The Tempest (4 page)

She put the bowl in his hands. He looked down at the contents…and curled his lip in distaste.

“Porridge? You bring me a meal given to children, or the elderly and infirmed?”

A hint of a smile came to her lips, and he suddenly realized what she was thinking. With that sly little look, she was silently reminding him that it was
hi> who was infirm. She probably supposed that the meal suited him perfectly, cripple that he was. He had a sudden, furious impulse to dump the offending meal on the floor…or better yet, to throw it at her and see that smug little look wiped from her expression.

But just as he neared action, she spoke in a soft way…and her voice took the sword from his hand.

“I stirred in cinnamon for you. I think you will find the taste quite pleasant.”

For you.
There was something in those words that sounded so sincere. But he could not believe she was truly selfless in her actions. No one had ever done anything on his behalf without being coerced or paid. Why did she play at this game of kindness?

He shook his head at his own foolishness. Looking down at the bowl in his hand, he was hesitant to act…but he soon took up the spoon and began to feed. He told himself that he was only eating this undignified meal because he was so very hungry. No matter that it tasted very good…that the spice of the cinnamon was a sharp, delicious taste on his tongue. The wench had been right before…about the ice for his foot. And she was right this time about the taste.

But there was no need to give her more credit than she deserved.

In the barn, Cassia stood before Guy’s horse, brushing him down. She’d just brought him in from his walk, which she tried to do every day, so long as the weather permitted. She knew that he wasn’t accustomed to being lethargic. The fresh air was good for her as well, and she enjoyed spending time with the horse. He was a calm and quiet animal, and he seemed to enjoy the little attention she was able to give him. On=“0”>ng was certain…the beast didn’t match his owner in temperament.

As she finished her work and headed back into the house, she sighed with disappointment, thinking of what little headway she’d made with the patient in her care, at least in the sense of his disposition.

He’d been with them for nearly two weeks now. While his fever had broken, and he seemed to be regaining his energy, he was still suffering from a broken ankle, and there was little that could be done for it until it healed. Between now and then, he would have to endure it…and his own knowledge of his helplessness certainly didn’t make him a better patient.

She was not foolish enough to believe he would become a perfect gentleman. That was wishful thinking, if ever there was such a thing. But she had hoped he would at least be civil, if nothing else.

So far, there had been no sign of even that…and part of her wondered if there ever would be.

The smell of fresh stew was strong as she came inside. Her father was stirring a kettle on the fire, and she saw him yawn…a sign that he would soon be retiring to bed. It was near the end of his day, and the end of his watch in the sickroom. With night coming, it was her turn to watch over the patient.

“Has he been fed?” she asked.

Robert shook his head. “I was just about to take him his meal. He has been calling for it.”

Taking off her cloak and gloves, she went over and took the bowl from his hands.

“I will take it to him.” She placed the bowl on a small wooden tray. Picking up the teapot, she filled a cup…and finding a nearby vial, she put in a few drops of medicine. Reluctantly, she carried the tray into the room.

She was careful to set it aside, out of his reach. He’d behaved that first time she’d given him a bowl of porridge. In the days since, he’d eaten his meals without much trouble, and even seemed to like what she served him, despite her certainty that he did so against his will. She
almost
trusted him to be calm…but not quite. The last thing she wanted was to give him something to throw in a fit of temper. Taking up the cup, she approached him cautiously, prepared to be barked at, which she knew would happen if the mood set him right.

“Drink this,” she urged him, handing him the cup. As ridiculous as he’d been in his previous outbursts, she half expected him to spit the liquid out. But to her surprise, he only grumbled at its bitter taste.

“That is the most horrible concoction I have ever tasted. What are you poisoning me with?”

She sighed, her tolerance wearing thin.

“It is a healing tea. It will help ease your pain.”

He thrust the cup back to her, turning his head aside like a spoiled child.

“It is bloody awful. Take it away and bring the food I smell.”

Unable to hold her tongue any longer, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Sir Guy of Gisborne, you are an ungrateful bugger.”

He clasped her wrist tightly, causing the cup to fall from her hand. He yanked her close to him.

“This is not the first time you have spoken out of turn to me, woman. If it were not for my being so indisposed, I would see you punished severely.”

