The Crimson Lady (14 page)

Even without looking right at her, Braedan could tell that she stiffened at the question. He glanced at her then and was startled by her pained expression, but in the next instant she’d masked the reaction with renewed motion. Making the sign of the cross and plucking another stalk to place it in the basket, she answered lightly, “Did you not know that your uncle was well versed in such matters? He once knew an alchemist, since executed by the crown. It was that man who taught Draven all he knows—and Draven who decided to instruct me with bits of the skill.”

“Why would he have wanted to do that?”

“For the same reason he taught me the use of a dagger, or how to speak and carry myself like a lady—because it amused him.”

Braedan frowned. “The man who taught my uncle about the use of herbs—you say he was executed by the crown?”

The bitter smile came back full force. “Aye. His alchemy was not dedicated to healing alone, you see. He dabbled in the darker arts as well, and when he was caught, he was burned for it. But not before he imparted much of his unholy wisdom to Draven.”

“I had no idea…”

Fiona nodded, the shadows haunting her eyes. “Draven proved quite a gifted scholar of the skills.” In the next moment she seemed to pull herself from that place with an effort to look over at him again, her face pale but composed. “And yet, I cannot say it was all bad, for I learned a great deal of what has proved helpful, for myself and others. My knowledge of this plant, for in
stance,” she said, making the gesture again with her hand and breaking off another stalk. “It has other uses besides the treatment of wounds. When the leaves and the pods just below these flower buds are dried, brewed with honeyed water, and sipped, it is a fine method of reducing fever. Without it, I would not have been able to help you as I did during your illness at Alton.”

She glanced sideways at him, then, a shade of the more playful look returning to her gaze. “In fact, it is likely the herb you remember from your time of sickness. It has a bit of a bitter taste, and I dosed you with it often those four days, trying to ease your fever.”

“Likely it is the one, then,” he said, frowning as if he was remembering that uncomfortable time rather than thinking about the new information he’d just learned concerning Draven.

As he spoke, Fiona nodded and twisted away from him again, leaning forward and stretching to reach the last remaining stalk from the clump of vervain that had been growing there. Braedan made the mistake of looking at her at that moment, his guard down and his mind distracted as it was with the thoughts of his uncle. Too late he realized his error, but by then the tantalizing, carnal image that the sight of her bent over before him was already stamped into his brain, spinning like warmed honey through his blood. A renewed tide of hot desire followed close after, slamming into him with a force that nearly took his breath away.

Barely biting back a groan, he lurched to his feet, desperate to put some sanity-saving distance between them. “What else do you need to gather, then, lady?” he nearly choked. “We have some betony and now this herb. Are the violets truly necessary, or can we go back?”

Her gentle laughter washed over him as she, too, stood and brushed her hands off on her skirt. “If I didn’t know better, Braedan de Cantor, I’d say you were trying to escape the remainder of our task here.”

“It is not the task I am trying to avoid.”

“What, then?”

She turned to face him, and he realized, suddenly, just how close they were standing to each other—so close that her delicate fragrance filled his senses. He could almost feel the brush of her body against his, and the realization made his skin burn at every point where her delicious contours would mold to him, were she but a few inches nearer. The desire he fought against pitched infinitely higher. God in heaven, but this was impossible. It was a lost cause, and he could feel himself being pulled along on the incredible tide of it, helpless any longer to resist.

He cursed under his breath, finally exhaling in a sigh of defeat. “Ah, Fiona, there is no work that would be too challenging, no battle I would not willingly undertake in the cause of right. But today…” Slowly, he reached out to cradle the curve of her jaw, his yearning growing more fierce with each passing heartbeat. “…today I am finding myself quite unequal to the task of not pulling you into my arms as I’ve been longing to do all morning. It is
that
which makes me eager to leave this place, nothing more.”

She was silent in response to his passionate declaration. But though she’d gone very still before him, the look in her eyes gave him hope that his words were not entirely unwelcome; he brushed his thumb over her cheek where he cupped it, the satiny warmth of her skin intoxicating.

“I know that because of the circumstances of your
past, the thought of such things leaves you cold,” Braedan added after a moment, keeping up the rhythmic stroking with his thumb, “and yet I have felt”—he paused, wanting badly to get this right—“I have hoped that I am not wrong in sensing something different in you of late toward me.”

After a long silence she swallowed, her gaze searching his. “It is true that I do feel something…different when I am with you, Braedan,” she answered at last, “but I do not know what it is or even how to explain it.”

