A Knight Well Spent
Available in:
- eBook
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
Scotland, 1141. A Norman king's attempts to rule the Highland clans is making his favorite knight's job difficult, indeed--and that is before a woman of mystery lays siege to the warrior's heart. . .
She Lives To Heal. . .
He's a giant of a man; what's more, he's the enemy. These truths should be enough to send Aislynn running far and fast from the wounded stranger in the woods. But he needs her help--and the reward he bestows changes her forever. . .
He Fights To Kill. . .
Formidable knight Rhoenne Guy de Ramhurst has been "gifted" with a fiefdom--and the unenviable task of taming the rebellious Highlanders that populate it. He also has a castle full of dissidents, led by his own half brother. Yet these challenges pale in comparison with attempts to forget the healer who saved his life and captured his heart. . .
And One Love Rules Them Both. . .
Rhoenne believes a family curse places any woman he loves in mortal danger. When Aislynn is abducted by his profligate sibling, Rhoenne becomes her protector--even as he tries to resist her. But Aislynn has secrets of her own--and as deception and danger swirl ever closer around them, the truth may be their only salvation. . .
"[A] sexy, lively take. . .romantic and complex." --Library Journal on The Knight Before Christmas
"Wonderful. . .with a heroine every woman will admire." --Heather Graham on Lady of The Knight
Release date: October 1, 2008
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 352
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Close
A Knight Well Spent
Jackie Ivie
AD 1141
He was awake, he was moving, and he was in pain.
Rhoenne eased his step to accommodate the pain lacing his calf. It was more a shuffling stumble than a walk. He wiped a hand across his forehead and grimaced at the sweat beads there before rubbing them away on his tunic’s edge. He couldn’t prevent the shudder. He knew why. He was fevered.
He forced another step, another wince, and another quickly drawn breath. He couldn’t prevent the signs of weakness. All he could do was make certain no one else knew it. That was why he was forcing one agonized step after the other onto a leg mangled to the point he was afraid to look at it.
Rhoenne stopped, listened, and sagged with relief. He could hear the sound of running water. His instincts hadn’t failed him. Knighted at sixteen and awarded this fief at the age of a score-and-one, he’d made it a point then to visit every croft, every field, crop, every water source. It had been years…but he still remembered.
Rhoenne brushed the hair that many likened to a lion’s mane from his forehead before entering into the glade. There was one huge boulder, four large stones arranged like steps, and a row of overhanging willows weeping into the brook. It was exactly as he recalled—except for the strange figure straddling the waterfall that fed the brook. Rhoenne was so disappointed and frustrated he didn’t bother to hide the weakness. He lowered his head and groaned loudly, letting every bit of agony pierce the sound.
The black-shrouded figure promptly fell right into the pool, showering everything, Rhoenne included. He kept from a major dousing by stumbling back two steps, before the motion became an all-out fall, slamming him onto the carpet of grass, and stealing every bit of air from his body.
“Oh! How could you?”
Rhoenne opened his eyes, started sucking for air, and glared at the girl who was screeching her words. It didn’t work. She was angrier. And she had command of her breathing.
“You—you great big—oaf!”
She was standing beside him, dripping water everywhere, shaking what looked like a child-sized fist at him. Then she gave him the oddest indignity of his life. She stepped right up onto his chest and hammered her feet into it. Rhoenne had only a moment to grasp his luck that she weighed little and that she hadn’t anything on her feet, before she was putting words with her steps as she stomped.
“I have to start anew! You’ve ruined everything! Dinna’ just lay there with those big blue eyes and stare! Go! Move!”
The growl he gave hadn’t much sound, but he had her off him and onto what scrawny buttocks she probably possessed, by grabbing and twisting her ankles and letting the spin make her fall. He registered that she had fairly shapely legs before she rolled back to her feet, pulling her sodden black mass of clothing about herself.
“So…you have a bark? I’m cheered for you. Now run along, before The Lady gets annoyed with you.” She’d punctuated her speech with heaven-sent arms. “Well? Dinna’ just lay there after ruining my blessing ritual. I have to finish.”
He bristled. It was rare, but he knew what it was. He knew what caused it, too. He’d never been treated like this. He pulled in a breath. He couldn’t decide which pained him more at the moment; his chest or his lower leg. The leg won out. He held the bit of air he’d managed to breathe, and then let it out extremely slowly, since anything else seemed beyond him. The leg was definitely more painful, and it throbbed worse; due, no doubt, to how he’d been forced to move it as he fell.
That was her fault, he thought.
“Are you a dimwit? Why dinna’ you say something? I wouldn’t have been so angered at you. Come. Tell me why you’ve sought the services of the Lady of the Brook. I’ll na’ hurt you.”
Rhoenne made fists as she knelt beside him and looked him over with strange-colored eyes. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, she had one of green and one of brown. That was interesting.
She smiled then, showing two very deep dimples. Rhoenne stared. She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought, nor was she uncomely. If he wasn’t mistaken she was freshly bathed and clean-looking, too. His eyes widened. She was wearing a head covering made from what could only be his own vivid blue cloth, beneath her own wimple! No one outside the Ramhurst castle was allowed to wear it. It was his own command. He was still reeling from that revelation when she put an icy hand against his cheek.
“You’re fevered. You came to me just in time. You ken? Take off this tunic. What is wrong with you now?”
Rhoenne didn’t know what she was referring to. He was looking at her with as little expression as he could manage. It was actually better that he didn’t have use of his voice just yet. Otherwise, he’d probably be yelling.
“I canna’ begin healing if I dinna’ see the reason for it. Have you been ill long?”
She lifted the hem of his garment. Rhoenne tried not to move while she peeled it up, exposing his belly flesh to the early morning air. Despite his every effort, the bumps rose, making his shiver worse.
“This is na’ good. You’ve size…and strength. How can a dimwit get so—so…fit? You’re na’ going to hurt me, are you?”
She dropped the garment and came back into view. Rhoenne barely held the reaction to how it felt to have the wet weight of the tunic join with his other ills. Now she asks it? he wondered. He shook his head.
