Beauty's Curse (3 page)

Awake now, he realized he still couldn't see and it had nothing to do with the damnable mist. After attempting to lift his hands to rub the sleep from his eyes three times in a row, he concluded that his hands were tied. He was lying down on his back, bound and blind.

“Jamie,” he bellowed with all his might. It came out as a croaking whine. The light strumming stopped, and that deep whiskey voice said, “Calm yourself, sir, before you cause more injuries.”

“What happened?” Christ's bones, what had happened? He couldn't complete his assignment if he was lying in bed like a whining sissy. He blinked again, and the scrape of his lashes against cloth only annoyed him further. “Why have you blindfolded me? Never mind; get it off.”

“I— —”

“Release me. I demand it.” His blood surged as he quickly calculated the consequences of his captivity. He could be ransomed, unless whoever held him knew he was a master spy. Then nothing but torture and death loomed. “Bring me my knights, and get my hands bloody well untied.”

He waited for his orders to be followed.

And waited.

The door slammed, and the scent of lemon and lavender lingered in the room. Rourke was alone.

His calf was on fire, and it felt like someone was sticking a hot poker in his eye. “Jamie! To me.” He refused to give up. Knowing there was not one good reason—as if any reason would be good—he could be kidnapped and bound, he yelled until his voice was hoarse and his head pounded so hard he almost lost consciousness.

Finally, he heard muffled boot steps, then the creaking noise of leather hinges as a wooden door was opened. Boots … Jamie, coming down a set of wooden stairs. He strained his ears as if that would help him hear.

“Rourke, yer awake, man. We thought you dead.”

“I feel dead. Untie me.”

“You heard him, lass, untie him.”

That smoky voice wavered, then said, “No.”

Rourke gathered the last of his strength and yelled, “No?”

Spent, Rourke concentrated on her words, pinpointing each noise she made. Her footsteps were so light that if it weren't for the fact he was concentrating, which contributed, no doubt, to his damn headache, he never would have heard them. She walked like a lady. The press of her cool fingers against his forehead was an unexpected balm to his hot skin.

“I cannot untie his hands. He is a strong man.”

Rourke puffed with pride, and even that hurt.

“But in pain, and more than likely stubborn. He'll not keep the bandages around his eyes. He may cause himself permanent damage.”

His pride burst. Yes, he felt as if he'd been trampled, and, aye, he was stubborn. But no mere woman was going to tell him what to do.

“It's a risk I'll take.”

There was a tiny voice inside his head that warned of disaster, but he didn't listen to it either.

“Mayhap.”

“Do you understand, lass, who yer talking to?” Jamie's tone left no room for rebuttal, and, once again, Rourke found himself indebted to his foster brother.

Of dubious Scottish birth, both had been raised at Eleanor's court. Told to learn and become rich, to overcome their bastard status and make men of themselves, men who could be both Scottish as well as English. Which had made sense until King Richard had sold King William Scotland for the price of a crusade.

Both knights had returned to Scotland to swear their loyalties to their newly reinstated king. Neither had been welcomed. To the public eye, they were hardly a step above mercenaries.

Rourke heard the hitch in the lady's voice before she said, “Nay, Sir Jamie, I do not know who this man is. You've barged into our home as if you have every right to be here—”

Jamie, never soft-spoken to begin with, broke in, “Ye tried to kill him.”

“What?” Rourke struggled against his bonds, the back of his head thumping anew and competing with the pain at his temple.

She explained to Jamie in a rush, “You were in our forest, and he was about to run down my brother.” Rourke heard the strain as she fought to remain calm. “I was but protecting my kin. That is not against any law.”

“Ye'll hang, I'll see to it, if my man dies.”

“I've no intention of dying,” Rourke said, scenting the woman's fear in the air, stronger than her perfume. Confused, he clarified, “The blond boy, the stable lad who tried to steal from me? That's your brother?” Somehow he'd thought her noble, not a serving wench or a tavern maid. Her speech was cultured.

