Sharon Lanergan

There’s no turning back…

Brian was reeling. This was wrong—he shouldn’t be doing this. Constance deserved someone better. Someone who wasn’t using her to ease the torment as he was.

He broke the kiss and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush, backing away.

Brian could barely see Constance’s forest eyes widen in the sparsely lit room. And then she converged on him.

“Not this time, Brian Fitzroy.”

Constance didn’t know why she’d sought Brian out. She’d felt so close to him while the family sat by the hearth in the Great Hall. And when she came to his room, the movement within convinced her she hadn’t made a mistake rising from her bed and donning her gown to see him.

But now he intended to withdraw from her again. She was heartily sick of his hot and cold behavior.

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him back toward her. “I’m not leaving.”

He was completely nude and she could not help but be aware. Her fingertips grazed his nipples and she was rewarded with his shiver.

“Constance.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed the corner of his sensuous mouth. He stood rigid and unbending for several flips of her heart, and for a moment she thought he would still refuse to give in to the attraction burning between them.

Brian lowered his head, their gazes locking. Intensity emanated from his midnight eyes, a burning desire Constance wasn’t prepared for. Her breath caught.

“There’s no turning back,” he told her, his voice a deep, husky whisper that curled her toes.

The Prisoner

by

Sharon Lanergan

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Prisoner

COPYRIGHT
Ó
2008 by Sharon Lanergan

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

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by
Rae Monet

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 706

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First English Tea Rose Edition, 2008

PRINT ISBN: 1-60145-453-7

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

Prologue

Summer, England, 1299

“Oomph.”

The young raven-haired girl ran straight into Brian Fitzroy when he stepped out of his family’s castle, knocking him off balance.

“Whoa, easy, little one,” Brian protested, laughing.

The girl, who couldn’t be more than eight summers, stopped in mid-run, and turned to face him. Her pale cheeks were pinked from exertion and her green eyes danced with mischief.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she said breathlessly.

Brian grinned. He remembered well being her age though seventeen years had passed. Sometimes, even now, he wished he could return to such days.

“You’re James Portnoy’s daughter, aren’t you?” Brian asked her.

She beamed a smile. “Aye, sir, Constance is my name.”

“And mischief is your game,” he added.

Her young face clouded. “What?”

“Nothing. Run along, Constance.” Brian waved her on. The little girl ran off and disappeared around the corner of the castle.

He glanced at the sky. Though the day had donned bright and sunny, the afternoon had brought dark, foreboding clouds. Rain would begin by nightfall. He had only a short time if he was going to make it to the grave and back without getting drenched.

When he reached his wife’s grave on the hill, Brian sat down beside it. He glanced down at the parchment his younger brother, Nicholas, had given him earlier. He resisted opening it and instead set it on the ground.

The depressing graveyard existed long before Brian was born and would no doubt exist long after he died. He did not know why the Loutrants, who once owned this land, picked the top of the hill for the burials. No one living today knew the reasoning. But his own ancestors had not bothered to alter it.

There was yet room for more. Brian decided he’d rather not think on that aspect of the yard. He shivered. The afternoon faded and with the gathering clouds Brian wanted to get his annual visit over with quickly.

Genevieve died giving birth to Brian’s son, Trevor, seven years ago. Since her death, Brian went every year to her grave on the anniversary of her birth.

Brian hadn’t loved Genevieve a great deal and therefore had not grieved so strongly. In fact, it was more the opposite. He never wanted to marry her. Only did because she expected his child and his father insisted on it. Brian had been away when Trevor was born and his wife died.

“I should have brought you wild flowers I suppose. Only I don’t even know which ones you liked.”

He sighed and ran his left hand through the dirt. He stopped abruptly when he realized what he was doing.

“It’s been another year, Gen. Trevor has grown so much. My father says we should send him off to foster somewhere. I’m not sure. I know I was fostered and so were my brothers. But I think, somehow, Trevor should stay close. And anyway who better to be taught by than my father and Nick? You’d be so proud of him.”

Brian wondered how much to tell her. Since he’d been coming to her grave he talked more to Genevieve than he ever had while she lived. He talked more to her than anyone actually.

“I’ve met someone since last year. Her name is Katherine.” He shook his head and smiled. “In some ways she reminds me a lot of you. She’s very pretty like you with freckles across her nose. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Mayhap I’m growing up finally. Do you think?”

He dug his fingers into the dirt once more.

“Katherine is married though. I didn’t intend to fall for a married woman. But she was so sweet and vulnerable. Her husband is abusive and cruel.” Brian grimaced. “Irresponsible of me, wouldn’t you say? And not terribly clever. But considering what we both know about me I don’t think it’s very surprising.”

