Page 8 of The Taking of House Westwood

Sophie didn’t miss the glint in her father’s sad eyes, nor the clench of his jaw. Owen’s lack of deference to his superiors was probably going to cost him a thrashing with Rory’s strap after all. The young man betrayed not a hint of fright at the prospect though, and her esteem for him grew more at his courage. She had the sudden urge to grasp his arm, but she suppressed it, not wanting to anger her father further.

The Lady turned to Sophie’s father. “Might we have a look at her now?

Sophie wondered if the Lady was perhaps after one of the horses that were stalled deeper within the barn; it was well known that House Westwood was always on the lookout for fast horses. There were nothing but mares and a single foal in the barn however. Perhaps the Lady was seeking a brood mare instead?

The look of helplessness Sophie saw flash across the angular features of her father’s face unsettled her. He turned to face the Lady.

“Your Grace — perhaps I —”

The Lady’s smile beamed, dazzling in its beauty, but her eyes were cold as the winter morning. “Clayton, forgive me. We haven’t spoken of compensation yet have we? I was so intent on finding my prize, it simply slipped my mind.”

The Lady laid a hand on his shoulder. The sparkling jeweled rings on her fingers looked to be worth more than the entire farm, and then some. “How much would assuage your misplaced guilt, ameliorate your loss? My men carry gold enough, surely. Name your price.”

She turned her smiling face to Sophie, and it was at that moment that she realized something was dreadfully wrong.

“Father, what’s going on here? What does she mean?”

“Why do you speak to him and not to me, girl? He has no more dominion over you. That has now become my privilege to enjoy.” The glint of the Lady’s eyes left no doubt in Sophie’s mind that she was in serious peril. Those eyes bespoke nothing but cruelty.

“Sophie,” her father said, stepping toward her. “Address your Lady properly, you know better than this.” He lowered his head slightly, staring at her, the forlorn expression on his face rapidly eroding any confidence she’d had that this encounter would turn out well for her.

“I am sorry, milady. It’s just that I don’t understand. What are you here to procure?”

The Lady tilted her head to one side, her pink lips curved in a half smile. “Why I’m here to procure you, my dear.”

Sophie’s heart sank through the floor. This couldn’t be happening.

Owen stepped in front of Sophie, his arm reaching around her protectively. “She’s not going anywhere, my Lady.”

Sophie clutched his arm, wanting to melt into him, to seek shelter in his strength. She knew the feeling was absurd, but she was truly frightened, and holding onto Owen gave her real, if fleeting, comfort.

Sophie’s father growled, ready to explode, but the Lady beat him to it. Her sword was out so fast, Sophie had no perception of its movement. Rather, it seemed to instantly materialize, the lethal point a mere breath from the pulsing carotid of Owen’s throat.

“Oh, I think she is, boy.” The Lady’s mouth was a thin line, her jaw clenched. “Stand down. Now.”

Owen stepped back a pace, pushing Sophie behind him. The Lady betrayed her first bit of pique, her cool confidence faltering for the briefest of moments, revealing an icy anger. She gritted her teeth, nodding her head. Two of her men appeared instantly in the doorway, rushing to Owen and grasping him by the arms.

“Bastards!” Owen broke the grip of one of the men, crashing his forearm up under the soldier’s chin, sending him reeling. It was a short fight though, the pommel of the other soldier’s sword striking the boy a neat blow to the temple, staggering him. The other soldier quickly recovered, landing a gauntlet-clad fist in the tall boy’s midsection, doubling him over with a pained gasp of breath.

“Leave him alone!” Sophie attacked the nearest man, beating on his mailed back with her fists.

“Sophie!” Her father’s roar was enough to cause even the soldiers to pause a moment in their manhandling of Owen.

The Lady grabbed Sophie by the arm, spinning her around to face her. Sophie froze, the point of the Lady’s sword now resting its deadly coldness in the hollow at the base of her throat. “You stay there. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Don’t make it worse for yourself, girl.” The Lady’s eyes flashed as she spoke, points of color in her pale cheeks.

The Lady turned to the soldiers holding Owen, dipping her sword toward the ground. The men kicked the legs out from under him, dropping him to his knees, their hold on his shoulders preventing the struggling boy from rising. As placid as a still lake, the Lady stepped toward him. She pulled her leather riding gloves from her pocket. Then there were two whirs of brown color as the Lady slapped Owen across the cheeks with the gloves, one side, then the other.

He stared up at her, naked rage in his eyes. Sophie had no doubt that had Owen been given the chance, he would have attacked the Lady, even though such an act would have meant the forfeiture of his life.

“Now then, boy,” the Lady said. “You’ll know not to question your betters next time, yes?”

With a defiant thrust of his chin, Owen turned his face away.

“Your Grace,” Sophie’s father said, stepping to the Lady’s side. “He’s a daft lad. Let him be, I beg you.”

“As I said, Clayton,” the Lady replied, returning her gloves to her pocket. “Charming though his chivalry toward your daughter may be, he needs a lesson in better manners. Perhaps my men might show him the error of his ways?”

One of the men holding Owen chuckled, ruffling his unruly hair.

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