Warriors

By Samantha Holt

Grab this bargain boxset while you can. Filled with four full-length medieval stories spanning from Elizabethan England, the wilds of the Scottish Highlands to the mountains of Wales. 

Includes Knight's Captive, To Dream of a Highlander, To Avenge Her Highland Warrior and The Warrior's Reward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fever Press
• Release date: Jun 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533769626

Samantha Holt

USA Today bestselling author Samantha Holt lives in a small village in England with her twin girls and a dachshund called Duke. She has been a full-time author since 2012, having gone through several careers including nurse and secretary. 

Book preview

Knight’s Captive

Samantha Holt

Copyright 2015 ©Samantha Holt

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

Torbay, England 1588

The acrid scent of gunpowder mingled with that of sweat and vomit. It was no worse than on his own ship, the Swallow, but the bitter tang of defeat hung about the air. After a long and tiresome battle, men on both sides were weary, hungry and demoralised. However, Henry’s men were revived by the capture of the Rosario. The Spanish, not so much.

Their loss etched their faces into deep grooves. The English had taken the ship without firing a shot. Drake had levelled a canon at the floundering galleon and they’d surrendered. Henry couldn’t imagine conceding so easily. A fight to the death seemed preferable to him.

He motioned to Will. Lieutenant, escort these men to the deck. We’ll begin unloading them. The Old Barn will be used to hold them whilst we make negotiations.

Aye, Captain.

Henry eyed the remaining Spanish men as they huddled in the gloom of the hull. The officers and the captain remained tall and proud but the rest were a sorry lot. Likely pushed to fight for a cause they didn’t understand, he concluded. Most would be illiterate, God-fearing people. He’d heard tell that the Spanish had believed their invasion of England and disposal of the heretic queen would be easy enough. He imagined many of these men lacked the ability to imagine anything other than victory.

And now he was in charge of their defeat.

While the other ships chased off the rest of the Spanish, Henry would see to it that these prisoners of war were kept secure until their return had been agreed.

He clasped his hands behind his back. He didn’t expect trouble from many of them and, if he kept them fed and warm, he doubted they’d even consider rising up against him, but he would not give them the chance to. He’d already proved himself in battle and this was his opportunity to regain his family’s honour for good. If he could bring in a decent sum for these men and conduct himself well, all thoughts of his uncle’s treachery would be forgotten.

Shuffling footsteps and the creak of wood accompanied the barked orders as the men were escorted up onto the deck. The commander, de Valdés, drew Henry’s attention as he tugged one of his lieutenants aside. He narrowed his gaze at the man and the young boy while they made a harried exchange in Spanish.

"No!" the boy exclaimed, wrenching himself away from the commander.

Henry strode over. Is there a problem? He tried to catch a glimpse of the boy but the shadows hid his features under a hat.

"No, Captain. But, por favour, you must show la clemencia to my—"

"Papa, no."

Turning his full attention to the boy, Henry shook his head. He reached out and snatched the hat from his head in one swift movement. A startled, feminine cry rang in his ears. A woman. She shied away, refusing to meet his gaze. When he thrust her hat back at her, she jerked and her father put a protective arm around her.

I will not harm you, Henry assured. I will not harm her, he repeated to de Valdés.

Henry skimmed his gaze over the woman and tried to ignore the pang of something uncomfortable jabbing him in the back of his mind. Something that said she was remarkably beautiful for a woman who had been living on a ship for so long and was wearing men’s clothing. Her shirt and breeches flattered a slender figure, but now that he was close, he didn’t know how he’d missed those breasts pressing against the linen under an open doublet. There was no way any other man would have mistaken her either so he had to assume the commander had brought his daughter on board willingly.

What sort of a man brought his daughter to war with him?

Her dark gaze finally connected with his. Framed by long lashes, the same inky black as her hair that was currently tied back by a strip of fabric, they seemed to reach down inside him and make his knees ready to buckle. He, who had faced down the invasion of England by the Spanish. He, who could not claim to have felt anything other than the thrill of impending victory as he stood on the deck of the Swallow. A mere woman threatened to bring him to his knees.

He cleared his throat. What to do with her? He couldn’t very well put her in with the other prisoners. Even with the protection of her father, he could not be sure she would be safe. Not to mention the thought of this wary-eyed woman in the dank confines of the barn surviving on whatever limited supplies they could give them made his stomach churn. Damnation.

What is your name?

Her eyes widened further. In the gloom, the whiteness around her dark pupils seemed pronounced. They created a vision of innocence against her dusky skin and raven hair. She gathered her hands together and he saw her body stiffen, as if she was readying herself to run. He felt a little as if he was trying to sneak up on a boar, and the instinct to pounce struck. However, he kept his hands clasped behind his back and tried to make himself appear small. Not really a possibility with his stature, but he could at least try.

"¿Qué es su nombre?" he tried again.

Her long throat worked. Antonia, she replied so quietly he had to lean in to hear her. My name is Antonia.

In spite of the volume, her husky voice washed over him. He made his decision there. He couldn’t let this woman rot in the old barn. He might regret this but... Sir, I shall be taking your daughter into custody and putting her under house arrest, he informed her father. She shall be under my protection.

The man nodded with satisfaction. Clearly he didn’t want her locked up with three hundred men either. However, Antonia gripped his arm. "Papa, no."

"I trust you are a man of honour? You shall protect my daughter, no?"

Henry nodded solemnly. Honour? Honour was what made him rise every morning. He lived, breathed and ate it. Without honour, a man was nothing and he knew too well what it was like to lose it. His uncle’s heresy had ensured that he had spent too long without it.

I swear it.

