Not Quite Married by Betina Krahn Page A

to leave?
    Alarm shot through her and she drew on the strength it provided to sit up and look around. Her hair was loose and lay in damp clumps around her shoulders. She wore a thin nightdress that felt clammy and clung to her. On the nearby table she could make out a pitcher and glass and what appeared to be medicine bottles like those she’d administered to Ella. It began to knit together in her head.
    She’d been ill and, from the searing aches in her chest and lungs, she was still recovering. But why here? She slid her feet over the side of the bed and pushed herself up. Steadying herself on the bed, then a chair, then a barrel, she made for the door.
    “Hello?” She pounded on the massive oak planks with her fist but was so weak she produced only a few dull thuds. “Is anyone there?” She bent over in a fit of coughing, then tried again. “Can anyone hear me?”
    The cold of the stone floor seeped up her legs and her teeth began to chatter. She staggered back to the bed and collapsed, exhausted by that small bit of movement. Her last thoughts as she sank again into unconsciousness were that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be and that Raoul was somehow to blame.
    When she roused from that troubled sleep, there was light around her and someone moving nearby. She looked up to find a mountain of a man with no hair and a face full of mismatched features squinting down at her. Raoul’s man, Dyso. The one Ella had found so frightening. Brien had seen him occasionally from a distance. He kept mostly to the stables and was assigned to care for Raoul’s . . .
    “Noooo!” she croaked out, shrinking back as he reached for her.
    His coal-black eyes remained fastened on her as she recoiled. She was suddenly seized by a painful round of coughing and he cocked his head as if analyzing the sounds. Moving back to the table, he mixed something from the bottles in a cup and carried it back to her. His movements were slow but far from clumsy. She looked at the delicate china cup in his big, blocky hands and then up at him.
    At close range it became clear that the numerous scars on his chin and jaw and around his eyes were what gave him that odd

    “patchwork” appearance. His head was not just bald, it was shaven, and beneath his frayed clothing, massive muscles bulged.
    But despite those formidable elements, something about his manner and clear, steady gaze spoke of patience and a nature free of deception.
    She finally gathered the courage to reach for the cup.
    “What’s happened to me?” Her voice was alarmingly weak.
    “Why am I here?”
    He said nothing, but backed toward the door and unhooked a ring of keys from his belt. In one fluid movement he ducked out and closed the heavy door behind him, sealing her in once more.
    Her blood rushed to her head. She was a prisoner here. Raoul’s prisoner. And that hulk was her jailer.
    Looking down at the cup she was gripping, she sniffed and recognized the aroma. Tea. With honey. She sipped and when it proved to be just that, she drank gratefully. She rallied enough strength to place the cup back on the table and then turned back to the bed. That extreme heaviness overtook her again and she sank to her knees by the bed.
    When Dyso reentered moments later, he found her on the floor, leaning against the edge of the bed, asleep. With a softening in his battered face, he collected her and tucked her back into the bed, tidying her nightdress around her and braiding her hair loosely to keep it out of the way. He sat with her for a few moments, listening to her breathing, then with a strange little smile of sympathy, padded out.
    The next time she awakened, the chamber was entirely dark.
    How long had she slept? She was certainly more aware of her surroundings and coherent enough to realize she was at Raoul’s mercy and thus in real danger.

    The key scraped in the lock and the door swung open to admit Dyso, carrying a large candelabra and a tray of food. He placed both on the