The first raindrops splattered on his nose and he wiped at them absently.

“I don’t know. Do you think I’ll ever become wise?”

He reached over and touched the mound. “Anyway, Gen, I just wanted you to know, I wish it were different for us.”

Brian stood up, reached down and picked up Katherine’s note. He broke the seal and read.

“Come to me, my love. Finius has gone away for the next few days and I am alone. Yours forever, Katherine.”

The meeting with his father could wait, Brian decided. Katherine could not.

****

The hair on the back of Brian’s neck bristled.

Something was wrong, he could feel it. Loutrant Castle was too quiet. He dismounted and his horse pawed at the ground, sensing the eerie chill in the air, too.

“Easy, boy,” Brian said absently over his shoulder. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword. Where were the guards Katherine’s husband always had in front of the castle doors?

Since meeting Katherine and becoming her lover, Brian entered the castle by a side door. She’d insisted it was much less conspicuous that way. But the two soldiers had always been in front of the structure.

He approached the heavy wooden doors and hesitated. It probably was not the brightest of ideas to burst through the front as though he were an invited guest. Katherine would not appreciate it. But still…

Shaking off the heavy sense of foreboding, Brian shrugged and walked back down the four steps leading to the castle doors. He glanced around the courtyard, searching for any sign of Loutrant’s force. Some of them would have surely gone with their baron, but some would have been left behind.

A dark cloud moved over the sun casting the remains of the day in ominous shadows. He was likely being foolish.

Brian cast a glance at his horse, then walked around the corner to the usual side door. Katherine would be waiting anxiously.

He tapped lightly on it.

“Brian!” Katherine yelled from inside.

Brian grabbed for his sword. Her call had been a cry cut off. He tried the door but it would not open.

“Katherine, are you all right? Katherine?”

He braced his shoulder on the small wooden door and pushed with all his might. It gave way with little trouble. Brian ran in, holding his sword.

“How kind of you to join us.”

Brian whirled. Standing behind him in the corner of the room was Finius Loutrant. His left arm held Katherine close around her throat. In his right hand was a long, sharp dagger pointed between her breasts.

“Drop your sword, Fitzroy,” Loutrant ordered.

Behind him, Brian heard a collective swoosh, the sound of many swords being removed from their scabbards. He had little choice.

“Let her go, Loutrant,” Brian said, lowering his sword to the ground. “It’s me you want.”

Loutrant smiled. “True.” He yanked Katherine’s hair back. “But I have no use for those who betray me.”

Loutrant kept his gaze on Brian and pushed the dagger into Katherine’s breastbone.

“Nay!” Brian hurried forward but was seized from behind.

Chapter One

“What is yon castle in the distance?” Constance Pomeroy asked Fin, her handsome blond minstrel.

They’d traveled most of the night. The sun barely peeked up over the horizon, painting the sky a light orange.

Fin leapt down from the lone horse they’d shared and smiled. “Our next stop, my dear.”

He reached up and pulled her from the mare. Constance bit her lip, a little puzzled. Why had he brought her here? Did he intend to play for the occupants of the castle? For the first time since she’d agreed to run away with Fin, doubt entered her mind.

She thought it was so romantic to leave Fitzroy Castle with the minstrel she had fallen in love with. Even though she did not want to hurt her betrothed, Nicholas Fitzroy, she did not love him. Not the way she loved Fin. She adored Nicholas and all the Fitzroys for they had practically raised her when her father died.

“What is it, my dear?” Fin asked her.

Constance brightened at once. “‘Tis naught, Fin. I just wondered why you have chosen to stop here. Are you to play for a festival here?”

“Nay,” he said curtly. He walked to where their sacks of belongings had been tied to the horse. He removed the one containing his lute.

“Are you going to play now?” Constance wondered.

Fin tilted his head and gazed at her. His smile completely gone, his expression was cool and assessing. Her uneasiness grew.

“Fin?”

He gripped the lute in both of his hands and swung it toward the nearest tree. It splintered into hundreds of pieces.

Constance stared in horror. Her heart dropped into her stomach. “Fin, what possessed you to do that?”

“I am through with pretenses,” he responded. “And I do not need this one moment more.” Fin cast the last of the remains of lute down and then he ran his hands through his blond hair, remaking it into a much messier style.

Constance stared down at the splintered lute, her stomach turning over. She rested her hand over her heart, which now thundered wildly in her chest.