“You ken me?”
He nodded. She sighed.
“Good. I’m known as the Lady of the Brook. I’m a healer. You look to need a healer.”
Rhoenne nodded again, slower this time. He couldn’t believe his luck. As strange as she was, he’d heard of far worse from those few gifted in the healing arts. He didn’t waste time debating it. If she could heal him, mayhap he wouldn’t take a switch to her when she finished. Maybe.
“I’m na’ a witch. I want you to know this.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I dinna’ practice it. I never have.”
He sucked for breath as she pulled up her skirts. Then she was splitting bare legs to straddle his torso, dampening him worse and making him shudder anew. Then she made it all worse by burrowing both cold hands well beneath his tunic and placing them directly atop his heart. Everything in him reacted; his heart stopped, his shuddering ceased, his breath caught. Then his heart decided it would continue beating, and rather rapidly. He was afraid she’d spot it.
Rhoenne watched her and admitted to himself that he’d slighted her on her comeliness. She was more than that. She was beautiful. She had arched black brows, long, perfectly spaced lashes, high cheekbones, and very full lips. He found himself wondering if she was in possession of all her teeth, and if they were in as perfect condition as the rest of her. He wondered what color her hair was, and how long, and how it would feel between his fingers.
“I canna’ work if you insist on such thoughts,” she whispered, stiffening her arms and sitting forward so that her upper body hovered above his.
Rhoenne flushed. He knew it, although he couldn’t remember ever experiencing it before. He watched as she arched herself above him, catching the first rays of sun as the dawn broke over the biggest boulder. He caught his breath for an entirely new reason as light flooded her features.
She wasn’t just beautiful, he decided, and wondered what word did fit.
“You’ve been injured,” she said softly, moving her head down to match her gaze to his.
Rhoenne’s eyes showed the surprise. He couldn’t prevent it.
“You took a weapon in your lower leg. You have na’ had it seen to. You’re hiding it. You dinna’ even clean it. You’re very brave…. Or very foolish. It’s poisoning within you.”
His eyes went wider still. She winked. Rhoenne knew he had a full-out blush now. He didn’t know how to hide it.
“You need na’ fear me. I’m a healer. I have strange methods, true, but I can heal you. I swear it. Do you wish me to go on?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Are you a knight?”
He shook his head after a moment. She didn’t look like she believed him.
“Dinna’ lie to The Lady. I canna’ heal you, if I canna’ trust you.”
“I’m not a knight,” he replied in a raspy whisper. It was true. He wasn’t. He was the liege lord. He had legions of knights serving him. He didn’t say a word about any of that.
At his reply she hesitated. Rhoenne waited. She couldn’t have known that he had a great, deep, resonant voice. It was notorious. He’d been described by it. It came along with the immense frame the Lord had gifted him with. A small voice would have been incongruous coming from him.
“You’re na’ a dimwit…are you?” she asked with very little sound.
He shook his head.
“You’re na’ a knight yet you’ve a battle wound? This is na’ the mark of a learned, scholarly man…nor one using his wits, if he possessed such.”
Rhoenne bristled. “I am not a dimwit.” He couldn’t keep the defensive tone from the whisper.
“Then why did you lose?” she asked.
Rhoenne’s mouth gaped.
She grinned, bringing the dimples back into existence. “I dinna’ have special powers. I’ll na’ stand accused of such.” Her face clouded and her grin died.
He shook his head rapidly.
“That’s good, for I’ll na’ be able to heal if you worry over the methods.”
“I don’t worry,” Rhoenne whispered.
He didn’t know if she believed him or not, for the enigmatic look she turned on him didn’t tell him anything. The word came to him then. She was absolutely exquisite. Her skin was silk-smooth, her mouth reddened and lush-looking. He found himself hoping she had black hair that matched her brows; thick, glossy strands of it. She deserved the setting of his castle room, richly covered with tapestries and filled with gilded furniture.
“I already have all that,” she said.
Rhoenne went stiff with the surprise.
She giggled and the stiffness went straight to his groin at the sound. There wasn’t anything he could do to prevent it. That was unbelievable. He’d never had his body betray him to this extent. He tried bringing the pain of his wound back to the forefront of his mind. It almost worked. He was afraid he was rose red with the reaction.
“If I close my eyes, I have castles, servants, and silver. Anyone can. Close your eyes.”
He didn’t want to. He almost said it aloud.
“You have to mind The Lady. Right here. Right now. Otherwise….”
She left her threat unfinished. Rhoenne closed his eyes. That was worse somehow, for she not only was clean-looking, she smelled like fresh-picked wildflowers. He pulled in a long breath and held it.
“You claim you are na’ a knight…yet you’ve every mark of one. You’re nae idiot, although you dinna’ show much in wits when you entered my glade. I surprised you. You’re na’ easily surprised. All of that is strange. Verra strange. You’ve a battle wound, so you have been in a battle. If you’d won this battle, you would have had your wound tended to before now. You must have lost. You see the method of my knowledge? I weigh out what I know with what has to be. You dinna’ even take out the weapon, I’m guessing. How can you pretend ’tis naught? You’re very strong. You’re very brave. You’re very manly…and you’re very foolish. Verra.”
Rhoenne opened his eyes and lifted his head. She wasn’t hovering over him anymore. She was kneeling next to his boiled leather shin-guard, the one he’d strapped tight to hold in the grotesque-looking, linen-swathed swelling below his knee. He wondered when she’d moved. He hadn’t even felt it.
“I’m going to have to remove this Sassenach thing…and this hose. Will that be a problem?”
He wondered how she could ask such a question, when the answer was starting to distend the patch at his crotch. He groaned the breath out and lay back down. Perhaps if he pretended she was a man—and a fat, ugly one at that—he could stop such a reaction.
“I mean…I—I canna’ just cut through it. Those you have been hiding this from…they—they would ken your wound. It would na’ remain hidden. Your bravery would be…for naught. You do see?”
