The Whispering Night (8 page)

She did, somewhat. Her
father and uncles and brothers were a group marred by male shortcomings.
Another male into the fold only fueled their fires. Garren was doing what he
had to do in order not to be trampled by them.

Her hurt was easing.
"But you were...," she tried to find the right words. "In front
of Aglette, you acted as if I had done something to offend you. Only the
evening before, you had been warm and kind in my chamber, yet when I saw you in
the bailey, you were...."

He put his hand up to
silence her. "I know," he said softly. "But your servant could
also be a witness for your family. Were they to ask her, she could say that she
saw me demonstrate kindness toward you, something that could, again, be
perceived as weakness. I want nothing to be used against me."

“Aglette is not a servant.
She is my friend, and loyal to the death.”

“My apologies, then. But
I could not make that assumption.”

She wondered if she
should believe him or not. "So what you are telling me, in essence, is
that in public you cannot show me any kindness so long as my family is around?
Only when we are alone, is that it?"

"While your family
still gnashes their teeth every time they see me, I am not sure there is any
other alternative."

"Are you so
concerned they would think you weak that you would rather have me think you a
cad?"

"No," he shook
his head slowly. "But I pray you understand my reasoning."

"But those things
you said in the hall, how you have no need or interest in marrying me. Is that
true?"

"No."

"Then you do have
interest?"

"Can you not see it
in my face, even now?"

She could, but she was
terrified of this man she did not know, yet was enormously attracted to. He had
the power to bend her emotions like grass in the wind.

"I see a man who
says one thing, yet demonstrates another," she said after a moment.
"I think you make excuses to soothe me. I shall not be made a fool
of."

He sighed, feeling like
he was losing a battle. This one involved feeling and he hadn't a sword big
enough to fight it.

"I understand your
reservation. What would convince you that I am a man of my word?"

She looked at him,
thoughtfully. "Would you consider yourself a strong man, Sir Garren?"

"Stronger than
most, I suppose."

"Then if you are so
strong, what should it matter what my family thinks? If you are so strong,
their opinion should mean nothing to you. You can stand on your strength
alone."

He gazed at her a long
moment. Then, he smiled. "Wiser words were never spoken, my lady."

"Perhaps. But will
you heed them?"

"I can see that it
will cost me your respect not to. And your respect means more to me than
theirs."

She was surprised.
"It does?"

"It does."

His expression made her
feel giddy.  They stood there on the sturdy wooden steps, gazing at each other,
feeling a tide of new emotion sweep through them.  Garren knew it was unhealthy
for him, but he couldn't help it. It was far easier to give in than to resist. 
Perhaps he should just learn to work with his traitorous emotions so that they
did not interfere in his thought process.  He had always been the adaptable
sort. With that thought, he let go of his fear and simply enjoyed something
he'd never felt before in his life.

It was a bold move to
reach out and take her hand.  It was even bolder to place a tender kiss on the
inside of her wrist.  He could feel her hand tremble and it pleased him
tremendously.  He wanted so badly to kiss her lips, but he wouldn't dare. Her
soft hand in his calloused one, for the moment, was enough.

"There you
are!"

The roar came from the
entrance to the larger tower. Startled, Derica and Garren looked up to see
Alger and Lon standing in the doorway, swords in hand. One-eyed Alger leapt
onto the steps, pulling Derica away from Garren.

"So you take her
out here with lustful intentions," he growled. "I shall teach you
some manners, le Mon. Women in the Holy Land may respond like dogs in heat, but
civilized English women do not."

Alger was armed, but
Garren remained cool. "I am without my sword. If you would allow me to
collect it, I would be happy to teach you a lesson of my own."

A weapon came flying at
him, courtesy of Lon. Garren deftly caught it, noting it was nothing the size
or strength of his own sword.  Alger didn't permit him to take a breath before
he was flying at him, sword wielded high.

Garren easily deflected
the blow, but he was at a disadvantage. He was half way up the wooden stairs
and to lose his balance would cause him to tumble several steps. So he
descended carefully, unable to take the offense against Alger as the man
pounded him mercilessly. But once they were on the level ground of the ward,
the tides turned.

"Uncle Alger,"
Derica begged. "Please stop this. You're being foolish."

Alger growled and
grunted, once landing blows, now deflecting them.  He ignored his niece, who
pulled away from Lon and scampered down the steps.

"Stop this, I
say!" she hissed. "You're going to be injured!"

"The only one who
is going to be injured is...," he grunted, warding off a strong blow aimed
at his head. "... your intended.  Any man who attempts to sully your honor
gets the same."

"He didn't attempt to
sully my honor," Derica insisted. "He was a perfect knight. In fact,
he is the one who removed me from the hall so your boyish games would not
injure me."

"You mean that he
removed you from the hall to take advantage of you," Lon said behind her.
"He is had his way with whores in the Holy Land and now he wants to have
his way with you."

Somehow the thought of
Garren being intimate with dark-skinned women didn't sit well with Derica.  In
fact, the thought of him with any woman didn't sit well with her. She watched
Garren toy with her uncle, convinced he could kill the older man if he wanted
to.

"Tell them you were
not trying to have your way with me or they'll nip at your heels like dogs for
the rest of your life," she told him.

Garren distracted Alger
with a thrust while managing to get his foot in behind the man. Alger tripped
and fell heavily, and his sword went into the mud.

"Gladly," he
said, hardly winded. "I was not trying to have my way with your niece. I
was simply talking to her."

Alger was furious and
humiliated.  "You are a liar. We saw you touch her."

