The Maiden and Her Knight (5 page)

“Since I don't see anybody else.”

Despite her resolve, she approached him as she might a skittish horse. If he noticed her awkwardness, his expression did not betray it, although it could be that he was too enveloped by pain to pay much heed to her at all.

As she lifted the helmet from his elbow, she pulled upward on his left arm. A foreign word exploded from his lips so loud and unexpected, she nearly dropped the helmet.

With his right hand, he grabbed her arm to steady her. “Forgive me, my lady.”

She shied away, taken aback by both his strength and the surge of blatant excitement within her. “You are in a great deal of pain, aren't you?”

“Not the worst I've felt.”

She put his helmet onto the cot behind him. “You should have told me how much your shoulder hurt. I would have been more gentle. Can you move your arm away from your body at all?”

“I don't think so.”

“Can you touch your right shoulder with your left hand?”

He tried, but when she saw how pale he went, she stopped him and said, “I had better examine it more closely. We must remove your garments.”

His eyes narrowed, but in the dark depths of his brown eyes, another emotion flared. “We?”

The sparks kindled something in her, too, that must and would be controlled. “I don't think you'll be able to do it by yourself.”

Accepting what she said, the fire in his eyes diminished. He shrugged, and winced. “Very well, my lady.”

Although she had little choice, her fingers trembled as she unbuckled his sword belt. She could tell that beneath the chain mail and padding, his belly was flat, the muscles taut from years of training and warfare. His hips were narrow, and she could guess the breadth and strength of his thighs.

Despite his pain, he stood perfectly still, which was a mercy. She could pretend he was a statue, not a man of flesh and blood, bone and sinew.

“Since I am at your tender mercy, my lady, I think it would be wise to apologize for any offense I may have caused last night. I was impetuous, I know. I have often been chastised for that.”

Was it some sort of trick he had mastered, to sound both amused and sincere? She didn't dare look at his face. Just the notion of raising her eyes past his virile chest to his strong chin, to encounter his tempting mouth and intense eyes, was enough to keep her gaze firmly focused on his buckle. “Now you have apologized, so you may be quiet and still.”

Her task was accomplished at last and, stifling the urge to fan herself, she laid the belt and sword on the bed beside his helmet.

“If I crouch, you can lift my surcoat over my head,” he suggested. He did just that, so that his face was level with her breasts, his lips a mere finger's length away.

Her breath caught in her throat.
Remember who you are. Remember what must be
.

She repeated the words over and over in her mind, an insistent chant to strengthen her resolve to pay as little heed as possible to the man in front of her who had no smirk on his face, or lust in his eyes. In fact, he was very pale and clearly in some considerable pain.

“Tell me if I am hurting you.” Biting her lip with determination, she took hold of his surcoat and eased it over his arms and shoulders as carefully as she could, then drew it off.

He must have strong legs to be able to crouch for so long when he wore a hauberk. A frisson of excitement skittered along her limbs, making her feel soft and pliant, vulnerable and gladly so.

Which was wrong. She could not afford to be vulnerable. She must be strong, for herself and for her family's sake.

At last she got the heavy and cumbersome mail off him, and much to her relief, he straightened.

Next came his padded
gambeson
. As she began to unbuckle it, she made a discovery that made a mockery of her determination to ignore him save as merely another wounded man to tend. “You are not wearing a camise or even
just-au-corps?
”

“They tickle me, too. At this time of year, it is hot enough with the
gambeson
, hauberk and surcoat.”

Heat. Tickling. Never before had such simple words created such a reaction within her—or the sight of a man's naked chest. She stared at the contours of his muscles, as defined as if they were chiseled out of marble. Hairs, dark and curling as those on his head, spread across his bronzed skin that glistened with the virile sheen of perspiration. More encircled the dark aureoles of his nipples, while others formed a line
below his navel and disappeared into his leather breeches.

“I did not expect to be wounded, or I would have worn a shirt.”

An unwelcome flush of embarrassment crept up her face. “You are that vain of your skill?”

“I was that sure my opponents would have less.”

She began to ease off his
gambeson
, attempting to touch him as little as possible. “You underestimated them.”

“No, I did not.”

“Given that you are here and they are not—” She gasped as his bare left shoulder appeared. It was very swollen and bruising to a dark, ugly shade of purple.

Connor bit back another Welsh curse at the sight of it, then nearly jumped out of his skin when Lady Allis touched him there. A strange sensation of pleasure mixed with pain roiled through him, even stronger than when she had helped him disrobe.

O'r annwyl
, when he had lowered himself before her, eyes to perfect breasts, only the agony of his injury had conquered the stirring in his loins, despite his resolution to remember their respective stations. Now, half naked and still in pain, he could not subdue the desire she brought flaring into life, or the wish that these circumstances were different, especially when she stared at him after removing his
gambeson
.