De Valdés murmured some words to his daughter—words he couldn’t catch—and urged her forward with a push. Tears shimmered in her dark gaze before she lowered her lashes. Henry motioned for her to go ahead of him but she remained frozen. He went to place a hand to her back, and she flinched.

Damn, the woman was terrified. He shook his head. No wonder. She had no place in the middle of war.

Antonia, you shall be safe, he said softly.

She barely lifted her gaze to meet his before nodding and shuffling forward. He followed her up and tried not to watch her movements. How he hadn’t realised she was a woman sooner, he knew not. She moved with delicate grace, her hips swaying slightly as though used to wearing wide gowns. Though slender, there would be no mistaking her for a boy. He could only blame his preoccupation with ensuring the movement of their prisoners ran smoothly.

A breeze blew over him as they came up onto the deck. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he paused to peer down the stairs. As he did so, a bang ricocheted through the air. His ears rang with the echo. He gripped the railing and a jolt seemed to ripple through the ship. Beneath him, the vessel rose up and then sagged. His prisoner stumbled and fell back into him. If he hadn’t been holding onto the ship, they both would have tumbled down the steps.

Damnation. He’d recognised the sound all too well. A gunpowder blast. And it sounded as though it had come from deep in the hull. Somehow, someone had lit some gunpowder. Perhaps they were trying to prevent the galleon from being captured.

He gripped Antonia’s arm and dragged her to the edge of the ship. He peered over the side but saw no damage or water rushing in. That didn’t mean there wasn’t any. A blast like that must have done some damage and the Rosario had already been crippled by an earlier collision.

He motioned to one of the men. Get down there and check the damage. And get the rest of the prisoners off now!

Before the man could scurry off, Will hastened to his side. Water coming in, Captain. She’s floundering. We don’t have long.

Antonia wriggled against his hold so he tightened his grip. He scraped a hand through his hair. Thank the Lord they had already unloaded the majority of the prisoners. Now he only had the small amount of crew and the remaining Spanish captives to worry about. Of course, they were the most valuable and most likely to be ransomed. He could forget about restoring his honour if he let them die.

Get the prisoners on deck quickly. We need to load them onto the boats now. And cut the tow rope. I’ll not have her take our ship down with her.

They were off the coast of Plymouth, but it was deep enough to ensure their ship went down with it. A group of important prisoners lost and a ship sinking would be a fine way to ensure he never stepped foot in court again.

The woman pulled at him again and he cursed. He motioned to the men loading the boat. Take her.

She shook her head vigorously and ripped from him. He lunged for her but missed. The ship gave a sudden lurch, sending her sprawling sideways. Henry positioned himself with his feet spread wide to counteract the tilt. When he reached for her, wood groaned and his stomach curdled.

He understood that sound. There was no time. A tingle raced through him. His heart beat a tattoo in his chest.

The ship seemed to come apart beneath his feet. It propelled him forward and he snatched whatever part of Antonia he could grab to haul her close. His fingers met a bunch of fabric, and he yanked her to him and drew her to her feet. She tried to get away again but he was prepared this time and wrapped his arms about her.

We need to get off.

She shook her head. My father!

Smoke was beginning to rise out of the hull. Men poured onto the deck, but he couldn’t see her father. His men frantically ushered them over the side of the ship to the waiting boats. He stepped around the steadily growing cracks in the wood and grimaced as the mast swayed and creaked. The ship didn’t have long.

He shoved Antonia into Will’s arms. Ensure she gets into a boat. He turned his attention to the dark-eyed woman. I’ll get your father.

She nodded, her lips pulled into a tight line of fear. Henry turned away before he could regret his decision. Will would see her to safety. The gut-sickening sound of men’s cries sliced through him, like a baby’s wail calling to its mother. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard sounds like that, and yet it still made him stiffen and determination burned in his belly. He’d been tasked with capturing these Spanish and he’d damn well do it. None would burn or drown on his watch.

Henry raced down the stairs and covered his mouth with his arm. Smoke made his eyes water. Ghostly creaks rattled through the ship. She was taking on water though it hadn’t reached the deck below. He could hear the sea swallowing her, drawing her down to her doom. But the fire hadn’t been doused. Heat touched his skin and he suspected that not far beneath him could be a raging inferno.

Several men pushed past him—his own men. He peered into the gloom and stalked past the canons. The ship gave another shuddering moan and tilted aft. He gripped some rope hanging from the roof and forged forward.

De Valdés! he called, almost choking on a lungful of acrid smoke. When he neared the galley, he paused. Over the sound of the foundering ship, a cry for help reached his ears. He pivoted and raced to the fore, narrowly avoiding tripping over loose shot and ropes. There, near the front, was Antonia’s father—pinned by a strut of wood that must have fallen from the roof.

When he peered closer, he noted de Valdés wasn’t the only one caught. A young officer had also become trapped. Henry grimaced. He didn’t look alive.

Henry wasted no time in gripping the plank at one end and dragging it from the commander, wincing from the effort. His muscles pulled in protest, his lungs burned with exertion and smoke inhalation. He cast it aside and did a cursory inspection of the lad. Dead, for certain.

Can you walk? he called to the older man.

He nodded, dragged himself to his feet and propped himself against the rear wall. Even in the gloom, pain dug deep grooves in his features. Henry suspected a broken leg. God’s teeth, they didn’t have time for this. He snatched the man’s arm, flung it over his shoulder and they made their way all too slowly to the stairs.

A moan rumbled through the ship. She tilted farther, heeding their progress yet more. He practically dragged the commander up the steps and they both took a moment to swallow gulps of fresh air. Henry surveyed the deck and saw most had abandoned ship.

