Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Read online

  “Thank you. I will.” She tucked away the knife. “I am not going to ride off, though. Help me down, please.”

  She clearly wasn’t going to yield, and he didn’t want her falling while stubbornly dismounting on her own. Osric helped her down and untied her crutches secured to his destrier’s saddle. He then escorted her to where men-at-arms were feeding another rope down into the tunnel.

  Upon her approach, Molineaux’s expression hardened with disapproval.

  “I am staying,” she said firmly.

  His lordship looked about to protest, but then, a muffled thud came from belowground.

  Osric scowled. “I need to get down there.”

  “I am going with you,” Molineaux said.

  Osric nodded.

  With the rope finally lowered, Osric ordered one of his men-at-arms to descend first. An instant later, shouts carried from the tunnel then the clang of swords.

  Osric grabbed hold of the rope. “Stay above ground,” he said to Violetta. He half-expected a refusal, but to his relief, she agreed.

  Osric descended into the tunnel. Grunts and the ring of colliding weapons echoed in the passageway. Torches, lying burning on the ground, cast an eerie light upon the tunnel walls.

  To his right, two men were fighting. Once Osric’s boots touched ground, he drew his blade and headed toward the combatants. The man-at-arms he’d sent below was battling another guard from Coltingstow—a stocky, blond warrior who was close friends with Lane.

  When the blond guard saw Osric, guilt touched his gaze, but he didn’t stop the deadly slash of his sword.

  “Out of my way,” Osric said.

  “You shall not pass, milord.”

  The guard was keeping them away from the cavern with the skeleton.

  “Did you help Lane kill your fellow soldiers?” Osric demanded.

  Remorse flickered in the blond man’s eyes.

  Osric glared. “I did not think you a murderer.”

  The warrior lashed out with his blade. Osric’s man retaliated with a thrust that sent the guard stumbling back.

  A thump sounded behind Osric: Molineaux had entered the tunnel.

  “Let me deal with him,” his lordship said, coming to Osric’s side.

  The blond guard edged sideways so that he blocked the tunnel. Molineaux attacked, and as Osric’s man-at-arms lunged as well, the blond warrior grunted and parried. Steel clanged again and again. Pressed back against the tunnel wall, Osric waited for a chance to dart past the fight.

  Molineaux brought his blade arcing down. When the blond man was forced to dodge the strike, Osric raced past and on toward the cavern.

  Crawford and Lane, holding swords, stood inside the earthen chamber. The steward stood at the back, near the bones. Scattered earth lay on the ground—more fallen dirt than before, so either the soil was shifting or he’d poked at it with his weapon.

  Lane advanced two paces to put himself between Osric and his father.

  Blood coated Lane’s blade—the blood of loyal, hard-working men—and Osric’s anger flared again. “Put your weapons down. Surrender,” he commanded.

  Crawford chortled, a disparaging sound. Then he pointed the tip of his sword toward the bones.

  “I said, lower your weapons. Surrender.”

  The steward sneered. “We Crawfords no longer take orders from you.” He jabbed his blade into the dirt.

  “Cease,” Osric bellowed, as more soil poured down, exposing a skeletal arm. “You are disturbing a man’s remains.”

  “I care not,” Crawford muttered.

  “The sheriff—”

  “Silence him,” the steward said.

  “Gladly, Father.”

  As the captain-of-the-guard raised his sword to attack, Osric said, “What did your sire promise you? A share of the riches? You should know there may not be any.”

  “Do not listen to him. We know there is treasure.” Crawford stabbed at the dirt again. A dense stream of soil and stones rained down, and with a cry of disgust, the steward stumbled back, brushing dirt from his garments.

  Carried along by the flow of earth, the bones shifted. A ribcage and part of a skull came free, and then the skeleton fell to the cavern floor, followed by a disintegrating leather bag. It landed near the bones, spilling gold coins, jewels, and gem-encrusted silverware onto the ground.

  Crawford grinned. “At last.”

