“V-visiting friends.”
The man doing the questioning pursed his lips irritably. “Get her to her feet,” he commanded. “Take her back to Mortimer.”
The same man who had knocked her off her horse turned to his commander. “She is injured, m’lord,” he told him.
“That is her fault. Get her on a horse.”
The soldier turned his attention back to her and, obeying orders, grabbed Toby by the wrist and yanked her into a sitting position. Toby screamed again in agony and, upon being jostled a second time, succumbed to the welcome shroud of unconsciousness.
When she finally came to, she was in a dark, cold shelter that she did not recognize. She lay there a moment, eyeing her surroundings and having no idea where she was. But she did remember the chase, the fall, and her heart began to pound loudly in her ears. Wherever she was, it was no place friendly. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious or what had happened during that time. All she knew was that she was in a good deal of trouble. She could only hope that Tate and the others were able to get away.
She took a deep breath and pain shot through her torso. Agony returned full bore and she groaned softly, her hands against her ribs as if to hold in the pain. Tears ran down her temples as she wondered just how badly she was hurt. Any movement was torture.
“What is your name, lady?”
The voice was soft in the darkness. Startled, Toby tried to twist her head around to see where it came from. She could see a body off to her right, back behind an old vizier that was struggling to give off some heat. But the twist of her neck hurther torso so she resumed her former position, lying still and staring up at the ceiling.
“Who is asking?” she replied breathlessly.
The man didn’t say anything for a moment and Toby heard rustling, as if clothing was being shaken. Suddenly there were footfalls near her head and she closed her eyes, praying that the man wouldn’t step on her skull. But the footfalls came to a halt and she could hear breathing as the man stood over her. He was silent for quite some time because, Toby was sure, he was inspecting her.
“You are a captive of Roger Mortimer,” the man finally said. “I would suggest you cooperate so we can have your ribs attended to. I was told you were injured in a fall.”
You are a captive of Roger Mortimer. More tears trickled down Toby’s temples. She was terrified. While most of her refused to let the man know who she was, a small part of her was adamant that she tell him. If he did not know who she really was, he might think she was just another peasant girl and kill her. Worse than that, they might take her to sport. If they knew she was de Lara’s wife, it might give her some amnesty. Frightened, injured, she had never even been in a battle until a few days ago and was naïve to the rules of engagement or captivity. She could only go with her instincts and her instincts, weakened by her pain, lessened her resolve to be a difficult prisoner. She was afraid of what would happen to her if she was less than cooperative.
“I was injured when one of your men threw me off my horse,” she whispered, opening her eyes to look at the tall, thin man standing over her. “If you tell me your name, I will tell you mine.”
The man’s brown eyes glimmered in the weak light of the vizier as he crouched beside her. “My name is of no consequence. I was told you were discovered at Harbottle Castle.”
“I was running from Harbottle Castle.”
“Why were you running?”
“Because there were a dozen armed men in the bailey and I was frightened. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Why were you there?”
She paused, eyeing him in the weak light. “What you really wish to know is who I am. I told you; tell me your name and I will tell you mine.”
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “You drive a hard bargain, lady.”
“I have been told that.”
“You are also exquisitely beautiful so I would suspect that you are not a servant.”
“Are all servant girls so ugly?”
“I have never seen a servant girl look like you. In fact, I have never seen any woman look like you.”
Toby was feeling uncertain and uncomfortable. She didn’t like the tone the man was using nor the way upon which he was looking at her. But she was in a very bad position to defend herself should he try to force himself upon her. Fear began to creep into her veins.
“Who are you?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.
The man cocked an eyebrow. “I told you. You are the prisoner of Roger Mortimer.”
“Are you Mortimer, then?”
He nodded vaguely. “Now,” he sat down on his buttocks next to her. “Have I earned your trust enough so that you would tell me your name?”