Except... damn her. He passed her father over to Will. A broken leg, he shouted. You’ll have to lower him down. As soon as he’s in, abandon ship.

Antonia was already hurrying to his side from the quarter deck but before she reached them, a crack splintered the air. Henry’s skin prickled. He glanced up and saw the middle mast sway. The ship was now at an angle—slightly back, slightly to one side. The mast began to tilt that way too and as it went, it ripped the quarter deck with it, sending Antonia sprawling. He half-expected her to be swallowed into the bowels of the ship before he stormed up the stairs to her side, but he reached her before the mast fell.

As the deck splintered into what seemed like a hundred pieces, he snatched his arms around her and dragged her onto the main deck. The ship spit up shards of wood around them. She wasn’t going down without a fight, but she seemed determined to take them with her. Henry glanced back to see Will and de Valdés were gone. He tightened his grip on Antonia and wrapped a hand around the railing. They’d be lucky to make it to the longboats waiting in the water. We need to jump.

No. My father.

He’s safe. Henry had no way of knowing that, but he wouldn’t have this woman on the ship any longer. Can you swim?

She nodded.

He helped her up onto the railing. Her body trembled beneath his palms. Jump now. His world tilted further. Jump!

She flew over the edge, her hair streaming out behind her. He couldn’t hear the splash as he tore off his doublet and undid his belt. He flung both aside, regretting that he’d lose his blade. That had been a fine blade. Clambering onto the side, he took a breath and dove.

Chapter Two

¡Dios mío! Antonia surfaced and drew in a gulp of air. The water bit at her skin. Salt burned on her tongue. Why did English water have to be so cold? She shoved her hair from her face and kicked her feet but her boots hindered her. She bobbed under and had to kick out to surface again. She peered up at the ship. The end was now almost submersed and she appeared to be splitting in two. It was like a great beast with jagged teeth, looming over her and threatening to swallow her.

She forced her cold legs to move. Where was the Englishman? She tried to swim away from the wreck but an invisible pull kept drawing her back. Fear began to pound through her, making her forget the cold touch of seawater but stifling her breathing and making it harder to work against the lure of the ship. She was going to be pulled under with it, she just knew it.

At that moment, she regretted her decision to come with her father. Even after their ship had collided with another and had become captured, she hadn’t. She was at her father’s side and that’s all that mattered. She was no longer in Spain where memories of Lorenzo could haunt her. However, she’d never envisioned a watery grave.

But, no. She would not give in. She had survived her brute of a husband, she would survive this. Antonia would not die in these cold English waters. Using what little strength she had, she fought and kicked against those invisible hands curling around her legs and body, beckoning her to her doom. They drew her under again and again while the groans of a dying ship rattled her ears.

She spluttered and surfaced only to be dragged under again. But this time firm, solid hands gripped her and hauled her away from her doom. She could hardly tell where was up and where was down now, but she trusted those strong hands to draw her in the right direction. As the pull of the ship lessened, she used her free arm to swim and keep her afloat while she twisted to view her rescuer.

The Englishman. Of course. The man in charge of her capture. He wouldn’t let a prisoner get away so easily. She had known that as soon as she’d set eyes on him. He had a determined lift to his chin and blue eyes that held such assurance she suspected men would follow him to hell to defeat the devil if he assured them victory.

He twisted them to watch the leviathan drop into the sea with a gulp and a swirl of water. She’d expected it to go slowly but with the prow of the ship jutting out, it went suddenly in a great rush. Where once a fine Spanish Galleon had been now sat driftwood, ropes and torn fragments of sail. If she’d had the energy to weep, she would have done.

Are you harmed? he asked her, his arm wrapped firmly around her.

She felt his strong legs kicking to keep them afloat and realised she had given up swimming long ago, her energy sapped by cold and shock. This man was keeping her alive.

No, I am unharmed.

He pushed his dark hair from his face. It had come free from the strip of leather that had tied it back. She let herself grip his shoulders, even as her pride demanded she did not. Pride was a fine thing but she had to stay alive to see her father again.

The man—she wished she knew his name but her father had kept her in ignorance while he made his negotiations with him—peered around, first at the coastline and then at the longboats.

We cannot swim that distance, but they will send a boat back.

She eyed the collection of boats that had begun rowing to the shoreline. A deep shudder wracked her already shaking body. They are leaving us!

No. He held her close. They had to move away in case the ship exploded or created a wave and dragged them under.

He eased her away and panic burst in her chest. He was abandoning her to drown! She gripped his arm.

Do not fear. Trust me.

Foolishly, she did. That same determined expression had also told her of his honour. Here was a man who would dive into the bowels of a sinking ship to save his prisoners. But had she not learned not to trust men?

He hooked his arm around her waist and began dragging her back toward the wreckage. Antonia attempted to aid him but her arms were numb and useless. He did most of the work until they reached a plank of wood large enough to support them both. He looped her arms over it and moved behind her to press his body into her back, thus anchoring her to the flotsam. For the first time since their capture by the English, a sense of safety blossomed through her chest.

Foolish indeed.

Antonia rested her head on her arm. Are they returning?

They will.

Perhaps they hadn’t realised there were survivors. Perhaps she would die here this day, wrapped in the arms of an Englishman.

What is your name?

Henry Bainbridge. His voice brushed her cheek and his breaths puffed over her cold skin.

He had to be as cold and as exhausted as she yet she felt no tremor in his body, only tense strength as he kept her secure on the wood.

Henry. It suited him. The name of England’s last king. She could see why his parents had named him so. Commanding, assured, powerful. The name conjured up images of this sort of a man.

