Ransom My Heart (34 page)

But she was not certain he'd agree to her plan. If he did not, Reginald Laroche would forever remain a free man, and would forever represent a threat to her and Hugo and, God willing, any children they might have.

Suddenly, John de Brissac lifted his head and, piercing her with his stare, nodded. “Aye,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Aye?”

“Aye. We'll do it. I'll speak to Lord Hugo first thing in the morning.”

Finnula stamped a slippered foot. “'Twill be too late! You must speak to him tonight!”

The sheriff looked surprised. “Tonight? Whatever for?”

“The longer we dally, the greater the chances that Jamie will perish. 'Tis possible they are holding him alive, John!”

“Nay, Finnula,” the sheriff said, his regret palpable in his voice. “I think it hardly likely…”

“But 'tis possible, is it not?”

“'Tis possible, I suppose, but—”

“Then he must die tonight! Tell him. Tell Hugo that tonight he must pretend to die, and news of his demise must be spread first thing in the morning—”

Startled by the girl's vehemence, John held up both hands, palms outward, and said, “Very well. Very well, my lady. 'Twill be as you command. I will go at once. Only hand me my boots, if you will be so good—”

Finnula was glad to do so, since it was as the sheriff was bending down, tugging on his boots, that she slipped a hand with lightning quickness into his pocket and drew forth Jamie's ragged tunic, which she swiftly shoved within her wide sleeve. When John de Brissac straightened, he bellowed to his mother that he was going out, and stomped toward the cottage door, pausing only to take one last, long look at the Lady of Stephensgate.

“Think you this will succeed?” was all he asked, with a look that was so eager Finnula would have kissed him—had she not been married to another, of course, and his face not covered with bristles.

“I think so,” she said, feeling a momentary pang of guilt.

“Good.” The sheriff turned and strode away, into the purpling twilight. And Finnula, leaning against the doorjamb, sniffed the air, pleased to note there were no clouds in the sky nor any hint of rain. It would be a fine night, she thought, for hunting.

F
innula waited only until darkness fell, encompassing the land in long blue shadow and lending her the cover she needed to escape. She did not think it necessary to delay her journey until the sheriff and his mother retired for the night. Doing so would mean hours wasted, valuable time better spent searching for Jamie. Once she made the decision to go, Finnula could not wait.

Since she had no braies, she wore the darkest bliaut she owned, of midnight blue with muted silver trim, and a kirtle of dove gray that, though light in color, was mostly hidden by the gown. Forsaking a wimple for her trusted braid, she was ready to leave at once, and opened her window shutters to climb out upon the thatched roof of the smokehouse.

Gros Louis saw her at once, banished as he'd been to the yard, Madame de Brissac not being able to stand the sight of him after last year's butter debacle. A well-trained dog, he did not bark, but stood happily wagging his tail until Finnula was safely upon the ground. Then he rose onto his hind legs, placing his forepaws on her shoulders, and licked her face until she moved away.

She had no knife, no bow, and no quiver; no supplies, in the event that they were forced to spend the night out of doors, and no coin to purchase any. All she had was the heavy emerald, hidden in the valley between her breasts, and that she wouldn't have parted with for all the money in the world. Still, the only trepidation she felt was for the sheriff's sake, since he would surely be chastised when it became known publicly that she had escaped.

But if she was able to find Jamie before morning, as she hoped to, perhaps her absence need never be known beyond the walls of the de Brissac cottage. For she would return to her prison as soon as she'd satisfied herself on Jamie's account, and there await her punishment. 'Twas the honorable thing to do.

Creeping from the yard, Finnula trod as silently as a wraith in her velvet slippers. Gros Louis was nearly beside himself with delight at the prospect of this unexpected hunting trip, and he conducted himself as well as a dog aquiver with excitement could be expected to. They avoided the road, of course, and stuck to well-traversed trails through the woods, heading in the direction of Stephensgate Manor. There was no moon yet to guide them, but Finnula knew the land as well as she knew the lines on her own palms, and they made rapid progress despite the uneven terrain, the stinging brambles and occasional stream.