“In this life I have discovered that there are some things which defy explanation, lady,” he murmured, as he slid his other hand up to join the first in cradling her face with the gentlest touch he could summon, “like the way I cannot seem to stop feeling when I am near you, or the overwhelming urge I have to kiss you right now.”

“Why do you not, then?” she whispered, keeping her gaze locked to his, her pulse beating wildly under his fingers.

“Because I promised you once that I would gain your consent in such things first. So I ask you now, Fiona, will you allow me to kiss you?” He gazed deep into the tawny depths of her eyes, yearning to see something there, a spark of passion, perhaps, that would let him know he was not alone in these feelings that had consumed him. That she
did
feel something when she was with him…

Then the unexpected happened; her eyes closed, briefly, but when she opened them again, a glistening of tears moistened their depths. Braedan stiffened with surprise. Tears were not what he had hoped for. Nay, it was not at all the emotion he’d wished to inspire in her. Not sadness…

He frowned. “Lady, why do you cry?”

She gave him a tremulous smile, lifting her hands to rest atop his and tilting her head to press her cheek more fully into his palm. “I am not crying, Braedan, truly. It is just that you are the first to ever—” She broke off in a hitched sigh, bringing his hands down with her own, keeping her fingers twined with his. “It is just that until now kissing, touching—anything of the kind was always simply done to me without question or care. My feelings never came into the matter.”

“That is likely why you have never been able to feel pleasure in such things, then.”

“Perhaps.” She glanced down for an instant, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, before lifting her face to his again. “And yet I think that I would feel pleasure in it now, Braedan…in kissing you…”

“I was hoping you would say that,” he answered, his voice husky, “for I think that I would feel great pleasure in it, too.”

Releasing one of her hands, he touched her chin again, using his fingertips to tilt her face gently up to him as he bent his head to brush his lips over hers, leaving for an instant and then coming back to taste again. A thrill of rapture shot through him. She was pure ambrosia, her mouth responsive and so tempting he could not help but go back for more. The taste of her intoxicated him, pushing him into some mindless place. He used the tip of his tongue to lightly stroke the tender curve of her lips before dipping into the honeyed recess, and she moaned softly, opening to him, her tongue moving cautiously, delicately in time with his, sweet and slow.

Braedan’s heart thundered in his chest as Fiona leaned closer to him, the press of her body driving him to near insanity. He slid his hands down her back, stopping at
her waist, and it was all he could do not to pull her closer, not to drag her deliciously up against his entire length. But he held back, thankful for this small gift of intimacy from her. It was a start, after all, as incongruous as it was for him to find a woman of her experience owning such tender sensibilities.

Fiona felt swept away by the sensations engulfing her. Moaning again, she let her hands drift up to Braedan’s shoulders, gripping him when she feared her legs would buckle beneath her. She kissed him back, reveling in the taste of him, in the sweetly seductive stroke of his mouth across hers. It was beautiful and humbling all at once. She’d never known a man’s kiss could feel like this. It was like floating at sea, her body carried on rolling waves. Her pulse raced, her breath shallow under Braedan’s heated ministrations, and so she closed her eyes, trying to regain some sense of balance.

It was hopeless. She was lost in him, drowning in sensation, and she never wanted it to end. “Braedan,” she whispered against his lips when she could bear to tilt her mouth away from his just a bit, “It is wonderful, but—”

“It’s all right,” he murmured, kissing a path from the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, to nuzzle the tender spot just beneath her ear. He moved up a bit then to the shell of it, his breath warm and moist, sending a delicious tingle through her. “We’ll go slowly. Just allow yourself to feel the pleasure of it, lady.” Her neck felt as limp, her head tipping back instinctively as his mouth claimed access to the now-exposed length of her throat.

“Ah, Fiona,” Braedan said softly, “your skin is like silk—”

“Mistress Giselle!” a faint voice called frantically from somewhere far behind them in the forest, and
Fiona was jerked out of the sweet cloud of sensation she’d been floating upon in Braedan’s embrace. Gasping, she whispered, “Did you hear that?”

“Aye.” He’d pulled back, though he still held her waist with his strong hands. Now he stepped away completely, looking around them as if trying to ascertain from which direction the cry had come.

Fiona felt a shuddering begin in her stomach. Something was wrong; no one from the settlement would come looking for her deep in the wood like this unless it was something serious.

“Mistress!” The high-pitched voice rang out again, a bit nearer to them this time, accompanied by the dim sounds of crackling undergrowth, and Fiona called back, hoping the person would hear her. In the next moments her efforts were rewarded; one of the younger lads who had been playing at hoodman blind a few hours ago came crashing into the glen.