Are they coming yet?

Aye, soon.

Soon didn’t seem quick enough. Her legs no longer felt like they existed. Her teeth chattered. She longed to close her eyes.

Why were you on the ship?

She drew open her eyelids, not realising she’d even shut them. My father... Antonia tried to control the tremor in her voice. My father took me with him.

Aye, but why bring a woman on board?

I am not the only one.

There were more women on the Rosario?

"No. On the other ships. They thought the invasion would be easy. Men wanted to bring their wives and fiancées when they landed. I wanted to be with my father."

What foolishness it was. The Armada’s ships could not outrace or keep up with the English ships. Their victory should have been easily secured—after all Spain had the best naval force in the world—but they had not counted on inclement weather, the inability to make port and the pure wiliness of the English.

They are all dressed as men too?

She almost smiled at that. Her father had wanted her to remain in women’s clothes after their capture in the hopes that they might treat her better but she didn’t wish to leave his side. She had hoped to pass for a young boy but it seemed Henry had seen through it.

Only me, she murmured. The boats...?

On their way.

She had no way of seeing if what he said was true. Her head could not seem to lift from its resting position upon her arm.

How old are you?

Antonia scowled. Why would he not cease asking her questions? She felt as though she were under interrogation. Perhaps she was. Mayhap it would benefit him in some way to know more of his prisoner.

How old are you? she bit back but the shaky quality of her voice stole any fire from it.

Seven and twenty. He shifted so that his body pressed more firmly into hers. Warmth flowed through her, almost counteracting the icy coldness that currently ebbed around her. Antonia? How old are you?

Two and twenty, she offered.

Have you any brothers and sisters?

No.

A husband?

She tried not to stiffen—if stiffening was a possibility. Her body already felt frozen as though encased in ice and yet as cold as the English water was, it was not like that of the Atlantic. She had heard tales of how cold it could be and how it could freeze you to death in moments. Was she dying? Did that explain the muddied sensation in her head? Why, then did he insist on talking? Could she not die in peace?

No husband.

Do you have any— He paused and he lifted a hand. Over here! His shout made her jolt at the same time as relief coursed through her.

They’re coming?

Yes, he said, that same relief clear in his voice. They’re coming.

Antonia couldn’t be sure how long it took for the boat to reach them. Henry continued to talk, drawing answers from her—all of mundane things—her home, her town, how many cats she had. When he moved away from her, a flutter of panic made her heart beat like butterfly wings.

Henry! She gripped his shirt sleeve to keep him from leaving her.

Do not fear. I’m here. We must get you into the boat.

Boneless and at his will, she allowed herself to be manoeuvred off the wood and to the side of the boat. With the help of several men, they drew her into the vessel. She sagged against the hull and closed her eyes. But firm hands began to move her again, this way and that until she was resting against something warm. She dragged open her eyes and realised it was Henry’s chest. His shirt was soaked through. How was it his skin remained warm? He had a lot more on him than her, she supposed. She was fairly thin and reedy whereas he...well, there was muscle covering every part of him.

A blanket, he demanded. None were forthcoming so he jabbed a finger at one of the rowers. You, your mantle.

The man handed over his cloak and Henry ensconced her in the warm wool. Then he took her fingers between his hands and began rubbing. She tilted her head to view him, her cheek pressed against his chest. Dark damp hair covered all of his jaw and his hair hung almost curly around his face, brushing the tops of his shoulders.

Had she been, say, eighteen summers and had never experienced the true brutality of men, she might have sighed at his handsomeness. A strong, slightly long nose, wide jaw and a set of lines between his brows that made him appear serious and in charge made him appealing indeed. This was the sort of face that made women want to smooth out those lines and see if they could make him smile.

Henry’s gaze locked onto hers and her heart stuttered. She shouldn’t be thinking of her captor as handsome. She should be worrying about what he intended for her. After all, she was in enemy territory, in enemy hands. He could do with her as he wished.

Antonia wanted to close her eyes to him. The heaviness of her lids begged her to, yet she could not drag her gaze away. Instead, she remained staring up at him through a haze of fatigue while he rubbed the life back into her hands and cradled her against his chest. She barely noticed as they came into port.

When the boat was pulled up against a long narrow jetty, she dragged her attention away from him. Spanish men were huddled together while Englishmen directed them up the green hills. She assumed they were taking them to this old barn that Henry had mentioned. Antonia skimmed her gaze over the men and spotted several of the officers. But where was her father?

My father, she murmured to Henry as he shifted.

He is safe. His words were firm but when she glanced at him, she saw doubt in his eyes.

Where is he?

He was injured. Henry pushed from behind her and stood to offer her his hand. He is likely being seen to. Can you walk?

She nodded though she wasn’t certain. Thrusting her hand into his, she forced herself to stand and her knees juddered beneath her. She felt as though she was standing on the slowly crumbling deck of the Rosario again, searching for her father. Still, she could not let him see her weakness. She knew not if this man was indeed as honourable as her father had hoped.

The hammering of her heart slowed when she set foot on the jetty. And when he escorted her to the beach and sand crunched underfoot, her breathing had almost returned to normal. It might be English sand, but it was sand nonetheless and far preferable to water at present. Henry adjusted the mantle around her and skimmed his gaze over her form.

We must get you warm, he muttered though it seemed to be more to himself than her. He motioned to one of the Englishmen standing guard on the jetty. Are there horses available?

Yes, sir.

Bring two. With haste.

