Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

I had a nightmare that I was back in the tower at Kingfountain. The feelings of despair and helplessness choked me. I tried scratching at the walls until my fingertips were bloody, then I awoke to the feeling of a kiss on my shoulder.

—Claire de Murrow, a Prisoner of Memories (I hope we can depart today)





CHAPTER ONE


Terrible Is the Sea


When Ransom reached the top of the steps and arrived at the master bedchamber, he saw that Claire was already up and dressed and talking to one of her maids, a Gaultic lass by the name of Keeva. He loved hearing the lilt of their accent—Claire’s became stronger, he found, whenever she spoke with someone else from Legault.

“And Keeva, make sure my father’s bow is stowed for the voyage. I want to have it mounted when we get back to Connaught.”

“Yes, mistress, is there aught else?” She smiled when she saw Ransom. “Mornin’, milord.”

“Good morning, Keeva,” Ransom said, walking to his private closet, where he could change out of his sweaty tunic and see to the injury on his arm. Although he needn’t do anything to heal it, he didn’t wish to attract anyone’s notice.

“Ransom, she brought some qinnamon torrere for breakfast,” Claire said. “To celebrate. Captain said the weather should hold. We can leave today.” The excitement in her voice would have normally made him smile, but he was still rattled from his experience in the grove.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he answered, still going.

“Stay and eat,” Claire pleaded.

“I smell like a boarhound. Let me change first.”

She pouted and then nodded, turning back to Keeva as he shut the door. There was a marbled-glass window in the closet, providing sufficient light. He made his way to the basin on the table and splashed some water on his face. Then, wincing, he pulled off his tunic to examine his arm. The cut was long and deep, in the upper part of his arm, and the raven’s-head scabbard still glowed as it worked to heal him.

Once he’d collected himself a little, he picked up a rag and dipped it into the bowl of water. Slowly cleaning his neck and his throat, he thought about the magic that had swept him away. He’d considered the possibility it might transport him while he was sleeping, which would surely set him at a disadvantage, but what if it swept him away during an important moment?

The door of the closet opened. He glanced over his shoulder and watched as Claire stepped inside.

“I don’t care if you smell like a boarhound,” she quipped, offering a mischievous smile. She sidled up to him and kissed his back. The feel of her lips on his skin made gooseflesh prickle down his arms. Her hands wrapped around him, and he felt the anxiety begin to melt away, replaced by much more pleasant feelings. But the familiar ache in his heart had not been dispelled—he feared losing her the way he had lost so many other people.

Her hands deftly unbuckled the scabbard belt, and before he could stop her, the sword, scabbard, and belt dropped to the floor. Pain flared in his shoulder, and he tensed before he could conceal his reaction.

“Why did you flinch? I sent Keeva away and locked the door. No one will—mallacht! You’re bleeding!”

Blood was streaming down his arm. He grabbed the rag and pressed it against the cut.

“Brainless badger, why didn’t you say you’d been hurt? Let me see it.”

“It’s nothing,” Ransom said, turning his shoulder away from her.

“Nothing? I’ll be my own judge, thank you. Remove the rag.”

He did, gritting his teeth. The thrum of his heartbeat could be felt from the wound. “I’ve had much worse than this.”

She examined it, her brow furrowing with concern, and then nodded for him to cover it again. He pressed the bloody rag against it, knowing the bleeding would stop as soon as he put the scabbard back on.

“I know you’ve had worse,” she said, meeting his gaze. Her hand touched his chest, and she traced one of the scars near his collarbone. “I’ve kissed them all.” Her finger pointed to the center of his chest. “But the ones on the inside worry me most. The kind that pastes and poultices cannot heal. Still, I’ll take the chance to help where I can. I can work a needle and thread, Ransom. Let me stitch it closed. You don’t have to do it yourself.”

Her words reached through the pain and tugged deep at his heart.

“You don’t have to,” he said, feeling tenderness that was sweeter than the dish she’d ordered for their breakfast.

“I want to,” she said, stepping closer.

He closed his eyes and smiled. “I didn’t mean it like that. Could you pick up my scabbard belt?”

There was a confused look on her brow, but she bent down and retrieved it. He raised his arms so she could wrap it around his waist and buckle it. As soon as that was done, the dormant raven’s head began to glow again. The pain and dizziness faded, and he dipped the bloodied rag into the dish.

“The bleeding stopped,” Claire said in wonder, gazing at the line of the wound and then at him.

He squeezed the rag above the dish and began wiping the blood off his arm, but she stopped him and bathed his arm herself.

“This scabbard came from the Chandleer Oasis,” he told her. “It is unlike other scabbards, Claire. It heals wounds.”

“The Aos Sí must have made it,” she said with interest. Her gaze took it in, and she started nodding, bright eyed. “It’s one of the thirteen treasures.”

“It was a gift from the Fountain,” he insisted.

“Ransom,” she said with a little patient condescension in her voice, “I’ve read about the treasures, and I’m telling you it’s one of them. Look what it’s done! The wound is there, but it does not bleed.” She pressed against it with the rag, and he winced. “Sorry.”

“You say there’s thirteen of them?”

“Yes, I’ve read about them in the legends of my people. And you found one of them in the East Kingdoms. I’m agog.” Her enthusiasm was charming. He didn’t resent her the certainty she felt, yet he knew what he knew. The Fountain had spoken to him.

After she’d finished wiping his arm, she examined the wound again and then kissed the tip of her first two fingers and pressed them next to the wound. Their eyes met.

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You have healed me,” he told her. “More than you’ll ever know.”

A sudden pounding on the outer chamber door broke the intimacy of the moment. Claire huffed and stormed out, ready to scold whoever had intruded on them.

He grabbed another linen undershirt and held it in his hand while he looked at the tunics spread out before him, symbols of his wealth and royal office.

Claire poked her head around the door. “As much as I enjoy seeing you like this, Ransom,” she said with hungry eyes, “you’d best hurry. Emi is leaving!”



Claire and Ransom walked with the queen dowager down the wharf toward the ship bearing the lion sigil of the Vexin. She was taking the early tide, and Ransom and Claire intended to take the later one. A crowd had gathered to bid the renewed duchess farewell. She had been given the warmest welcome of any of the noble wedding guests, owing to her close connection to Claire.

Her knights stood at the gangway, ready to escort her up, but she stopped and turned to Claire. “We leave as equals now,” she said. “Duchess to duchess. When we next meet, it is I who will be beneath you, the Queen of Legault.”

“But you are forever taller than I, Emi, so that can never happen,” Claire bantered cheerfully. The two embraced, their long captivity and confinement over. The shared suffering had forged an unshakable bond between the two women.

There were kisses and tears as the two held the embrace. Ransom felt a surge of admiration for the queen dowager. Had she not taken a chance on him all those years ago by paying his ransom to DeVaux, he wouldn’t be here. All he had, he owed to her. The obligation he felt to her went beyond mere duty. He would do anything for her.

Emiloh broke the embrace and then turned to Ransom. “My heart is heavy leaving the two of you,” she said, touching his arm. “You are both still very young, still very much in love. Be wiser than Devon and I were. Be true to each other. I want so much for both of you.”