She was stammering and stumbling through the words. Rhoenne sucked in on both cheeks and kept any expression where she wouldn’t see it. He guessed she hadn’t had that reaction before. She didn’t sound like a confident healer calling herself the Lady of the Brook. She sounded just like what she was; a young, beautiful, virginal maiden with a man at her fingertips.
Rhoenne groaned again. Virginal, he repeated in his thoughts.
“Forgive me. I try na’ to pain.”
Her face was back in view as she scooted to his side. He did the best he could not to let her see, or think she could see, where his thoughts had just been. He suspected he hadn’t been successful and he moved his glance away before he reddened again.
“I canna’ tend your wound like this. You must unstrap that leather shield piece and shed your hose. Will you need assist?”
“No.” Rhoenne gave her the answer, before undressing himself. The act of rolling his own wet tunic back into place was checking his earlier reaction to her and the tremor of his frame was back. He couldn’t help it. The material was wet, clammy, and cold. And he was fevered. He hoped she wouldn’t spot the weakness and nearly shook his head at his own idiocy. She was a healer. Healers dealt with weakness.
Then he had his hands beneath the tunic edge, fumbling with the rawhide ties at his waist. He eased the garment down over his hips. That’s when it got difficult. Rhoenne forced himself into a sitting position so he could maneuver his own clothing down. He didn’t want her to assist with it and not only because he never let anyone see such weakness.
It was something more.
It was her.
He had trouble the closer he got to his wound. He couldn’t keep the reaction hidden. He tensed. He sucked in each breath, only to ease it out with a groan of sound. He had to let the stoicism go. She was right. He was injured, he’d worn the hose for days, and he didn’t want it sliced through, either—because he didn’t want anyone else to know of his injury. He’d strapped the shin guard on for the same reason—and because it gave him stability enough to move. Rhoenne untied the straps with a vicious, efficient motion, breathing rapidly and shallowly the entire time.
He still had to shed the hose. That garment had been excellent for its purpose; keeping him warm and the bandage hidden. When he was finished, it was just a puddle of gray-shaded fabric about his ankles. And he was drained.
Rhoenne felt as wearied when he finished as if he’d just been on the list, battling. About the only good thing was he had the pain to a bearable level. He turned his head, met her gaze, and then his heart lurched—sharply and powerfully. Rhoenne had it hidden almost the moment it happened. He couldn’t do anything about the flare of his eyes, the increase of his pulse, or the sudden tautness of his frame. He had to react slowly, and do what he could to keep her from seeing or guessing at any of it.
She looked away first, saying nothing, although the two spots of pink on her cheeks were telling him plenty.
Rhoenne watched her look him over. It helped mute the throb of ache he was ignoring. He was grateful he’d shed his chainmail hauberk, shirt, and the steel-grommeted leather gauntlets before seeking sleep last night. He was doubly grateful he’d left the sword named Pinnacle in the sheath at his destrier’s side. If she knew who she really had at her fingertips, she wouldn’t be looking him over with her lower lip caught between her teeth and a blush that was easy to spot with the growing dawn.
“I’ve been puzzling this…and you have too much strength na’ to be a knight,” she finally said when he just sat there regarding her, with hands resting on his thighs, which appeared to be the same exact position she was in.
He waited for her to finish surveying him, although it took some time as she slid her gaze back down to his boots and up. He was afraid his body could feel a touch that wasn’t actually happening. He was very tempted to tighten the muscles beneath the skin she was looking at, too.
“You’re certain you are na’ one?”
“Do you wish me to be?” he whispered.
Her eyebrows rose at that. She finally shook her head and moved down to attend to his wound. Then there was nothing in his world but fire and pain and ache. The moment her fingers started circling and probing the bulge of bandaging around his calf, Rhoenne went stiff with the agony.
“This is going to pain,” she remarked.
He had his hands splayed onto the ground behind him for support. It also made it easy to watch. He almost wished he hadn’t as she reached in and pulled a small, curved knife from somewhere in the voluminous cloak she wore. She obviously knew her way about a knife was his thought, as she settled it into her palm and started slicing at the linen he’d wound about his leg not two days earlier, and the closer she got, the worse he tensed.
“You’ve taken a lance. I’ll have to find the tip. It will na’ be pleasant. You’ll have to hold still.”
He opened his mouth to tell her he already knew the whole of it but then she touched the red, swollen lump with her knife blade. Her action had him arching from the carpet of grass, while the ground absorbed the weight of his elbows. A hand on his belly was what sent him back onto his buttocks. Only by grinding his teeth together did he keep from giving any of it sound.
“You mustn’t move. I have to build a fire. I need it to clean the water.”
Rhoenne concentrated on her words. He had to. Otherwise, he was afraid he’d be sobbing. She needs fire to clean water, he repeated silently.
“It was na’ clean enough even before I fell into it,” she answered, as if he’d spoken aloud. “I also have to gather moss; and get my herbs…like burdock, amica, and a bit of roseweed. You’re na’ to move. I forbid it. You ken?”
Rhoenne had his teeth too tightly clenched to answer. He was beginning to wonder at his sanity. He had but one more day’s ride before he’d be at Tyneburn Hall and in his own healer’s hands. To think a Celt lass, calling herself the Lady of the Brook, could do better was a fool’s prayer.
“You’ve na’ got time,” she spoke, divining his thoughts again. “The wound festers. You may lose your leg even with my help. If you dinna’ believe me, question it when you arrive. Dinna’ tempt fate or question what brought you to me. You need the gifts from a healer? I am one. I swear it on all the gods. I’ll return. Dinna’ move! I will be very angry if you do. I swear to that, as well.
“You dinna’ want to see me when I’m angry,” she continued. He watched her stand, gather the wet folds of her cloak closer about her, and look down at him. Then she sighed loudly. “You’re na’ a very good patient. I understand that about you. You’ve na’ had anyone command you. You command others. I understand that, too. I do. I’ll still be angry if you dinna’ obey me. You ken?”
He nodded and kept his eyes on her until she disappeared. He’d never felt as defenseless and open to attack as he did then, sitting amid the grasses, with his tunic pulled down for modesty, his tights about his ankles, and no weapon handy. He was called the Lion of Ramhurst, yet had been brought to a state of vulnerability, and sat half-dressed, docilely awaiting the command of a child-woman weighing about a third of what he did. He still couldn’t believe it.