Antonia took a moment to observe the coastline of Plymouth. She’d only seen it from afar during the battle. Up close, the rolling hills and great slabs of rock were more impressive than they’d appeared. They had green hills in Spain but none quite like this. Several muddy paths etched their way like snakes up the side of it and she spotted a collection of white cottages not far from the edge of the hills. Farmsteads most likely.

The horses were brought over. Can you ride?

She nodded as her attention was drawn back to Henry. His shirt was beginning to dry but it clung to his body and she spotted dark hair curling under the loose laces of it. Her mouth was suddenly drier than the sand under her feet. He wore his boots still, which were probably as soaked as hers. The long leather length of them drew her attention to—

¡Dios mío! What was wrong with her? He was her captor, an Englishman. She had nearly drowned and now she was a prisoner. She should not even be considering what he might look like underneath those breeches.

Where are we going? she asked huskily.

My house. He motioned for her to climb onto the pale rouncey.

She stilled. "No. My father. I must see my father."

You will, he assured her.

"No, no, no. Antonia spun away but a firm hand latched around her wrist, preventing her from trying to search amongst the prisoners. He tugged and she lost her balance. Sprawled across his chest, she tried to push away but he held her firm. Take me to him!"

But her words lost any impact as her knees began to buckle. He tightened his grip around her. Darkness began to colour the edges of her vision.

You’ll not be going anywhere today, he said gruffly, aside from bed.

She felt herself being lifted and heard Henry issuing orders to someone but his voice sounded distant. And this odd idea kept fluttering through her mind, even though it made no sense to latch onto it. Was he taking her to his bed?

Chapter Three

The cold, limp woman in his arms made Henry’s heart throb a sickening beat. He’d been trying to keep her awake and now she had fallen into a swoon. He only hoped sickness had not taken hold. Not only had he lost a fine ship but he’d seen no sign of the commander and now he might lose his daughter too.

He urged the horse into a quick pace as they reached the top of the hill that overlooked the sea. He peered back only briefly to eye the spot where the ship had gone down. A few planks of wood still lingered on the ocean surface. He shook his head. Antonia had been close to drowning but he’d stopped her from going under. He’d be damned if she died now.

Which meant he wouldn’t tell her about her father until he was sure she was well and able to take the news. If he had been forced to jump with a broken leg, he thought it unlikely the man had survived and there had been no sign of Will on the jetty.

He followed the dirt road past the farm and toward the village. Even from here, his manor house overshadowed the small cottages that made up the bulk of the village. Built by his grandfather, the stone building was modest by all accounts but large enough to ensure no one doubted that the man who owned it had complete control of his lands.

His lands. It had been two years since his father’s death and yet he could not get used to being the owner of all of this.

By the time he had brought the horse across the bridge that spanned the small moat, several servants awaited his arrival. No doubt news of the capture of the Rosario had already reached them but whether they knew of its loss, he knew not. He motioned to the stable hand who aided him with Antonia. Thankfully the woman weighed less than a sack of feathers so the young lad had no troubles handling her, though uncertainty was written on his face. Henry bit back a laugh. It was probably the first time the whelp had ever held a woman.

Henry dismounted and took her from the boy. Take the horse down to the dock. They’ll have need of it, he ordered. The ship sank, he explained to the waiting servants. This is Antonia. She will be under house arrest until negotiations are made. He motioned to the housekeeper, a widow by the name of Kate who followed him into the front room. Have someone fetch the physician. She was in the water for some time. Then we need clean clothes and a warm bath.

What about you, sir?

I’ll change in but a moment. He pressed past the dining table and carried Antonia into the hallway. Is there clean bedding in the rear bedroom?

Aye, sir. He started up the stairs with Kate on his heels. Will you be wanting some hot food?

He considered this. He’d only been aboard the ship for a matter of weeks but Antonia would have been on the Rosario for much longer. Was she normally so slender or was that the product of rationing and illness?

Aye, something warm for when she awakes. If she awoke. He prayed she did. When Henry glanced down at those inky lashes against skin that had been much duskier before her spill into the water, the thought of her passing away in his house made bile rise in his throat. He could not let that happen.

The rear chamber was the smallest but also the one closest to his room. From what he had witnessed, the woman was wilful. He wasn’t sure he could trust her if—when—she regained her strength. He’d be better off putting himself between her and any escape.

Henry laid her down on the bed, struck by how fragile she appeared against the rich carved wood. He flexed his hands. His body remembered holding her—he suspected it would keep remembering. Only Kate’s presence prevented him from doing something foolish and dishonourable like touching her cheek or brushing her hair from her face.

He looked to the housekeeper. See that she is made warm and dry.

Spinning on a heel, he strode out of the room, across the hall and into his chamber. He moved purposefully, drawing clean clothes from the coffer at the end of his bed and stripping down. Cool air brushed his skin and he shuddered. Death had been far from his mind today. He’d been too focused on victory. But Antonia...

When they’d been in the water, awaiting the boats he feared would never turn back and find them, she’d been steps away from it, he suspected. Malnutrition and exhaustion had made the effects of the cold water ten times worse than what he suffered. His attempts to keep her talking and awake had worked—at the time. He only hoped she did not succumb now. If her father was alive, he’d be far less cooperative after his daughter’s death.

Henry grimaced and reached for a linen cloth to rub his body vigorously. Warmth seeped back into his muscles and fatigue began to slip away. Not one, but two people’s lives to worry about and around three hundred men now locked away in the old barn. The local militia and those under his command hardly seemed enough to handle that amount of prisoners.

Slipping on dry clothes, he eyed his soggy boots and rooted out some dry ones. He shoved a hand through his hair and tied it back. Then he bundled up his water-logged garments and marched out into the hallway to snag a serving girl. Get these washed and dried, he ordered. And send Mr Fredericks up. I need him to go to Torre Abbey.

