Free To Catch a Bride by Anne Gracíe

from where he’d punched her. She shivered, feeling suddenly cold.
    He noticed and fetched a blanket, wrapping it carefully around her shoulders, tucking it in to make sure she was warm.
    She hardened herself against him.
    He wasn’t the sort of man who’d hurt a woman deliberately, but she wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting him.
    He was dangerous in other ways.
    “Your grandmother is lonely, Alicia. It is the dearest wish of her heart to find you and bring you home to Cleeveden.”
    She wouldn’t look at him.
    He leaned forward and his voice was like rich dark coffee as he said, “Come with me and you will never go hungry again. Your grandmother will ensure you will never want for anything—ever again. And when she dies, you will inherit her house and her fortune.”
    She didn’t move a muscle. He must not know she cared.
    He went on, “She is an old woman who needs you. All she wants is to bring you home and love you.”
    Ayisha was silent for a long time. To bring you home and love you . . . you will never want for anything again.
    Oh, he was a sorcerer indeed, with that deep, persuasive voice of his. Had he read her mind, that he’d given voice to the dearest wish of her own heart: to have a home of her own, to be loved. To be part of a family.
    “It is a terrible thing to have no family,” she whispered finally. “To belong to no one.” She remembered those first achingly miserable months of aloneness, before her cat had befriended her.
    “I know.” The Englishman knelt and began to untie her bound feet. “I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible. If we leave for England in the next two days, we should be in England by Easter. It’s early this year—in March.”
    Ayisha bit her lip and stared at the big hands deftly unknotting the fabric that tied her. They were not a gentleman’s hands, not a scholar’s like Papa’s.
    Oh, she wanted to, wanted to accept his offer, to go to this grandmother who offered her love and a home, a home in England, that green and pleasant land where Papa had always said he would take her . . . In time for an English Easter. An English spring.
    It was a fairy tale he offered her, but she was not the fairy-tale princess of the story.
    She looked at his hands: warrior’s hands, or a horseman’s, nicked and scarred and tanned and strong. Those same hands had punched her on the jaw and bound her hand and foot, she reminded herself. They could probably choke the life out of her without straining. If they knew what she had kept secret all these years, what would they do to her?
    She closed her eyes tightly against the lure of those blue, blue eyes. They were frightening, those eyes, the way they never shifted from her, seeming to look straight into her soul, inviting her to trust his words, trust him, give herself over to his care . . .
    It was like looking into a deep pool and knowing it would pull you down and drown you, but wanting to jump in anyway.
    And the worst thing was, she did want to. She wanted to believe him, to believe that somewhere there was a loving grandmother who wanted her, loved her, offering her a home, a place in the world, safety . . .
    But she’d had a home, love, and safety once, and they’d melted away like a puddle in the sun. She and Mama had thought Papa was a god, all protective, all powerful—and yet he’d left them with nothing. Less than nothing. Worse off than before, because they knew how good life could be . . .
    “You will never go hungry again,” he added, his voice so deep and persuasive, like dark honey laced with opium. “Nobody will harm you ever again. You’ll be safe and secure forever.”
    The words wound themselves insidiously around her heart, tugging, trying to find a way in.
    Dangerous, untrustworthy words. Words that, even if she believed them, were not for Ayisha. They were for another girl.
    She shook her head, as if to clear it of his spell. “Tell the old lady that Alicia Cleeve is dead.” She made a futile