Aislynn’s hands were shaking before she had everything gathered and she was beginning to doubt she could work on him. That led to questioning her own abilities and that wasn’t good. She believed in her healing gifts and the extent of them even if she was the only one who did.
It took longer than she wished it to but that was because she hadn’t a spark handy for a fire, or mead for him to drink. She knew he shouldn’t face what she had to do in a completely sober state. That meant a trip home. Even at a full run, she didn’t think she could get there and back before the sun moved. She decided time must be changing on her, however. The sun didn’t seem to have moved as she fished two coals from the fire for a small torch and opened her father’s ale keg to dip a wineskin out, careful not to awaken anyone.
Her arms were full, her breast was burning with the exertion of running, and she was half-afraid he wasn’t going to be there when she returned, but he was.
Aislynn stood just outside the fringe of shrubbery ringing the glade she called hers and waited for her heart to calm. The Norman giant was still where she’d left him. He didn’t seem happy about it. She watched as he plucked a blade of grass and ran it through his fingernails to make it curl. She took a deep breath, assumed her confident Lady of the Brook image, and stepped in.
He looked up and stole her breath again with the clear-water blue of his eyes. Aislynn swallowed and looked away before he noticed. It was better to stay busy. She knew he watched as she stacked a small pile of broken twigs near the stream bank and tipped the coals onto it. She fed grasses into it until the fire was strong enough to keep going by itself. Then she set the small iron rack atop it, dipped a pail full of water, and set it atop the flames.
The indecision over whether or not to heat her knife ate at her, but she wasn’t going to let him know. His wound was trying to knit, it was full of poison, and it would be easier to slice if her blade was warm. She opened the knife into its half-circle shape and placed the tip in the center of her blaze.
Though she knew he’d be watching her, it still made her start when she turned and caught those blue eyes on her as intently as they were. Aislynn looked down at the ground as she approached where he sat. She couldn’t believe she’d actually stepped up and stomped on the expanse of chest facing her, but he’d frightened and startled her. Nobody saw her at her morning blessing. Nobody. It would start the whispers again. She assured herself it hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t even acted like it was of any consequence.
“I’ve brought ale for you.”
She pulled the skin of it from where she’d tied it about her waist and put it in the grass beside him where it went to a bulge shape. “You may need it.”
“I won’t,” he replied in that soft whisper of his.
Aislynn shivered. She wondered if he always spoke like that or if he was doing so for a reason. She cursed her own lack for not checking to see if he had further injury. “Have you hurt your throat?” she asked.
He jerked his head slightly, his eyes widening with the same odd look he’d given her on several occasions already. She wondered why he did that, too.
“I…no,” he replied.
“You possess a voice?” she continued.
He nodded.
“Why dinna’ you use it?”
He shrugged. Aislynn’s lips tightened. It wasn’t her business but she could guess. He had an enormous, well-muscled physique. He was easily a head taller than she was. The lower leg she was about to work on looked larger than both of her thighs put together. He probably had a voice to match. It would be loud, captivating, and strong, just like he was. She instinctively knew that was why he wasn’t using it.
“I understand,” she said. “It will give you away.”
This time his mouth dropped fully open. Aislynn nearly giggled. He was going to think she was a witch yet. She bent to check her knife. The blade tip was glowing red. She wrapped a bit of her cloak about her hand, lifted the blade, and walked over to him. He was very trusting, she decided, as she knelt beside him. He was also in the stiffest position a body could possibly be in and still be breathing. Aislynn put the blade against his skin and sliced.
Then she knew he definitely had a voice and it was massive, as his curse and groan filled the air. She ignored it. She had work to do. She was going to drain the pus-filled poison from him and then she had to find the lance tip he still harbored.
Aislynn put her fingers against his skin and lightly grazed until she felt where the metal had to be. It was lucky for both of them that it hadn’t reached bone. She didn’t think herself capable of extracting anything that deep.
She was beginning to think she couldn’t retrieve it, before she had it, and the act of sliding it out was worse. The blond man was quiet the entire time. He looked intent on drinking the wineskin dry. Aislynn looked his way once and then bent back to her task.
He’d not only been carrying the entire lance tip in him, it had binding still attached. Aislynn put it to the side of her and tipped his leg so he’d bleed freely onto the grass. Then she squeezed the wound until no more poison came out with the blood. He didn’t complain. Another quick glance showed he was still gulping, although the ale was in danger of sliding over his cheeks with the speed with which he was drinking it.
Aislynn picked up his souvenir and her knife and walked over to the burn to rinse everything off. Once the lance tip was clean, she realized the obvious. It wasn’t a keepsake. It was too dangerous. She dropped it into the water and watched the current rinse it away. Then she busied herself with crushing a palm-sized portion of brittle, dried orange amica flowers into the pot of water. She whispered as she did so, begging the water goddesses to assist with their healing powers.
When the pot was steaming the aroma into the glade, she knew it was ready. She needed it warm, not burning. Aislynn lifted it and turned to him. His eyes weren’t as crystal-clear, they were a more vivid blue, with red-rimmed flesh around them.
“You had poison to your wound. I’m going to wash it. It should na’ hurt. Worse,” she finished.
“Don’t stay…the work on…my account,” he replied.
He was pausing through the words, not whispering anymore, and he had a deep baritone voice that made the air rumble. She knew why he hadn’t used it earlier. It was very distinctive and very authoritative. Anyone hearing such a voice would immediately know the owner of it.
She frowned. He’d assured her he wasn’t a knight, he certainly wasn’t a Scot…so what could he be? she wondered. He was too old to be one of their Sassenach squires. Which left only one thing: a mercenary. He was one of their paid killers. Aislynn wondered why she hadn’t realized it instantly. Not only was he her enemy…he was paid to be one! That made everything she was doing so much worse. She should have known it the moment she met him. A man possessing all the muscle and scarring this man did obviously warred for a living. No wonder he hid his wound from the others. It would probably mean his death. She was shaking as she brought the pot over to him.