The girl dipped and took the bundle from him before hastening away. He stepped into the hallway and eyed the closed door to Antonia’s chamber. He paused to listen for any indication that she was awake and alert.

Nothing.

It was purely his sense of duty making his stomach bunch. It had to be. After all, he hardly knew the woman. Though he wasn’t heartless. He had no wish to see a young woman die. Women had no place in war and what her father was thinking bringing her with him, he knew not.

Brushing aside thoughts of storming into her room and finding out what was happening, he took the small flight of stairs up to his office. Nearly a month at sea had put him behind in his duties, no doubt. The tenant farmers would have many problems awaiting him and his business dealings had been put on hold as soon as news of the Armada reached Torquay.

He eyed the stack of missives on the wooden desk and blew out a breath. Henry noted the jug of wine and platter of bread and cheese awaiting him. A smile teased his lips. His staff knew him too well. They’d guessed he would be straight back to work.

By the time he’d settled at the desk and taken a moment to cast his gaze about the room, Fredericks, the estate manager arrived.

Well done on your fine victory, sir, the grey-haired man said formally as he ducked through the low doorway.

We do not have victory yet. Still need to chase off the rest of the Armada, he explained. But I’m confident the navy can do so.

Fredericks nodded solemnly. And your part is done?

Aye. The local militia are to ensure the prisoners remain just that—prisoners—while I make negotiations for their return to Spain. We have over three hundred souls to watch over.

The man’s thick grey brows rose. Our men number at only one and fifty. How are we to ensure they do not escape?

The commander is an honourable man I believe. However, he was lost when the ship went down. I have hopes that he survived but had no chance to find out as much.

And the woman?

His daughter. It is essential she is looked after properly. And essential she does not leave this house. I trust not this woman. She was prepared to die rather than leave her father. If she survived her ordeal. Henry tilted the ink pot on his desk and eyed it with dissatisfaction. Has the physician been sent for?

Aye, Kate sent Bram.

Let us pray she survives long enough to see him, he muttered to himself.  When Bram returns, send him down to the barn to see if there is word of the commander and my lieutenant, and inform them I’ll be there shortly to oversee the capture. As soon as I have sent word to London of our success here, I’ll ride down myself.

Very well, sir. May I suggest you eat and drink first?

Henry tried not to give Fredericks a steely glare. He was no babe, he didn’t need mothering. The man had been trying to look after him ever since his father had passed.

I have little intention of starving. The man lingered so with an inward groan, Henry poured himself a goblet of claret and tore off a piece of bread to stuff it in his mouth. Around the mouthful he said, Send someone up with some ink, will you?

Fredericks gave him a slow nod—one that had him feeling like the man was humouring him in some way as though he was a young lad playing at being a grown man. He swallowed down the bread and shook his head. Was his life not already complicated enough? Not only was he trying to fill his father’s boots but now he had this odd Spanish woman to deal with.

Chapter Four

Darkness. Antonia gripped the bed sheets around her, feeling that familiar panic rise in her chest. She closed her eyes and opened them again but the darkness remained. Why was it dark? She never slept without several candles burning. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths and stare into the darkness.

Nothing to fear, she told herself. Nothing to...The darkness lessened as her eyes adjusted. Where was she? ¡Dios mío! Her breaths grew thick and heavy again, her body rigid. What had happened? The ship, her father... Si, she remembered that but after...

The man—Henry. He had taken her in his arms. This had to be his house. She was now under house arrest.

A prisoner.

Antonia gulped and tried to draw in air but her throat felt as though it was closing over. Did it have to be so dark? She needed to find a candle and light it, but her body refused to move. If she put out her hands, she’d be able to reassure herself that she wasn’t shut away in a box again, but the room was so small. She peered up at the bed and the thick wood seemed like that of a coffin lid to her. Her pulse pounded so loudly it was on the verge of deafening.

First, she concentrated on her stiff hands. She unfurled them from the bedding and tried not to sob with fear. The ache in her chest grew more intense. Over the thud of her heart, she was sure she could hear footsteps and the creak of floorboards. He was coming for her.

Except he wasn’t. Lorenzo was dead. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. Not that the knowledge mattered to her galloping heart. Reason played no part in her imaginings at night.

With her fingers moving again, she forced her mind to think of her legs. They were achy and weary. Her skin was still cold. Funny how nearly drowning didn’t create nearly as much fear as being trapped in a small, dark room. She drew in a shuddery breath and gave her legs a twitch. There, see, she could move. She kicked again. Lots of room to move. Nothing to fear.

Antonia sat up in one swift motion. Her head spun a little and she took in the gloomy room. Thick curtains were drawn across the one window and at the end of the room appeared to be a large storage chest. A sob bubbled out of her. It was no good, she couldn’t stay here.

Jumping from the bed, she nearly tripped as the blankets tangled around her legs. They were trying to draw her back in, trap her. She wasn’t sure if she thought they were the ocean trying to pull her to her doom or Lorenzo dragging her home to lock her away. Either way, she screamed and kicked at them until she was free.

She hauled the door open and spilled out into a hallway. A sliver of light danced across the floorboards and highlighted the tapestries on the walls. Figures and creatures seemed to jump out at her from them. She put a hand to her chest and spun when a creak sounded at one end of the hall.

Another creak. She whirled the other way and screamed when hands curled around her arm and thrust her back.

"No!" she screamed. Don’t make me go back there... She tried to tear from him, blind terror whirling through her veins. She couldn’t be locked away again, she couldn’t...

Antonia! he barked at her.