  Lane’s attention was on the treasure. Hell, Osric needed every advantage against the man who’d trained Coltingstow’s soldiers for years.

  Osric lunged.

  The captain-of-the-guard blocked his strike; the impact of the collision jarred down Osric’s arms. He darted away then attacked again, with quick blows that forced Lane backward. Coins and jewels clinked as Crawford shoved handfuls into a leather satchel.

  “Get plenty for me,” Lane said.

  “’Tis not yours to take,” Osric growled, striking out again. Grunting, the captain-of-the-guard deflected the blow, but he was getting close to the wall. Osric pivoted, and as Lane turned to better face him, Osric drove the lout back. Lane banged his elbow against a stone supporting the cavern wall, and as he grimaced, distracted for the space of one heartbeat, Osric rushed in, locked blades with him then shoved the captain-of-the-guard, hard. Lane’s head hit the wall. He collapsed, unconscious.

  Footfalls sounded behind Osric. He spun to see Molineaux, his face glistening with sweat. The older lord nodded once—silently conveying that Lane’s friend had been felled. As Osric nodded back, movement snapped his gaze to Crawford, rising from the cavern floor, his satchel bulging with riches.

  “The tales about lost treasure were true, then,” Molineaux said.

  The steward smirked. “My ancestors always knew they were.”

  Osric frowned. “How?”

  Crawford glanced past Molineaux, as though planning to run for the rope.

  “Are you going to flee and abandon your son?” Osric challenged, not caring to hide his loathing.

  “I will return for Lane once our riches are safe.”

  The bastard would not be allowed to rescue his child; Osric would make very sure of that. Also, the steward bloody well would answer Osric’s question. As Crawford edged toward the tunnel, Osric asked again, “What did you mean, when you said your ancestors knew there was treasure?”

  His sword raised to ward off attack, Crawford continued toward the passageway.

  “Answer me,” Osric pressed, moving toward Molineaux to help block the way out. “Refuse, and there will be consequences.”

  “Your threat does not scare me.”

  “It should,” Osric said.

  The steward’s expression turned smug. “The Crawfords are a very old family with deep roots in Wiltshire. If called upon, folk will help me and Lane to escape.”

  Molineaux scowled. “You are not above the law.”

  The steward laughed. “We Crawfords have worked in many noble households. We have been entrusted with scandalous secrets that can be used as an excellent means of persuasion. We have seen things. Heard things—”

  “Things related to the treasure?” Osric asked.

  Crawford hesitated near Molineaux. His eyes bright with glee, the steward said, “One of my great uncles worked as a steward in the same household as the thief. My relative discovered the riches were missing.”

  “God’s blood,” Molineaux said.

  “My great uncle’s employer, a cruel bastard, blamed and punished him for the theft. My relative vowed to track down the thief and take the riches for himself. Judging by the notes he made years ago, that were passed down through our family until they reached me, he knew the treasure was at the stone circle. Though he searched, he never found it.”

  “I see now,” Osric muttered. “Your family did not serve mine for so many years out of loyalty.”

  Crawford sneered. “I hated working for your sire. The man was a selfish, manipulative whoreson.”

  “He was. But, running his household, you enj
oyed great privilege.”

  “I endured.”

  “If you were miserable, why did you not seek work elsewhere?”

  Crawford patted the satchel, causing items inside to shift and clonk together. “I knew one day, all of my suffering would be worthwhile.”

  The steward began moving past Molineaux. Violetta’s sire stole a quick glance at Osric. Osric shook his head slightly; better not to engage the steward in a swordfight yet. They had more to learn before subduing the lout.

  “If you knew the treasure was hidden at the ancient site, I am surprised you did not recover it long before now,” Osric said.

  “I tried. So did Lane, and my father before me.” Crawford scowled. “Lane suspected the riches were under one of the fallen stones, but despite his digging, and mine, we never found it.”

  “Because the treasure had been drawn deeper underground by the shifting soil,” Osric acknowledged. “Did you know about the tunnel?”

