The Bride Thief. Susan Paul Spencer
but I shall hold you safe. No harm will befall you, I vow.”
He must have heard the groan she gave, for even as the horses began to move more quickly he smiled down at her, so that she saw the whiteness of his teeth in the darkness. “Sleep,” he repeated. “There’s naught else you can do for yourself at the moment.”
Which was true, Isabelle thought an hour later as she fought, and failed, to keep her eyes open. True to his word, they had passed through Bishopsgate and out of the city without being questioned, and had been riding north since. There was nothing she could do to help herself until they arrived at whatever their destination was, save to let her body claim the rest it begged for. Soon enough she would discover why she had been taken, and what Sir Justin wanted her for. Better to be rested and fully aware when that time came than too weary to think.
It was easier than she thought to relax and let herself slide into slumber. Sir Justin’s body was warm, his grip strong and sure. The horses were moving at a steady pace, neither too fast nor jarring. She was more than half-asleep when she felt the cloth around her mouth being loosened and pulled free. Bare fingers and a thumb gently vised her cheeks, rubbing for a few moments to soothe the numbness away, and then her head was tucked more firmly against Sir Justin’s shoulder.
“Is she asleep, then?” she heard Sir Christian ask.
“Aye,” Sir Justin replied just as Isabelle, with a yawn, willingly gave truth to the word. “She’s asleep.”
Isabelle awoke the moment she was pulled from the saddle on which she’d been riding. The sensation she experienced, at first, was similar to drowning, and she flailed as if to save her life.
“I have you,” Sir Justin said soothingly, somewhere near her ear. “Hush, now, my lady. I have you.”
His arms cradled her and she subsided, groggy and bewildered. Her head fell against his shoulder as he carried her from the cold damp of dark night into the warmth and dryness of some dimly lit place.
“Where are we?” she murmured sleepily.
“A monastery in Cambridge,” he answered. “I’m taking you to a chamber where you may rest peacefully and in comfort. There is naught to fear.”
“I do not wish to sleep,” she told him, blinking to clear her eyes. “I wish to know what you mean to do to me.”
“Do to you?” he repeated with what sounded to Isabelle like bewilderment. He glanced at her before giving his attention to a man in dark robes, who approached them holding a candle.
“You are Sir Justin Baldwin?” the monk asked, his face unseen beneath the folds of his hood.
“Aye.”
“All has been made ready. Come with me.”
“Father!” Isabelle cried.
The monk turned. “Yes, daughter?”
“This man has taken me from my home, without my consent! Help me, I beg you.”
There was a sympathetic nod. “Aye, and so we shall, daughter, if that is your wish. You will be free to leave this place in the morn as it pleases you, either with Sir Justin or without. No harm shall come to you while you bide here. I give you this promise on the holy vows I have taken before God.” He turned and walked away.
Sir Justin followed, carrying Isabelle down a long hall and up a number of stairs before at last reaching their destination: a large, clean, well-furnished chamber, warmed and lit by both fire and candle. Placing her in a chair by the fire, Sir Justin knelt and, producing a small knife, cut away the bindings at her hands and feet.
“I regret…” he began as he tried to take her wrists in his hands to chafe them, but stopped when Isabelle yanked free of his touch.
“Leave me be, I pray you, Sir Justin.” Her tone cast harsh aspersions on his claims to the honorable state of knighthood. To the monk, who stood by the door, she demanded, “Why have I been brought here? My uncle, the Baron Hersell, will be more than displeased to know of the treatment I have received this night.”
The monk gave another nod and put his hand on the door. “There is wine on the table, and I will have food brought at once. Father Hugo has been praying in the chapel, and will arrive to greet you shortly.” Then he left, closing the door behind him.
Isabelle turned her angry gaze on Justin, who still knelt before her. “What is this about? Do not touch me!” She tried to pull her feet away, but the warm grip on her ankles held her fast.
“My lady,” he said with what Isabelle felt was unmerited calm, “be pleased to put your mind at rest. I have not brought you this long distance, to a monastery, i’ faith, to rape or harm you. If that had been my goal, I would have managed it at some other, more advantageous spot.” When she continued to attempt to pull her feet free, he said, “I am sorry for having tied you. I thought it the best way to keep you from harming yourself unnecessarily. But look—” his gaze fell to where his fingers gently rubbed her raw flesh “—the rope has done its own damage. If I could take the pain from you, I vow that I would.”
Weary, unwanted tears filled Isabelle’s eyes. She hated crying. Worse, she hated feeling out at sea, as if she were clawing at a slippery rock to gain any sort of hold.
Having long been treated as one without value, Isabelle believed that she was, in truth, without value, and so she said, “Sir Justin, I cannot think I will make a very good hostage. My uncle will not make Evelyn wed you simply to secure my return. He will probably be glad to be rid of me.”
He pulled his fingers from her feet and took hold of her wrists, rubbing them as he had her ankles. “I do not want you for a hostage,” he told her, “and I do not want Lady Evelyn for my wife.”
Despite her every effort not to let them, Isabelle’s eyebrows rose.
Sir Justin smiled. “I never thought I would ask for a woman’s hand in the accepted manner, but as I’m already kneeling at your feet, I suppose I should. Lady Isabelle, will you do me the honor of wedding with me?”
She stared at him as if he’d stunned her with a blow to the head.
He waited a full minute before prodding, “My lady?”
“W-w-wed?” she sputtered. “With you?”
“I’ve surprised you,” he said. “I understand fully how it must seem. But give me a moment to explain, I pray, and all will be made clear.”
Standing, he crossed the room and filled a goblet with wine, then returned, pressing the cup into her hands.
“Drink this,” he said, and bent to tuck his cloak more tightly about her. “Are you warm enough? I threw some of your clothes down to Chris after you’d fallen asleep, and he put them in one of his bags. I’m sure he’ll bring them as soon as he’s finished stabling the horses, and then you may clothe yourself more warmly.”
“You—” she began, then faltered. Just how often did Sir Justin Baldwin deal in kidnapping? He was apparently very well organized at it. “You seem to have thought of everything.” And then she remembered that he had stood in her chamber’s shadows and watched her prepare for bed. Heat warmed her face at the realization that he had seen her—all of her. With shaking hands, Isabelle lifted the goblet and drank deeply, praying for any measure of sustenance. She’d rather be dead than make a muddled idiot of herself in front of this man.
“I hope I have,” he replied thoughtfully. “There was no way to keep you from being distressed in some measure, but Chris and I tried to plan for your comfort, as best we could. I didn’t wish to give you greater reason to turn me—my request—aside.” There was a chair on the other side of the fire, and he settled into it, wearily closing his eyes. “You are aware, I think, that if I am not wed within three—nay, two days, now, I will lose all that I possess? My lands, my holdings, everything.” Opening his eyes, he gazed at her. “Even my horses and