“Stephen Fisk, you frightened us near to death. What is the matter?” Fiona asked, moving quickly to him. She took his arm and helped him to sit, glancing over at Braedan, who approached as well, looking as worried as she felt.

“Mistress, ’tis bad—very bad,” Stephen stuttered between gasping breaths. “Nate’s been hurt. Poachin’ he was, even though yer brother forbid it after what happened to Thomas. He’s been shot through.”

“Christ,” Braedan muttered.

“How bad is it?” Fiona asked, gripping Stephen’s hand. “Where was he hurt?”

“His leg, with a bolt from a crossbow. One of the king’s foresters caught him huntin’ and tried to take him in to the sheriff, but Nate got free. They shot him when
he ran away.” Stephen took a few more gasping breaths and continued, “He made it back to camp, but the bolt stuck in his leg, and there be a stream of blood comin’ from him, steady-like.”

Stephen’s face was twisted in his attempt not to cry, though he couldn’t stop his eyes from tearing. “I—I saw him, mistress, and he—he looks like a ghost, he does. Some of them back at the settlement was whisperin’ that such is what he’ll be if’n we can’t stop the bleeding soon. ’Tis why they sent me for you. They said you know more than any of us of such things.” Stephen turned his wide brown gaze on her, the hopeful expression in his eyes making her insides lurch with compassion. “Can ye do it, mistress? Can ye save Nate?”

“I don’t know, Stephen,” Fiona said grimly, swiftly taking up the herbs while Braedan picked up the basket of food they’d never had a chance to eat. “But I will do my best, you can be assured of that.”

“Come, lad,” Braedan murmured to Stephen, leading the way from the glen. And so without another word, the three of them set off for the settlement again and the gravely injured boy who awaited them there.

F
iona tightened the poultice-soaked bandage around Nate’s thigh, wincing at the pain she knew he was going to feel when he woke up. Thankfully, he’d fallen senseless several minutes ago right after the worst of the treatment they’d been forced to give him in order to keep him from bleeding to death.

She clenched her jaw as she worked on him, remembering the stoicism in his face as they’d cauterized the wound. She’d had Braedan do it with the flat of a sword, heated red-hot, asking Will and Grady to help hold the boy still through the excruciating process. He’d been brave; she’d seen grown men undergoing similar treatments thrash and scream from the pain of it, but Nate had remained rigid and silent. When it was done, Braedan had reached down and brushed his hair back from his pale brow, his own face tight, murmuring words of praise for his show of courage. Then the men
had moved off to talk about the situation, and she’d been left to apply the herbs and poultices that would hopefully help him to heal. Only time would tell if it had been too much for his body to take. Fiona prayed with all of her heart that he would be strong enough to recover from the wound and blood loss, though, if he survived, she knew his leg would be badly scarred from the ordeal.

Using the back of her soiled hand to push a strand of hair from her eyes, Fiona sighed and sat back on her heels. She’d done all she could for him; there was nothing left but to look at the bindings every hour and keep checking him for the fever that would inevitably set in. After giving instructions to one of the women who would be sitting first vigil with Nate, Fiona pushed up to standing and approached the men, where they were embroiled in deep discussion.

“Why the devil was he out there alone to begin with?” Grady was arguing. “Damn fool boy, gettin’ into what he shouldn’t have.”

“He shouldn’t have been alone, that’s true,” Will muttered, “but he was only tryin’ to do good.”

“How so—by gettin’ himself maimed?”

“Lads his age rarely think of the danger to themselves,” Braedan interjected, his face still grim. “I saw enough of them die on the field at Saint-Jean-d’Acre with the shock of it on their faces to attest to that.”

That sobering thought silenced everyone for a moment, though Grady piped up again, “Well he should have thought about it this time. Will told us all to stay clear of poachin’ until further notice.”

“You can’t blame the lad, Grady—he’s been hungry like the rest of us, and in his own mind he was tryin’ to
help,” Rufus argued. “’Tis only since Giselle and de Cantor came that we’ve taken enough roadside to warrant a trip into the village for supplies. A group is to be sent to the village tomorrow, isn’t it, Will?”

“Aye,” her brother said somberly. “We’ve enough coin now to ensure that everyone’s trencher is filled.” He cursed under his breath and looked away. “’Tis my fault this happened. I should have told him about the trip for supplies. If he’d known, mayhap he wouldn’t have—”

“Christ almighty, Will, he knew better even so,” Grady said, swiping his beefy hand across his eyes to clear the telltale signs of how much he really cared for the lad. “He saw Thomas after the sheriff got him. The old man’s got nothin’ but a stump where his hand used to be. And now Nate…blasted hell, if the lad dies because of this…” Grady’s voice trailed off into a choking sound, and he looked away.

