The Laird's Captive Wife by Joanna Fulford

the rapport between horse and rider was pronounced. Having watched her father and brothers handling young stock she knew that such a sympathetic partnership had been forged out of skill and patience, not the use of the whip. Again it presented another facet of the man.
    ‘I own to surprise,’ he went on. ‘About the mare, I mean.’
    ‘Why so?’
    ‘I expected to hear the word husband in connection with gift, not father.’
    Ashlynn’s gaze remained determinedly between the horse’s ears. ‘Did you?’
    He paused, framing his next question with care but needing to know. ‘Was your husband among those slain at Heslingfield, perhaps?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then…’
    ‘I have no husband.’
    ‘Why not?’
    With an effort she kept her voice level. ‘That is none of your business.’
    ‘None at all,’ he replied. ‘I asked out of curiosity only. You are of age and you canna have lacked for suitors.’
    Upon the word Athelstan flashed into her mind and, with his image, the knowledge that they would never marry now. The realisation brought both relief and guilt. And then, for no good reason, his face dissolved and Iain’s took its place. Almost at once it raised a wry smile; he was the last man on earth her father would ever have chosen to be her husband. And yet, the thought persisted, what if he had? Would she have objected so strenuously to the match then? Would the thought of sharing his bed repel her? The answer was instant and shocking. Shocking because of who he was and shocking because, in spite of that, he was an attractive man. Worse, he engendered feelings that both disturbed and excited in equal measure.
    Iain watched her closely, wondering at the thoughts behind that smooth brow. ‘You make no reply.’
    ‘There were suitors, only none I would marry.’
    ‘Ah. You are hard to please.’
    ‘Since marriage is for life should one not be careful about the choice of partner?’
    ‘A fair point,’ he conceded, ‘but surely your father sought to guide your choice.’
    ‘Yes, he did, but one cannot see through another’s eyes.’
    It was a partial truth only but it would have to suffice. As things stood she wasn’t about to confide in him and, as she had said, it was none of his business anyway.
    ‘True enough,’ he replied. ‘So tell me, what manner of man would you have then, lass?’
    The directness of the question took her aback, but only for a moment.
    ‘I’ll know him when I see him.’
    With that she touched the mare with her heels and cantered on ahead. Iain’s lips twitched. Then he nudged the grey to a swifter pace, catching up a few moments later. Ashlynn spared him no more than a glance, keeping her attention resolutely on the way ahead. His question had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. What matter if she did meet the man of her dreams? She had no kin, no land, no wealth; nothing to call her own save the horse she rode. It was hardly an attractive dowry. In tales of high romance the lover would care nothing for such mundane concerns as his lady’s wealth: in real life things were different. Even if she had gone to Dunfermline and thrown herself on the queen’s mercy, what then? She might have been given a lowly position of some sort, probably little more than a servant. Dunfermline seemed unlikely now. More probable was his disposing of her at Jedburgh. If not, would he take her to Glengarron instead? His power over her was total. He could do with her whatever he liked. She threw another swift glance at her companion and suddenly the possibility didn’t seem so remote. She bit her lip. No matter how she regarded it, the future looked increasingly bleak and without hope of remedy.
    They rode in silence again after that and Iain made no attempt to probe further. For the most part they held the horses to a steady pace putting more miles between them and the farm on the moors. It occurred to Ashlynn that the next night’s accommodation might be very different from the relative