“What…is it?” He slurred the question with that resonating voice of his.
Aislynn turned her attention to rinsing the wound. She had to. She had to keep herself occupied. Aside from a quick intake of breath, her giant didn’t give any outward sign of how it pained him. Perhaps it isn’t paining him, she told herself, since he’d just drunk a wineskin of ale.
“Feels…strange. Like naught. What is it…you do?” he asked.
“Your senses must be blunted.”
“You do…such a thing? You—your talents must be…in great demand.”
“You drank yourself into it. I had little to do with it,” she replied stiffly. The last of the water mixture had been poured on,. . .
He was awake, he was moving, and he was in pain.
Rhoenne eased his step to accommodate the pain lacing his calf. It was more a shuffling stumble than a walk. He wiped a hand across his forehead and grimaced at the sweat beads there before rubbing them away on his tunic’s edge. He couldn’t prevent the shudder. He knew why. He was fevered.
He forced another step, another wince, and another quickly drawn breath. He couldn’t prevent the signs of weakness. All he could do was make certain no one else knew it. That was why he was forcing one agonized step after the other onto a leg mangled to the point he was afraid to look at it.
Rhoenne stopped, listened, and sagged with relief. He could hear the sound of running water. His instincts hadn’t failed him. Knighted at sixteen and awarded this fief at the age of a score-and-one, he’d made it a point then to visit every croft, every field, crop, every water source. It had been years…but he still remembered.
Rhoenne brushed the hair that many likened to a lion’s mane from his forehead before entering into the glade. There was one huge boulder, four large stones arranged like steps, and a row of overhanging willows weeping into the brook. It was exactly as he recalled—except for the strange figure straddling the waterfall that fed the brook. Rhoenne was so disappointed and frustrated he didn’t bother to hide the weakness. He lowered his head and groaned loudly, letting every bit of agony pierce the sound.
The black-shrouded figure promptly fell right into the pool, showering everything, Rhoenne included. He kept from a major dousing by stumbling back two steps, before the motion became an all-out fall, slamming him onto the carpet of grass, and stealing every bit of air from his body.
“Oh! How could you?”
Rhoenne opened his eyes, started sucking for air, and glared at the girl who was screeching her words. It didn’t work. She was angrier. And she had command of her breathing.
“You—you great big—oaf!”
She was standing beside him, dripping water everywhere, shaking what looked like a child-sized fist at him. Then she gave him the oddest indignity of his life. She stepped right up onto his chest and hammered her feet into it. Rhoenne had only a moment to grasp his luck that she weighed little and that she hadn’t anything on her feet, before she was putting words with her steps as she stomped.
“I have to start anew! You’ve ruined everything! Dinna’ just lay there with those big blue eyes and stare! Go! Move!”
The growl he gave hadn’t much sound, but he had her off him and onto what scrawny buttocks she probably possessed, by grabbing and twisting her ankles and letting the spin make her fall. He registered that she had fairly shapely legs before she rolled back to her feet, pulling her sodden black mass of clothing about herself.
“So…you have a bark? I’m cheered for you. Now run along, before The Lady gets annoyed with you.” She’d punctuated her speech with heaven-sent arms. “Well? Dinna’ just lay there after ruining my blessing ritual. I have to finish.”
He bristled. It was rare, but he knew what it was. He knew what caused it, too. He’d never been treated like this. He pulled in a breath. He couldn’t decide which pained him more at the moment; his chest or his lower leg. The leg won out. He held the bit of air he’d managed to breathe, and then let it out extremely slowly, since anything else seemed beyond him. The leg was definitely more painful, and it throbbed worse; due, no doubt, to how he’d been forced to move it as he fell.
That was her fault, he thought.
“Are you a dimwit? Why dinna’ you say something? I wouldn’t have been so angered at you. Come. Tell me why you’ve sought the services of the Lady of the Brook. I’ll na’ hurt you.”
Rhoenne made fists as she knelt beside him and looked him over with strange-colored eyes. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, she had one of green and one of brown. That was interesting.
She smiled then, showing two very deep dimples. Rhoenne stared. She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought, nor was she uncomely. If he wasn’t mistaken she was freshly bathed and clean-looking, too. His eyes widened. She was wearing a head covering made from what could only be his own vivid blue cloth, beneath her own wimple! No one outside the Ramhurst castle was allowed to wear it. It was his own command. He was still reeling from that revelation when she put an icy hand against his cheek.
“You’re fevered. You came to me just in time. You ken? Take off this tunic. What is wrong with you now?”
Rhoenne didn’t know what she was referring to. He was looking at her with as little expression as he could manage. It was actually better that he didn’t have use of his voice just yet. Otherwise, he’d probably be yelling.
“I canna’ begin healing if I dinna’ see the reason for it. Have you been ill long?”
She lifted the hem of his garment. Rhoenne tried not to move while she peeled it up, exposing his belly flesh to the early morning air. Despite his every effort, the bumps rose, making his shiver worse.
“This is na’ good. You’ve size…and strength. How can a dimwit get so—so…fit? You’re na’ going to hurt me, are you?”
She dropped the garment and came back into view. Rhoenne barely held the reaction to how it felt to have the wet weight of the tunic join with his other ills. Now she asks it? he wondered. He shook his head.
“You ken me?”
He nodded. She sighed.
“Good. I’m known as the Lady of the Brook. I’m a healer. You look to need a healer.”
Rhoenne nodded again, slower this time. He couldn’t believe his luck. As strange as she was, he’d heard of far worse from those few gifted in the healing arts. He didn’t waste time debating it. If she could heal him, mayhap he wouldn’t take a switch to her when she finished. Maybe.
“I’m na’ a witch. I want you to know this.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I dinna’ practice it. I never have.”
He sucked for breath as she pulled up her skirts. Then she was splitting bare legs to straddle his torso, dampening him worse and making him shudder anew. Then she made it all worse by burrowing both cold hands well beneath his tunic and placing them directly atop his heart. Everything in him reacted; his heart stopped, his shuddering ceased, his breath caught. Then his heart decided it would continue beating, and rather rapidly. He was afraid she’d spot it.