  “I did not,” the steward said, “although I should have guessed, what with the old tales of spirits coming up out of the ground. If I had found the tunnel, Lane and I would have explored it long before yesterday.”

  “Ah. Those were your footprints I found,” Osric said.

  Crawford glanced down the tunnel, clearly gauging the distance to the rope. “If either of you try to stop me from leaving, I will kill you.”

  “Not likely,” Osric muttered.

  “Agreed,” Molineaux said.

  “What irony: a Seabrook and a Molineaux, united as allies.”

  “The way ’twas meant to be,” said Osric. “’Twas better for the Crawfords, though, if we remained enemies, aye? If we trusted one another, we might work together to find the riches, and ’twould make it far more difficult for you get hold of them.”

  Unease flickered in the steward’s eyes.

  “I vow you are responsible for damaging the archer’s bow at last year’s tournament. You and your relatives contrived other incidents through the years, to maintain the animosity between the Seabrook and Molineaux heirs,” Osric said. “Am I right?”

  Crawford bolted for the rope.

  ~ * ~

  A short distance from the hole in the ground, Violetta hobbled four steps to the right using her crutches, then turned and hobbled the same four steps back. How desperately she wanted to know what was taking place belowground. The crashing of swords had ceased a while ago, which could be either good news or bad.

  Oh, but she hoped Osric was unharmed. Her father, too.

  She turned to pace again.

  “Milady,” one of her sire’s men said. “Would you prefer to wait at the stone circle, where you can sit down?”

  “I will wait here.” She didn’t want to be the last one to learn what had happened in the tunnel.

  Men’s voices carried from belowground, the words unclear.

  Shouts.

  The clang of steel.

  The rope, being held by several men-at-arms, shifted.

  “Someone is leaving the tunnel,” a guard warned.

  The men-at-arms pointed their swords at the hole.

  Grubby hands emerged, and then Crawford’s head. Clinging to the rope, he looked frantically about. Seeing he was surrounded, he cursed then struggled, as though to dislodge someone trying to keep him from leaving the tunnel.

  That someone would be Osric or Violetta’s father; good men who almost went to war because of the steward.

  Pure, instinctive anger welled up inside her.

  The hilt of her unsheathed knife secured between her palm and the crutch, Violetta pushed her way in between two men-at-arms. “You have lost, Crawford. Surrender.”

  The steward continued to struggle. His narrowed gaze fixed on her. “Lost, have I?” Heedless of the men-at-arms’ blades, he heaved forward, grabbed a fistful of her skirt, and yanked.

  Pulled off balance, she pitched toward him. The crutches toppled.

  “Milady!” Guards yelled. Men-at-arms grabbed for her.

  Amidst the chaos, Violetta landed on her right side. Thank God she’d kept hold of the dagger. Twisting in the grass, she tried to roll away, but the steward held tightly to her gown. She kicked, wincing as her hurt ankle collided with his chin.

  “You will ensure I escape,” he hissed.

  She’d rather die than let him use her against Osric and her father. Her knife glinting, she stabbed Crawford’s shoulder. He snarled and hauled her to the tunnel opening.

  Men-at-arms fought to break his grip on her. As she stabbed the steward in the arm, he roared and struggled harder, under assault from belowground as well.

  He abruptly vanished, yanked back into the underworld.

  Several thuds carried up from the tunnel. Then, silence.

  “Lady Molineaux.” Men-at-arms helped her up and handed back her crutches.

  She peered down at the opening in the ground. “Osric? Father?” she called, her tone sharp with worry.

  The rope moved again, and Osric’s head appeared.

  “Crawford?” she asked.

  “Vanquished—thanks, in part, to you.”

  Violetta sighed in relief and put away her dagger, while Osric’s men helped pull him up out of the ground.

  As he brushed off his clothes and crossed to her, joy, concern, and love swelled within her, the emotions so intense, she fought not to weep. “Are you all right?” She didn’t see any blood oozing, but he might still be hurt, his wounds hidden by his garments.

  “No need to worry. I am well. You?”

  “Fine. What of Father?”