By the time they reached the demesnes of the manor house, the moon had risen, and, though still tangled in the lower branches of the trees upon the horizon, its silver light was already both a boon
and a disadvantage: Though Finnula could see better by its light, she herself could also more easily be seen, and that, above all, was something she wanted to avoid.

But though her intention had been to skirt the edges of the property on which the manor house was situated, she was completely unprepared for the hypnotic pull Hugo's presence had upon her. A single glance showed her that a light burned in the window of the earl's solar, and she found herself drawn toward it. She felt a lovelorn fool. She had to shake herself, and drag her eyes from the window, in order to proceed according to plan.

She turned her back upon the manor house and trudged to the very spot where, Sheriff de Brissac had explained, Jamie's scent had been lost by his own hounds. Drawing the boy's soiled tunic from her sleeve, Finnula presented it to Gros Louis, who sniffed at it curiously.

Words were not necessary between huntress and hound. The mastiff had accompanied Finnula on too many midnight hunting trips not to know what she wanted him to do. Lowering his snout to the ground, the dog sniffed the fresh spring grass, nosing through dead leaves and sheep dung. Then, his heavy ears lifting, but his nose still upon the ground, he began to move, jogging swiftly into the cloying darkness of the woods.

And Finnula, lifting the hem of her gown, followed.

L
ike bloody hell I will!”

Hugo was sitting up. He felt stronger now, had been feeling better with every passing hour, ever since he'd sent that damned old man and his foul-smelling poultices away. Hugo didn't know what was in them and he didn't care, either. All he knew was that they were sapping his strength as sure as leeches sapped the blood. He was convinced that the only thing that had kept him from dying was his very strong resolve to kill Reginald Laroche before doing so.

“My lord,” Sheriff de Brissac said, with forced patience. “'Tis the only way—”

“Find another, then.” Hugo felt like hurling something, and the only thing handy was a pitcher of water at his bedside. And so he heaved that, angrily, at the far wall, where the clay jug shat
tered satisfyingly. Water made a dark arc across the flagstones. “I will not play dead,” Hugo bellowed. “If you can't find my son, then I will damned well look for him myself. Mistress Laver! Mistress Laver, fetch me my sword!”

Sheriff de Brissac sighed. He hadn't expected Lord Hugo to agree to Finnula's plan. The fatal flaw in it was that it depended upon a man of action to forcibly remain inactive for a significant period of time. Hugo would never agree to it. John felt a fool even suggesting it.

And then, with a feeling of dread, the sheriff wondered why Finnula, who surely knew her husband better than he did, would ever have considered such a course of action as viable. Surely it would have occurred to her that Hugo would say no. She must have known that her husband was not a man to allow others to take action while he waited.

When the pounding on the solar door came, Sheriff de Brissac was the only person not surprised by it. He turned slowly, his fingers stroking his beard, already trying to determine a course of action under these new developments.

“Sheriff!” One of de Brissac's deputies, a good man, though young, burst into the solar, panting as if from having ridden a good distance. “Sheriff! 'Tis the Lady Finnula, sir. Your good mother…your good mother reports that the Lady Finnula has flown!”

Lord Hugo was no longer sitting up in the bed. He was standing beside it, his hazel eyes glowing green, greener than the stone the sheriff had glimpsed around Finnula's neck.

“What?” Hugo breathed, but in the solar, his whisper was as loud as any shout. “
What?
”

John de Brissac brought his hand down from his beard and shoved it into the pocket of his leather jerkin. The boy's tunic was
gone, as he knew it would be before he even felt for it. The little hussy. The scheming little hussy.

“What do you mean, the Lady Finnula has flown?” Hugo demanded, no longer whispering. “What does he mean, John? Where is my wife?
Where is my wife?
”

John de Brissac pointed to the window. “Out there, my lord,” he said, gesturing to the dark landscape that surrounded the manor house. “Out there.”

S
he found him well before dawn.

