Chapter 20

 

“You are an earl,” Alexia heard herself say, though she meant to keep the words cloistered in her thoughts—thoughts that refused to settle into reason. “With an estate of your own?” she added absently, unable to take her eyes off Ronar. Firelight shifted over the right side of his face, accentuating the scar slicing his eyebrow. He stared at her with those sharp blue eyes of his. The playful gleam within them faded as sorrow clouded them, and he turned, hands on his waist to stare at the flames.

“Do you find it so surprising?” he said.

She did. Yet…of a sudden, nay, not as she took in the regal way he stood, heard the authority in his voice, remembered the commanding way he moved and held himself—as a King’s Guard, aye, but as a man also accustomed to giving orders. Why had she not seen it before?

Rain dripped from the tips of his hair onto his shirt. A few dark strands hung over his stubbled jaw, suddenly so stiff.

Stooping, he tossed a log onto the fire, and the heat finally reached her. “Why?” was all she could utter.

“Why do I present myself as a mere knight in the King’s Guard?” He faced her with a sad grin. “A tale for another time.”

The old man hurried back in, dressed in a presentable livery this time, his arms full of blankets. Ronar took one and flung it around Alexia. Despite the instant warmth, she could not stop trembling.

“Mulled wine will be ready anon, my lord.”

“Thank you, Bridon. I will need vinegar, thread and needle, bandages, and Mistress Yonk’s mint and yarrow rub.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Hefting one of the wooden chairs, Ronar placed it before the fire. “Come sit and warm yourself.” He approached to help her, but Alexia held up a hand. “I am quite able.”

But she wasn’t able. Her ankle throbbed, and the slightest attempt to stand forced her back to her chair.

Sliding his arms beneath her, Ronar lifted her without effort and placed her on the chair. Flames crackled and instantly cocooned her in warmth. The shivering lessened, and she suddenly felt self-conscious in her wet attire with her sodden hair matted to her head and falling to her lap like seaweed. Especially before this man who was an earl—one of only twelve in all of England.

“Seems I am not the only one proficient at deceit,” she said, drawing his gaze and a glimmer of a smile.

“You never asked if I was an earl.”

“You never asked if I was Lady of Luxley Manor,” she returned, garnering another smile, and hating herself for the warmth flooding her at the sight.

“Mayhap neither of us are what we seem.” His glance lowered. “Take off your boots. I must check your foot.”

“You will do no such thing!”

“Your foot could be broken, my lady. I can and I will. We need tend your arm as well.” He gestured toward her ragged, bloody sleeve where the dogs had bitten. In all the excitement, she hardly felt the pain anymore.

“You are wounded as well, Sir Knight, and worse than I.”

“I am accustomed to it. You are not.”

She raised a brow. “Might I remind you, I am the Falcon of Emerald Forest and not some pampered lady of the manor. Unlike you, I was not raised in such luxury.” She glanced around at the polished oak, silk-woven rug, and rich tapestries.

He smiled. “Ah, yes, the wild forest sprite who lays her head on a mossy nest amid squirrels and hares.” He gave her a pointed gaze. “We shall still attend your wounds first, withal.”

The old man entered, tray in hand. “Your wine, my lord.” Steam rose from mugs, filling the room with the scent of pungent grapes and spices. Two jugs also sat upon the tray, along with strips of cloth, a needle, a small jar, and a plate of cakes that smelled of butter and cream.

Alexia’s stomach rumbled.

Ronar stood. “Thank you, Bridon,”

“Very good, my lord. Will there be anything else?” His hooded gaze sped to Alexia. “One of the gowns in your—”

“Nay!” Ronar’s tone sent the poor man back, brows raised, but then in a softer voice he added, “That will be all. You may retire, Bridon.”

The man scurried off as Ronar knelt before Alexia and tugged on her boot. Only then did she notice her breeches were torn clear up to her thigh, exposing her stockinged leg.

Her nerves heightened. “Is there no lady to tend me?” She’d never allowed a man to see, let alone touch her leg. Well, save for the friar, of course.

“I keep no servants but Bridon, Cook, a scullery maid, and stable boy.”

“Then why did Bridon mention a gown?”

He yanked on the boot. Agony sped up her leg and emerged in a shriek from her mouth.

“Apologies.” He handled her stockinged foot with the tenderest of care, pressing gently and then turning it ever so slightly.

“’Tis sprained, not broken. With rest, it will heal in a fortnight.”

“A fortnight?” She couldn’t possible stay here that long.

“Now, let’s see to your arm.”

“My ankle you have seen, Sir, I mean my lord, but I will keep my shirt on, if you please.”