She flung his hand away. Putting the cup down forcefully, she walked from the room, leaving the food tray well out of his reach…and ignoring his furious protests.

“Where do you think you are going? How am I supposed to reach the damnable meal if you have left it way over there? Come back here!”

She didn’t turn back. Even as he continued his rant, she crossed the front room and went to stoke the fire. Her father looked at her, inclining his head towards the sound of the shouting.

“What noise is there, daughter?”

She shook her head. “Do not mind him, father. He is just making a fool of himself with all of his blustering. But do not fear him. I have put a bit of something in his tea to make him sleep. I shall tend to him in peace, for once.”

Indeed, it wasn’t long before the noise in the room ceased. And for the first time in a long while, she and her father enjoyed a quiet, hearty meal.

After they’d finished, Robert retired for the night, leaving her alone with her thoughts. With Guy and her father both asleep, she had a few precious moments to herself. She went to the cot in the corner to rest. It would not be long before Guy would wake up. He would be very hungry…and probably, very unhappy with her for leaving him as she had. Heaven only knew how he would act.

There was goodness in that man…but Lord above, it was buried deep. Perhaps too deep. Maybe it was beyond reach. If kindness and compassion couldn’t bring it out, then perhaps what he needed was a dose of his own medicine…a bit of tough handling. And if that didn’t do anything to change his surly ways, she didn’t know what she would do with him.

*****

“He wants a bath and a shave…and he will not allow me to touch him.”

Cassia paused in her needlework, her mouth slightly open in shock.

“Surely you jest, father. It might do for me to see he has a shave, but I cannot…
bathe
him. ‘Twould not be proper.”

Robert looked quite flustered, as if his patience had reached its limit. Gisborne must have been quite harsh indeed to make him so upset. He grumbled in fustration, handing her the cloth bundle with the shaving materials.

“He will not allow me to tend to him. And he is in desperate need of a wash. The smell is growing intolerable. Only wash that which is necessary. And if there is trouble to be found, call me in…and I shall think of something.”

Even in the light of the fire, her face grew red. But in truth, she knew her father was right. And even with a patient as difficult as Sir Guy, she knew it wasn’t proper or healthy to leave him in such condition. But to think of being in such close quarters with him, in such an intimate situation…her heart beat fast to think of it.

But then, she lifted her chin in a stubborn way.

He has done this on purpose
, she thought.
He wants to torment me as revenge for leaving him hungry
.

But if it was his intention to taunt her, he would find she wasn’t so easily beaten.

Going out to the well, she brought up the bucket of water…and of course it was near freezing. For a moment, she considered washing him in such ice-cold water to teach him a lesson. But sick as he’d been of late, she knew that wouldn’t be wise. He didn’t deserve more of her kindness, awful as he’d been to her and her father. But he was still unwell, and it wasn’t in her nature to be so cruel, even to him.

Taking the bucket, she brought it to the fire to let it warm a little. And a few moments later she heard him shouting from the sickroom.

“What in blazes is taking so long? I cannot tolerate this neglected state a moment longer!”

Taking up a rag and a bar of soap, she walked in the room and paused in the doorway. The sight of him lying there, half-exposed, was enough to give any woman pause. Thankfully, his lower half was covered with a sheet. She couldn’t imagine what her own reaction would have been to seeing him stark naked. Shaking her head at the shameful thought, she set her shoulders determinedly and went to him, ignoring the tiny little smirk on his face. Her brow was stern as she hefted the water bucket up, placing it on the bed table. Opening the shaving kit, she took up the razor and began sharpening it, and as she worked it back and forth she glared at him.

“I know not what game you play at, but if you think to humble me, you will find yourself quite disappointed.”

Before he could make a remark, she lathered her hands with soap and rubbed it on his face, making a particular point to be rough in her actions. When she applied the razor, he was wise enough to keep still and silent.

But when it came to bathing him, he began looking at her with a devilish gleam in his eye. Dunking the rag in the water, lathering it with soap, she began scrubbing him in a rough manner, careful not to let her hands roam in one place for two long. But it was impossible to be so close to him…to touch him, even briefly, and not notice the firm muscles under her fingers. She bit her lip stubbornly, determined not to think of such a thing. But he made it nearly impossible, smirking at her as he was.

