Everlasting (30 page)

 
Without thinking, she was on her feet, laughing and cheering with them. She told herself it was simply good manners; if she did not participate wholeheartedly in her own tournament, how could she expect anyone else to? Admiring Raven’s skill on the field was not the same as approving of him. No matter what the swift and too frantic beating of her foolish heart might suggest.

 
“Have you seen Thurstan?” she asked her stepfather when the combatants had again disappeared into the trees.

 
Vachel hadn’t, but later in the afternoon, when the sun began to set, and the knights were close to exhaustion, Thurstan and several of his men rode onto the field, their helms undented, no blood seeping from beneath their chain mail.

 
“Vachel,” Abrielle said, “do they look refreshed to you? Perhaps they have been taking advantage of a refuge to rest.”

 
Vachel shook his head. “It is a trick some use in tournaments, to wait until most of the field is spent, and then gallop on and defeat your opponents. It is a legal maneuver, but not very honorable.”

 
“Thurstan and his men are targeting Raven,” Elspeth said, clutching Abrielle’s sleeve.

 
Raven had been riding away, leading a captured knight from the field, when Thurstan and his men surrounded him. Raven proceeded
to defend his captive from being taken, all while unhorsing several of Thurstan’s men. Though Thurstan himself struck several blows across Raven’s shield and helm, he did not make the attempt to challenge Raven alone. One knight raced at Raven from behind, and the crowd gasped and rose to its feet when the knight’s sword was raised high. At the last moment Raven sensed the attack and met it with his shield. The knight fell hard from his horse and lay still, heaped awkwardly on the trampled earth.

 
At that moment the horn sounded an end to the tournament. From her place in the stands, Abrielle was not conscious of how frantically worried she had been that something would happen to Raven until that instant, when the breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her and she felt her palms sting where the nails of her clenched fingers had dug small half-moons.

 
Someone brought a healer onto the field and the knights withdrew to count their winnings. Only Raven remained, standing with shoulders squared, his long hair waving about his shoulders like a victory flag as he waited to see how his opponent had fared. At last they carried the fallen knight off the field, removing his helm as they did, and Abrielle saw it was Sir Colbert. As they passed before her, she could see him stir and was relieved. In spite of the fact that he had attacked Raven from behind and then fallen, she knew the melee could have degenerated into a real battle if he’d died.

 
In the stands, Vachel and the older men gathered together and spoke in quiet tones, deciding the champion of the tournament. It wasn’t long before he nodded, turned to face the crowd, and lifted his hands for the attention of the spectators. Knights walked or limped or helped one another as they assembled to hear Vachel speak. “Good people, we give thanks that no one was killed today, nor were there any injuries more serious than broken bones. My fellow judges and I have given much thought to our selection for the best knight of the tournament, but in the end, our decision was almost unanimous. For
taking twelve men hostage, defending them against others, and generously sharing his winnings with his teammates, we award the top purse to Raven Seabern.”

 
Abrielle was not at all surprised—or sorry—to hear Raven proclaimed the victor. He deserved the honor. She was a bit surprised, however, when several dozen people cheered him and she assumed it was due to his unexpected generosity. Whether he was buying their goodwill or attempting to ease hard feelings, it didn’t matter. She searched the crowd and found him with his father. As the laird helped remove his chain-mail hauberk, she saw bloodstains on the padded gambeson he wore beneath and winced silently. The blows he took must have been powerful indeed to do such damage. And when he lifted his head, she saw a gash streaming blood on his cheek, where his visor must have cut him. Once free of the heavy mail, he stood, and judging from the exhaustion evident in his slow movements, she realized he was being driven by fierce pride alone. As he came forward for his purse, he did not limp or falter.

 
Vachel grinned as he handed over a clinking purse, and there was some polite applause as well as the usual angry murmurs. Then, one by one, people began to look expectantly at Abrielle, and she remembered that she, too, played a part in his reward.

 
How could she have forgotten about the kiss, and how could she have ever agreed to it in the first place? Too late she realized that she ought to have known Raven would be the winner and that it would come down to this moment. She needed to think and to endeavor to gather her wits about her; she needed to steady her pulse and steel her heart. She needed time, and she had none. That was made dangerously clear when Raven stopped before her and executed a sweeping bow that somehow managed to be chivalrous and mocking at once.

 
“My lady,” he said.

 
Abrielle bowed her head. If he wanted to play at being gracious, she would oblige. “Sir. Your performance today was spectacular, your
skill with a sword and as a horseman no less than dazzling. Would that I could offer a prize more befitting your deeds.”

 
“Would that I could pluck the stars from the sky ta rival your beauty,” he replied, his voice pitched low. “’Twould be the only deed near deserving of the prize ye do offer.”

 
To her chagrin, Abrielle found she was unable to speak or breathe or look away. Damn him for the way he could so easily turn her composure to melted butter. It was unnerving enough when they were not being watched by scores of chuckling onlookers; this was impossible.

 
And then, as quickly as he’d rattled her, he saved her. It was another thing at which the man had proven himself to be so very irritatingly adept.