“I do not please.” He gave her a devilish grin, which quickly faded at what must have been fright in her eyes. “Never fear, you may retain your modesty, Lady Falcon.” Before she could protest, he grabbed her sleeve and ripped it asunder, exposing two rows of bloody teeth marks. The sight soured her stomach, and she placed a hand over her wet bodice and attempted to breathe.

“’Tis not as bad as it looks.” Grabbing one of the jugs, Ronar poured vinegar on a cloth, then knelt beside her once again. “This will hurt.” He gazed up at her with eyes so blue and full of concern, she swallowed a burst of emotion.

She nodded her assent and in the process shocked herself by realizing she trusted this man, this King’s Guard, this earl who had saved her more than once.

He hesitated, his eyes peering into hers as if seeking out her very soul. He smelled of wet leather and smoke, and she looked away, uncomfortable.

He touched the cloth to her wound. Pain radiated through her arm, and she bit her lip, not wanting to scream, not wanting to reveal her weakness. Pulling back, he gripped her hand and held it tight as he continued. His hand was warm, rough, callused and twice the size of hers, and his strength and care brought her more comfort than she dared admit.

Burning spasms rippled up her arm. She closed her eyes and sought the Spirit, praying for relief.

Ronar continued his ministrations for what seemed an eternity, tending her wound with a tenderness in sharp contrast to the brash, brave warrior she’d witnessed earlier that night. Yet each time he poured vinegar on her arm, it took all her strength to not cry out. But she wasn’t some weak female who swooned at the sight of blood. She was the Protector of the Spear, a Warrior of God.

Finally, he placed a sweet-smelling salve upon her wounds and gently wrapped them with strips of cloth, tying them off at the ends. Before she knew it, he drew her hand to his mouth. She opened her eyes just as his lips touched her skin, igniting her in a vastly different way than the vinegar had done.

A strand of hair fell across his scar, and she resisted the urge to brush it away.

“All finished now. It should heal nicely,” he said.

She tugged her hand back. “Thank you, Sir Kni… I mean, my lord. I cannot get used to your new title.”

“Call me Ronar, then.” Gathering the bloody clothes, he rose and set them on the table, then picked up mugs of mulled wine and handed her one. “I fear ’tis not too warm now.”

He sipped his and sat on a stool before the fire, and she wondered at the sorrow she sensed in him since they’d arrived at this place. She wondered why he hid his title and why this vast estate sat in ruins.

“Now ’tis your turn.” She gestured to his arm and chest.

He glanced down at his bloody sleeve. “It will heal.”

“We both know ’twill need to be stitched.”

“I will attend it later.”

“I will attend it now.” Setting down her mug, Alexia rose on her good foot and hobbled toward the table.

Ronar was at her side in an instant. “What are you doing?”

She turned and found him within inches of her, his eyes adoring her as if she were a king’s ransom and not a criminal who had caused him naught but trouble. But that couldn’t be. She looked away. “Getting the needle and twine your man brought.”

“What do you know of such things?”

“I have stitched wounds before.” Only once and it was a squirrel, but he had no need to know that. “Take off your shirt.”

“Very well.” He poured more wine into his mug and returned to the fire.

Heart racing at the thought of stitching human flesh, Alexia retrieved the needle, twine, cloth, and vinegar. When she turned around, she suddenly wished she hadn’t ordered him to remove his garment. Sweet gracious saints. Waves of iron billowed over his stomach and continued over arms of rounded metal. A bloody slice marred an otherwise perfectly formed chest sprinkled with black hair. Rubbing his bearded chin, he gave her a grin that told her he knew exactly the effect he had on her and he was enjoying it immensely.

 

♥♥♥

 

“Forsooth, is the Falcon of Emerald Forest blushing?” Ronar teased the lady as an unmistakable red hue crept up her neck and blossomed over her cheeks. Huffing, she averted her gaze from his chest and approached.

“You flatter yourself, my lord. ’Tis merely the heat from the fire.” She busied herself threading the needle, then doused a cloth with vinegar. Her trembling hands, along with the harried rise and fall of her chest, made him suddenly question his safety.

“Mayhap I should have Bridon attend it on the morrow.”

She cast him a wry glance ere forcing him to sit and kneeling before him to examine his arm.

Firelight turned her skin to shimmering gold and her hair to a waterfall of flaming red trickling down her back. Her scent of pine and wet earth and a hint of lavender stirred his senses as her nervous breath warmed his skin. And he suddenly had the urge to kiss her, especially as she licked her lips and parted them ever so slightly.

Tush, but the lady was alluring. And enchanting and intriguing. And stubborn and infuriating.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she lifted her gaze to his. Firelight brought out golden specks sparkling across her green eyes like nuggets on a field of moss. Their faces were but inches apart, and he could control himself no longer. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he advanced.

She slapped the vinegar-soaked cloth on his wound.

Pain speared through his arm and stabbed his shoulder.

