The Laird's Captive Wife by Joanna Fulford Read Free Book Online

once.
    ‘You could have left me to drown. Why didn’t you?’
    ‘Believe me, lass, I was tempted.’
    With that quelling reply the conversation died, for Ashlynn could think of nothing to say and her taciturn companion clearly had no wish to pursue it further. Instead he took his cloak from her and put it on. Then, resuming his grip on her arm, he led her towards a shaggy bay gelding that stood among the waiting horses.
    ‘Get on.’
    There was nothing for it but to obey. He watched her gather the reins and swing into the saddle. Then he mounted his own horse and drew it alongside. A few moments later the whole cavalcade set off.
    They rode in silence for some considerable time. The stranger made no attempt to break into her thoughts and in truth she had no inclination for speech either. In her mind she saw Heslingfield in flames and the bodies of the slain all around. Her jaw tightened. She would never see any of her loved ones again. There had not been a chance to bury them either or say a mass for their souls. They lay unshriven on the cold earth for the crows and the foxes to pick the flesh from their bones, or else their ashes lay in the blackened ruins of the hall. They were memories too bitter for tears. Once she had imagined that an arranged marriage was the worst fate possible. How naïve she had been to think so.
    * * *
    It wasn’t until noon that the cavalcade stopped to rest. The landscape had changed as they progressed, wood and pasture giving place to rolling hills and open heath strewn with boulders and dead bracken. A few scrubby trees leaned to the prevailing wind and, hard by, a brook tumbled over a rocky bed. The riders turned off the road and dismounted. Ashlynn watched the stranger step down.
    ‘We’ll stop here awhile,’ he said. ‘The horses need a rest and the men too.’
    Glancing around she realised with a start that there were perhaps fifty of them all told, mostly long-haired and bearded and variously dressed in stout leather tunics and cloaked like their leader, and every one of them fully armed. Remembering that they had defeated the Norman mercenaries she shivered a little. Unaware of her regard the men opened saddlebags and drew out bread and cheese and pieces of dried meat. It was then she remembered that she had eaten nothing since the previous morning and precious little then. The stranger threw her a shrewd glance.
    ‘Come.’
    He steered her to a boulder nearby that was a convenient height to sit on. Then he opened his own saddlebag and drew out the food inside. When he offered her a piece of bread she took it and fell to devouring it at once. Observing this he passed over a chunk of cheese as well before falling to himself. The solid fare was coarse and plain enough but it lined the stomach and took the edge off the clawing pains she had felt before. They ate in silence and only when they had finished did he bend his gaze on her again.
    ‘Tell me, how did you fall foul of the Normans, lass?’
    She looked away. It was a painful subject and she had no wish to discuss it. He made no attempt to push her. Instead he let the silence draw out and waited, though the quiet gaze never left her. Ashlynn forced herself to meet it and drew in a deep breath. He had saved her life after all so she supposed he was owed an explanation.
    ‘They burned my home and slew my family. I was the only survivor.’
    ‘How came you to escape?’
    ‘I wasn’t there. I’d gone out for a ride and when I returned…when I returned the rest were dead.’
    ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘Where was your home?’
    ‘At Heslingfield.’
    ‘Heslingfield!’
    ‘You know it?’
    Recalling only too vividly what he had seen there, he could understand her earlier reticence. He would not revisit the nightmare now. ‘I know of it. Lord Cyneric was its thane, I think.’
    ‘Yes. He was my father.’
    ‘I never met him but his reputation went before him: a brave fighter by all accounts. He had two sons I heard