She stiffened. He was going to beat her, was he not? Beat her and lock her in the box so she could concentrate on the pain and learn from it.

Antonia, came his voice again, but softer this time and different.

Going still, she dragged her gaze up from the wide chest that filled her vision. Slowly, the fear clouding her vision dissipated. It was not her husband.

Henry. It was Henry. A wild sob escaped from her throat and she sagged. Any energy she’d had left deserted her.

Why are you screaming? He kept her propped up by the hold on her arms.

What could she say? That she had thought her husband had risen from the dead? She stared at him numbly, her voice trapped in her raw throat.

He twisted her around and drew open the curtains with one hand to view her. She wasn’t sure what he could see. Tear-stained cheeks, mussed hair...a wretch probably. His gaze narrowed.

Were you trying to get away?

She shook her head.

That other hand came back to her arm and squeezed a little. Tell me the truth.

She shook her head again. Any relief she had felt began to fade and her heart picked up speed once more. Would he harm her for being out of her room? She wriggled but Henry’s hands might have been made from iron. He glanced down at her, his brow furrowing, and eased his grip. His gaze skimmed her from head to toe, lingering on her bare feet then her breasts. She fought the urge to cover herself.

You had better return to your room, he said in a low, low voice that reached down inside her, skimmed past all the fear and tension and did something odd to her stomach.

"No," she whispered. Antonia couldn’t go back in there. Not in the dark, not with the box at the end of the bed. She would rather be on that sinking ship again or in the freezing water.

Antonia...

The warning tone to his voice made her shiver. He took her arm and began leading her back.

"No!" she protested. "No, no, no. Not in there. Por favor."

She thrashed against his hold, trying to pull back. If only she wasn’t so weak. Her legs felt as though she was on the deck of a ship again, wavering back and forth. A hot tear spilled down her cheek.

Henry released her and eyed her with a sigh. In English, he demanded. What is wrong?

She drew in a sniffly breath and rubbed her arm. He glanced at where she chafed her hand over her arm and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Well?

Do not... She heaved in a breath. "Do not make me going in there, por favour. I beg of you."

Your chamber?

"Si."

You cannot stay out here. He reached for her. Return to your room.

She backed away and a cry escaped her when he reached for her. Antonia flinched and closed her eyes, waiting for the hand to strike her. "No!" she begged.

Hell’s teeth. Henry took her arm and hauled her into another room. The door slammed shut with a clunk, rattling the walls.

Antonia found herself stumbling back against a bed—his bed presumably. Her calves hit the mattress and she toppled backward onto the mattress. Her chemise tangled around her thighs and she stared up at the fierce knight.

Cease your noise, he commanded, or you’ll wake the whole house.

Antonia trembled from head to toe. He had several candles lit here and she saw his features fully. His severe brow remained dipped in annoyance. That dark hair was pulled back again, revealing his strong jaw covered in thick hair. She hadn’t noticed his full lips before. They were in a tight line but that didn’t stop them from being attractive. Even through her fear, somehow she realised he was desperately handsome.

Foolish woman. An attractive face didn’t make him anything less than her captor and who knew how dangerous he was.

His expression grew more severe as he cast his gaze over the length of her. She wished she could reach down and tug the cotton over her bare legs but her limbs refused to cooperate. Antonia tensed when he stepped closer. Henry thrust a hand out and she scrabbled back against the wooden headboard. He withdrew his hand and rubbed his chin, contemplating her.

Are you ailing?

Antonia tried to answer. She attempted to shake her head. What did he want with her? Why had he taken her into his bedroom? Would he—

Antonia?

I am not ailing, she said huskily. Forgive me, I intended not to scream. I shall be silent, I promise. She bowed her head. Do not—

I didn’t mean to frighten you. He cast his gaze around and stomped over to the coffer at one side of the room. He snatched up a pewter jug and poured some wine before thrusting it toward her.

Antonia stared at the goblet. Then at him.

You must be thirsty. He lifted a shoulder in a sort of apologetic shrug.

Hesitantly, she reached for the goblet and curled her fingers around it. She took a sip under his watchful gaze and felt the claret slip down her throat and warm her blood. Her pulse began to slow. Perhaps he wouldn’t harm her after all.

Are you hungry?

"No." She should be. They’d been rationing their food on the Rosario and she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten but her stomach felt bunched and the idea of trying to eat made her nauseated. Instead, she took another sip of the wine and eyed him.

Henry rocked back on his heels and stared back. Unsure what he expected of her, she drained the wine and thrust it back at him. He took it and placed it down on the side. The slight clunk of metal on wood made her jolt. The memory of darkness and confined spaces still lingered in her mind, and it seemed only the slightest provocation made her heart leap. She tangled her fingers into her chemise and tugged it down over her bare legs. She thought she had been on her way to conquering this fear. All she needed was a few candles and she was fine. But this night had proved her wrong.

You do not like your chamber, he stated.

How could she explain? From what little she had seen, it was well furnished and likely decorated much like his room was with tapestries and painted gold flowers on the walls. Antonia gave a shudder and tried not to recall the darkness closing in around her.

You’re cold. 

Before she could protest, he dragged up the blankets and tucked them awkwardly around her. His hands brushed her thighs, and her skin pricked. The scent of castill soap washed over her and she had to force herself not to inhale deeply. He must have bathed after bringing her back here. 

When he straightened, she couldn’t help but meet his gaze. She drew in a sharp breath at the darkness in his gaze. It should have been intimidating—frightening even. But something about his uncertain movements softened her to him.

He stroked his beard and considered her. I’ll get some food, he said abruptly and stomped out of the room.

