This was the tower of royalty, he knew at once from the many valuables-paintings, tapestries, vases, and a plethora of other trinkets and utensils and artworks.
The Highwayman rubbed his hands together and went to work.
It is long overdue, and less than you have earned,” Lady Olym called back behind her as she entered her private bedchamber. “Your uncle should have named you Laird of Delaval and been done with it. His only son is not worthy, of course.”
A murmur of protest came back to her from Yeslnik’s room, too garbled for her to decipher-not that she cared to, anyway.
“Laird of Pryd Town,” Olym said. If she was thrilled her voice did not reflect it. “Now I suppose we will have to live in that dreary place.”
She pulled off her bulky bejeweled dress and an assortment of accessories. Stripped to her sheer nightdress, she sat down at her vanity, admiring her powdered face in the pretty mirror set atop the small marble table. One by one she pulled off her oversized rings, each set with a fabulous precious stone.
They paled in comparison to the necklace she wore, though, which was set with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, one after another, three rows thick and from shoulder to shoulder. Olym gently stroked the precious stones, staring at them in the mirror as if in a trance. So fully did they hold her attention that she didn’t even notice the black-clothed figure that had moved up to stand directly behind her.
Olym jumped indeed when a hand settled on her own and a soft voice whispered, “Allow me to help you with that, dear lady.”
She started to scream, but the hand clapped tightly over her mouth.
“Do not cry out, I beg of you,” the Highwayman said. “I will not harm you, dear lady. On my word.” He brought his head down to rest his chin on her shoulder so that they could look each other in the eye through the mirror. For a moment Olym seemed to swoon, her chest heaving.
“On my word,” the Highwayman said again, and he gave her a plaintive and questioning look and eased his hand away from her mouth just a bit.
Olym nodded her head, and the Highwayman pulled his hand away.
“You have come to ravish me!” Olym wailed.
The bemused Highwayman stared at her, for her tone sounded more hopeful than terrified.
Olym turned on him sharply. “Take me, then,” she offered. “But be quick and be gone and know that I shan’t enjoy it!”
Without the soul stone Bransen always stuttered badly, but never had he found words harder to find than at that moment, though the soul stone was, of course, strapped securely to his forehead.
Olym turned further about and threw back her head, the back of one hand across her forehead as if in despair. The movement thrust forth her breasts, of course, and the sheer nightdress did little to hide her obvious excitement.
“Take me, then! Ravish me! Have at me with your animal savagery.”
“And force you to make little barnyard noises?” the Highwayman asked, trying hard not to laugh.
“Oh, yes, if you must! If that is what I need do to escape murder at the end of your blade!”
The Highwayman didn’t quite know how to say, “But all I want are the jewels,” so he stuttered again-until footsteps sounded in the hall, coming their way. “I beg your silence,” he whispered, putting a finger over his pursed lips, fading into the shadows so seamlessly behind a tapestry that Olym had to blink and stare stupidly, wondering if he had ever really been there.
“Ah, wife,” Yeslnik said, entering the room. “I am randy from the excitement of the day.” He paused and looked at her admiringly, at her nearly naked form and obvious state. “Apparently I am not alone in my humor!”
Now it was Olym’s turn to stutter. She glanced repeatedly at the shadows where the Highwayman had disappeared.
Yeslnik sidled up to her and pulled her tight against him, his eyes narrowing. “I am the Laird of Pryd Holding,” he said, and then again and again. With each proclamation he squeezed Olym tighter to him.
“My laird,” Olym said, looking past him as he turned, again to the spot where the Highwayman had gone.
Had gone and returned, she noted, for he stood there, leaning against her vanity, one arm bare and one blanketed in black silk crossed over his chest, a look of utter amusement on his face, his so-handsome face.
Olym took a deep breath and gave a mewling sound.
“Oh, my princess,” Yeslnik gasped. “I am the Laird of Pryd Holding!” He shuddered as he squeezed her against him more tightly still.
“So you have mentioned a dozen times,” a masculine voice said behind him. Yeslnik froze in place. “If you say it a dozen more, perhaps you will convince yourself you are worthy of the title.”
Yeslnik spun about. “You!” he cried.
“I could be no one else,” the Highwayman said with a shrug.
“How?”
“Your interrogation techniques leave much to be desired, I fear,” the Highwayman said. “More so when one considers that if anyone here is a prisoner, it is not I.”
“Not you?” Yeslnik stammered, trying hard to catch up.
“Yes you, not I,” said the Highwayman.
“Not I?”
“Yes, you!”
“You?”
“Now you have it!” the Highwayman said, and pointed at Yeslnik and emphatically added, “You.”
“Do not harm him!” Olym cried, and she threw herself in front of Yeslnik, her arms wide to hold him back-and also to give the Highwayman a complete viewing. “Take me as you will. Ravish me!”
“Olym!” Yeslnik cried.
“I will do anything for you, my laird,” Olym wailed.
“Back to the barnyard, always there,” the Highwayman remarked. Yeslnik stared at him incredulously.
“I will suffer his passion for you, my love,” Olym said to her husband. “I will save you with my womanly charms.”
“With your jewels, you mean,” the Highwayman corrected. Faster than either of them could react, he came forward and snatched the necklace from Olym’s neck, then, for good measure, scooped the rings from the vanity.
“Not again!” Yeslnik cried. In a moment of uncustomary courage (or more likely it was just his anger overruling his good sense), he threw Olym aside and raised his fists threateningly. He snapped his hand to the near side of the vanity, where Olym kept a sharp knife she used to scrape the dark hairs from her chin. Yeslnik stepped forward, waving the knife out before him.
The Highwayman dropped his hands to his side, sighed, and shook his head.
“You’ll not make a fool of me again,” Yeslnik declared.
“I fear you reached that marker long before I arrived,” the Highwayman replied.
The Laird of Pryd Holding finally sorted that insult out and stabbed at the man in rage. The Highwayman turned, and the blade slipped past harmlessly.
Yeslnik retracted and stabbed again, and the Highwayman dodged the other way.
Yeslnik slashed across at the man’s head, but of course the agile Highwayman easily ducked the awkward strike, then came up again and with even less effort sidestepped the next futile stab.
“Truly, Prince Yeslnik, you are making this more difficult,” the Highwayman said. He ducked another slash, sidestepped another stab, then caught the move he had been waiting for, an uppercut thrusting the knife for the bottom of his chin.
It never got close. The Highwayman’s left hand caught the prince’s forearm, and his right hand clamped over Yeslnik’s at just the right angle for the thief to buckle the prince’s wrist, bending the hand forward suddenly. The Highwayman pressed, overextending the bend, driving Yeslnik’s knuckles down toward his wrist. Under that strain and pain, Yeslnik could not hold his grip on the knife. Even as he realized he had let it go, the Highwayman’s left hand shot out and slapped him across the face, backhanded him the other way, and slapped him a third time for good measure.