Knight's Captive (6 page)

After a
brief supper of cold meat, bread and honey and knowing her father was in good
care at the physician’s cottage, Antonia had conceded bed was the best place
for her if she was to be at all useful to her father on the morrow.

Of course, she thought it unlikely she would
sleep in spite of how weariness ate into every part of her as she ascended the
stairs with Henry behind her. The pounding in her head was nothing compared to
the pounding in her heart. Why did he affect her like this?

They paused outside of her room and she turned
to face him. She owed him something—an apology or a
gracias
mayhap. She
wasn’t sure what exactly. He turned her thoughts inside out. Ever since that
touch to her face—
no
, earlier—she had been unsure how to deal with him.
Then he had taken her hand and offered her
more
comfort than he could have known. The only other man to touch her with such
tenderness had been her father.

“Rest, now,” he murmured, “and you can see your
father on the morrow.”

She nodded and tried to summon some words. How
was it that in the golden candlelight with shadows haunting his expression and
fatigue under his eyes, he made her breathing thick and heavy? Why was the urge
to throw herself against that broad chest and feel his hands on her body so
strong? Had she learned nothing after Lorenzo? Antonia did not know this man.
Nor should she want to. He was English and her enemy and captor. Nothing good
would come of finding out more.

That knowledge didn’t stop the tiny voice of
curiosity whispering inside her. Who was this man? Why did he swing from brash
and commanding to soft and tender in an instant?

Their gazes clashed for the briefest moment
before she cast her own down. If she had thought breathing was hard before,
she’d been wrong. Now each breath had become heated along with the rest of her
body. She felt aware of every heartbeat, every intake of air and yet separated
from her body. Her limbs didn’t
exist,
her body was
soft and yielding. He need only scoop her up and she would fall against
him—completely at his whim.

“Well, I shall bid you good night.”

“Henry.” The breathy quality to her voice made
it sound distant and detached, as though it was not even her speaking.

He paused in turning from her and both brows
lifted while he waited.

“I...”

Gracias, thank you. Touch me, hold me.
None
of it would be hard to say. The former would not be foolish either. Yet none of
those words would come. It sounded too much like dependence on a man and that
she could not do.

“The coffer in my bedchamber.
I...can you remove it
por favour
?”

“The coffer?”
He
stared at her blankly for a moment.

“Aye, at the end of my bed.”

He heaved a sigh and stalked past her into the
chamber. She followed and suppressed a shudder at the sight of it. Henry
glanced back at her and she knew he’d noticed her reaction. In the daylight she
was better able to face the sense of horror these things overwhelmed her with
but at night, with only candlelight for company, boxes, small spaces...
anything of the sort made her want to run away and never return. Even now the
desire to flee made her feet twitch.

But Henry had been right. She’d been foolish to
try to escape with her father. And an even bigger
fool
to leave Henry to deal with those men. She wasn’t sure what she could have
done, but the dried blood on Henry’s face sent a pang of guilt through her
every time she saw it. That was not how her father had raised her. Captor or
not, her decision had been the wrong one.

Antonia stood to one side while he heaved out
the heavy wood chest. She couldn’t help but admire the way his muscles pulled
against the linen of his shirt. It was a strange idea for she couldn’t recall
the last time she had admired a man. Lorenzo mayhap, before they had married.
Before he had revealed his true nature.

But what was this man’s true nature? Was it the
same for him? Was a dangerous temper simply lurking beneath the oddly
chivalrous and sometimes heroic actions?

No
, her mind whispered. Her heart
near reached out to him and begged her to trust him. Yet how could she? Why
would a woman trust the man who held her fate in his palm?

Henry pushed the chest outside into the hallway
and swiped his palms down his breeches. “Is there anything else you need?”

“
No
,
gracias
.”

“Will you sleep?”

She peered back at the well-lit room but knew it
was unlikely. Not while her father was sick and she remained in a room unfamiliar
to her. Not while
he
was only a few paces away.

“I shall be well enough.”

He gave a
dissatisfied
grunt. “I have no wish for you to sicken. You must rest.”

It was no good. Curiosity ate into her until it
almost hurt. She longed to know more of this man. Stories spoke of sirens
luring men to their fates, but she could not help wonder if there was not a
male version. If there was, he would surely be such a man. Antonia had learned
to guard her heart and her feelings the hard way and yet those lessons seemed
to be for nothing.

“Why should you care what
happens to me?”

Henry eyed her for a moment and the silence
stifled. She found herself edging toward her bedchamber simply because the air
in the hallway had become too thick.

“Because ‘tis my duty to do so.”

Well, there it was. He had no interest in her
other than as a political prisoner. She knew that, so why did she wish for
more?

“A-and why have you not locked me away after I
tried to run away?”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead as though
contemplating that himself. “Get some rest,” he said quietly.

“What will happen to us?”

His attention snapped to her.
“Us?”

“My father and I?”

“You shall be returned to Spain before long.”

Antonia closed her eyes briefly to him. His
features still lingered behind her closed eyes. That brow etched with
something—pain or anguish.
Those blue eyes that searched her
face.
That thick dark hair and unyielding body.
Her father had intended a new life for them but they’d never expected the
English might to be so strong. She had certainly never anticipated meeting a
man like this.

She drew open her eyes and her heart slammed
against her chest when she found him still there.
Watching,
waiting.
But for what?
She backed into her
room.