The candles flickered with the sudden movement, and Antonia stared at the spot where he’d been. The golden glow soothed her and the warmth of his blankets began to loosen her limbs. She shifted back to rest her head against the headboard and eyed the red canopy above. This room was much bigger than the one she’d been in but if it was dark, she knew she’d be swallowed up by panic.

Antonia let her gaze trace the swirling golden flowers painted on the wall. How long would she be here? What would he do with her? She didn’t think anyone would pay a ransom for her. Only her father—and he was a captive too. However, the king would want her father and his men back so she would be sent back with them she assumed.

Henry ducked into the room, holding a platter of bread and what looked to be dried figs. She gulped. He seemed to take up all the air in the chamber. The walls closed in on her and not in the way they usually did. Now the grey haze of panic has vanished, she was able to study him properly. His loose shirt hung open a little at the neck and he wore chausses. He must have taken the time to slip them on. Thank the Lord. How would she have felt confronted by his bare thighs?

He placed the platter next to the wine jug, picked up a few figs and chunks of cheese and passed them over. Her fingertips brushed his, sending a tremor through her. And not one of horror. She swallowed hard and tried to murmur a gracias but no sound came.

Standing over her, he watched—no, waited—for her to eat. She cautiously plucked up a fig and nibbled on the end of it. The tangy sweetness eased the dryness in her throat and a slight pang of hunger struck her. He nodded with satisfaction as she popped the whole thing into her mouth.

M-must you stand over me so?

He blinked at her, unfolded his arms and scowled. He likely had no idea of the intimidating sight he made. Or mayhap he did. Mayhap he intended to ensure she was intimidated so she did not try to escape. At present, escape was far from her mind. She needed him to take her to her father and she would not be going anywhere at night—not when darkness was all around her.

Forgive me, he muttered, easing his large frame into an ornate wooden chair not far from the foot of the bed.

It struck her that he barely fit in it. A giddy bubble of a laugh threatened to escape her when she imagined him trying to stand and coming away with the chair still stuck to him. Santa Maria, she must be addled from shock if she could laugh while she was in this precarious position.

He remained silent while she finished off the food. She tried to keep her attention on the pewter plate in her hand rather than him, but she kept stealing glances at the brooding hulk in the corner. He put a finger to his lips and observed her. It made her chest constrict every time she met his gaze and she had to flick her own away. The man was so large and...intimidating. She should be intimidated. She was, was she not? Why then, did her gaze keep slipping to him?

Popping another chunk of cheese in her mouth, she eyed the room. Antonia looked to the ceiling to see painted roses there too. Then she let her gaze linger on the intricate carved wood of the bed. So dark in colour, it was almost black yet this did not feel like a coffin. Was it because she knew it was his bed? It seemed too small to hold him. Everything seemed too small for him. This room, even what she assumed had to be a grand house. She was no stranger to large men—her husband had been one of them—but not like this.

Do you... He shifted in the chair and she winced as it creaked. Do you feel better now?

She nodded and skimmed a finger over the empty plate. What to do now? Would he send her back to the room? Would he think her mad for her outburst? She gripped the metal until her knuckles hurt.

Do not be afeared, Antonia. I vowed to your father you would not be harmed.

And you always keep your word?

I do.

Henry said this so solemnly she had no choice but to believe him. Mayhap he meant her no harm, but what of the rest of his countrymen? What of the queen? And while a man might be honourable enough when his temper was calm, what of when he was angered? She had seen how Lorenzo could go from perfectly placid to violently angry in mere moments. Could she expect that from Henry?

Whatever the riddle of his character was, she would keep her guard up. It would not do to let herself be vulnerable.

You should go back to your room now.

The image of dark wood closing in around her, of those heavy drapes wrapping around her and threatening to strangle her acted like a noose around her neck. She shook her head. "No, por favor."

You cannot stay here.

She knew that. She didn’t wish to stay here—in the same room as her enemy. But to go back there...

Candles, she managed to squeak out. Mayhap if there was enough light, the strange room would not seem so daunting. She doubted she’d sleep but at least she wouldn’t be trapped in a nightmare.

You need candles?

"Si. Lots."

A dark brow lifted and he seemed to consider her words before nodding. He stood and snatched up several of the unlit candles from the various surfaces. Then he motioned for her to follow. She climbed out of his bed and wrapped her arms about her. Henry handed her a lit candle. Antonia couldn’t help but hide behind his wide shoulders as they stepped out into the hallway. The flickering candlelight only emphasised the dark shadows of the unknown house and she was all too aware that one puff or a single whistle of wind and the only light source would be snuffed out. Her hands shook.

Henry pushed open the door to her chamber and began placing the candles on various surfaces. Antonia saw now that there were two already on either side of the bed and two more on candelabrums on the other side of the room. Not enough, however. She needed every corner lit. It was hard enough to sleep in her own bedchamber but to sleep in one she’d never been in—one in which she was meant to be a prisoner—with any darkness was more than she could bear.

She eyed the shaking candle in her hands. Sometimes she loathed herself for this weakness.

Henry remained silent as he took the candle from her and lit all the others he had scattered around. She stared at his shoulders as the muscles of his back moved against the linen. Would she feel better or worse if he spoke more? His quiet understanding worked inside her and seemed to loosen the rope of tension around her throat. Or was he simply trying to do his best to ensure his prisoner did not cause any more problems?

Either way, she appreciated that he didn’t scold her or roll his eyes at her need for light.

A dangerous sensation indeed. She shouldn’t appreciate anything about her captor.

"Gracias."

Do not move them, he ordered. ’Tis dangerous to sleep with so many candles alight but they should be well enough where they are.