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The only answer she got was muffled laughter from the youth on the ground.

It wasn’t a good fit. She didn’t know what to do with her legs—astride? to the side?—so Hugh arranged her, lifting her and placing her as he wished. She ended up sideways across his body and held up so the saddle wouldn’t pinch.

The rain fell harder. The darkness loomed so thick she blinked and couldn’t tell the difference. One of Hugh’s arms lifted her bottom while his hand cushioned her from the thrust of the stiff leather. His other arm held her under her thighs. She wanted to ask who was guiding the horse, but his body moved as he controlled the palfrey with his knees. “Who trained this horse?” she asked.

“Sir Ramsden. He handled my horses.”

“He does so no longer?”

“He is dead in the last battle.”

His brevity convinced her of Hugh’s displeasure with her. So she supposed if she wanted to lighten his mood, she ought to ask him about that battle. Men loved to talk about battle. They belabored every slash of the sword and every arrow’s flight. And if they weren’t talking about a battle past, they could be coaxed to talk about a future battle, or even a legend about a battle.

Unfortunately, she’d already heard it all, and she didn’t care to hear Hugh’s stories. She’d sworn she would never again listen to battle tales, and marrying a warrior—sweet Mother, another warrior!—only reinforced her determination.

There had to be another way. “Can your poor horse carry us both?” It was a stupid question; obviously it could. It was.

He ignored her.

“Your arm must ache from the strain of holding me. Would you like me to walk?”

He stopped her almost before she tried to free herself. “Save your breath,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

She didn’t like that. What did he mean? Was he going to beat her? Hugh didn’t seem the type to beat a woman for being kidnapped and causing him trouble, but really, how much did she know about him?

Robin had hit her in anger when she’d complained about his tomcat habits. Her duke had hit her in frustration when he couldn’t get his manhood to function. Hugh was her husband now, and he’d spoken of revenge.

Lights shone through the trees. When they broke out of the forest, she saw the abbey ahead. He’d said they weren’t going to the abbey, but…he turned the palfrey toward the stable.

Of course. He had to get his horse under cover. The stable boy came running out and held the palfrey’s head while Hugh eased Edlyn down. When her feet touched the mounting block, he dismounted himself and took her hand. Tossing a coin to the boy, he dragged her through the muck toward a community of tents. They hunkered down around a fire like fat maidens around a well, and Edlyn remembered seeing them in her flight into the woods. She’d been so upset she hadn’t paid attention to them or realized they housed Hugh’s men.

Another youth—the fire-tender, Edlyn guessed—stepped out of the shadows at their approach. “My lord, you found her! Is she well?”

Hugh ignored his query. “Put a light in my tent.”

“Aye, my lord.” The lad popped a quick bow and took off at a run.

Trying to reassure him, Edlyn called, “They didn’t hurt me.”

If Hugh had been a bear, he would have snarled. “He’ll hear the story soon enough.”

He moved toward the largest tent, a behemoth of felt and ropes. The youth walked through the front flap with a lighted candle and darted out empty-handed, and Hugh didn’t even thank him. She’d have to take his manners in hand…if he didn’t beat her.

Edlyn paused to take off her shoes before she entered the tent, but Hugh said, “There’s no delaying your fate, my lady,” and hustled her inside.

Her housewifely soul cringed at the marks his great boots made on the woven hemp rug.

The large room was spotless. Trunks lined the wall. A table held the lighted candle. A large pallet of skins lay on the floor in the corner, the edge turned back in invitation…she jerked her attention away.

Obviously someone worked hard to keep the area tidy for the master. Pointing to the mud, she said, “That’s going to have to be cleaned up.”

He barely glanced down. “Not tonight. No one’s coming in here tonight.”

He turned to her, and for the first time she saw his face.

He was angry. He was so angry. “Let us get this out of the way now,” he said. “I captured your husband and sent him to London to be executed. ’Tis a piece of misfortune I was the commander to do so, but he was ripe for hanging. He took chances, Edlyn, that no knight should have taken.”

“I know.” She did know. Robin had thought himself invincible. He’d embraced danger much as he’d embraced women—indiscriminately and with great appetite.