He clenched his teeth and tried to keep his mind focused on something—anything—other than her fingertips moving over his naked skin, down the front of his shoulder and around it.

“Forgive me, but I must be sure that the injury is what I suspect.”

Her he could easily forgive, because he could ad
mire and respect a highborn lady who cared for wounded men. And, if he were being honest, because he found her fascinating.

To take his mind from the pain, he stared at her face and focused on the little wrinkle of concentration between her blond brows, a shade darker than her hair, which was covered by a light blue silk scarf held in place with a narrow circlet of gold.

Mercifully, she stopped feeling his shoulder. Then she took his left hand in hers, putting her fingers on his wrist. He knew the gentle pressure was a medical necessity, but as pain radiated from his shoulder, so waves of pleasure rippled outward from her touch, although not enough to triumph over the agony.

Her brows knit with concern, and her mouth tightened.

“What is it? Is there something very wrong?”

She shook her head, and his dread diminished.

She placed her fingers on his right wrist. “I feel no difference, which is good. Sometimes there can be damage inside. Can you make a fist with your left hand?”

He did, and she gave him a small smile that made him feel his wound was not so very bad. “Excellent. Now you may sit down.”

Weak, and with the pain gaining upon him, he was glad to obey.

She folded her hands and regarded him with a tranquil steadiness that was comforting. “You've pulled the bone from the socket in your shoulder. I will have to put it back immediately, before more damage is done.”

Stunned, he stared at her.

“The bone is out of the socket. I must put it back,” she repeated slowly.

“I heard you.” Aye, so he had, but to think she could be so calm, so matter-of-fact…

He did not see the sympathy lurking in her soft brown eyes, only the grim set to her full lips, the very lips he had wanted so much to kiss. “
You
are going to put it back?”

“Yes. I have done it before, when the miller had the same injury. Brother Jonathan showed me how. It takes not strength, but skill. And it is going to hurt.”

As if he needed to be told that. As if he were a boy who had not been to war and seen all manner of wounds and sickness.

“Do it, then, and be quick.”

A
llis recognized the look in Sir Connor's eyes—the resolute refusal to let pain dominate him, the summoning of strength and the courage to accept whatever a physician must do.

True bravery did not always manifest itself in the charge of men and horses, but rather at such times as these, when a man's enemy was his own flesh and blood and bone.

“I have often helped Brother Jonathan,” she assured him as she hurried to the long trestle table. She picked up a vial and poured some of its contents in a cup, then brought it to him. “Drink this. It will ease the pain.”

He studied the cup and sniffed its contents.

“It's not poison. It's made from poppies.”

“Yes, I've smelled it before. In the Holy Land.” He downed it in a gulp. “Do it now.”

“It takes time for the potion to—”

“Now!” he growled, his burning, agonized eyes searing her heart. “It will hurt either way and waiting makes it worse.”

He had no idea how much pain he was inviting. “Sir knight, please—”

He grabbed her arm with his good right hand. “Do it!”

He could order armies with that voice.

She planted her feet, took hold of his left arm and followed his command.

Sir Connor didn't shout or curse or scream as the bone popped back into place. No sound at all escaped him as he squeezed his lips together, closed his eyes tight and clenched his jaw, yet he went so white, he was the color of his surcoat.

“I'm sorry, but there is no other way and you would not wait.”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath and slowly letting it out, he opened his eyes. “The worst is over, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks be to God for that.” His gaze fastened onto hers and he inched closer. “And thanks be to you, my lady, for your help.”

She didn't back away. She couldn't. She had heard of men who could tame horses or dogs with only their eyes, and he might be one of them, so powerless did she feel to turn away.

Nor did she wish to, as she stared into the dark brown depths, seeing pain and sorrow and something that took her a moment to comprehend. It was true gratitude.

“My lady!” Brother Jonathan exclaimed.

She gasped and looked toward the entrance of the
tent, feeling as guilty as if she had been caught in a passionate embrace. Brother Jonathan was just inside the entrance and Bob and Harry stood behind him, craning to see past the plump holy man. Bob, the taller of the two, was the first to close his mouth, while Harry ran his hand through his tousled black hair.

“You should have told me you were hurt,” Brother Jonathan chastised Sir Connor as he hurried toward them, his hazel eyes snapping with as much ire as she had ever seen him express. “I saw him on the field,” he continued, addressing her, “but he walked away as if he weren't hurt.”

“So I understand, Brother Jonathan. He is the kind to suffer in silence, even though his shoulder was out of joint.”

