“What route could they have taken? There is only one in and out of Cornwall.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “If this man she is traveling with has decided to keep her for his own, there is no knowing which way they have gone.”
Clive wriggled his eyebrows in agreement. “True enough. Then what do we do, oh wise and lovely leader?”
He grinned at her and Charlotte blushed furiously. “Keep looking,” she said, hoping the soldiers hadn’t heard Clive’s open flirtation. Truthfully, it wasn’t hard to admit she liked it. “If we arrive in London and still no Ryan, then we shall consider our options.”
Clive continued to grin and wriggled his eyebrows at her in a blatantly leering fashion. Charlotte was about to respond, albeit good or bad she wasn’t sure yet, when the brush to their right suddenly crackled and gave way. The chargers startled and several swords were immediately drawn. Clive, his weapon defensively aimed, almost placed himself in front of Charlotte but thought better of it when he suspected she might take offense to his chivalrous action and stab him in the back with her own sword. But that did not prevent him from reining his charger beside her and preparing to take on the enemy.
To the side of the road, the dead winter brush shook again and this time a small moan came forth. The soldiers were a bit spooked at the sound of the grunt but held their ground; at any minute they fully expected to be ambushed by hundreds of bandits. But still, as they hovered and waited with blood in their eyes, the bush rattled again and a dark head suddenly popped up.
Charlotte was the first person to react. “Patrizia!” she hissed. Sliding from her charger, she raced to the woman’s side where she lay in a heap of dirt and blood. It was a horrifying sight, and Charlotte could feel the threat of panic in her veins. “My God, what happened to you?”
Patrizia’s head was caked with blood and grass. Her beautiful dark eyes lolled back in her head as she tried to maintain consciousness. “He… he hit me,” she whispered.
Clive was kneeling beside her, inspecting her head as Charlotte tried to comfort her. “Who is he? And where is Ryan?” Her head came up and she began to look around furious. “Christ, we must search for Ryan. Perhaps she is around here, too!”
Patrizia was having a difficult time speaking. Clive ran his fingers along her scalp, his jaw ticking furiously. “Her skull is fractured,” he whispered to Charlotte. “She will not live much longer. We must discover what has happened!”
Several soldiers were down from their horses, frantically searching the dead bushes for their liege’s wife. Charlotte’s sense of urgency was about to explode; she tried to be gentle with Patrizia, but it was difficult. “Tell me who has hit you. And where is Ryan?”
Patrizia could only open one eye; the other one seemed to have a mind of its own. “He took Ryan,” she murmured. “Hit me… when I wasn’t looking. He had to… kill me.”
“Who had to kill you?” Clive demanded softly. “Patrizia, you must make sense!”
Patrizia’s eyes closed. “My father,” she breathed. “He knew I was going to tell her.”
She still wasn’t making any sense. Charlotte resisted the urge to scream and shake her all at the same time. “Your father? I do not understand.”
Patrizia did not say anything for the longest while. Charlotte shook her gently, but it was of no use. A tremendous sense of doom settled, knowing that Patrizia was dying and now they would most likely never find Ryan. But Patrizia abruptly opened both eyes again and focused, quite clearly, on Charlotte. It was an eerie, startling gesture.
“My father is Miguel the Pirate,” she said with surprising clarity. “He pretended to be a traveling merchant so he could get close to Ryan. I do not know how he found us at the inn, but he did, and now he has Ryan.”
Charlotte felt as if she had been struck in the face and it was difficult for her to catch her breath. She looked at Clive as if searching for any sign that this was all a horrible sick joke, but his face was pale and taut. “Your father is Miguel the Pirate?” she murmured.
“Aye.”
“But…” Charlotte was at a loss for words. “Why did not you tell…?”
“Now is not the time, Charlotte,” Clive interjected quietly. “She must save her strength.”
“Save it for what?” Charlotte snapped at him. “I want to know why she never told us who her father was!”
“Does it matter? Truly, the only thing of importance now is finding Ryan, is it not?”