Fiona felt anguish grip at her heart again. She’d recently learned just how close Grady and Nate were—like a father and son, Rosalind’s mother had told her. Neither one had anyone else, either sickness or the law having taken off whatever family they’d once had, so they’d taken to each other and made a new family of just the two of them. She stepped forward and put her hand on Grady’s shoulder, and he swung his head to look at her, his eyes streaked red.

“We’ll do everything we can, Grady, I promise you.”

“Thank you, mistress,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat again. “You are truly an angel of mercy, as good of heart as that devil of a sheriff is black of soul.”

Fiona frowned. “He must be a monster to sanction cutting off old men’s hands and shooting at boys. It is worse, even, than I remember it from three years ago,
though the sheriff then was bad enough. Who is this new man, and how long has he been in power over these lands?”

Everyone stiffened at her question, Will and Braedan looking at her with almost-identical expressions of dismay; it sent a chill through her, though she forced herself not to react. Not yet, at least until she had an answer. After an awkward pause, her brother finally cursed under his breath, and spoke. “I thought it was common knowledge, lass, or I would have told you myself.”

“Told me what?”

“I thought you knew as well,” Braedan said quietly, meeting her gaze again. “It’s Draven, lady. He is the sheriff. He was named to the post not quite a year before my father’s death.”

“Aye, Draven is a bastard all right,” Grady muttered, looking over at Nate’s still form resting under blankets near the fire. “May he roast in hell for eternity.”

Fiona couldn’t answer at first for the squeezing, sick sensation that was rising up into her throat.
Draven
was sheriff? Nay, not him, of all people. He was corruption incarnate, the one man she knew for certain would pervert true justice at every opportunity for the simple pleasure of it.

“It can’t be…” she murmured at last.

“I’m afraid it is,” Will said, his face somber, “though I’m sorry you had to learn of it this way. He still lives like a king at that estate of his, givin’ dictates to the forest justices and the rest of his men to keep our lives a misery. Every outlaw band from here to London feels the bite of his brand of justice. I’d like to have a chance at him, to show him what I think of his ways, but he’s yet to make an appearance around here.” He shook his
head. “More’s the pity, but I don’t think there’s any danger that he’ll be leavin’ his seat of luxury to seek us out anytime soon.”

“Aye, no danger,” Fiona whispered, looking away.

Braedan stepped up next to her. “Perhaps you should rest now. You may be needed in the night to tend to Nate. Come.” He nodded to the others and led her toward their quarters; she went without resistance, her entire body feeling as insubstantial as a waft of smoke from the fire. The idea of Draven in a position of that much authority—of that much power over the lives of innocent people—made her skin crawl with a kind of foreboding worse than any she’d experienced since the first day she’d been brought to his lavish estate at a tender fifteen.

Once they’d reached the darkened seclusion of their shelter, Braedan guided her to sit on the trunk near their pallet. When she was settled, he leaned back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, his face telling her far more openly than words ever could how much he regretted having to share such disturbing information with her.

“I am still having difficulty believing it,” she said at last, shaking her head.

“I thought you knew, Fiona, or I would have made certain to tell you long ago,” he answered quietly. “It must be a shock to learn of it so.”

A bitter smile twisted her lips. “After hearing about Tom and seeing Nate, I cannot say that I’m surprised to discover it is Draven behind it.”

“My father hated him for the cruelty he showed with acts like that, you know. He wrote as much in his private papers, and even sent a letter of complaint to King Ed
ward, under his authority as Chief Forest Justice, detailing his concerns, but the sickness took him before the matter could be addressed. Richard told me that Draven gained the sovereign’s ear shortly afterward and soothed any remaining concerns with his usual brand of lies.”

Fiona nodded, still struggling with the nausea that gripped her. “I remember some of the dealings we had with your father those years ago; he was a thorn in our side much of the time, it is true, but he would overlook the law, on occasion, if it was clear that it was hunger and not greed that had been behind the breaking of it. He seemed a fair-minded man, overall.” She looked up at Braedan, then, startled by the understanding that suddenly struck her. “You are much like him, I think, though I did not realize how much at first.”

“Nay, lady.” Braedan pushed away from the wall then, his eyes dark. “My father was a good man who strove to make life better for others. I cannot claim the same. It is beyond me, it seems, to protect even those most vulnerable in my care.” He made a scoffing sound. “I am naught but a pretender compared to what he was.”