"Her hand,"
Garren lowered his sword. "You saw me touch her hand. Harmless, I assure
you. And if I wanted to ravage her, do you think I would do it out here in the
bailey for everyone to see? I would have taken her somewhere where no one could
find us."

Alger struggled up from
the mud, glowering. It was enough of a distraction to allow Lon to race down
the steps and leap onto Garren's back.  Derica shrieked, unwisely entering the
melee by trying to pull Lon off of Garren. Garren had no idea she was behind
him until he brought his sword up in an attempt to dislodge Lon and ended up
striking Derica instead.

She cried out, the upper
portion of her right arm sliced by the weapon. The men forgot their battle,
their eyes wide at the sight of her blood.

Garren was the first one
to Derica's side. "Let me have a look," he took her arm gently. 
"Come on... that's a good girl. Let me see what I have done to you."

There were tears in her
eyes, making their way down her cheeks as he peeled the tatters of her sleeve
away. The wound hurt tremendously and she wasn't very good at hiding it.
"I am sorry, Garren."

Garren's expression was
warm and reassuring as he examined the injury. "Sorry for what?" he
asked gently. "I am the one who struck you, therefore, I am the one who is
sorrier than words can express."

"But I got in the
way...."

"You were
attempting to help me. That is noble and courageous, and I am indebted to
you."

Lon had bolted off,
screaming that Derica had been mortally injured.  Alger remained, trying to
gain a look at the injury. 

"It is a decent
cut," he said. "Better to take her inside to clean it."

Garren agreed; it was a
long nick and somewhat deep. It was going to need a few stitches. He swept Derica
into his arms and carried her into the tower.  By this time, the place was in a
panic and there were several anxious faces to greet them. Garren ignored the
worry, more concerned with tending Derica than answering foolish questions. He
snapped orders to the servants and sent them running for healing supplies,
ignoring Derica's family as they tried to stop him and inspect her injury for
themselves.

"What
happened?" Bertram demanded. "How was she struck by your sword, le
Mon? Give me answers, I say!"

Garren growled at him.
"She was trying to save me from your foolish brothers. If you have anyone
to admonish, better spend your breath on them. Were it not for their stupidity,
none of us would be in the position we now find ourselves in."

Bertram cast Lon a long
look. Alger refused to look at him at all, appearing more concerned with his
niece. Garren shoved past Bertram and the others, mounting the steps to the
upper floor; he would have been angry about the blockade were he not more
concerned about Derica's mental state at this moment. She was pale and weepy,
trying to be brave. He doubted she could have handled a confrontation of any
kind.

Once in her chamber, he laid
her upon the bed. The menfolk were crowding in behind them and once she was out
of his arms, he was more forceful about chasing them back. Aglette squeezed in
through the door, bearing water and witch-hazel.

"I will see to my
daughter, le Mon," Bertram insisted. "You will not stop me."

Garren was not to be
trifled with. "I have no time to waste with you, so I will make this
clear. Derica does not need a gaggle of men hanging over her right now and I
can guarantee that I have treated more battle wounds than you have seen in your
lifetime.  Leave her to me and trust that she will be properly cared for."

Bertram glared at him.
"She is my daughter. You have no right to touch her, in any fashion, more
than I."

"She is my wife, in
the eyes of law if not yet in the eyes of God. But that, too, shall be reckoned
two days hence." He planted a big hand squarely on Bertram's chest and
pushed the man back, through the chamber door. "Be gone. I shall send word
when she is well enough for visitors."

He slammed the door and
bolted it before Bertram could respond. Ignoring the raving on the opposite
side of the door, he returned his focus to Derica.

She was sitting up in
her bed, pale, but the tears had subsided. Garren smiled gently as he
approached, all but shoving Aglette aside and taking the stool from her.  He
peeled away the remaining material as Derica sucked in her breath, pained by
his touch.

"I am sorry,"
he murmured. "I know it hurts."

She shook her head,
biting her lip and looking away from the blood that stained her gown. "Not
much, it doesn't."

He knew she was lying
but he would not contradict her.  He inspected the wound more closely, seeing
bits of material in it. He had to clean it out quickly and sew it up.

"Derica," he
said softly. "I need to clean the wound and put a few stitches in it. Be
brave just a while longer and we'll be done with this foolishness. Are you with
me?"

Derica had tended wounds
before like this, on her brothers and uncles. She knew they healing sometimes
hurt worse than the injury, but she nodded to his question.

"Aye," she
whispered. "Hurry and get it over with."

Up until this moment,
Garren had ignored his guilt at having done this to her, however accidental.
Now he was seized with remorse. Tending her wound was going to hurt him far
more than it would hurt her.

"I brought this, my
lord," Aglette shoved a bottle at him. "If we get her drunk on wine,
she'll not feel a thing."

Garren knew that wasn't
quite the truth, but he took the bottle from her anyway. "My thanks,"
he held it up to Derica. "It might help, my lady."

Derica took a few large
gulps, as if the faster and more she drank, the less the shock and pain.  It
was strong and tart. Garren watched her take another gulp before moving in on
the wound. He would have liked to have taken the time until she was properly
fortified, but there was no time to waste.

Some of the material was
imbedded deep. Garren used a long pair of tweezers that Aglette had brought to
pull out the bits and pieces, listening to Derica gasp and then finally sob
softly in pain. More than once, he put his hand on her shoulder, gently
rubbing, apologizing for the pain he was causing her.  Derica would only nod
her head to acknowledge him.

After an agonizing
eternity, Garren was finally ready to stitch the wound.  He set his tweezers
down, apologized again to Derica, and poured some of the ale on the wound to cleanse
it.  She emitted a piercing shriek and abruptly fell silent.  Garren hurriedly
put five neat stitches in her soft skin.