An instant sinister thought crossed Charlotte’s mind, and her blazing stare moved back to Patrizia. “You haven’t by chance had a hand in all of this, have you? The attack, and now this?”
Patrizia tried to shake her head. “No,” she whispered. “My father sold me off to pay his debts. I have not seen him in years.”
Charlotte could not explain why, but she believed her. The situation they had all feared had indeed come to pass and Charlotte’s first thought was how devastated Dennis would be by all of it. The man’s desire to enact a peace treaty had evolved into something so twisted, so hideous, that it would have been better if he had never tried. It was almost more than she could bear.
“Where is Miguel taking Ryan?” she finally asked.
Patrizia’s eyes dimmed. “I do not know. But he said something about bringing the hunted to the hunter with the proper bait.”
“But why did he harm you? I do not understand.”
Patrizia’s mouth was pasty and she licked her dry lips. Clive signaled sharply for water to be brought. “Because he knew I would tell her who he was, given the chance. He could not risk losing her, not when he wanted her so badly.”
“Why does he want Ryan so badly?” Charlotte pressed.
“To get to Dennis,” Clive answered, his voice cold as stone. When Charlotte looked at him, she saw nothing but fury in his eyes. “Understand what has happened, Charls. First, the earl has Miguel attack St. Austell. Now Miguel has somehow found Ryan and has tried to kill his own daughter in order to keep a very dark secret.”
“What secret is that?” Charlotte asked, though she suspected.
“That his intent is to destroy your brother,” Clive put a hand on Charlotte’s arm in a comforting gesture. “The earl has been trying to do just that since the inception of this alliance and longer. Now he has Miguel to help him.” He looked at Patrizia with a good deal of pity. “Look at what lengths he will go to achieve his end. He has tried to kill his own daughter.”
It was a bone-chilling thought that so ruthless a man would stop at nothing to accomplish his wants. “But why should Miguel want to destroy Dennis? My brother has done nothing against him.”
Clive shrugged. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with Dennis personally. Miguel is a mercenary, is he not? Perhaps the earl is paying him very well to destroy his enemy.”
“Why bring Miguel into this? Why isn’t the earl doing it himself?”
“He’s tried, many times.”
Patrizia stirred in Charlotte’s arms. Her eyes were glazed as she stared up at the two knights. “Dennis is the only one who can stop my father and save Ryan,” she whispered. “My father is capable of terrible things. His failure to destroy Dennis on his first attack has only inflamed his determination, I fear. That is why he has taken Ryan. You must… find Dennis and tell him.”
She passed mercifully into unconsciousness. Clive swept her from Charlotte’s embrace and gently handed her over to a soldier with orders to return her to St. Austell immediately. He doubted she would survive the trip, but he simply could not stand by and do nothing.
Charlotte was pale and silent when Clive returned to her. She was still standing in the brush where they had found Patrizia. Clive gently took her by the hand and led her up to the road where the destriers were nibbling on the dead grass.
“What do we do now?” Charlotte asked him.
Clive paused, collecting the reins of Charlotte’s horse. “I think Patrizia gave the best advice. We must find Dennis. He must know what has happened.”<
br />
Charlotte accepted the reins he was handing her, but her face was lined with strain. “Dennis will think we have failed him,” she muttered.
“To not inform him of what has happened would be to fail him,” Clive had to practically shove her onto her charger. “The sooner we find him, the better. And I would suspect for the moment that Ryan is unharmed; it’s Dennis whom Miguel wants, not Ryan.”
Charlotte was deep in thought as Clive mounted his own horse beside her. “Would the earl go to such great lengths to destroy my brother?”
Clive collected his reins and lifted his arm in a silent order for his men to move out. “It’s not your brother he’s destroying. I would suspect it’s a harbor he’s gaining. Beneath all of this war and treachery, it is my belief that the motives behind this are purely mercenary. With Rodrick gone, I believe the true motive of the game has now changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rodrick and the earl battled because of Rodrick’s hatred for the crown, among other things. Now that Rodrick is gone, the earl probably sees this as an opportunity to test Dennis and win.”