He had not gone far. She and Gros Louis walked for only a few hours. Not that the way had been easy. There was no path, only thick brambles that tore at her long skirts and hands, through which Gros Louis, with his short fur, slipped as easily as a fish through water. He lost the scent a few times, but by then Finnula had found what none of the sheriff's men had managed to see: that the way was marked by broken twigs and crushed under-growth. People had been here before her, several of them, and they had made little effort to hide their tracks. This deep into the woods, there was naught but brambles and wolves, each assiduously avoided by hunters and berry gatherers alike. Reginald Laroche had evidently known this, and used that knowledge to his advantage.

The moon had not even set by the time the dog sat back on his haunches and softly whined. Placing a hand on the beast's wide head, Finnula knelt beside him, peering through the darkness at that which Gros Louis had led her to.

She was not surprised that the sheriff's men had missed them. The cave was not a well-known one. She remembered it from her childhood as a place in which they'd been warned not to play. A child had been lost forever inside it, it was rumored. The fact that wolves lived inside it during the harsh winter months was no rumor. That was why it was called Wolf Cave.

But 'twas not wolves that occupied the cave this eve—or at least, not of the four-legged variety. The rock formation had been transformed by human hands into a spot nearly as homey as Stephensgate Manor. A bright fire danced on the rock lip just outside the cave's entrance, casting a golden light throughout the small clearing. In that light, Finnula recognized Reginald Laroche's horse, along with the squire Peter's, grazing peacefully to one side of the clearing. Across the cave's mouth had been hung a velvet curtain, to keep out the wind that fluttered the newly washed clothing hanging on a line stretched taut between two nearby trees. Finnula recognized one of Isabella Laroche's low-cut bliauts, and realized that it must be she who slept behind the velvet curtain, along with her father. Peter the squire had apparently been assigned first watch, but he was doing very little watching, dozing quite comfortably instead on a carpet by the fire. Beside him, Finnula saw with relief, slumbered Jamie. A Jamie who seemed very much alive. They would not trouble themselves to bind the wrists and ankles of a dead boy.

Now that she had found them, Finnula was quite certain as to how to proceed. She would, of course, turn back, and alert the sheriff. That was undoubtedly the best plan, as she had no knife or quiver. It would have been tempting to waylay the squire and
loose Jamie…which she was certain she could have done without waking either of the Laroches.

But not weaponless.

Exhilarated as she was from her long walk—exhilarated and reluctant to give up her newfound freedom so soon—she had to go back. It was hard to believe she had not been on her own in the out-of-doors since she'd captured Hugo. She had certainly not gambled on losing her freedom in curtailing his. Mellana cried that she was responsible for Finnula's predicament, but Finnula blamed only herself. She had badly misjudged Hugo's character that day in the tavern. He was not a man she could control.

Perhaps that was why she had fallen so desperately in love with him.

It was Gros Louis, however, who changed things suddenly. The dog, as exhilarated from his long trek as his mistress was, happened to see a rabbit a few feet away, and reacted with pure instinct. With a low growl, the dog launched himself, an act that startled one of the horses, causing it to lift its head with a sharp whinny. The noise roused the squire, and Finnula ducked, suddenly finding herself in very grave danger of discovery.

“What—” Peter was on his feet, no doubt feeling guilty at having fallen asleep on watch. Peering out into the darkness, he saw Gros Louis's great silver head thrashing back and forth as the dog broke the rabbit's neck. With a swift intake of breath audible even to Finnula, Peter cried, “Christ's toes!”

To her dismay, Laroche staggered out from behind the velvet curtain, swiftly adjusting his tunic, which apparently had hiked up in the night, while balancing a drawn sword in his other hand. “What is it?” he cried. “The sheriff?”

“Nay.” Peter pointed a trembling finger. “'Tis a wolf, sir, the biggest one I've ever seen!”

“Damn,” the bailiff swore, his eyes wide as they took in Gros
Louis's bloodied muzzle. “Well, don't just stand there, boy. Fetch something to throw at it.”

“What, throw something at that?” Peter was appalled. “He'll come up here and sink those teeth in me next!”

Grunting, Laroche bent down and found a fist-size rock. Finnula gasped as he hurled it at Gros Louis, but she needn't have worried for her hound. Reginald Laroche could not have hit a duck in a barrel, his aim was so bad. The stone flew harmlessly past Gros Louis's head, and the dog, busily devouring his prey, failed even to notice the missile.