“If I had known my injury was as bad as that, I would have asked for help.”

She slid the half-naked knight a glance, not believing that for a moment. He was a proud warrior and probably would have swooned rather than let himself be carried from the field.

Brother Jonathan examined Sir Connor's shoulder and checked his pulse and his grip, as she had done. “Excellent, excellent,” he mumbled, but exactly who he was addressing wasn't clear.

Nevertheless, she took that as a sign that she had done well, and Sir Connor's shoulder was correctly repaired. “I gave him a draft to ease the pain.”

“Good. It will be sore for a day or two yet,” Brother Jonathan said to him, “and for some time afterward. It must be wrapped and kept still. Soon you can begin to work the muscle, but slowly and gradually. You don't want to weaken the joint, or it will pop again.”

“Again?” Sir Connor looked and sounded a bit nauseous.

“Yes, and more easily. Over time, that could wear the joint and you would be in constant agony.”

“Then I shall do as you say.”

“Excellent. Now if Lady Allis will assist, I will prepare some bandages for wrapping your shoulder. Lie back and rest, sir, until we are ready.”

Sir Connor nodded and did as he was told. She hoped the potion was taking effect, for he must be in considerable pain, certainly far more than he was showing.

“Put salve on these, if you will, my lady. It will ease the ache.”

She nodded and tried to keep her attention on her task and not the questions the two soldiers proceeded to ask Sir Connor.

“Been in a lot of tournaments, have you?” Bob inquired.

“A few.”

“And battles with the infidel, eh?” Harry asked, nodding at the cross on Sir Connor's surcoat.

“More than a few.”

Bob whistled. “With the king?”

“Yes. I was on Crusade with Richard.”

“Now there's a man!” Harry said with obvious approval.

She happened to glance at Sir Connor at that moment. He was in the process of covering his face with his right arm, but before he did, she saw that he did not share that sentiment.

Most men of arms admired the king, and it was strange that he did not.

“What's Richard like, really?” Bob asked. “I mean,
we hear all sorts of things. Do women really faint when they see him?”

The tent flap opened, and two more soldiers appeared, assisting a man who moaned with every step they took. His leg was twisted at an odd angle, obviously broken.

“God's heavenly heart, I don't like the looks of that,” Brother Jonathan cried, shoving bandages at her. “My lady, would you mind wrapping Sir Connor's shoulder? I really should tend to this man.”

“But Brother Jonathan—”

He had already bustled off, so there was nothing else to do but wrap Sir Connor's shoulder.

Remembering far too well the feel of his warm skin and especially the feelings touching him invoked, and very aware that they were no longer alone, she took the bandages and approached Sir Connor. “Bob, Harry, help him up.”

“I don't need any help,” Sir Connor protested genially as he struggled to sit while keeping his left arm immobile.

Realizing the potion was most definitely affecting him, she nodded to Bob and Harry, who quickly stepped in and eased him upright.

“That's a humiliating experience for a man, that is,” Sir Connor observed with a lopsided grin.

She didn't need any help now. It would be better, in fact, if Bob and Harry were out of earshot. A man in this state might reveal…might say almost anything.

It would be best of all, perhaps, if they didn't watch, either. She might blush, or her hands tremble again, and she didn't want them to see such evidence of a temporary, foolish, girlish weakness. Who could say what two gossiping foot soldiers might make of it?
“Bob, Harry, why don't you see if there are other wounded on the field?”

Dismissed, they bowed and departed, leaving Allis, Sir Connor, Brother Jonathan and his moaning patient in the tent.

Commanding herself to concentrate and get this over with as quickly as possible so that her heartbeat would settle and her breathing return to normal, she began to wrap the salved bandages around Sir Connor's shoulder and chest to keep the joint as immobile as she could.

He suddenly sucked in his breath. “Not wanting to insult you, my lady, but I've had gentler nursing from the man who tended the king's horses.”

“I'm sorry.” She went a little slower, and with more caution.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you'd been talking to Caradoc,” he reflected with preternatural calm. “My brother, that is. He would enjoy doing that, but he wouldn't be as delicate as you. Oh, he'd be rough! Nothing more than I deserved, he would tell me.” He smiled, obviously not realizing he was grinning like a drunken fool. His Welsh accent seemed to grow stronger with every utterance, too. “I'm glad he's not. You're much prettier, you are. I don't know many other beautiful and wealthy ladies would tend to wounded as you do.

“Look you, wanting to rip that scarf off your head, me, and see your lovely hair again,” he continued, his words slurring. “Like gold it is, molten gold. It was your hair first made me stay in the garden, where I knew I shouldn't be.” He leaned closer and a tendril of titillation slid along her spine. “Aye, knowing that I ought to go, I was, but when I saw you looking so sad
and lonely…like I have been so many times…I wanted to make you smile a little. And I did, didn't I?”

