The Laird's Captive Wife. Joanna Fulford

‘Stop this now, Ashlynn.’

      ‘Let me go!’

      ‘You know damned well I won’t.’

      Ashlynn twisted and slapped him hard. His jaw tightened and the dark eyes took on an expression that caused her stomach to turn over. Too late she realised that some unspecified line had been crossed and she was now in real trouble. Without another word he dismounted, dragging her off the horse after him. Ashlynn kicked and fought, cursing him roundly, managing only to deliver another ringing slap before she was thrown to the ground and pinned her there with a knee in her back. Iain glared down at his writhing captive.

      ‘By God, I’ll teach you to obey me, you little wildcat.’

      ‘Get your hands off me, you Scottish bastard!’

      ‘Scottish bastard is it?’ Iain drew a length of cord from the leather pouch on his belt. ‘Well then, I may as well live up to my reputation.’

      Moments later she was bound hand and foot. Beside herself with fury, Ashlynn fought the rope even as she delivered a lengthy and blistering assessment of his character. Iain paused a moment and regarded his captive keenly.

      ‘It seems to me that you’re in no position to deliver insults, lass.’

      ‘You deserve every one, you black-hearted villain.’

      ‘Keep it up and I promise I’ll warm your backside with my belt, you contrary little besom.’

      It had been on the tip of her tongue to say he wouldn’t dare but she choked the words off. The brute would not only do it but would enjoy it too. He had no sense of shame. Too late she was beginning to understand how he had earned his name. It was perhaps fortunate that she did not see the satisfied smirk that accompanied her sudden silence. A large hand hauled her upright. Then, adding insult to injury, he tucked her effortlessly under one arm and carried her to her horse. Moments later she was slung across the saddle like a sack of meal and tied there securely. After that he remounted and, having retrieved her horse’s reins, set off again. Incandescent with rage now, Ashlynn tested her bonds, but to no avail. They weren’t cruelly tight but they were fast. The brute had known exactly what he was about. The final humiliation would be returning thus to his waiting men. Almost she could hear their laughter.

      However, Iain made no effort to retrace their earlier route but continued on his present course for another hour or so. To Ashlynn he spoke not at all, or she to him. For a while hot temper and a strong sense of grievance kept her from noticing the discomfort of her position. However, as the time wore on it made itself felt, and she began to repent of her earlier actions. Her bound limbs ached; the saddle pressed hard against her midriff and the chill was more apparent. More than anything she wanted to be freed from her bonds. If he would just cut her loose she would agree to ride anywhere he wished. Only pride kept her silent.

      

      The light was going when at last the horses came to a halt before a small farmhouse. A man came out and, from his ready greeting, it was clear that Iain was no stranger to him. To Ashlynn he paid no heed at all. The two men exchanged a few words and, having directed his visitor to the barn, the farmer went indoors again. As Iain dismounted and led the horses toward the designated shelter, Ashlynn craned her neck to take a quick look around, now keenly aware of their isolated position and the fading light. Was this where he meant to rendezvous with his men? As yet she could see no sign of them and for the first time missed their presence. For all sorts of reasons she was aware of the old proverb about safety in numbers. Moreover, she was tired, sore and cold for with the approach of darkness the wintry bite in the air was pronounced.

      When they reached the barn Iain led the horses to their stalls. Then he paused, surveying his captive. Ashlynn waited, silently willing him to cut her free, though still she could not bring herself to plead. He waited a moment more, then smiled faintly and untied the rope that held her to the saddle. Having done that, he untied her ankles and let her slide down. She stifled a gasp as her cold feet jarred on the hard ground and felt her legs buckle. Had it not been for his arm she would have fallen. It kept her upright while he dragged her across to some upturned barrels by the wall.

      ‘Sit down there and don’t stir.’

      The tone implied that to do anything else would be a serious mistake. Ashlynn said nothing. In fact she had no intention of disobeying him, all thought of rebellion long gone. Apparently satisfied by her chastened demeanour he turned his attention to the horses. From her vantage point she watched as he unsaddled and rubbed them down, noting with reluctant approval the sure methodical way in which he performed each task. Having done what was necessary he fed them some grain and filled the hay racks. Only when the horses were settled and comfortable did he turn his attention back to his prisoner, surveying her with a cool speculative eye.

      ‘If I untie your hands will you give me your word not to try and escape again?’

      She nodded dumbly, too cold and tired to contemplate a further attempt now. He knelt beside her, his strong fingers working the knots until they slackened. Then, blessedly, the rope loosened and she was free. Flexing her wrists she began to massage the aching flesh.

      ‘Where are we?’ she asked then.

      ‘Among friends. We’ll stay here tonight.’

      ‘But what of your men?’

      ‘We’ll catch up with them later. It’s almost dark now and the countryside is crawling with Norman mercenaries. It’s too dangerous to continue.’

      Ashlynn shivered, knowing it was true. Along with that realisation came the first stirrings of guilt that it was she who had put them in this position. As the possible consequences dawned she began to see the extent of her folly and the reason for his anger. It occurred to her that, had he wished to, he could have followed his earlier inclination and thrashed her soundly. She swallowed hard. Knowing his strength she was devoutly thankful that he had restrained the urge. The only thing he’d bruised was her pride.