“Oh!” Isabella Laroche came out from behind the curtain, rubbing her eyes prettily. “Oh, what is it? What is wrong?”

“A wolf,” Peter informed her, in a voice Finnula had not heard him use before. It was deeper than his normal speaking tone, and Finnula supposed he thought it manlier. “Never fear, though, mademoiselle. I'll not let it harm you.”

Isabella Laroche didn't look the least bit afraid, however. She flung back some of her long, loose hair, and approached the edge of the rock lip. Though she slept in a cave, she wore one of her diaphanous nightdresses. Her bed robe, tightly cinched around her waist, did nothing to hide the curves of her voluptuous body, Finnula noted.

The minute her gaze focused on Gros Louis, Isabella gave a snort. “That's no wolf,” she said scathingly, turning to go back into the cave. “That's Finnula Crais's dog.”

Finnula, crouching in the brambles, dropped her face into her hands in despair.

“
What?
” Both Laroche and Peter spun around to stare at Isabella, who blinked back at them as if they were simpleminded.

“You heard me,” she said. “That's Finnula Crais's dreadful dog. I think I'd know it. She never goes anywhere without it. Get rid of it, why don't you? Nasty thing.”

Finnula lifted her head in time to see Isabella turn around to go back to her bed, not in the least suspecting the effect her words had upon her father and Peter. Both men stared at each other, and then down at the dog.

“If the dog is about,” said Reginald Laroche, in a tone that sent shivers up and down Finnula's spine, “then can its mistress be far behind?”

“But that's impossible,” Peter scoffed. “Finnula Crais is in jail!”

“And her dog just happened to wander in this direction?” In the firelight, Finnula caught a glimpse of Laroche's yellowed teeth flashing beneath his dark mustache. “Nay. She is near, I can feel it. At any moment, I expect an arrow to come streaking out of the night—”

Peter looked hastily over his shoulder, as if anticipating a shaft in the backside. “Verily, sir? But it cannot be! We took such care—”

Laroche waved Peter to silence with a flick of his fingers. His dark gaze scanned the woods in which Finnula hid. She felt those eyes come to rest upon her, then move restlessly on. He had not seen her. Not yet. But he knew she was there.

Oh, yes. He knew she was there.

His next action confirmed it. Reaching down, the bailiff snatched Jamie up by the arm, hoisting the boy roughly to his feet. With a coldheartedness with which Finnula would not have credited him, had she not seen it for herself, Laroche pressed the edge of his blade to the boy's throat. Jamie, dazed from both fear and his abrupt awakening, whimpered softly. Laroche called out, into the darkness, “Show yourself, my lady. I know you are there. Show yourself, or the boy dies.”

Finnula's fingers curled into fists so tight that her fingernails
nearly broke the skin of her palms. She felt physically ill. Sweat had broken out along her hairline, and the night breeze, which was actually quite warm, felt cold as ice to her. Knowing she had no alternative, she rose from her protected hideaway, and glided out into the light of the clearing, oblivious to the thorns that clung to the material of her skirt. As she approached the rock lip, she saw a variety of expressions cross the faces of those who stood before her. Laroche looked triumphant, Peter incredulous, Isabella angry, and Jamie…Jamie burst into tears.

“No!” he cried, struggling piteously in Laroche's grasp. “No, m'lady! Go back! Go back!”

Finnula didn't pay the boy any heed. She walked until she stood directly beneath the grinning mask of Reginald Laroche, and after a quick glance at Jamie to see that, though scared, he was basically unharmed, she lifted her face to meet the bailiff's gaze.

“Ah,” cried Laroche delightedly. “Look what we have here, Isabella! The Lady of Stephensgate, come all this way to pay a call upon you!”

Isabella glared at Finnula. “Kill her, Father,” she said.

“Ah, my bloodthirsty daughter.” Laroche laughed. “You must forgive her, Lady Finnula. Isabella has quite a temper, you know.”

Finnula maintained enough presence of mind to say, quite calmly, though through fear-whitened lips, “Gros Louis. Go home. Go home.”