“For the harbor and her money?”
“Why not? With Rodrick gone, the earl probably believes Dennis will be simple to defeat. Surely any man who wants peace is a weak warrior.”
“Dennis is stronger than father ever was.”
“I know. But the earl doesn’t.”
The chargers moved out. The situation was growing more complex by the minute.
*
God, please help me. She had tried to run, once, but he had simply caught her, tied her hands, and slapped her across the face for good measure. To make things go from bad to worse, her attempt to flee had tightened her lungs and it was now an effort to breathe. The injury from the arrow those weeks only made it worse. But Miguel did not care; for whatever she did and however she resisted, he simply slapped her. And any of her complaints were met by silence.
The landscape was dead and colorless in the throes of winter. They were traveling a road Ryan had never seen before and in a direction she could not have guessed. Patrizia was dead, she was sure, after having seen Miguel hit her on the head with the hilt of his sword. She had listened to the sickening crack fill the air. It had all happened so quickly, too. Patrizia and the man they knew as Michael had been riding side by side in conversation, with Ryan a few feet behind them on her white palfrey. The voices grew louder and suddenly Miguel drew his sword, striking Patrizia in the forehead. The woman had tumbled to the ground, and Ryan had watched in shock as Miguel had turned to her, swept her onto his big brown warmblood, and rode furiously into the distance.
In a matter of seconds her joyful trip had turned deadly and terrifying, and she had been too startled to react. But her senses came about soon enough and she had pitched herself from the horse, grunting when her injured shoulder came into contact with the ground. She further grunted when Miguel had caught up to her and lodged a stinging blow to her face.
Ryan fought him as much as she was able, but she was still considerably weakened from her brush with death. Miguel was a strong man for his small stature. Tying her hands, he dumped her on the front of his saddle and held her tightly as they traveled. Weak and distraught, Ryan knew it would not be wise for her to try to run again, not when her lungs were tight and her entire body ached with fatigue. But soon enough she would try again, and again, until she succeeded.
Miguel did not stop for the night; he continued on and by morning, Ryan was seriously ill. Her chest was heavily congested and she coughed continuously, struggling to clear her lungs but too afraid to tell him how terrible she truly felt lest he strike her again. Soon enough she was running a fever and the rest of the trip passed in a blur. She did not even know how many days they had traveled, only that they had traveled forever. The next thing she realized, they had stopped, and she had slept exhaustedly for an unknown amount of time. All that mattered was that she was hot, she could not breathe, but at least she wasn’t moving any longer and the bed she lay upon was warm if not a bit musty. Still, she could sleep unassailed. And sleep she did.
The bleating of goats finally woke her. Peeping open a crusty eye, she saw that the room around her was bright with a soft white light. Goats bleated again and for a split second, she thought they sounded like Bute and she almost called for him. But in the next moment she remembered that her pet was dead, that she was far from St. Austell, and that she was in a great deal of danger. Her heart began to thump loudly against her ribs as she lay there, struggling to acclimate herself to the room, to gather her wits. Her first conscious thought was of fear, but she fought it; it would do absolutely no good to give in to her fear. To do so would be to lose hope completely.
She stirred slightly and promptly began coughing. She wasn’t feverish any longer, but she was terribly congested, as was usual. Lifting her head from the musty linens, she glanced around the spartanly furnished chamber. It was dark and chilly, and the rushes on the floor were old. It did not seem dirty, as much it was simply old and unlived in.
“So you are awake?” came a deep voice with a Spanish accent. “How do you feel, mija?”
Ryan’s blood ran cold. God, that voice! Struggling to sit up, she caught sight of Miguel with a cup of warm mead in his hand, seated in the corner. He smiled at her and the gesture was enough to enrage and terrorize her at the same time.
“Where have you brought me?” she demanded.