 
“Truth, ’tis this very prize that sustained me these long hours, and I would not rush the claiming, or subject ye ta the dirt and stench I carried from the field. I beg your indulgence; allow me ta bathe and change, for I wouldna want ta converse with ye under these conditions.”

 
“Converse?” someone called, while others laughed.

 
Abrielle nodded agreement, grateful for any delay. But even as she began to relax, she could not stop looking at the ugly cut high on his cheek. It was still oozing blood, and without thinking she blurted, “Sir Raven, allow me to stitch the wound on your face. You may accompany me to the lady’s solar.”

 
“I should bathe—”

 
“Think you I have not smelled a man who’s done a day’s work?”

 
People around them laughed.

 
“The wound needs to be cleansed,” she finished.

 
To her surprise, he offered, “I could go ta the healers’ tent.”

 
Vachel smiled and put an arm around his shoulders. “And wait to be attended when you are our champion? Nonsense. Abrielle is a skilled healer herself.”

 
And so Abrielle found herself walking up to the castle at Raven’s
side. She could feel the heat of his exertions still steaming from his body. His face ran with perspiration, and his dark hair was wet with it. She thought she detected him favoring his right leg, but said nothing, her woman’s instinct warning that he was far too proud to admit to it, especially to her. The knowledge of his fierce pride and strength warmed her in a deep and unfamiliar manner.

 
The great hall was bare but for servants preparing for the evening’s feast, yet even their eyes were upon the two who walked silently through their midst. Abrielle was grateful at last to be in the dark, torchlit corridors of the keep. When she led him into her solar, she was taken aback to find her maidservants nowhere in sight; then she realized that they were, of course, still in the crowd outside. Which meant that she and Raven would be alone, in a room that suddenly felt very small indeed, while she tended his wounds.

 
She glanced around worriedly, uselessly hoping a stray servant might suddenly come forth from some nook or cranny. When none did, she was forced to accept the truth, that she would simply have to take care of him on her own. To that end, she squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath, and reminded herself that she was a healer and her sole reason for being there was to use her skills to do what she’d been trained to do, the same as she would for any man, woman, or child in need of her help. The fact that it was Raven Seabern in need, and that they were alone, mattered naught.

 
Then he closed the door and put his back to it, his face bloodied, his dark warrior’s gaze seeking hers across the deserted room, and suddenly the fact that he was Raven Seabern and they were alone were the only things that did, indeed, matter.

CHAPTER 14

 
Where would ye like me ta sit?” Raven asked.

 
Abrielle did not answer immediately. She did not need to stare at the sweat-damp fabric clinging to every sinew and bulge on his broad chest to know that being alone with him was worse than unwise, it was dangerous. Yet her imprudent gaze refused to be steered in any other direction. She was seldom as certain of anything as she was that she would live to regret it if she did not that very instant announce that she was very sorry, but there was no need for him to sit at all since she had changed her mind and he would have to have his wounds tended elsewhere. But the blood on his face was now dripping onto his very distracting chest, and more dried blood was visible through the numerous rips and tears, and regardless of the danger she might be in, she could not in good conscience let his injury fester.

 
“You may sit on the bench by the fire,” she told him finally, using her most no-nonsense tone. “And, if it doesn’t pain you too much, you might swing the cauldron over the flames. There is already water inside.”

 
He did as she asked, and then began to unlace his gambeson.

 
“What are you doing?” she demanded.

 
He peered at her over the collar, his dark brows raised. “Did ye na say ye would treat my wounds?” She nodded at him, somewhat confused by his question.

 
“Ye would prefer ta tend them through my garments?” he inquired, eyeing her soberly, as if that were a perfectly acceptable choice.

 
“Nay, I only…I thought…I’m sorry, of course you must remove your garment.”

 
He began to do so and winced.

 
“You need help,” she observed, starting toward him without pausing to think.

 
“Mayhap,” he agreed. “I could send for my squire. I can manage the unlacing, but the thing is stiff with blood in places and difficult ta lift over my head.”

 
Abrielle bit her lip and weighed the awkwardness of undressing him against the risk of spending more time alone with him, sweaty and half dressed, as they waited for his squire to be summoned and arrive.

 
“No need,” she said, deciding in favor of haste in the matter. “Since I’m already here, I can help in your squire’s stead.” She endeavored to sound brusque and efficient, rather than reveal her true state, which was one of fear, apprehension, and, she had to admit to herself, excitement. She didn’t want to be alone with him like this, helping him disrobe, feeling all shaky and strange inside.

 
She moved only close enough to touch him with outstretched arms, but he swung around, cutting that cautious distance in half, as he lifted his arms over his head. Grasping the bottom edge of the loosened gambeson, she tugged upward.

 
“Ouch.” It was far more bark than whimper, but more than enough to cause Abrielle to stop the moment the word was uttered.

 
“I think,” he said, sidling even closer, close enough for her to feel
his breath on her neck when he gazed up at her, “that ’tis best we do this very, very slowly.”