She tried to fight the excitement igniting and flaming into being within her as he continued. The feelings he roused in her must be put to death swiftly. Completely.

But the need he awakened proved too strong and too powerful to stifle. She could not find it in her to tell him to be quiet, especially when he caressed her cheek with his callused hand. His warm, rough palm felt so gentle and so good against her skin.

She nervously glanced over her shoulder. Brother Jonathan was still busily attending to his patient.

“Different you were in the garden with me,” Sir Connor whispered. His deep, musical voice seemed to weave a spell around her, as if they were once more alone in the moonlight with the soft scent of roses about them. “Friendlier. Sweeter. I should have kissed you on your lovely rosy lips, I'm thinking.” His thumb brushed over her mouth. “But I could not.”

Totally entranced, her hands still, she bent closer, until her mouth was mere inches from his. “Why not?”

“Because I am…who I am.”

A strange and unexpected answer. “Who are you?”

He swayed slightly, as if he were drunk. “Why, Sir Connor of Llanstephan, of course!”

Then he laughed, a great raucous rumble of hilarity that seemed like a slap in the face, so loud and unexpected it was.

She looked over her shoulder again, to see Brother Jonathan and his patient staring at them.

“The potion,” she reminded the holy man, who went back to his task as Sir Connor continued to chuckle like a demented fool.

That was what she got for asking questions of a man who had drunk that potion. Pleasant and exciting though they were, she should pay the mutterings of a drugged man no mind. “Enough talking, sir knight. Lie down. You should sleep.”

He slowly reclined upon the cot. “Will you join me?”

Her response was an indignant, “No!”

“Very proper answer, my lady, but I know these games.” He tried to waggle his right forefinger at her, reminding her that he was drug-addled, and she had been mistaken to take his invitation seriously.

“You want me. You wanted me last night, as much as I wanted you. I should have kissed you on your lovely lips, I should. I should have caressed your soft skin and confessed how much I admire your grace. I should have made love with you right there in the garden. I should have slowly, slowly showed you how you make me feel when I look at you, like there might indeed be a hope for happiness and contentment on this earth for me.”

More unexpected words from this unusual man. If he were in his right mind, her heart would be tenderly touched by what he was saying. As it was, his words could be dismissed as easily as Bob and Harry.

Or if not just as easily, they would be at last. They must be.

He smiled dreamily, with a hint of the charming young rogue she could easily believe he had been. “Or maybe we would not have had the patience to take our time.”

He took her hand, his closing around hers, and she let him, guiltily indulging herself for one brief moment. There never would and never could be anything more between them. Perhaps it was because of that, or
because Brother Jonathan was busy, or because he made her feel like a beautiful and desirable young woman and not the price for a family's security, that a sly, mischievous spirit stole upon her. “Why, I hardly know you, Sir Connor.”

His grin, even lopsided, was charm personified. “You would have known me better by the finish.”

He limply gestured for her to lean closer. “Would you do something for me?”

Looking around and seeing that Brother Jonathan was still occupied, she bent down. She was so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek.

“When you see the man you despise,” he whispered, “please tell him I am going to kill him.”

She reared back as violence and the baron intruded into her stolen moment of peace, for she knew exactly who he meant. Last night in the hall, Sir Connor had caught her unguarded expression and whatever else he interpreted from that, he had rightly guessed her opinion of the man she must marry.

Sir Connor continued slowly, as if he were speaking in his sleep, which in a way, he was. “He tried to kill me first. My lance…my lance should not have shattered like that.”

At the time of the collision she had been too concerned about his fall to consider exactly how it had happened. Was it possible he was right? Could he have been the victim of foul play?

That seemed impossible. Every man in the tournament was duly licensed by the king's court, having paid for the privilege of participating in tournaments throughout England. Surely no dishonest man would be allowed…

Yet, would the king's court, always so short of funds because of Richard's penchant for war, be so particular, or would the ability to pay be the only requirement?

To be sure, she had never seen a lance demolished in that way—but then, she had not seen very many melees, either.

She opened her mouth to question him more, but his eyes closed, his jaw went slack, and his chest began to rise and fall with his slow, even breathing. He was asleep.

More injured men straggled in, obviously not seriously hurt as they casually waited for Brother Jonathan and discussed the melee, so she took a moment to contemplate Sir Connor's serious accusation. Had DeFrouchette really tried to kill him? And if so, why?

DeFrouchette would certainly act out of malice; of that she was certain. He would do all he could to ensure an enemy's defeat, and not honestly, if necessary.