Chapter Six

Her abductors didn't rest until they were on the other side of the border.

Prudence had never spent so many hours on a horse. Her thighs were numb, and her lower back hurt more than it ever had. Yet it was the chill that tormented her the most.

At least you have a long dress on…

Her family's new Puritan ways included sleeping in a long, loose gown which went over her shift. The garment had a collar, like a shirt, and she was extremely grateful for it as the hours of the night passed and they rode on. Heading north meant the temperature wasn't going to get any warmer. When at last the leader of the group called for them to stop, Prudence slid off the horse she rode and crumpled.

She growled and struggled to stand.

No matter how much her pride would have liked for her body to obey, she was only halfway to her feet when the leader pulled her the rest of the way up with a firm grip on her bicep.

"Stomp yer feet lass," he advised her.

She did as he said, desperate for relief from needing to be held up. Her legs hurt as the circulation resumed. Her knees wobbled but at least they held.

Small mercies…

Suddenly, the leader pressed his dirk against her wrist, and she gasped in horror. Her eyes widened as she looked at the sun shining on the polished surface of the blade.

"I certainly did nae bring ye all this way just to kill ye lass," he muttered as he jerked the blade up and slit the strip of cloth which had bound her wrists together. "Go on and see to yer needs," he said, jerking his head toward several trees. The sound of water hitting stones made her cheeks burn with a blush as she realized the men riding with them had simply lifted their kilts to relieve themselves.

Prudence scurried around the tree, grateful for how thick the trunks were. Now that she was off the horse, she did need to relieve herself.

Immediately…

The moment she found relief, she tore the gag off. Normally she would have abhorred waste, but she threw it to the ground with satisfaction, uncaring that the strip of cloth might have been put to good use in mending garments.

"Come back here, Mistress."

She could run.

And how far do you think you will get?

Once again, her pride didn't care very much for the answer. At least she was unbound.

And you can't go home, or he'll just follow you and do what he threatened to do…

No, she absolutely could not go home, or else her family would suffer. There truly were fates worse than death. Living with the knowledge that she'd caused the deaths of her family was something she simply could not suffer.

Prudence squared her shoulders. The choice was clear, and she refused to be a coward about it. The first step was the hardest, but she took it, and then the next one. She made it back around the clump of trees and saw her abductor watching for her. The stern expression on his face eased a bit when she came into view. There might even have been a hint of respect in his eyes as she closed the distance.

"Here—" The leader thrust his hand out toward her.

In his hand was a bundle of her clothing. Her skirt was wrapped up around the rest of it. A happy little smile lifted her lips. She reached out and hugged it close, grateful beyond measure. Just yesterday, she'd thought she had nothing. But today, she realized how rich she'd been to have her family and the simple dignity of clothing.

"Aye, I thought ye'd be glad of having something to put on."

How could she smile at him?

Prudence chastised herself as she went back around the cluster of trees and unrolled the bundle. A prisoner or not, she was grateful for her clothing. Even her shoes were nestled inside the fabric of her skirt. She happily removed her long robe and pulled her stockings on, making sure to secure the top of each on with a leather garter before slipping her feet into her shoes.

Simple necessities…

She was beyond grateful as she worked to dress herself. There was something about being dressed which bolstered her confidence. The sturdy wool cut the morning chill and her shoes were a welcome relief from bare feet. Even her linen cap was there, thanks to her mother's insistence that everything be kept neat and orderly. Pulling it over her hair restored her peace of mind as well.

As if your clothing will stop them from doing whatever they please with you…

She knew that was the truth. Still, feelings didn't often make logical sense, now did they? Besides, there was nothing to gain by being angry. Prudence ordered her emotions to settle down before she returned to the other side of the tree. If her only choice was dignity or none, well, she'd maintain her composure. Pride might be considered poor comfort, but the gag had been very dry, and she'd rather not suffer it again.

When she stood in front of the leader once more, he studied her for a long moment. It almost appeared as though he was as ill at ease with their circumstances as she was.

"I am Oran," the leader said, introducing himself.

Manners were something her mother had trained her in since before Prudence could recall. She started to lower herself into a reverence, then stopped, and hovered for a moment halfway down.

Oran made a little ‘huraph' sound.

"I suppose this is not the sort of introduction where the manners yer mother taught ye apply," Oran remarked wryly.

Prudence straightened up.

"Here." Oran thrust a flask toward her. "Drink and eat, for I swear I'll tie ye over the saddle like a sack of grain if ye faint. We've no time to be coddling ye. Winter is closing its grip on us."

The horse snorted, and she quickly lifted the flask to her lips. It was a good thing she was famished because the oat cakes smelled strongly of the leather bag they had been stored in. Yet there was also a faint aroma of nutty oats. Her belly rumbled, demanding substance.

