.

Had she been, say, eighteen summers and had
never experienced the true brutality of men, she might have sighed at his
handsomeness. A strong, slightly long nose, wide jaw and a set of lines between
his brows that made him appear serious and in charge made him appealing indeed.
This was the sort of face that made women want to smooth out those lines and
see if they could make him smile.

Henry’s gaze locked onto hers and her heart
stuttered. She shouldn’t be thinking of her captor as handsome. She should be
worrying about what he intended for her. After all, she was in enemy territory,
in enemy hands. He could do with her as he wished.

Antonia wanted to close her eyes to him. The
heaviness of her lids begged her to, yet she could not drag her gaze away.
Instead, she remained staring up at him through a haze of fatigue while he
rubbed the life back into her hands and cradled her against his chest. She
barely noticed as they came into port.

When the boat was pulled up against a long
narrow jetty, she dragged her attention away from him. Spanish men were huddled
together while Englishmen directed them up the green hills. She assumed they
were taking them to this old barn that Henry had mentioned. Antonia skimmed her
gaze over the men and spotted several of the officers. But where was her
father?

“My father,” she murmured to Henry as he
shifted.

“He is safe.” His words were firm but when she glanced
at him, she saw doubt in his eyes.

“Where is he?”

“He was injured.” Henry pushed from behind her
and stood to offer her his hand. “He is likely being seen to. Can you walk?”

She nodded though she wasn’t certain. Thrusting her
hand into his, she forced herself to stand and her knees juddered beneath her.
She felt as though she was standing on the slowly crumbling deck of the
Rosario
again, searching for her father. Still, she could not let him see her weakness.
She knew not if this man was indeed as honourable as her father had hoped.

The hammering of her heart slowed when she set
foot on the jetty. And when he escorted her to the beach and sand crunched
underfoot, her breathing had almost returned to normal. It might be English
sand, but it was sand nonetheless and far preferable to water at present. Henry
adjusted the mantle around her and skimmed his gaze over her form.

“We must get you warm,” he muttered though it
seemed to be more to
himself
than her. He motioned to
one of the Englishmen standing guard on the jetty. “Are there horses
available?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring two.
With haste.”

Antonia took a moment to observe the coastline
of Plymouth. She’d only seen it from afar during the battle. Up close, the
rolling hills and great slabs of rock were more impressive than they’d
appeared. They had green hills in Spain but none quite like this. Several muddy
paths etched their way like snakes up the side of it and she spotted a
collection of white cottages not far from the edge of the hills.
Farmsteads most likely.

The horses were brought over. “Can you ride?”