The Guardian's Witch

Book 1: Stelton Legacy

by Ruth A. Casie

Genres: Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander; Paranormal Romance; Witches; medieval romance; magick

Synopsis

England, 1290

Lord Alex Stelton can't resist a challenge, especially one with a prize like this: protect a castle on the Scottish border for a year, and it's his. Desperate for land of his own, he'll do anything to win the estate—even enter a proxy marriage to Lady Lisbeth Reynolds, the rumored witch who lives there.

Feared and scorned for her second sight, Lisbeth swore she'd never marry, but she is drawn to the handsome, confident Alex. She sees great love with him but fears what he would think of her gift and her visions of a traitor in their midst.

Despite his own vow never to fall in love, Alex can't get the alluring Lisbeth out of his mind and is driven to protect her when attacks begin on the border. But as her visions of danger intensify, Lisbeth knows it is she who must protect him. Realizing they'll secure their future only by facing the threat together, she must choose between keeping her magic a secret and losing the man she loves.

71,000 words

Release date: July 1, 2013

Publisher: Timeless Scribes Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter One

 

Northumberland, England, 1290

 

“You won the wager with His Majesty,” said Lord Bryce Mitchell astride his Arabian. He cantered down the forest trail with Alex Stelton, the newly minted Lord of Glen Kirk Castle.

“The entire court placed odds on whether I would succeed.” The two men slowed their horses to a walk. Alex glanced at Bryce. “Did you lose much?” He refocused his attention on the trail ahead. “You should have put your coin on me. I only wager when I’m certain of the results.”

“After one year of holding the old stones against the Scots, he actually gifted the castle and his ward to you.” Bryce shook his head.

The ring of surprise in Bryce’s voice and evident disbelief on his face amused Alex. “His Majesty is a man of his word. Did you have any doubt?” asked Alex, his head cocked to the side with one eyebrow raised. His face split into a wide grin.

“About the king being a man of his word or of you holding off the Scots?” Bryce colored his smooth retort with a smirk.

The two friends looked at each other, exploded into laughter, and continued on until they reached the crossroads where they brought their horses to a halt. The tower of Glen Kirk Castle, bathed in the setting sun, peeked through the trees still some three miles to the north. Alex surveyed his new holding. His chest swelled with pride. Mine.

“Though Edward did make you pay.”

Alex was peeved by Bryce’s patronizing tone. He masked his emotions until they were as unreadable as stone.

“Yes, you could say that.” Alex tried his best dismissive tone. Best he forget the king’s retribution for now. There would be time enough to deal with it later.

“Could? Surely you knew if he lost the wager he would find some way to make you pay. He doesn’t lose gracefully at anything, but to actually marry you to his ward by proxy. I can still see the apoplectic look on your face.”

“Yes, Bryce— what about the look on my face?” demanded Alex. His voice sounded strident even to him.

Bryce turned all shades of purple trying to conceal his mirth but he said not one word more. Instead he diverted his attention and polished the gold clasp, embossed with the Mitchell coat of arms, on his cloak.

Alex bristled at being the center of anyone’s jest. He didn’t take it well from his brothers, although the six of them only teased to vex him. Even though he was the youngest, his brothers deferred to him. They knew his worth and, it appeared, so did the king.

His teeth clenched at the thought of his proxy wedding and his humiliation. He knew he had to take a wife. He had to make his own way in the world. The Stelton holdings were extensive but not enough to provide him with an income. He’d have done anything to prove himself worthy of a holding of his own. Maybe even marry. Perhaps even Lisbeth. He never thought he would marry on the whim of the king. He had tried to argue, but there was no arguing with Edward. Faith, the king all but patted him on his head and sent him off like a new page. A page. He raked his hand through his hair.

With a nod of his head, Bryce motioned toward Glen Kirk in the distance. “Marrying Lisbeth does secure your claim to Glen Kirk.”

