Page 9 of Ruthless, But for Her

He willed her silently to obey. Her eyes cut to the captain's cabin, where Nell remained secured.

“She will be returned safely to you,” he said, for the maid's benefit as much as her mistress's. “You have my word.”

“I will not abandon her.”

“If I were you,” he said, knowing she had little other choice, “I would concern myself with my own destination, and not your maid's.”

With that, she sprang into action, attempting to run past him.

With a sigh, Ashton lifted her, tossed her over his shoulder, and moved toward the plank. More than one of the men behind them shouted in protest, but he ignored them all.

The decision had been made. He could tell them she would remain safe. He and Ryker and Leif would ensure it. They would burn the capitals of both England and Scotland down before harming an innocent maid. But that message would find Lady Cassia's husband soon enough. For now, he’d let them think what they would.

When she continued to struggle, he said only, “Unless you fancy finding us both in the ice cold waters below, hold still.”

She obeyed.

He counted it as a small victory, even knowing the lady's obedience was a temporary pleasure.

CHAPTER 6

Cassia

The wheel of fortune turns without remorse; the high are brought low,

the low raised up and all the while, Fortune laughs.

— Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy

Her father, her tutor, even her maid.

Everyone had told Cassia the books she read gave her unrealistic expectations of love and life, and yet here she was, quite literally tossed over the back of her kidnapper, remaining, in her own mind at least, quite calm. Thanks to Boethius.

Everyone was wrong. Words did matter. They offered comfort and confidence, hope when there was none. Getting lost in a tale wasn't time wasted. How could something that brought such joy ever be thought of as anything other than miraculous?

“Please put me down.”

She could see nothing with her hair draped over her face, not to mention the brute's shoulder digging into her stomach.

Surprisingly, he did exactly as she asked.

Upright once again, Cassia attempted to put her hair and gown back into place. How did one manage decorum in such a situation?

He stood so close, his expression, unreadable. Who was he? Why had they boarded their ship?

Cassia turned from her captor to the activity on the ship to which she'd been taken. Looking up toward the stern, she spotted its captain. Without meaning to, she took a step back, as if that might save her if the man decided to descend on them.

He was the most fearsome-looking man she had ever seen—even more so than her captor. Tall, weathered, with the bearing of a man who had spent his life commanding the sea rather than merely crossing it. A Norseman, she was certain of it, and one of rank. The kind of man whose name was spoken carefully, if at all.

“Who...?”

Her captor did not answer.

Shuddering, Cassia looked away from the Norseman to the details of the ship around her. The deck was worn smooth by years of use, the wood dark with salt and sea. Ropes were coiled with deliberate precision. Men moved with the quiet efficiency of those who had done this many times before, their eyes on their tasks rather than on her, which was its own kind of relief. The smell of tar and cold water was sharp in her throat. Somewhere beneath it, she caught the faint trace of woodsmoke.

That was when she spotted them.

The sails had not been raised but she could see them clearly now. Lowered, but most decidedly dyed black.