Knight's Captive by Samantha Holt

she’d left him at the mercy of those men. She told herself she hadn’t
known the sort of man her captor was but now she was deeply ashamed of her
actions. His prisoner or not, she should never have betrayed his trust. The man
was right. At the hands of anyone else, she could have been treated poorly
indeed.
    “What was his father like?”
    He lowered the chopping knife and eyed her. “Sir
Edmund was not like Sir Henry, to be sure. Let us just say that your fellow countrymen
would think themselves lucky to be locked away in a barn should they have been
under his care.”
    She couldn’t help but wonder how such a man
might sire a son like Henry. He had his moments where he seemed fierce, she
supposed, but she was becoming increasingly doubtful that was his true nature.
    Mr Willis turned his attention back to the mint
leaves and set about chopping them roughly. Antonia wound her hands together
and attempted to turn her attention away from Henry by inspecting the herbs
once more. There were a few she didn’t recognise that she had to assume were
native to England but most were much like the ones she had grown in the herb
garden in Spain.
    “What is this?” She lifted the stem of a dried
purple flower.
    The physician paused chopping and rubbed his
hands together to remove the mint leaves from his palms. “’Tis
Scottish Primrose.”
    Antonia nodded. “We have primrose in Spain but
not of this colour. Are the properties the same?”
    “It soothes and calms. ‘Tis a great help to
women when they are overwrought.”
    “ Si , that is how
we use it.”
    He peered at her, his grey eyes narrowed with
interest. “You understand the use of herbs?”
      “ Si. I
had an herb garden that I tended in Spain. We use primrose in tea.” She twisted
the dried flower in her hand and eyed its purple petals. “You have English
primrose do you not?”
    “Aye, but ‘tis thought the Scottish primrose is
more potent. I buy it from a merchant in Plymouth.”
    Before Antonia could question him further, the
door burst open and a young lad ran in. “A fight,” he puffed. “By the church. Sir Henry...”
    Antonia didn’t wait to hear more. She’d
abandoned Henry to a fight before and she wouldn’t do it again. She raced out
of the cottage and down the muddy road that twisted around a corner and dropped
toward the church. Already people were gathering around the building, pressing
against the stone wall and trying to clamber over it to get a better view. She
hurried as fast as she could in her borrowed gown and leather shoes, her heart
beating a sickening tattoo in her chest.
    She reached the edge of the crowd and tried to
peer over the angry shaking fists but could not see Henry. An elbow jabbed in
her side, and she bit back a yelp before trying to press her way between the crush
of bodies. The scent of sweat filled her nostrils. The air grew thick around
her. Someone’s cry rang in her ears, but she struggled to make out what they
were so furious about. As she pushed farther into the crowd, she narrowly
avoided being shoved over and several limbs nearly connected with her face.
    Where was he?
    She burst out of the crowd and her knees jarred
against the stone wall surrounding the church. Biting back a cry of pain, she
froze.
    “Henry.” His name left her lips before she could
summon it back. And she wanted to. He couldn’t be distracted. But he glanced
her way, his expression severe, dark, dangerous . Her
breath stuck in her throat. Sword held out, he kept back the braying crowd
while a man cowered behind him.
    “Get back,” he shouted, using the tip of his
sword to keep distance between him and the few brave men who had stepped over
the wall to confront him.
    What this man he was protecting had done, she
knew not.
    One of the large men dashed forward, forcing
Henry to swing his blade around.
    “Let us have him,” the man yelled. “He’s a
traitor.”
    “I’ll do no such thing. Get back or I will use
force.”
    Antonia