Rhoenne watched her and admitted to himself that he’d slighted her on her comeliness. She was more than that. She was beautiful. She had arched black brows, long, perfectly spaced lashes, high cheekbones, and very full lips. He found himself wondering if she was in possession of all her teeth, and if they were in as perfect condition as the rest of her. He wondered what color her hair was, and how long, and how it would feel between his fingers.
“I canna’ work if you insist on such thoughts,” she whispered, stiffening her arms and sitting forward so that her upper body hovered above his.
Rhoenne flushed. He knew it, although he couldn’t remember ever experiencing it before. He watched as she arched herself above him, catching the first rays of sun as the dawn broke over the biggest boulder. He caught his breath for an entirely new reason as light flooded her features.
She wasn’t just beautiful, he decided, and wondered what word did fit.
“You’ve been injured,” she said softly, moving her head down to match her gaze to his.
Rhoenne’s eyes showed the surprise. He couldn’t prevent it.
“You took a weapon in your lower leg. You have na’ had it seen to. You’re hiding it. You dinna’ even clean it. You’re very brave…. Or very foolish. It’s poisoning within you.”
His eyes went wider still. She winked. Rhoenne knew he had a full-out blush now. He didn’t know how to hide it.
“You need na’ fear me. I’m a healer. I have strange methods, true, but I can heal you. I swear it. Do you wish me to go on?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Are you a knight?”
He shook his head after a moment. She didn’t look like she believed him.
“Dinna’ lie to The Lady. I canna’ heal you, if I canna’ trust you.”
“I’m not a knight,” he replied in a raspy whisper. It was true. He wasn’t. He was the liege lord. He had legions of knights serving him. He didn’t say a word about any of that.
At his reply she hesitated. Rhoenne waited. She couldn’t have known that he had a great, deep, resonant voice. It was notorious. He’d been described by it. It came along with the immense frame the Lord had gifted him with. A small voice would have been incongruous coming from him.
“You’re na’ a dimwit…are you?” she asked with very little sound.
He shook his head.
“You’re na’ a knight yet you’ve a battle wound? This is na’ the mark of a learned, scholarly man…nor one using his wits, if he possessed such.”
Rhoenne bristled. “I am not a dimwit.” He couldn’t keep the defensive tone from the whisper.
“Then why did you lose?” she asked.
Rhoenne’s mouth gaped.
She grinned, bringing the dimples back into existence. “I dinna’ have special powers. I’ll na’ stand accused of such.” Her face clouded and her grin died.
He shook his head rapidly.
“That’s good, for I’ll na’ be able to heal if you worry over the methods.”
“I don’t worry,” Rhoenne whispered.
He didn’t know if she believed him or not, for the enigmatic look she turned on him didn’t tell him anything. The word came to him then. She was absolutely exquisite. Her skin was silk-smooth, her mouth reddened and lush-looking. He found himself hoping she had black hair that matched her brows; thick, glossy strands of it. She deserved the setting of his castle room, richly covered with tapestries and filled with gilded furniture.
“I already have all that,” she said.
Rhoenne went stiff with the surprise.
She giggled and the stiffness went straight to his groin at the sound. There wasn’t anything he could do to prevent it. That was unbelievable. He’d never had his body betray him to this extent. He tried bringing the pain of his wound back to the forefront of his mind. It almost worked. He was afraid he was rose red with the reaction.
“If I close my eyes, I have castles, servants, and silver. Anyone can. Close your eyes.”
He didn’t want to. He almost said it aloud.
“You have to mind The Lady. Right here. Right now. Otherwise….”
She left her threat unfinished. Rhoenne closed his eyes. That was worse somehow, for she not only was clean-looking, she smelled like fresh-picked wildflowers. He pulled in a long breath and held it.
“You claim you are na’ a knight…yet you’ve every mark of one. You’re nae idiot, although you dinna’ show much in wits when you entered my glade. I surprised you. You’re na’ easily surprised. All of that is strange. Verra strange. You’ve a battle wound, so you have been in a battle. If you’d won this battle, you would have had your wound tended to before now. You must have lost. You see the method of my knowledge? I weigh out what I know with what has to be. You dinna’ even take out the weapon, I’m guessing. How can you pretend ’tis naught? You’re very strong. You’re very brave. You’re very manly…and you’re very foolish. Verra.”
Rhoenne opened his eyes and lifted his head. She wasn’t hovering over him anymore. She was kneeling next to his boiled leather shin-guard, the one he’d strapped tight to hold in the grotesque-looking, linen-swathed swelling below his knee. He wondered when she’d moved. He hadn’t even felt it.
“I’m going to have to remove this Sassenach thing…and this hose. Will that be a problem?”
He wondered how she could ask such a question, when the answer was starting to distend the patch at his crotch. He groaned the breath out and lay back down. Perhaps if he pretended she was a man—and a fat, ugly one at that—he could stop such a reaction.
“I mean…I—I canna’ just cut through it. Those you have been hiding this from…they—they would ken your wound. It would na’ remain hidden. Your bravery would be…for naught. You do see?”
She was stammering and stumbling through the words. Rhoenne sucked in on both cheeks and kept any expression where she wouldn’t see it. He guessed she hadn’t had that reaction before. She didn’t sound like a confident healer calling herself the Lady of the Brook. She sounded just like what she was; a young, beautiful, virginal maiden with a man at her fingertips.
Rhoenne groaned again. Virginal, he repeated in his thoughts.
“Forgive me. I try na’ to pain.”
Her face was back in view as she scooted to his side. He did the best he could not to let her see, or think she could see, where his thoughts had just been. He suspected he hadn’t been successful and he moved his glance away before he reddened again.
“I canna’ tend your wound like this. You must unstrap that leather shield piece and shed your hose. Will you need assist?”