Consuming her meager meal took very little time. She didn't lose a single crumb. Yet all too soon Oran was whistling, calling his men to order. He appeared to be checking his horse's bridle, but she knew he was waiting to see if she'd comply with his summons.

What choice did she have?

*

England

The Hawlyn house was silent.

It was so quiet, Modesty could clearly hear the boiling of the water in the copper. Nobody moved. The household staff remained idle instead of attending to the ever-needed work in the kitchen. The master of the house stood with his back to his family, facing the hearth.

Even young James, at only six winters, had his ankles crossed beneath the table instead of swinging his feet back and forth in his usual way.

There was a stiff intake of breath from her father, then he finally turned to face his family.

"We must be grateful for the lack of spilled blood," he muttered solemnly.

Modesty's mother sniffled. For a moment, she and her husband locked gazes.

"Prudence did not keep her feet on the path of obedience," her father stated firmly. "She should be thankful her actions did not bring harm to her sisters or family."

"Father, you cannot mean to say you believe Prudence deserved to be…abducted," Modesty declared.

Her father turned to her. "Your sister," he said, "chose wildness and sinful celebrations. I have made great efforts to teach her the dangers of such endeavors, yet she chose not to heed the lesson."

"I told you both not to go to the bonfire," Temperance grumbled.

Her eyes widened when she realized what she'd said. She bit her lower lip, but it was far too late.

"You went as well, Modesty?"

Modesty's father's tone was hard. Disapproval shimmered in his eyes as he waited for her to answer. The room was silent as a tomb while all eyes rested on her.

"I did," Modesty admitted.

Her father shifted his gaze to his youngest daughter.

"And you knew of this, Temperance?"

Temperance's eyes filled with tears which streamed down her cheeks under her father's direct gaze. She looked toward her mother but found no comfort in her eyes. Temperance nodded and hung her head in shame. Her tears fell onto the worn wood surface of the table.

Master Hawlyn snorted. "This is the fruit of disobedience!"

James looked at his father with disbelief. "Father, you never raise your voice. You say it shows a lack of self-discipline."

His young voice appeared to temper his father's anger. Master Hawlyn snapped his mouth shut while he wrestled with his anger.

"Thank you for reminding me, James," Master Hawlyn said to his youngest son before he directed his attention toward his daughters. "Innocence…is priceless, and unmatched in this world. It is also fragile. Once it has been tarnished, there is no cleaning away the stain."

He drew in another deep breath and locked his hands behind his back but the look he sent Modesty was hard and unrelenting.

"Your sister's plight must serve as an example to you, Modesty. Henceforth, you will sleep in the eves. I suggest you devote yourself to prayer, and try to amend your willful nature, before you meet with the same fate your sister has."

*

"Modesty?" Temperance called out in a ghost of a whisper after the lamp was extinguished.

The bed they had was small enough that she really didn't need to speak any louder. The section of the eves they were afforded to sleep in was tiny too, and the roof was directly above them, so it was cold and sleeping together was very practical.

"Do you believe Prudence deserves to be…wherever she is?" Temperance continued, in spite of a lack of response from her sister.

"There is little point in talking about the matter," Modesty answered.

"Are you angry with me?" Temperance asked. "I truly did not intend to tell father about the bonfire. I was simply so worried about Prudence."

Modesty sighed. "I am worried about her as well."

"What shall we do?"

"We must hope fate is kind to her," Modesty replied.

Modesty tried to use a hopeful tone, but the truth was, she didn't have much faith in her sister meeting with a kind end. Scots were uncivilized at best, savages at worst. They had no love for the English, no matter how little choice anyone had in just where they were born.

Yet there had a been a moment at that bonfire when it hadn't mattered what side of the border any of them had been born on. Scot and English, Protestant, Catholic and Puritan had mingled and laughed together freely. They had been just people, celebrating the joy of a bountiful harvest. It was a tradition older than any of their disagreements.

Perhaps the Laird of Misrule had sent for his queen consort. Perhaps the Midnight Well was more enchanted than anyone knew. Modesty would like to think her sister was bound for love instead of ruin…or the very practical arranged match she would likely have to endure.

Guilt gnawed at Modesty for thinking of her own plight when her sister was in such dire circumstances. But even as she admitted her guilt, she recalled the way the Laird of Misrule had protected her sister at the bonfire. He was a man of principle.

Modesty allowed the memory to linger in her mind while she fell asleep. For doing so afforded her hope. No matter how much her logic wanted to argue against it—what were the chances that the Lord of Misrule was behind Prudence's abduction?—hope always did manage to maintain its flame against the darkness of disappearance.

The last thing to cross her mind was a prayer that her sister would find some hope in her circumstances.

Or at least a quick death.