The Captive Heir

Chapter Three

Although it would have killed Elisabet to admit it, being Marie Longheirce's ward was better than suffering Maggie's angry, overzealous guarding. The rope that kept her prisoner gradually increased in length, with more and more slack, until Marie got too annoyed with the constant untying and retying and took it off. Within a week of her capture, she was only restrained at night and her hope for escape grew stronger each day.

She was never left alone, however. No matter how much freedom she was granted to move about the camp, there were always bandits somewhere, and frequently at least one would follow her from one area to another to ensure she wasn't running. Still she continued to plan, and hope, and wait. Her patience would be rewarded eventually.

In the meantime, she had little in the way of entertainment. When she complained to Marie about her boredom, the bandit directed her to the training ground. Uninterested in putting herself in the middle of a large group of armed bandits, Elisabet had scoffed, but as the days passed too slowly and the torture of leisure dragged on, she found herself growing desperate.

By the tenth day, she took Marie's suggestion and wandered over to the clearing the bandits used for practice and training. The day was beautiful, with the bright sun filtering down through the trees, and Elisabet could already feel her spirits lifting as she walked through camp.

When she stepped into the training area, she was immediately assaulted by cries, both critical and supportive. "Come on, you can do better than that!" and "Try a little to the left next time!" came from all sides as pairs of bandits sparred and groups watched and called encouragement.

Marie had been right to suggest she come here. She had missed even being in proximity to swordplay more than she had known. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that she was training with Patrick once more, with Lord Mashen or her father calling instructions to them. Before she could drown in the misery of memories, a loud cheer went up from a group near her.

Curious, Elisabet headed for the source, a large circle of spectators. Not all looked happy. A few groaned in defeat, and at least one was protesting the result of the bout that had just ended.

"It had nothing to do with the sun, and you know it," Alvan was saying to the disgruntled losers. "My man won, fair as hair."

"And you getting out of grub duty for an entire week has nothing to do with your certainty, I'm sure," Marie said drily.

"Alvan's always going to be biased," one of the losers complained. "And Alkeen cheated!"

"Don't make me challenge you next, Wren," a deep voice growled. "It was a fair fight."

As Elisabet reached them, the bandits gradually fell quiet. Most drew away, reluctant to be near the prisoner, loosening the group and allowing Elisabet to see who had been fighting. She saw first a winded young man she had seen in the camp but didn't know by name, whose disappointed expression painted him as the loser of the bout. His partner turned around as silence fell, revealing himself: a sweaty...and shirtless...Fitz.

His blue eyes flashed in irritation when he caught sight of the princess, and as for Elisabet, well, she was unsure of where to look. It felt like her entire body had flamed red upon seeing the man's bare torso. His trousers sat low on his hips—surely far lower than they were meant to hang? Patrick's pants had never revealed that much skin, no matter the length of his shirt. And Fitz's chest was golden, glistening with a sheen of exertion, while lower down, his defined muscles tightened with every breath he heaved out. Above it all were his ice-blue eyes, which fairly crackled with animosity and disdain as he stared Elisabet down.

It was safer, far safer, to stare into those bright pools of hatred, which threatened to freeze her even as the rest of him caused a curious flame to flicker to life through her body.