“No.” Rhoenne gave her the answer, before undressing himself. The act of rolling his own wet tunic back into place was checking his earlier reaction to her and the tremor of his frame was back. He couldn’t help it. The material was wet, clammy, and cold. And he was fevered. He hoped she wouldn’t spot the weakness and nearly shook his head at his own idiocy. She was a healer. Healers dealt with weakness.
Then he had his hands beneath the tunic edge, fumbling with the rawhide ties at his waist. He eased the garment down over his hips. That’s when it got difficult. Rhoenne forced himself into a sitting position so he could maneuver his own clothing down. He didn’t want her to assist with it and not only because he never let anyone see such weakness.
It was something more.
It was her.
He had trouble the closer he got to his wound. He couldn’t keep the reaction hidden. He tensed. He sucked in each breath, only to ease it out with a groan of sound. He had to let the stoicism go. She was right. He was injured, he’d worn the hose for days, and he didn’t want it sliced through, either—because he didn’t want anyone else to know of his injury. He’d strapped the shin guard on for the same reason—and because it gave him stability enough to move. Rhoenne untied the straps with a vicious, efficient motion, breathing rapidly and shallowly the entire time.
He still had to shed the hose. That garment had been excellent for its purpose; keeping him warm and the bandage hidden. When he was finished, it was just a puddle of gray-shaded fabric about his ankles. And he was drained.
Rhoenne felt as wearied when he finished as if he’d just been on the list, battling. About the only good thing was he had the pain to a bearable level. He turned his head, met her gaze, and then his heart lurched—sharply and powerfully. Rhoenne had it hidden almost the moment it happened. He couldn’t do anything about the flare of his eyes, the increase of his pulse, or the sudden tautness of his frame. He had to react slowly, and do what he could to keep her from seeing or guessing at any of it.
She looked away first, saying nothing, although the two spots of pink on her cheeks were telling him plenty.
Rhoenne watched her look him over. It helped mute the throb of ache he was ignoring. He was grateful he’d shed his chainmail hauberk, shirt, and the steel-grommeted leather gauntlets before seeking sleep last night. He was doubly grateful he’d left the sword named Pinnacle in the sheath at his destrier’s side. If she knew who she really had at her fingertips, she wouldn’t be looking him over with her lower lip caught between her teeth and a blush that was easy to spot with the growing dawn.
“I’ve been puzzling this…and you have too much strength na’ to be a knight,” she finally said when he just sat there regarding her, with hands resting on his thighs, which appeared to be the same exact position she was in.
He waited for her to finish surveying him, although it took some time as she slid her gaze back down to his boots and up. He was afraid his body could feel a touch that wasn’t actually happening. He was very tempted to tighten the muscles beneath the skin she was looking at, too.
“You’re certain you are na’ one?”
“Do you wish me to be?” he whispered.
Her eyebrows rose at that. She finally shook her head and moved down to attend to his wound. Then there was nothing in his world but fire and pain and ache. The moment her fingers started circling and probing the bulge of bandaging around his calf, Rhoenne went stiff with the agony.
“This is going to pain,” she remarked.
He had his hands splayed onto the ground behind him for support. It also made it easy to watch. He almost wished he hadn’t as she reached in and pulled a small, curved knife from somewhere in the voluminous cloak she wore. She obviously knew her way about a knife was his thought, as she settled it into her palm and started slicing at the linen he’d wound about his leg not two days earlier, and the closer she got, the worse he tensed.
“You’ve taken a lance. I’ll have to find the tip. It will na’ be pleasant. You’ll have to hold still.”
He opened his mouth to tell her he already knew the whole of it but then she touched the red, swollen lump with her knife blade. Her action had him arching from the carpet of grass, while the ground absorbed the weight of his elbows. A hand on his belly was what sent him back onto his buttocks. Only by grinding his teeth together did he keep from giving any of it sound.
“You mustn’t move. I have to build a fire. I need it to clean the water.”
Rhoenne concentrated on her words. He had to. Otherwise, he was afraid he’d be sobbing. She needs fire to clean water, he repeated silently.
“It was na’ clean enough even before I fell into it,” she answered, as if he’d spoken aloud. “I also have to gather moss; and get my herbs…like burdock, amica, and a bit of roseweed. You’re na’ to move. I forbid it. You ken?”
Rhoenne had his teeth too tightly clenched to answer. He was beginning to wonder at his sanity. He had but one more day’s ride before he’d be at Tyneburn Hall and in his own healer’s hands. To think a Celt lass, calling herself the Lady of the Brook, could do better was a fool’s prayer.
“You’ve na’ got time,” she spoke, divining his thoughts again. “The wound festers. You may lose your leg even with my help. If you dinna’ believe me, question it when you arrive. Dinna’ tempt fate or question what brought you to me. You need the gifts from a healer? I am one. I swear it on all the gods. I’ll return. Dinna’ move! I will be very angry if you do. I swear to that, as well.
“You dinna’ want to see me when I’m angry,” she continued. He watched her stand, gather the wet folds of her cloak closer about her, and look down at him. Then she sighed loudly. “You’re na’ a very good patient. I understand that about you. You’ve na’ had anyone command you. You command others. I understand that, too. I do. I’ll still be angry if you dinna’ obey me. You ken?”
He nodded and kept his eyes on her until she disappeared. He’d never felt as defenseless and open to attack as he did then, sitting amid the grasses, with his tunic pulled down for modesty, his tights about his ankles, and no weapon handy. He was called the Lion of Ramhurst, yet had been brought to a state of vulnerability, and sat half-dressed, docilely awaiting the command of a child-woman weighing about a third of what he did. He still couldn’t believe it.
Aislynn’s hands were shaking before she had everything gathered and she was beginning to doubt she could work on him. That led to questioning her own abilities and that wasn’t good. She believed in her healing gifts and the extent of them even if she was the only one who did.
It took longer than she wished it to but that was because she hadn’t a spark handy for a fire, or mead for him to drink. She knew he shouldn’t face what she had to do in a completely sober state. That meant a trip home. Even at a full run, she didn’t think she could get there and back before the sun moved. She decided time must be changing on her, however. The sun didn’t seem to have moved as she fished two coals from the fire for a small torch and opened her father’s ale keg to dip a wineskin out, careful not to awaken anyone.