Before anyone could make a move, the great mastiff was loping away, his pink tongue lolling. Finnula watched with satisfaction as her pet disappeared into the thick bracken, and did not see the hand that descended toward her until it was too late.

The blow caught her full on the side of the head and sent her reeling. She would have fallen if a hard hand hadn't reached out
and caught her by the arm to jerk her upright. Dazed, the left side of her face aflame, Finnula lifted her head, and saw a furious Reginald Laroche glowering down at her from atop the rock outcropping.

Before the man could say a word, Finnula found her tongue, and lashed out with, “The sheriff and his men follow me. They will be here anon. You had best release us at once.”

“My dear.” Reginald Laroche had let go of Jamie, who'd collapsed against the rocks. Now, keeping a firm hold of Finnula, he squatted upon the stones in order to meet her gaze. “You are such a very dreadful little liar. What am I to do with you?”

“Kill her, Father,” Isabella suggested, again.

“Indeed, she will die.” Laroche reached out and lifted a fine tendril of red hair that had escaped from Finnula's braid and lay across her cheek like a streak of blood. Examining the auburn curl, the bailiff said, his breath hot on Finnula's face, “That has always been the plan. Or at least, 'twas what we decided the day my fool cousin Geoffrey married you, my dear. But then he so conveniently perished before he could get you with child, and we thought we were safe.” Laroche sighed gustily. “And then our beloved king had to go and ransom his brave crusaders, following which
you
took Hugo prisoner yourself…though I doubt by doing so you expected to find yourself chatelaine of Stephensgate Manor once more. What could I do then, but employ the same plan that had worked so well before? Of course, 'twas more difficult this time, since I'd been banished from the manor house, and could not employ poison, as before—”

Finnula listened to this speech with growing dread. She would not, she knew, be hearing this frank confession, were it not absolutely certain that she was not going to be allowed to live long enough to repeat it. This suspicion was confirmed when Isabella interrupted her father impatiently.

“Kill her
now
, Father,” Isabella insisted. “Do not waste time on pretty speeches. Kill her and let's to bed! I'm
so
tired.”

Peter looked more than a little surprised at Isabella's vehemence. “Kill her, in cold blood?”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “What say you, boy? You were willing enough to kill Lord Hugo and let her hang for it. Why balk at killing her yourself?”

“But—” In the glow from the firelight, it was evident that Peter was blushing. Was it possible, Finnula thought, that he was having second thoughts about his ladylove? “But to kill a woman…like with the boy. 'Tis wrong. Not very chivalrous. When we first set out together, monsieur, you said nothing of killing women and children—”

“Idiot,” Isabella spat. “Kill her now, Father, and bury the body. No one will find her this deep into the woods. People will think she ran away to escape hanging for the murder of her husband—”

“But Lord Hugo yet lives,” Peter burst out. “They will not hang her, for the earl yet lives!”

“Hard I've tried to forget it,” Laroche grumbled. “Had you played your part right, boy, he'd be well and truly dead now. I am starting to think you did not aim to kill after all…”

“I told you, Father,” Isabella cried. “Send me back to the house in the morning to finish His Lordship off. 'Twill be simple. They none of them suspect me. If Hugo is truly as ill as they say, 'twill be but the work of a moment to suffocate him with his own pillow—”

Finnula could stand it no longer. She felt a killing rage within her, but, weaponless, was helpless to save herself or anyone else, for that matter. Instead she said, her voice shaking, but with anger, not fear, “Kill me, if you must. And Hugo, too, if you can, which I doubt. But spare Jamie. He is just a child. Killing him will gain you nothing.”

“Nothing?” Laroche tugged on the lock of hair he held. “Jamie is your husband's heir, my dear. In order for my plan to succeed, there must be no heir but me.”

“He isn't legitimate.” Finnula shrugged, with dissembled indifference. “Hugo cares naught for him. The child will never inherit. Let him go. He will run away, never again show his face at Stephensgate Manor. All the world will think him dead.” She dared not look at Jamie's face as she spoke, and hoped the boy knew she was lying to save him.