Pompous bastard
, she thought.

“You would make a good hand maiden,” he said. “When I return to Nottingham, perhaps I should take you back with me and put you to work as my personal servant. I’ll wager I could find more for you to give me than a simple washing.”

Finished with him from the waist up, she re-dunked the rag and threw it at his chest. “You will do the rest yourself, my lord.” As she turned away, she felt the sudden grip of his hand on her arm.

“You will wash my hair before you go.”

She watched as he turned himself so that his legs hung over the edge of the bed. He leaned his head down, waiting. For a moment, she stared at the top of his head. Then she heard him grumble.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

With a little smirk of her own, she picked up the heavy bucket…and poured the entire load of water down on his head. The great slosh of water was like music to her ears, as was the shouting and sputtering that came in its wake. But she didn’t stay to see what he would do. She fled the room quickly, gleeful at the sweetness of revenge. Even his furious shouting couldn’t keep the smirk from her face.

“Evil, nasty little witch!”

Her father looked up from the fire, where he was stirring a pot. She smiled at him, triumphant.

“He is clean, father, though I would take some towels with you when you go in. There was a bit of water spilled on the floor.”

*****

Late that night, when she went in to relieve her weary father, she purposely sat in the corner with her needlework and didn’t look at the scowling man sitting up in the bed. For some time, she let the quiet linger. If neither of them spoke all night long, it wouldn’t have troubled her in the least. But it wasn’t long before Gisborne seemed to grow tired of the stillness.

“Why do you sit in stone silence? Do you not have some witch’s brew to force down my throat? Or is there another drowning in the cards for me?”

She punched the needle in and drew it out, ignoring him. This was a test of wills that she was determined to win. If he could not speak to her with a civil tongue, she was determined not to speak to him at all. After all she and her father had done for this man, the least he could do was to treat them with a speck of decency.

“What is your name?”

The question was spoken in a rough manner…and yet, it was a question she hadn’t expected.

Why does he care what my name is? Why should I give it to him?
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And yet, there was a part of her that wanted to answer. Despite his bad temper, his ungratefulness, and his cruelty, there was something about Guy of Gisborne that fascinated her, even now. Hadn’t he always been this way? Dark and brooding…moody and unpredictable as weather. Perhaps it was his voice, so deep and as smooth as velvet, that prompted her to pause in her stitching. And she answered him.

“Cassia, my lord. My name is Cassia.”

He said nothing to the revelation of her name. Turning his head slightly, he gave a little snort, as if her name annoyed him. She sighed, shaking her head, and went back to her stitching. Then he spoke again, a surprising note of want in his tone.

“My foot hurts…and so does my head.”
He wasn’t so sharp, so demanding as he’d been before. She sensed that he was in pain and sought relief, though he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it directly. But at least he wasn’t shouting, or throwing things. His manner, while not exactly kind, was at least tolerable. Setting aside her needlework, she rose to her feet.

“I shall fetch you some ice for your foot. And so long as you promise not to knock the cup from my hand, I will bring you your tea.”

His answer was an unintelligible grumble. Her mouth turned up just slightly, and she left to bring him what he asked for.

Guy watched her as she scrubbed the floor. He was not sure why he cared to observe her, doing the same mundane tasks that she did nearly every day. Perhaps it was mere boredom that led him to study her. After lying about now for more than a month, the idleness was nearly driving him mad. He was sure that was what drew him to observe.

But there was also the knowledge that under that quiet demeanor of hers, there was a little spitfire. She had him intrigued, recalling the way she’d boldly handled him on more than one occasion. He wondered about her, wishing to ask her questions, to learn something more of her. And yet, he could not bring himself to converse directly with her, unless it was to make demands.

He’d spent most of these last days in sullen silence, thinking about a number of different things. As he so often had, he thought of Marian. She had been in his dreams every night for so long, and always the scene had been the same. He would see her…an apparition, one who always remained just out of his reach, no matter how far or fast he pursued her. When he cried out for her, she never gave him an answer. She would look over her shoulder for a moment, and then flee from him again. But her expression seemed to speak for her, as if to tell him…

This is your punishment, Guy of Gisborne. In dreams, just as in life, I will always be beyond your reach.