“If you brought me here to make me your mistress, my lord, you shall find yourself sorely disappointed.”

“If I had brought you here for that purpose,” Ronar said through gritted teeth. “I would have done so already.”

Pouring more vinegar on the cloth, she moved to clean the gash on his chest.

“Ouch! Gentler, if you please.”

“A knight who is afraid of spiders and has no tolerance for pain?” She smirked. “And you thought I was weak. As it is, Sir, the only wound for which I have no tolerance is a libertine assault.”

“Assault?” He feigned indignation.

“You were going to kiss me, were you not?”

“The thought occurred to me.”

“Well, un-occur it at once. I am no serving wench to be taken advantage of.”

He smiled.

“You find this amusing?”

“Only slightly.” He teased her. “Very well.” He sat up straight, chin out. “On my honor as a knight, I vow never to attempt a kiss again.”

She flattened her lips and released a sigh.

“A truce? Ere you put a needle through my flesh.”

“Very well.” She frowned and returned her gaze to his wounds. “The one on your chest will not require stitches. But this one.” She peered at his arm. “’Tis too deep.” Drawing a breath, she pinched the wound with one hand and slid the needle through his skin with the other. The metallic smell of his own blood bit his nose, and he wondered at the strength of this lady who didn’t hesitate to pierce raw flesh.

He kept his gaze on her, the determination in her eyes, the tight line of her lips, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks—anything to avoid feeling the pain.

Within minutes she was done. Ronar dared a glance at his arm. Though the stitch was a bit jagged, it would do nicely. “Well done, Falcon.”

She offered him a nervous smile as she dabbed salve on the wound, then wrapped his arm with a cloth. Sitting back, she took another sip of her wine. No doubt the ordeal had unnerved her more than she let on, for she took several more gulps, then rose to refill her mug.

Ronar stretched his arm, testing the wound as she returned to her seat and stared at the flames, her thoughts elsewhere. He longed to be privy to them, to understand this fascinating woman who stitched up wounds after nearly being eaten by hounds and captured by knights. When every other woman he’d known would have taken ill to their bed by now.

Setting down her cup, she squirmed uncomfortably and stared at him, one hand on the laces of her bodice. “Avert your eyes, Knight. I wish to remove this wet garb.”

He did as she asked, though surely she could not expect him to obey entirely. Grabbing the jug, he faced the fire and drew it to his lips, peering from the corner of his eye as she removed her stiff bodice and laid it upon the hearth to dry. Beneath she wore a modest cream-colored tunic that would normally not have been revealing, but damp as it was, it molded to curves that made his blood warm.

He would have to keep his eyes elsewhere. Mayhap he should have Bridon show her to one of the chambers above. And soon. It had been years since he’d felt such desire for a lady. After the incident with Idonea, he’d nearly taken a vow of celibacy. Would have if not for the call of the Crusades.

But this lady, this wonderful lady, had the uncanny ability to make null and void every vow he’d ever taken.

“’Tis been quite a distressing night, Lady Falcon. You must be tired.” Part of him hoped she’d take the hint and demand to be brought to a chamber. Part of him never wanted her to leave his side.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she crossed her arms over them. “Distressing? Is that what you call discovering that the man I trusted with my life, the man in charge of my estate, is poisoning my sister and wants to burn me at the stake?”

She paused and took a deep breath.

“Is that what you call being chased by my own knights, attacked by dogs, whisked away against my will, and kept from my sister, who is in grave danger? Is that what you call distressing?”

Her tone pricked his guilt, and he took a swig of wine, then handed her the jug. She drank deep and heavy, then set it down and leaned her head sideways on her knees to look at him. Bronze hair glittering red in the fire fell down to her feet in waves. Seconds passed as the flames crackled and the wind whistled against the stone walls. And for the briefest of moments, she let down her guard, and he saw naught but a frightened little girl who bore a weight too heavy for one so small and young.

“Why do you not think me a witch?” she asked.

He tossed a log onto the fire. “Because you are too enchanting to be anything but a child of God.”

At this she smiled, and her gaze dropped to his bare chest, lingered for a moment, ere she snapped it back to the fire. “I am a warrior. A protector.”

“And what is it you protect?” Ronar grabbed his shirt and tossed it over his head. Though he quite enjoyed her reaction to him, he did not wish to cause her discomfort.

She didn’t answer. Instead she rubbed her temples and started to slip from her chair.

Dashing toward her, Ronar caught her fall and placed her on the floor, then plopped down beside her and drew her close.

“I’m so tired, Ronar. So very tired,” she mumbled and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I know.” He brushed hair from her face. “Rest now, my little forest sprite, rest.”

She was asleep within minutes, her deep breaths soothing Ronar’s nerves. How long he sat there, relishing the feel of her as she snuggled against him, muttering in her sleep, he couldn’t say. But finally, he realized he had better put distance between them.