“I—I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Fin came to stand in front of her once more. He looked down, and met her gaze, his light blue eyes glacial. “I am Finius Loutrant.”

Constance backed up a step, fear nearly choking her. She shook her head. “What?”

“Loutrant,” he repeated. He gripped her wrists painfully. “And you are my prisoner.”

****

Brian woke to the echo of footsteps coming down the long dark hall directly outside his dungeon cell.

Time for another beating. It didn’t really matter. In the years he’d resided in the cell, he wasn’t sure how many, he’d become used to the pain.

In fact, it was stranger not to feel it. What would Loutrant do this time? Break his nose again? It was well healed now. Too much of a temptation.

Brian reached up and gingerly touched his nose. How many times had he heard the sickening crunch of it breaking? Tasted the blood? He shook his head. Mayhap Loutrant would break something else this time.

Brian straightened at the clang of the key in the heavy wooden door. He braced himself for the upcoming confrontation.

The door swung wide.

Brian waited for the inevitable appearance of his tormentor, Loutrant.

The outline of a woman appeared illuminated in the doorway. Brian blinked. An illusion, surely.

He closed his eyes, hearing only the footsteps of the person entering his cell. Soft footsteps, not the usual harsh brutal ones of Loutrant.

“Hurry up about it,” Owen, the man who kept watch over the cell, snarled.

Brian flinched when the door slammed. He opened his eyes. Standing just inside the cell was a woman. In one of her shaking hands she held a small trencher of food. The other held a torch. She stumbled forward.

What new treachery did Loutrant plot?

The young woman’s eyes, he could not make out the color in the dimly lit dungeon, were wild and terrified. Her hair, long and black, appeared knotted and dirty. But it was her gown that caught Brian’s attention. Though soiled and torn, the gown had once been a rich velvet and green in color. No servant’s attire.

She took another step closer to him and Brian noted her feet were bare and bloodied. The woman did not look him at him directly, but appeared focused on the spot behind his head.

“You needn’t fear me,” Brian spoke softly, his tongue dry and the sound strange for he seldom formed words these days.

Her gaze flew to his face and she visibly flinched. Across her forehead was a large diagonal scratch, covered in dried blood.

“Are you here to give me that?” Brian asked kindly when she merely continued to stare.

The woman glanced down at the trencher and nodded mutely. Still she did not move.

Brian wondered if he ought to rise and take it from her, but doubted his legs would allow him to stand. He flexed his right leg to test it and winced at the ache shooting through it.

Her eyes widened at his groan of pain and then she was kneeling beside him, his trencher laid down, forgotten for the moment.

“Let me look at your leg,” she said in a slightly husky voice.

“Nay.” Brian stayed her hand on his leg. “‘Tis not an injury to be tended.”

“But you are in pain,” she protested.

If only she knew. Instead he attempted a smile, though he knew it was probably wasted in his heavily matted beard.

“What is your name?”

Her eyes, which he now saw were a haunting green like the forests he hadn’t been to in many a year, lowered and she stared at her dirt ridden hands.

“Constance,” she whispered brokenly.

“What a beautiful name.”

She raised her gaze to his once more and a tear spilled out. “What is your name, sir?”

Brian shook his head. “I have no name.”

Constance frowned. “Everyone has a name, sir.”

“Everyone except me.” The odors of the trencher reached him. He wrinkled his nose at the noxious smells. What slop had he been given this day? “What are you doing here, Constance?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Her tears fell freely now down her perfect pale cheeks leaving streaks of dirt and blood. She’d been hurt, and Brian had a sickening suspicion he knew who had hurt her.

Constance turned fearfully at the sound of the door.

“I have to go,” she whispered. She struggled to stand up, leaving his trencher beside him on the ground.

The door burst open and the large guard, Owen, stood menacingly, waving his hand at Constance.

“Come on, come on, girl, don’t linger.”

Constance hurried forward, never once glancing back.

“You.” Owen spit on the stone floor of Brian’s cell. “The baron will be by to see you later. Got some new ideas for you, he has.” Owen laughed.

The door slammed behind the guard and once more it was locked with a loud thud.

Brian was alone.

He picked up the trencher and stared at the gray mush on it with little interest. The food he was given was barely edible. Brian had a suspicion the dogs of the castle ate better than he. Mayhap the rats, too.

Unfortunately, though his nose would rather not taste the offering, his stomach thought better of the snub. It growled with want.

Once early on in his ordeal, Brian had thought to starve himself. Refusing to eat could be his way out of the nightmare. Better to die from starvation then to endure Loutrant’s evil torment.