“What? Nay. My brother stole nothing from you. And Ned is no stable boy; he's a squire for my older sister's husband, Lord Le Blanc, and heir in his own right, through my father, Lord Montehue. Poor Ned, injured by your stallion”—Rourke wondered if her brother's injury was the source of her underlying fear—“is locked in the upstairs chambers, along with our knights. I wish, nay, I demand that you release them.”

“Not to worry, Rourke. They put up a fight, but until we know what happens with ye, locked up they'll stay. And lucky to have their heads.”

“Brute.”

If he wasn't at such a loss, Rourke might have laughed at the sheer indignation she'd poured into that one word. But he didn't understand what was going on, so he ordered, “Untie me. Take off these bandages.”

She sighed. “Certainly, if you insist, I shall. But you are a fool. When you fell from your stallion, you hit your temple. The cut sliced downward, and you almost lost your left eye.”

Rourke heard the knife slice through the cloth at his wrist. “Is that why my eyes are bandaged?”

She leaned over, and Rourke was bathed in the fresh mint of her warm breath as she stated, “I am not a healer. I did the best I could to clean the wound, which curves, like this,” she traced the area lightly, “and ripped your lower lid. Your eye was filled with blood, so I rinsed and washed it with rosemary water until it stopped bleeding. You kept scratching at it, so you had to be bound. You could not control yourself.”

Close to tearing the strips of cloth from around his eye, Rourke paused at the insult. “Wench.”

She gasped. “I do not mean to be unkind. 'Tis that I fear if you strain your vision, or move about before the eye is healed, you may regret it for the rest of your days.”

Hearing genuine empathy in her voice, Rourke decided not to have her killed. “Jamie, find me a real healer.”

She stood abruptly, and he grabbed at her hand. He could tell she was a lady by the slenderness of her fingers, a musician by the light callous on her thumb. “Where are you going?”

“Release me.” She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't free her.

“There are no other healers,” Jamie said. “It seems that her entire family can heal but her, and she's the only one here.”

“What about in the village we came from? Scrappington?”

“Sorry, Rourke, but this is the best there is.”

He tugged at her hand. “Take off my blindfold.”

She hesitated. “Fine.” Leaning over him, she slowly peeled the cloth away. He expected to open his eyes and see. He opened his eyes and saw nothing.

“Jesu,” Jamie said into the silence, “That was close.”

Apprehension curled in his gut as the mattress dipped. She knelt on the side of the bed, and gently brought his fingertips to the wounded area around his left eye. Softly, he probed the stitched gash. “Ye did this with a rock? I don't believe it. My helmet fits over my head, and I had the visor down.” He'd been after that boy, that thief.

“Aye. But the back of your head, betwixt the crown and nape, was bare.”

“You were in such a rush, ye forgot to wear the mail,” Jamie unnecessarily pointed out.

Rourke put his fingers over his right eye, which was not swollen nor hot. But he couldn't see, even though it was open. He knew better than to run to battle like an untrained squire. Dread settled in his stomach. “Impossible. You came from behind and threw a rock and just happened to knock me from my stallion as I was galloping past? You lie, lady!” he demanded, although he knew she spoke true, as the back of his head throbbed with each word from his mouth.

“Why would I?” Again, her voice was indignant, as if braining a man with a rock was acceptable, whilst lying was not. He imagined her, noble born, with straight, brown hair and thin, convent-ready lips. Throwing a rock?

Jamie said, “We were right there, Rourke, and saw you falling. She'd just thrown it.”

“I am an accurate shot, my lord,” she huffed.

“Obviously. That does not explain why I can't see.”

Jamie asked, “At all?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“You landed against some rocks when you fell, and your visor cut into your temple. It was an accident. Please tell your men to release my brother and my knights. We can make you welcome; you needn't treat us like you've got us under siege.”

“They'll be released when I say so, lass. They never should have attacked us when we were coming in.”

Her answer to Jamie was prim and curt. “You had me over the front of your horse, and Ned draped over another. What were my knights supposed to think?”

Rourke knew he should do something, but his head was now hurting all the way to his heels. Jamie could handle it.