His smile remained even though her tone had been sharp. “Someplace safe and secure. You needn’t worry.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You kill my friend, abduct me, and then you tell me not to worry? You are mad!”
Miguel rose from his chair. “You are my guest, not my prisoner. Soon enough you will come to like this place.” He touched a dusty tapestry near the window, admiring the detail work. “We shall come to like it together, I think.”
“I do not want to like it,” she snarled. “I want to go to London where you promised to take me.”
Miguel waved a hand at her. “Pah, London. A filthy place, full of beggars and thieves. Why would you want to go there when you can spend your days in beautiful, peaceful Wales?”
“Wales?” Ryan repeated in shock. “We are in Wales?”
“Indeed.”
“But… there is a battle going on in Wales!”
“Several, actually. But we are miles from any fighting.”
Ryan felt sick, disoriented. She wasn’t sure how to respond or react. “What place is this?”
“Usk Castle,” he replied. Moving to one of the cloth-covered lancet windows, he tossed back the shade and took a deep breath of the cold outside air. “Quite nice, truly. Much nicer than I expected.”
Ryan had no idea where Usk Castle was, other than the fact it was somewhere in the wilds of Wales. But just as swiftly, she recalled that Dennis would be fighting somewhere in Wales and her heart soared with hope and joy when she thought perhaps he might be somewhere near her. But she could not let this madman know her thoughts, treacherous as they were. If he for one moment thought she would try to escape again, the consequences could be deadly. He’d already proven himself a murderer.
“Why did you kill Patrizia?” The question was heavy on her mind. “She was of no threat to you.”
Miguel’s warm expression vanished. He moved away from the window, sipping his mead as he contemplated his answer. “Who is to say why we do the things we do,” he said quietly. “But know that I took no pleasure in it.”
“Then why did you do it?”
He looked at her, a deadly flash in his dark brown eyes. “The reasons do not matter. Suffice it to say that you are alive and that should be the only thing of importance.”
Ryan looked away from him, fighting off the tears on Patrizia’s behalf. She could see by his expression than any more questions might bring punishment. He was brutal, calculating, and intelligent. And something else over the course of the passing days had grown quite obvious.
&
nbsp; “You are not a merchant, are you?”
His smile returned, only it was forced. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you had no goods with you. We traveled very lightly. Would not a merchant have wares wherever he traveled?”
“You did not notice that the night we left the Wart?”
“I did,” she said sullenly. “But to be honest, I was so happy to have found someone to take me to London that I did not think to ask questions. And since Patrizia endorsed you, I did not think anything was wrong.”
He cocked a salt and pepper eyebrow. “You should learn to trust your instincts.”
“A lot of good they did me with you,” she muttered. “Would it do any good to ask who you really are?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
He continued to gaze at her, a pleasant expression returning to his face. “If it will ease your mind, then I shall tell you.”
“I do not know if it will ease it, but at least I shall know.”
“True enough,” he set his cup down and moved toward her on the bed. He seemed almost thoughtful. “I am, Lady d’Vant, Miguel Casteneda de la Pastrana y Godinez. But I am better known as Miguel the Pirate.”
Ryan’s eyes widened, so much so that Miguel thought they might pop from her skull. “Miguel the Pirate?” she repeated in awe. “But… I do not understand! You are a pirate!”
“Indeed.”
“But you maraud on the ocean, not the land!”
“Money knows no topography.”
The look on Ryan’s face was brimming with shock and trepidation. “Is that what this is all about?” she asked. “Money?”
“Of course. What else did you think it would be?”
She was on her knees on the musty bed, her pale cheeks flushing with warmth. “Are you saying that my father was killed for money, that St. Austell was nearly destroyed for money? Is that it?”
Miguel’s good humor faded. “The world we live in is a cruel place, m’lady. Only the strongest survive, only the wisest prevail. Living your sheltered life, you have yet to realize that riches are the only thing in this world worth fighting for, or worth dying for. They are the only thing that matters.”