“Well, I—”

He stalked forward and touched her. His finger
grazed her chin again. She stiffened but not from horror or fear.
No
,
that same tingle she had felt before simmered through her body and centred low
down.

“Do not do anything rash,” he warned her. “Do
not take my compassion for leniency.”

She nodded against that finger and willed it to
remain. If she could have done, she would have begged him to stay but her voice
was trapped in her throat. Instead she pleaded with her eyes.
Touch me more.
Stay with me and do not leave me alone in the dark.

Even as her mind told her not to even consider
such thoughts, her body wavered forward. His words were dark and dangerous. His
body spoke of strength and the ease with which he could bend her to his will.
Yet his blue eyes called to her—soft and compassionate.

That finger—that one long thick finger—moved.
Just a fraction so that it grazed the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted of
their own accord and she let her eyelids flutter closed so she could
concentrate on that rough fingertip on her sensitive skin. Again, it moved,
tracing the contours of her mouth.

Her tongue darted out to taste it. Had her eyes
been open, and had she been able to see the surprise on his face rather than
only hear the sharp intake of breath, she might have stopped. She might have
stepped away and closed the door to him. But behind the welcoming solitude of
her closed lids, she could do anything. Lorenzo was long
dead,
she was not the battered wife of a Spanish nobleman or the daughter of a
captured commander. She was simply a woman and Henry a man.

Antonia tasted the salt of his skin on her
tongue and repeated it. How would it be to taste more of him? To feel his warm
skin beneath her as she ran her tongue over his solid chest and up to kiss him?
She had never experienced true pleasure with a man, yet some deep carnal
knowledge told her she would with Henry. After all, had he not cared for her
welfare so far? Mayhap he would be the same in bed.

Or mayhap he would turn into a beast as her
late-husband had done. The cold wash that came over her forced her eyes open.
But instead of seeing the icy hatred that had always lingered in her husband’s
eyes, there was warmth and desire.
True desire for her.
Not driven by a need to possess or punish but simply a reflection of everything
she was feeling.

He pushed an errant strand of her hair behind
her ear and her pulse throbbed so heavily that it deafened her to everything
except the intakes of his breath and the squeak of leather as he neared. He
closed the gap until they were almost chest to chest. Though he towered over
her, she no longer felt intimidated.

No
, she felt hot and itchy and
desperate.
Desperate with the need to touch and taste.
The sensations were so alien she hardly knew what to do with them so she
waited.

The finger near her ear skimmed down to touch
her neck. It lingered on where she knew her pulse fluttered.

“Do I scare you?” he asked quietly.

“
No.
”

He should do.
These unknown
feelings, this unknown man.
Her survival instincts had flown and though
she knew she ought to be wary, terrified even, she couldn’t bring herself to
be.

He lowered his mouth to hers. It took an
eternity. She kept her hands curled tightly into fists, not trusting herself to
let him kiss her. But she must. She had to. Just to know.

Just to know what a kiss from a man like this
would be like.

Soft, tender.
His
lips grazed hers almost reverently. Antonia couldn’t recall ever being kissed
like this. Desperation welled inside and she fought the need to pull him close.
However, at the same time she was able to relish the skim of his lips over
hers. He did it again—the same careful sweep. If desperation seared him to the
core, he made no show of it. The strong, powerful man demonstrated such care
and consideration that the desire to weep almost overcame her.

When he drew back, her eyes were damp. He
touched a thumb to the corner of her eye and scowled. “Forgive me.”

She shook her head numbly. What to say? He
needed no
forgiveness,
she had invited his kiss, after
all. Instead, she wanted to thank him or draw him close and repeat it. He was
the only man to have ever shown her such respect and care.

“Will you...will you kiss me again?”

He shook his head, making her heart drop almost
into her toes.

“Nay, I should not have done. You are my
prisoner and my charge. I took unfair advantage.”

Antonia clutched her arms about herself. It was
not a dismissal. He had not said he hadn’t wanted to kiss her. Her body
couldn’t decide if she should be thrilled or disappointed.

“Will you sleep now?”

“I’ll try,” she replied quietly.

He hissed a curse—one so hard and quick that she
missed what it was but she recognised the sound of it. Swiping a hand through
his hair and loosening the leather that held it back, he shut the door behind
him and motioned to the bed.

“Go to sleep.”

She eyed the bed and swung her gaze back to him.
“I’m not certain—”

“Is it the sinking? It scared you?”

It should have done. Nearly dying in the ocean
should have been what terrified her most. But
no
, a dark, small room with
a cramped bed and a box in it was far worse than any reality she had faced.
What could she say though? Her husband beat her, he hated her,
he
locked her away whenever she did something wrong like not
greet him correctly or wear the wrong colour gown? Only her father knew what
Lorenzo did, and that was how it should stay. Even her father forbade her to
speak of it.

“
Si
,” she said softly.

“Hell fire.”

The words came hard from between his teeth. They
made her jolt. For a moment, she had been back in her old life—a chattel to her
husband and his whims while he hissed his anger at her.

Henry’s gaze skimmed her and his soft eyes
brought her back to the world she was in now. A prisoner,
si
, but not
the sort of prisoner she was before. She almost smiled at how being the captive
of an Englishman was preferable to being Lorenzo’s wife.