  “Fine as well. We worked together to defeat Crawford. Your sire is standing guard, until I send men-at-arms below.”

  Tears brimmed. “Oh, Osric. I am so glad you are unharmed.”

  “You will not be rid of me so easily, love.”

  She laughed, and he ordered men to go down into the passageway to secure the prisoners.

  Osric attention returned to her, and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, or look away, or even move. The rustling of wind through the grass, the morning birdsong, and the noise of guards descending into the tunnel all faded away, until there was only Osric. Poignant, undeniable yearning bloomed within her.

  She loved him. More than she’d imagined was possible.

  Show him just how much.

  Leaning in, she kissed him on the mouth.

  Whistles and cheers erupted from the remaining guards, and she kissed him deeper while his strong arms slid around her waist. ’Twas glorious to be with him, and she didn’t care who saw. Did not care who might object, for she loved this charming, gallant, magnificent knight, wanted him—

  “Seabrook.” Startled to hear her father’s voice, Violetta drew back to arm’s length, to see her sire being helped from the tunnel. Frowning, her father said, “We clearly need to talk about your relationship with my daughter.”

  Her sire had spoken brusquely. That didn’t bode well.

  Before Violetta could say a word, Osric said, “We do indeed need to talk, milord.”

  ~ * ~

  “’Tis astounding, all that has been revealed this day.” Standing near the fire in Osric’s solar, Violetta’s sire brushed his thumb over the inside of the box lid, as though he still couldn’t quite believe what the carved initials signified.

  “Do you have any more questions for Shelley, milord?” Osric asked.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Very well. Thank you for all you have told us,” Osric said to the healer. “You may go.”

  Shelley curtsied and went to the door. When she opened it, laughter, jaunty music, and the hum of conversation floated in from the great hall. In honor of the remarkable new alliance between the Seabrook and Molineaux households, Osric had ordered food and drink for all within his castle walls, and the celebrations had become quite lively.

  The door clicked closed, returning the chamber to near silence. Seated in an oak chair by the hearth, Violetta glanced at Osric. He winked in that roguish way of
his, and sinful heat skittered through her.

  How she hoped that he would always be part of her life. She couldn’t bear for them to end up like poor Jacqueline and William, who had cared for each other so very much, but had been forced to end their relationship. Surely she and Osric wouldn’t have to forsake their love too. However, if her father didn’t approve of their courtship, he knew enough high-ranking officials that he could arrange to have her betrothed to another lord.

  That mustn’t happen. She’d speak with her sire later regarding her romantic feelings for Osric. If her father insisted the Seabrook heir wasn’t the right match for her, she’d make him understand just how much Osric meant to her. Somehow.

  Her sire shut the box.

  “Did Osric show you the stone behind which that box and other items were hidden?” Violetta asked.

  “He did, once the sheriff and his colleagues had finished their investigation.”

  Remembering the sight of the bones poking out of the earth, Violetta asked, “What will the sheriff do with the skeleton?”

  “’Twill depend whether Lane and Crawford are forthcoming with the man’s identity.” Osric folded his arms and stretched his legs toward the fire. “They were refusing to cooperate earlier, although their belligerence may have worn off since the sheriff locked them in the gaol. The lawman, I believe, would like to contact the thief’s family about his remains.”

  Violetta’s sire shook his head. “After a few days in uncomfortable cells, Crawford and his son will be more inclined to share what they know.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “As do I.” The fire snapped, and Osric glanced over at the blaze. “To make sure all of the riches were recovered, the sheriff had men dig out more of the soil atop and around the stone, which made it less secure.”

  “Did the stone fall?” Violetta asked, hoping that it had not.

  “Nay, but it might soon.”

  “What of the riches? Did the sheriff and his men find any more?”

  “A few pieces.” A log shifted in the hearth, and Osric rose, picked up a fire poker, and pushed the log farther into the flames. “The sheriff took the treasure away with him for cataloguing and safekeeping. I was most relieved. I did not want the responsibility of protecting it.”