As he’d spoken, he’d moved to his bundle of possessions, taking the little leather purse from inside it to begin counting their share of the plunder they’d been collecting since joining Will’s band of outlaws. She bit the inside of her cheek as she watched him, resisting the urge to tell him just how good a man she’d found him to be—to tell him about the kindness she felt radiating from him, even when he did nothing more important than brush back the hair from the brow of a wounded boy. But he wouldn’t accept her praise, she knew. Especially not in the frame of mind he was in just then.

“How much more do you think you will need to warrant our trip into London and a search of the
stewes
?” she asked quietly, after he’d finished tallying the coins and tying the purse strings tight again before replacing it in his sack. He was sitting back on his heels, having taken something from a folded piece of cloth to tuck it between his tunic and shirt.

“Another take like the first with the pardoner should be enough, I think, or several smaller to equal it. Either way, I dare not wait much longer, and will make do with whatever we manage to accumulate in the next few days. I want to leave for London by next week at latest.”

Even though she was surprised, Fiona started to reach out to him, something inside of her wanting desperately to comfort him, but at the last moment she kept her hands fisted on her lap. “Will has said that a group will ride tomorrow to set up a take on a different stretch of road,” she said. “I will tell him we wish to be a part of it, rather than among those traveling to purchase supplies. Perhaps we will gain enough from a few hour’s work there that we can set out the day after to begin your search in the
stewes
.”

Braedan nodded, his mouth still tight, his blue eyes somber with the conflicting emotions at war in him. Glancing away, he said, “Try to rest now, Fiona. I will return by nightfall.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere—anywhere…I just—” He broke off and sighed, jabbing his hand through his hair as he swung toward the door and called out over his shoulder, “I’m going to check on our mounts. My steed needs to be given full rein to run now and again, or he becomes restless.”

Fiona watched mutely as the cloth that covered the
tree shelter’s door swished back into place behind Braedan, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her fears, and the strange emptiness she was beginning to feel, like an ache inside her, whenever he wasn’t near.

Moonlight spread cool and luminous across the clearing by the time Braedan approached the outlaw settlement again. His self-directed ire had dulled a bit in the intervening hours, though it had never entirely disappeared. While he knew logically that there was no help for his delay in seeking Elizabeth, his heart continued to protest in relentless complaint—so much so that he’d had to ignore it forcibly in order to pursue any rational plan for helping his foster sister.

During that dark time when he’d first learned of Elizabeth’s plight from Richard, he had reacted in the way that came most naturally to him, storming into Draven’s private quarters at Chepston and confronting him. Yet attacking Draven had achieved nothing more than the satisfaction of landing a few well-placed punches. Soon the scuffle had turned deadly, and though his uncle was known for his impressive sword skills, Braedan had been better, ultimately pinning him at the end of his blade. But before he could gain information concerning Elizabeth’s whereabouts, Draven’s men had converged on him; there had been too many, and in the end they had overpowered him and confined him in the rooms below the main keep.

The torture had commenced then, with Draven directing the entire process—his way of making Braedan pay for his assault and besting of him. If nothing else, Braedan had learned, and painfully so, just how important Draven’s pride was to him. His uncle had toyed
with him for a certain measure, and then he’d used his power as sheriff to level false charges of treason against him, arranging in a written message to the king for the trial to take place at Chepston Hall. Within days, a jury of his hand-chosen men was in place, guaranteed to bring in a verdict of guilt and subsequent execution.

Braedan had known then that he had to escape; it was either that or allow Draven to take his head, and with it any hope for Elizabeth’s rescue and Richard’s future safety. It had been difficult. He’d been weakened by the torture and a lack of food and water. But his survival instincts had been stronger than the pain, and he’d fought himself free of the lower chambers and Chepston Hall, leaving behind the mangled corpses of four of Draven’s men and a slew of frightened kitchen servants. His search for Fiona had been undertaken the week after, once he’d attempted to navigate the
stewes
on his own for information about Elizabeth, with nothing to show for his efforts but suspicious glances and slammed doors.

Now here he was, within a few days of having enough coin to undertake a more effective search, and yet he was allowing the debilitating guilt to eat away at him again. It weighed on him, making him feel unsettled and vaguely annoyed. So much that had happened in the past few months had thrown him off-balance—his return from Saint-Jean-d’Acre to a family nearly destroyed by illness and evil, his arrest, torture, escape, and branding as an outlaw, the public dissolution of his betrothal to Julia…

And then, of course, meeting Fiona…

He paused for a moment just inside the clearing, his gaze searching for any glimpse of movement. There was
none. The entire settlement seemed at rest. Perhaps his counterfeit bride was sleeping, then, or tending to Nate in the little shelter that had been constructed apart from the main settlement for treating those who were ill or injured.