Loutrant disabused Brian of that notion rather quickly until eating became part of his punishment. Food was forced down his throat until he gagged on it. Loutrant wanted him alive and to live for years of torture.

Brian now always ate his slop. Even when it sickened him.

He scooped up the gray substance in his filth covered fingers and shoved it in his mouth, eating it as quickly as his gag reflexes would allow.

Brian tossed the hard bread trencher aside when he was finished. It had been used often and closer inspection of it once weeks ago had accorded him with more knowledge of its moving occupants than he cared to think of now. He did not dare vomit for he knew the result would be something Loutrant would delight in.

He closed his eyes, willing sleep to claim him, to take him from his Hell for even the briefest of times.

****

Constance folded her knees to her chest and laid her head on them.

Since her abduction, whenever she was left alone she curled herself up in the window seat of the tower room.

When first she returned to the room after feeding his prisoner, she’d spent a long time crying, until the tears dried among the old dirt and blood on her face. Constance longed for water to wash with but Loutrant did not allow such a luxury.

All she did since that dreadful day three days before was weep. What a complete idiot she’d been. If only her father could see her now. Constance shook her head. She did not want to give into the sadness. It would not help her plight.

Everything was all her fault. She’d played right into Loutrant’s hands. Believing the golden haired, handsome man wanted her, loved her.

Who was the prisoner? Why was he in Loutrant’s dungeon and why had she been forced to bring him his meal? What a pitiful wretch he was. Constance thought he had perhaps been in the cell for a very long time. What could he have done to deserve such a terrible fate?

What had she done?

Constance bit her lip. There, she was thinking of her own self again. Wasn’t that what had gotten her in this predicament in the first place?

But surely her betrothed, Nicholas Fitzroy, would come? Wouldn’t he?

“If he even knows where you are, Constance,” she whispered.

Or even wants to, she added silently, mournfully.

How could she blame Nick if he chose not to rescue her? She’d been prepared to run off with a man rather than to marry Nick as even her dear father had wanted.

She couldn’t even say she didn’t love Nick, Constance berated herself. She did love him, though not that way. But did the kind of love sung by the minstrels even exist?

Constance closed her eyes tight. Minstrel. Loutrant had come to her as one. Golden and beautiful like an angel. How fast she’d fallen for his lies. Allowed him to make love to her. She shivered. He revolted her now.

Constance lifted her head and peered out the tiny round window by the seat. It looked out to the rocky cliff and sea below. Her fingers grazed the glass panes.

Would Loutrant come in to see her again? She dreaded his reappearance. Blissfully, he’d left her alone most of the day. But somehow, Constance knew she couldn’t count on his leaving her alone much longer.

Constance froze at the sound of footsteps coming up the long stone steps leading to the tower. An involuntary cry escaped her lips and she stuffed her hand into her mouth, more to calm herself than to quell the alarm.

It might not be Finius. It could be the second guard relieving the one who stood outside her door at all times. It must be nearly time for the change.

She straightened from the window seat.

“I won’t need you for a time,” Finius Loutrant’s melodious voice said from the other side of the door. “I will watch the prisoner.”

Her heart plummeting, Constance wanted to drop to the floor and curl up into a ball and pretend she was anywhere else. But she did not. She stood and waited.

When the door opened Constance jumped, and hated herself for it.

Finius Loutrant wasted no time in entering. The mouth she once thought adorable was twisted in a smirk, aimed in her direction. He turned and closed the door behind him.

Loutrant smiled when he faced her once more. He had a beautiful smile. His teeth, white and straight, were nearly perfect.

When first she’d met him, Constance hadn’t been able to see beyond the perfection. But now, knowing the rotting soul within, she couldn’t believe she’d ever been blind to the cold, baleful look in his piercing blue eyes. He could not hide it with the brightest of smiles.

“My, my, Constance, you do look a fright.”

He walked over to her and she stood rooted to her spot, afraid to back down. Conceding would only show his advantage. She did not answer him, merely met his gaze.

Loutrant reached up and rubbed at the tracks of her tears on her cheek. Constance gritted her teeth to avoid flinching from the dreaded touch.

“I suppose I could find it in my heart to allow you a bath,” he whispered, staring at her mouth. “You’ve been crying again, haven’t you, dear, sweet, delectable Constance?”

Loutrant grasped her chin hard. His eyes narrowed. “My prisoner did not hurt you, did he? I vow he will get the worst beating of his life if it is so.”

“Nay, nay,” Constance said. She could not have the poor wretch in the cell harmed because of her. “I was merely homesick.”