The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(33)

Ladynapping

Moodily, Reuben stared out of his window, up at the moon. He had heard quite a few ballads sung about it. The damn thing was supposed to be romantic. He couldn't decide whether that really was the case or whether he'd like to hack it into tiny little pieces. Just as he couldn't decide what to make of Ayla.

Had she forgiven him? Did she still have feelings for him?

That maid, Dilli, seemed to think so. But then, the same maid, Dilli, had taken him to be one of the undead on their first meeting, so Reuben didn't feel a lot of confidence in her judgment. Unable to decide what to think or what to do, he continued to sit on his bed, staring up at the moon. He was completely lost in his thoughts. So completely that he almost missed the quiet scrape of metal on metal.

Almost.

He had been a robber knight for five years. You didn't stay alive with a price on your head for five whole years on the roads of the Holy Roman Empire and the roads of even stranger, far deadlier lands without learning the difference between an “oh damn, I have just made a scratch in my brand-new bronze mirror” sound and a “psht, I am drawing a dagger” sound. He had certainly heard the latter kind often enough.

Swift and silent as a striking snake, Reuben swiveled around so his head faced the door, and his legs were like a coiled spring beneath him, ready to catapult him to his feet at a moment's notice. His hand clamped down around the hilt of his sword, and darkness descended on his features.

There it was again! There was no doubt this time; it was the sound of a knife. Reuben could imagine only one reason why a man with a knife might want to come into his room in the middle of the night, and it wasn't to cut his toenails. Whoever wanted his life would not find him unprepared, though. His other hand slid under his coat of mail to the hilt of the familiar dagger concealed in a secret pouch there. Luca, the fenn-sucked scut, had probably not even realized it was there, in the brief period during which he had dared to don Reuben’s armor.

Reuben grinned. These other enemies out there would remain just as oblivious of the dagger’s existence until it was too late for them.

Then, very slowly, the grin slipped from his face as a terrible possibility occurred to him.

Who could possibly be after his life right now, except one person? The only one who knew who he really was. The one who had sworn to see him dead.

His hand clenched so hard around the hilt of the dagger that he almost ripped the thing out of its sheath involuntarily. God's teeth! Did she not have the courage to have him hanged in broad daylight and see the deed done? Did she have to send a hired killer to do her dirty work for her? He had not thought so low of Ayla as that.

But…no. Reuben frowned. He could still hear the snoring of the guards right in front of his room. If Ayla had sent a killer to rid herself of him, surely she would have sent her own guards away first.

The alien, secretive noises came closer. Now they were not scrapes of metal anymore, but quiet footsteps. Nevertheless, it was the same person, Reuben was sure. More footsteps followed. They approached his room slowly. Reuben loosened his sword in its scabbard and prepared to face his enemies, whoever they might be.

And then the footsteps went past his room, on down the corridor.

For some reason Reuben didn't feel better.

If they were not after him, who could they possibly…?

~~*~~*

A dirty, smelly hand clamped down over Ayla's mouth. Above her, she could see the beefy figure of a man dressed in light leather armor, with several knives at his belt. What little moonlight fell in through the small window showed only the rough outlines of his face, but that was more than enough. A patchwork of scars, a massive chin, and a broken nose told Ayla as surely as the knife at her throat: this man wasn't here for a game of chess.

“Up with you,” he growled.

When she didn't react, paralyzed with fear, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled painfully. “Up with you, I said! Do as I say, or I'll leave a few marks on that pretty little face of yours. Would you like that? Now move!”

She half rose, half was dragged to her feet. Her head was on fire, the man still having hold of her hair. He used it to pull her against his chest, and he snaked an arm around her waist.

Ayla dragged in a ragged breath and almost gagged. Ugh! The thought shot through her head. He stinks worse than a week's worth of pig’s dung!

And then she thought, A man is taking me against my will and pressing a knife against my throat, and all I can think of is how bad he smells? What's wrong with me?

She felt rather odd. Blood was pounding in her ears, her hands were sweaty, and her eyes were opened unusually wide. She didn't feel fear as such—she was still far too shocked for that, having been ripped from sleep in half a second. But she knew somewhere deep down that fear was on the way. And when it came, it would hit her like a rampaging boar.

“Ortwin!” the beefy man hissed. “Is the way clear?”

“Err…not as such, Sir,” came a voice from the direction of the door. There are more of them, another thought shot through Ayla's head.

“What do you mean, not as such?” growled the beefy man. “Are there guards outside or not?”

“I don't know whether there are guards outside, Sir. There's a girl inside, though, Sir.”

“What?” The beefy man’s grip on Ayla’s hair tightened, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.