But of late, the dreams had begun to change. He would see her, and call her name. He would pursue her, as he always did. But part of the way in his chase he would slow, and then stop, just watching as she fled. After all this time, it seemed his heart was beginning to understand the hopelessness of following her. And he was losing will to continue.

In his waking hours, he found himself thinking more and more about his little nurse.

He had taken to sleeping during the day and sitting up most of the night, preferring her company to her father’s. Robert was quiet, just like his daughter, but his manner was much different. While Cassia seemed rather content in what she was doing…even giving him an occasional smile… Robert showed little hospitality. While he was always thorough in his care, it was clear he was not comfortable with the presence of his patient.

Guy cared not what the old man thought of him. And to avoid those cold looks, he rested in the daylight hours and stayed awake most of the night when Cassia came into the room.

Each night, usually around dark, she came in and brought him something to eat. She would check his ankle with her fingers, testing the soundness of the bone. It hurt like hell, of course. But of late, he found himself gritting his teeth and biting his tongue, rather than shouting at her. Perhaps it was the touch of her hands that eased his temper. At first, he’d been in too much agony and angry despair to take note of it. But in time, his aches and pains had started to ease. The wound on his head hardly bothered him now, although it itched like mad. Cassia assured him it was a sign of improvement, and her words were proven when one morning, her father removed the stitching that had bound the skin. Now, only a long scab remained, and soon that would fade into a simple scar. And as for his foot, he found that it hurt a little less with each day…thanks to the distraction of Cassia’s touch.

He began looking forward to her rituals of care. And watching her now, he felt the need for her attention.

“I want ice for my foot.”

He saw her pause in her work, looking up at him. He knew his command was gruff. And for a moment, he did not think anything of it. But then, he saw something in her look that made him realize his own harshness. He knew he should have tempertone of voice. And so he added, almost reluctantly…

“If you please.”

Her expression softened then, and she left the room to get the ice for him.

Whenever she tested his foot, she was always as gentle as she could be, and she was quick to re-apply the ice and the linen wrapping. She did so upon her return, and the cold was a great relief to his pain.

But it was the feeling of her fingers against his skin that he found most soothing…and, in a strange way, thrilling. Her hands were so warm, so soft. Each time she brushed her fingers against him, he felt a charge shoot up his knee, through his leg…and more often of late, the feeling spread to his groin. But he wasn’t embarrassed by it. Hell, he was only human. And she was quite lovely to look at, even if she was only a lowly peasant.

What would it be like to have those little hands of hers moving up his leg? Touching his knee, grazing his thigh. Then wandering higher…

“Is something wrong?”

She’d been watching him, it seemed. And to the sudden interruption of his thoughts, he shook his head and groaned.

“I am in pain.”

If you only knew what kind, you would probably run from the room in a fright.

He nearly smirked at his own wicked thoughts…but a moment later he felt a different kind of reflex, when her nail accidentally brushed the sole of his foot. His leg jerked, and he gave a little cry of surprise…to which she gave him a curious look. And then she grinned as she realized what she’d done.

“Sir Guy of Gisborne has ticklish feet? Well my my, the little surprises that life brings.”

He felt his face flush with shame. Not since he was a little boy had anyone tickled his feet, or for that matter, even known of the embarrassing ailment. He tried to withdraw his foot from her reach, but she smirked as she reached out and stroked his sole again. Giving another little shout of protest, his temper suddenly flared at the weakness she had found in him.

“Do not do that again!”

She withdrew her hand, the smile falling away from her face. Now came that familiar look of distance in her eyes. It was the look she’d worn several times, particularly that night after she’d dumped the water over his head. She’d sat in her corner, not looking at him, not speaking to him. He might as well have been invisible for all the attention she had paid to him. Now she looked at him that way again.

Quickly finishing up her linen wrapping…and binding it a bit tighter than usual…she did the very same thing she’d done that night. Leaving the room in silence, she was gone for quite a long time. He waited, wondering where she was and what she was doing. A slight feeling of regret came over him…but he pushed it away.