to act so foolishly in the first place.
“Let us go.” He grabbed the reins to the horse and helped her mount. “My camp is nearby.”
True to his word, Ashforde’s men were camped a short distance down the path. Though Marianne wouldn’t quite call it a camp. It was nothing more than a clearing with half a dozen men gathered around a crackling fire. Their horses were tied to nearby bushes. Beyond that, she heard the rushing of a stream. A small, hastily erected tent leaned toward the trees at the right side of the clearing.
And at the moment, it was the most wondrous sight she could envision.
She slid from the saddle and could not decide what she wanted to do first—seek much-needed slumber in the tent, slake her thirst with water from the stream, or fill her belly with the unidentifiable meat roasting over the fire.
The wildest-looking man she had ever seen in her life rose from his seat by the fire and approached, ending any thought of sleep, water or food. Marianne instinctively stepped behind Ashforde.
An ill-healed scar twisted one side of the man’s face, giving him a permanent sneer. White and gray streaks in his untrimmed, brownish-hued hair lent him the appearance of a wild animal.
“Jared!” Ashforde quickly stepped forward, meeting the man halfway across the clearing and grasping his forearms in greeting. “When did you arrive?”
“While you were out gaming.” The man nodded toward Marianne. “I see you won.”
“That’s debatable,” Ashforde mumbled before waving her forward. “Marianne of Faucon, this unkempt dog is Jared of Warehaven.”
The Dragon? He looked more like a war-scarred wolf than a dragon. She looked from Warehaven to Ashforde uncertain what to think, or what to say. As far as she knew, Warehaven was her brothers’ enemy. So, what did that make Ashforde?
Yet, Jared bowed slightly before fixing his off-colored green gaze on her and said, “Your brother Darius is well-known to me. He is an interesting man.”
The raspy timbre of his deep voice was intriguing. Pleasing to the ear, it invited one to listen, just to hear him talk. Marianne blinked. Obviously, too tired for clear thinking, she simply agreed, “Yes. That he is.” She then touched Ashforde’s arm. “Will we remain in camp for the night?”
“Aye.” He motioned two of his men forward before continuing, “The tent is for your use, and there is a stream a short distance down the footpath. Sir John and Eustace will guard you.”
She hesitated. While his men did not appear intent on harming her, they were strangers. The older white-haired man looked as unyielding as a giant oak tree, while the younger red-cheeked one appeared to be overly fond of his drink.
All of these men were strangers. And she wasn’t at all certain whether they were friend or foe. The rapid pounding of her heart made breathing difficult. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
Marianne glanced at the horses. None of them were saddled. Even Ashforde’s was being groomed by one of his men. She could ride a palfrey bareback, but wasn’t certain she could control one of the larger destriers without the proper equipment.
“Chase those thoughts from your mind, my lady.” Ashforde stared hard at her.
How did he know what was on her mind? After closing her eyes and taking a long, deep breath, she looked up at him. “I was thinking nothing. I just…”
When her words trailed off, he provided, “You wondered what would be your best method of escape.”
“I am your prisoner then?”
“You are my prize—won by a lucky toss of the dice.” His softly spoken admission sent another sliver of fear rippling down her spine. “You are in my care. Until I reunite you with your brothers, I will see to your safety whether you like the idea or not.”
“I can see to my own safety.”
“Without coin or weapon at hand, how safe will you be?” He stepped closer, tipping his head and lowering his voice. “Your clothing is torn. You are disheveled. What will other travelers see when they look at you?” His eyebrows shot up in question. “A lady from Faucon?”
To her chagrin, she realized the truth in his words. “So I am forced to remain under your protection? A prisoner by necessity if not by deed.”
“You choose to look at it that way because you are tired. A decent meal and a good night’s sleep will put a different light on the situation.”
His presumption to know what she thought or how she viewed anything rankled. Did he think her stupid? He’d called her his prize more than once now. He ordered men to guard her—not to protect, but to guard her. As angry as she was becoming, she knew enough to keep her opinions to herself. Instead of arguing, she nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”
He stepped away with a laugh. “My men will take you to the stream, then bring you back to the tent.”
Marianne crossed her arms against her chest and nodded.
Ashforde sighed and shook his head. “I need to speak to Jared. When I am finished, I will bring you something to eat.”
He watched her walk with his men to the stream’s path and wondered momentarily if he had indeed made a mistake in not warning his men to be careful. But she was unarmed, and her steps were slow, her movements stiff and sluggish. If she did take it into her head to attempt an escape, it was doubtful she’d succeed.
Marianne wearily trudged down the path to the stream. The guard in front of her was young—close to her in age. His ruddy complexion and unsteady footsteps confirmed her first impression of his fondness for drink.
The older man behind her remained silent. His silence was not an oddity, but something about him spoke of danger. It could have been the deadly glare in his eyes when he waved her and the younger man forward. Or maybe it was the way he held his sword at the ready for no apparent reason—unless he considered her dangerous.
The only thing she knew for certain was that his steady, overly heavy steps behind her did not suggest a man who might be easily misled.
Once they reached the stream, they gave her a few moments of privacy before the younger one called out, “My lady, we need return to camp.”
She had no wish to return. But Marianne realized she didn’t have an option. At least not a reasonable option. She stared down the stream. Even if she could elude her guards where would she go? It would soon be dark and she feared the men who’d diced her away would not give up their quest to steal her back.
And Ashforde was correct—she did not have the appearance of a lady. Unkempt was a kind description of how she must look. She raised a hand to her hair. The braids had come undone days ago and she’d given up trying to untangle the snarled knots. She’d simply torn another strip from the skirt of her gown and tied the ebony mess behind her head.
Both her gown and undergown were filthy and torn. Each step she took exposed her legs clear up to her thighs. The sleeves of the gown weren’t any better. They hung like tattered ribbons about her arms.
If she somehow escaped, the first man she’d come across would