Her arms were full, her breast was burning with the exertion of running, and she was half-afraid he wasn’t going to be there when she returned, but he was.
Aislynn stood just outside the fringe of shrubbery ringing the glade she called hers and waited for her heart to calm. The Norman giant was still where she’d left him. He didn’t seem happy about it. She watched as he plucked a blade of grass and ran it through his fingernails to make it curl. She took a deep breath, assumed her confident Lady of the Brook image, and stepped in.
He looked up and stole her breath again with the clear-water blue of his eyes. Aislynn swallowed and looked away before he noticed. It was better to stay busy. She knew he watched as she stacked a small pile of broken twigs near the stream bank and tipped the coals onto it. She fed grasses into it until the fire was strong enough to keep going by itself. Then she set the small iron rack atop it, dipped a pail full of water, and set it atop the flames.
The indecision over whether or not to heat her knife ate at her, but she wasn’t going to let him know. His wound was trying to knit, it was full of poison, and it would be easier to slice if her blade was warm. She opened the knife into its half-circle shape and placed the tip in the center of her blaze.
Though she knew he’d be watching her, it still made her start when she turned and caught those blue eyes on her as intently as they were. Aislynn looked down at the ground as she approached where he sat. She couldn’t believe she’d actually stepped up and stomped on the expanse of chest facing her, but he’d frightened and startled her. Nobody saw her at her morning blessing. Nobody. It would start the whispers again. She assured herself it hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t even acted like it was of any consequence.
“I’ve brought ale for you.”
She pulled the skin of it from where she’d tied it about her waist and put it in the grass beside him where it went to a bulge shape. “You may need it.”
“I won’t,” he replied in that soft whisper of his.
Aislynn shivered. She wondered if he always spoke like that or if he was doing so for a reason. She cursed her own lack for not checking to see if he had further injury. “Have you hurt your throat?” she asked.
He jerked his head slightly, his eyes widening with the same odd look he’d given her on several occasions already. She wondered why he did that, too.
“I…no,” he replied.
“You possess a voice?” she continued.
He nodded.
“Why dinna’ you use it?”
He shrugged. Aislynn’s lips tightened. It wasn’t her business but she could guess. He had an enormous, well-muscled physique. He was easily a head taller than she was. The lower leg she was about to work on looked larger than both of her thighs put together. He probably had a voice to match. It would be loud, captivating, and strong, just like he was. She instinctively knew that was why he wasn’t using it.
“I understand,” she said. “It will give you away.”
This time his mouth dropped fully open. Aislynn nearly giggled. He was going to think she was a witch yet. She bent to check her knife. The blade tip was glowing red. She wrapped a bit of her cloak about her hand, lifted the blade, and walked over to him. He was very trusting, she decided, as she knelt beside him. He was also in the stiffest position a body could possibly be in and still be breathing. Aislynn put the blade against his skin and sliced.
Then she knew he definitely had a voice and it was massive, as his curse and groan filled the air. She ignored it. She had work to do. She was going to drain the pus-filled poison from him and then she had to find the lance tip he still harbored.
Aislynn put her fingers against his skin and lightly grazed until she felt where the metal had to be. It was lucky for both of them that it hadn’t reached bone. She didn’t think herself capable of extracting anything that deep.
She was beginning to think she couldn’t retrieve it, before she had it, and the act of sliding it out was worse. The blond man was quiet the entire time. He looked intent on drinking the wineskin dry. Aislynn looked his way once and then bent back to her task.
He’d not only been carrying the entire lance tip in him, it had binding still attached. Aislynn put it to the side of her and tipped his leg so he’d bleed freely onto the grass. Then she squeezed the wound until no more poison came out with the blood. He didn’t complain. Another quick glance showed he was still gulping, although the ale was in danger of sliding over his cheeks with the speed with which he was drinking it.
Aislynn picked up his souvenir and her knife and walked over to the burn to rinse everything off. Once the lance tip was clean, she realized the obvious. It wasn’t a keepsake. It was too dangerous. She dropped it into the water and watched the current rinse it away. Then she busied herself with crushing a palm-sized portion of brittle, dried orange amica flowers into the pot of water. She whispered as she did so, begging the water goddesses to assist with their healing powers.
When the pot was steaming the aroma into the glade, she knew it was ready. She needed it warm, not burning. Aislynn lifted it and turned to him. His eyes weren’t as crystal-clear, they were a more vivid blue, with red-rimmed flesh around them.
“You had poison to your wound. I’m going to wash it. It should na’ hurt. Worse,” she finished.
“Don’t stay…the work on…my account,” he replied.
He was pausing through the words, not whispering anymore, and he had a deep baritone voice that made the air rumble. She knew why he hadn’t used it earlier. It was very distinctive and very authoritative. Anyone hearing such a voice would immediately know the owner of it.
She frowned. He’d assured her he wasn’t a knight, he certainly wasn’t a Scot…so what could he be? she wondered. He was too old to be one of their Sassenach squires. Which left only one thing: a mercenary. He was one of their paid killers. Aislynn wondered why she hadn’t realized it instantly. Not only was he her enemy…he was paid to be one! That made everything she was doing so much worse. She should have known it the moment she met him. A man possessing all the muscle and scarring this man did obviously warred for a living. No wonder he hid his wound from the others. It would probably mean his death. She was shaking as she brought the pot over to him.
“What…is it?” He slurred the question with that resonating voice of his.
Aislynn turned her attention to rinsing the wound. She had to. She had to keep herself occupied. Aside from a quick intake of breath, her giant didn’t give any outward sign of how it pained him. Perhaps it isn’t paining him, she told herself, since he’d just drunk a wineskin of ale.
“Feels…strange. Like naught. What is it…you do?” he asked.
“Your senses must be blunted.”
“You do…such a thing? You—your talents must be…in great demand.”
“You drank yourself into it. I had little to do with it,” she replied stiffly. The last of the water mixture had been poured on,. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