Rising, he drew her in his arms and carried her out of the hall and up the stairs. With each tread he took, agony reclaimed portions of his heart—portions that had grown numb over the four years he’d been absent from his home.

He shouldn’t have come back. He shouldn’t be here at all.

Kicking open a door, he carried Lady Falcon inside. Though no moonlight drifted in through the window, he knew exactly where the bed was. Where it had always been. ’Twas his chamber, after all.

The one right beside his sister’s.

He laid her on the bed, covered her with a quilt and left ere he changed his mind and laid down beside her as he longed to do.

 

♥♥♥

 

Sunlight stroked Alexia’s eyelids, coaxing her from sleep. Somewhere in the distance, a bird warbled a happy tune that should have soothed her—if her head didn’t feel like it was being plowed by oxen. She attempted to raise her hand to rub it, but the movement caught her arm on fire. Moaning, she forced one eye open.

The first thing Alexia noticed was that she was not in her home with the friar. Nor was she at Castle Luxley. Nor in Emerald Forest. Instead, as she took in the rich wooden chests, chairs made of polished wood, an array of weapons housed in a cabinet, and a rather imposing wardrobe from which spilled male garments, she realized she was in a man’s bedchamber.

Ronar!

Memories of last night’s events peeked out from hiding. The brutish knight had taken her to his estate. Terror flipped her heart, and she glanced down at her attire, afraid of what she would find. But beneath the quilt she found her breeches, tunic, and stockings still in place. Relieved, she tossed off the cover and swung her legs over the edge of the large four-poster bed. An ache spiraled up her back as nausea brewed in her stomach. Pain drew her gaze down to her right foot, swollen beneath her stockings. Potz! She would not be able to walk on it today.

Nor should she go anywhere with her breeches torn so high. She’d be discovered as a woman and add to her already mounting troubles. She felt for the Spear in the pocket of her chemise. Still there, thank God.

Bracing herself, she slid off the bed onto her good foot, then hopped to the window and peered out. A brisk wind entered, swirling about her with the scent of grass, horses, and sunshine. Two floors down, a wall of stone surrounded a courtyard open to the rising sun. A wooden gate led to farm land beyond. Nay, not farmland, but rolling hills of green, dotted with wildflowers and sheep. Below in the courtyard, a young lad led a horse from the stables and began brushing it down. Only then did she notice the condition of the buildings. Stones crumbled on the walls, chipped and rotting wood formed the entrance to the stables, weeds broke through cracks in the steps leading to the front door, and brambles as tall as Alexia grew from what once must have been a garden.

Sorrow weighed upon her heart, making her wonder, yet again, what had happened in this place. What had happened to Ronar?

Pushing from the window, she made her way to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. Tunics, breeches, capes, and doublets spilled onto the floor, leaving behind similar items hanging within—all smelling of Ronar. The scent stirred something within her she dared not admit—could not admit. Not when her sister’s life was in danger. She scanned the clothing. There, just what she needed. A pair of linen breeches. As speedily as she could with only one good foot, she stepped out of her breeches and into the new ones, then stuffed her tunic inside. The breeches were large enough to fit two of her, and she quickly found a belt and tied it around her waist, then donned an equally large leather doublet, which she laced up as tight as she could. If she were to make any progress, she’d have to hide her sex and keep off the King’s Highway. Now, to retrieve her boots from the hall, her bow and arrow from the stables, and steal a horse.

Alack, steal wasn’t the correct term. Borrow sounded better, for she would surely return it. But for now, what choice did she have?

Creeping, or rather hobbling into the corridor, she made her way to the stairway, noting how dark and quiet the house seemed.

The stairs proved more difficult than she expected, and more than once, she put too much weight on her foot and stifled a cry of pain. Finally, down in the hall, she found her bodice on the hearth where she’d left it.

Red coals simmered in the hearth, and she hesitated, remembering the tender moments she’d shared with Sir Knight, with Ronar—the gentle way he’d tended her wound, the way he’d looked at her as if she were a treasury full of gold.

She smiled. An earl, of all things. A well-bred man of title and fortune. She spotted the jug of wine. Had she drunk too much? What had she said as the night progressed? Naught to be done for it now.

Sitting, she tugged on one boot and shoved the other one beneath her arm. She’d have to wait for the swelling to go down ere she attempted to put it on, or she feared she’d not be able to silence her howl of pain. Hopping out of the hall, she passed through the entryway and slowly opened the front door. A newly risen sun barged into the dark foyer, scattering dust into glittering specks and bringing a welcome cheerfulness into the gloomy home.

She hobbled onto the front porch.

“Where do you think you are going, Lady Falcon?” Ronar’s voice penetrated her hope. “And wearing my breeches!”