Jamie was handling it. “And you, lass, will make certain that Rourke keeps his eye or else.” Jamie pounded the wooden bedpost, and Rourke groaned as the mattress moved. He was not feeling well.

“He needs more medicine,” she said. “The pain is returning.”

“Ye'd best not be poisoning him.”

Rourke's stomach heaved, and he grunted, knowing he'd never been this bad off in his life. He felt the sweat pop out over his forehead and lip, and his flesh grew hot. He supposed he could still serve his country with one eye, but it wouldn't be as easy. Downed, and not by a battle wound, but by a convent girl with good aim.

Ah, hell. Did she say her father was Lord Montehue? The rock had scrambled his brains. Loyal to the king, a strong warrior with a sizable income, properties, and a new title. Rourke had been sent to marry the man's daughter and stop a potential enemy in the event Prince John made a bid for the crown—by order of the prince.

Now he knew why Jamie had been dropping hints about “who” she was talking to—as in, Jamie hadn't given away Rourke's identity. Normally, he was not so daft. He supposed he owed the lady an introduction.

“I,” he swallowed past the bile rising up his throat. “I am Rourke Wallis, and you are my prisoner until I say otherwise.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, then felt her cool hands as she pressed him back to the bed. “You are rude, as are your men. Why steal when something is freely offered?”

“You tried to kill me,” Rourke said, eyes shut. “And almost succeeded.” He knew it was not the whole truth, but he was in so much pain he could not unravel the knot truth could be. “You have my pack? Did the boy have it?”

“Don't know anything about a boy, but I've got it now, Rourke. Godfrey recovered it after the skirmish in the village; damn that Harold anyway. Ambushin' us. Never did like that sneaky bastard. Just rest, man, and heal.” Jamie's voice roughened, as did his threats, “And, lass, ye'll be wishing you were dead along with him if he goes to meet his maker any time soon.”

If he survived the fever, he was supposed to marry this woman he held under threat.

He wondered if she was the type of woman who could be swayed from anger with flowers. Once she found out the truth, he doubted she'd be happy. Since he was previously promised to another, he wouldn't be making anybody happy, besides Prince John. “What is your name?”

“Galiana.”

“Pretty,” he said.

She sniffed, and he sensed that flowers would not be enough to win her over.

The delirium from his fever drew him under, like a raging current in a spring-fattened river. “Galiana.” He used the very last of his strength to demand, “Other than yourselves … no one … on pain of death … is to enter this room.”

He had to protect his secrets.

Galiana could not quite identify what she was feeling as she embroidered by candlelight, watching Rourke Wallis fight his fever. Fear for her brother. Fear for herself. She had no wish to die like some sacrificial Grecian virgin because this man had lost an eye.

Or worse.

Guilt? Definitely that. If she hadn't hit him with the rock, he would not have fallen. Aye, she thought crossly, accidentally stabbing her finger with the needle's point; but if she hadn't acted, then it would be Ned lying dead in the forest. Rourke's sword had been drawn to skewer whatever was in its path.

He tossed, and she sang softly to soothe him. His brow was furrowed, his dark brown hair damp with sweat. There was nothing more she could give him, so she kept vigil. When she'd lit her candles to Saint Jude, it hadn't occurred to her that this might be the answer she'd get. It was true, then. She tapped her lower lip thoughtfully with the pad of her injured finger. One had to be careful what one prayed for. Galiana had wanted change. Some small, harmless excitement that would let her feel important before she married the highest bidder.

Love was for the lucky few who stumbled over it.

The door opened with a crash, and Rourke's big, ginger-haired knight came barreling in without even a knock. Galiana let slip a small sigh of exasperation before setting her embroidery to the side. She'd been so agitated that she'd hoped the dip of the needle and thread through the fine silk would provide mindless soothing. Instead, her brain had been a jumble of thoughts, none worthy of the lady she'd been raised to be.

“How is he?”

Jamie glanced at Rourke, whose tall, bare body was covered with an ivory sheet up to the shoulders. Rourke's feet came to the edge of the mattress, and it had been difficult to decide what needed covering more. His feet? Or the broad expanse of Rourke's muscled shoulders?