Lisbeth. He had lived at Glen Kirk for a year and hardly saw her. The only way he knew she was near was the little charms she left or the serenity that surrounded them. She kept herself in the forsaken hunting lodge and managed to elude him at almost every turn.

On odd twinge of disappointment hung round him. She hadn’t been like that years ago when they encountered each other at court. She had laughed and didn’t have a care in the world. Four years later he wouldn’t have known it was her if she hadn’t presented herself at the castle. The impish girl had grown into a poised beauty. Dark hair fell in long waves down her back. Her slender body was punctuated with soft curves that couldn’t remain hidden by the black mourning gown. Large green eyes stared at him from under a fan of long dark lashes. Even with her dour expression her full lips tempted him. He moved uncomfortably in his saddle. How things change. How people change.

“You do know you’re the envy of everyone. Not because the king gave you Wesley’s treasured Glen Kirk or daughter.” Bryce turned serious. “You inherited Wesley’s brewer and ale recipe. That should give you some compensation. I understand it’s a long-held family secret. Wesley was all about family.”

Family. He let his mind wonder. It landed on memories of his early days at court with his parents and siblings. He enjoyed the candor and tumult around the table in their assigned apartment. How he would appreciate that safety and security today in the midst of a court filled with politics and intrigue.

“I intend to leverage our close friendship,” said Bryce, “I’ll sample each batch and make certain it retains its high standards.”

Alex grinned at his friend’s declaration. Lord Wesley and Lady Darla Reynolds had been close friends of his parents. They didn’t bring their daughters to court often but Richard, their son, was always with them and became close to the tight-knit band of Stelton boys. Richard’s death on the Welsh battlefields had been a shock to them all. He and Wesley had spent a good deal of time together consoling each other over a good many tankards of ale.

It was only a short time after Alex left for the Welsh Wars himself that he heard of Wesley and Darla’s fatal accident. He felt their loss deeply. Now in a twist of fate their beloved Glen Kirk and daughter were his.

“Have you sent word to her?” Bryce’s question hung heavy in the air.

Alex broke away from his musings. “No, I will tell her when the time comes.” Alex suppressed the annoyance in his voice. What if she didn’t want to be married to him? He had expected a warm welcome from her a year ago. She had made it obvious she wanted nothing to do with him. He’d have to find a way to approach the subject, see how agreeable she was to the idea. A seventh son, he never thought the king would care who he married. The last thing he wanted was a political wife. He relaxed his death grip on his horse’s reins, let out a deep breath, and changed the subject. “I’ve heard your border farms were raided. How bad were the attacks?”

Bryce took a bannock out of his saddlebag, broke off a piece and offered it to Alex. He leaned forward in his saddle, a conspiratorial tone in his voice. “And your Glen Kirk farmers?”

Relieved to get Bryce off the subject of his new wife, Alex’s brows knit together at the mention of his farms. He took a bite of the cake and washed it down with some ale from the skin he carried. He passed the ale to Bryce. “No attacks on my farms.” He wiped the crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. “I set up patrols before we left for London. Since our lands are adjacent I’m certain it’s only a matter of time before the Glen Kirk farms become targets.”

“Yes, a good strategy. I’ll have my men patrol my border farms as well. That should give us a better chance of catching these men before they strike your farms.”

Alex’s chest tightened at the insinuation that he couldn’t protect his people, although Bryce’s offer did make good military sense. The tactician in him knew the benefit of working both sides of the border. He moved back in his saddle. Yes, Bryce’s men would be helpful.

“You still believe your Scots are blameless.” Bryce passed back the skin.

“Bryce, this is more than a border raid and a few cows being taken—much more. And they are not ‘my’ Scots. Everyone at Glen Kirk has told me they have never had an incident with the border clans, so why now? You live here. Surely you know that to be true. But, if not the Scots, who? That is the question.”

“You do know most everyone at court suspects the Scots.” Bryce straightened in his saddle.

“I too heard the rumblings.”

“You were quite outspoken. The debate you sparked was lively to say the least.”

“You know where I stand on this issue. I clearly do not agree. The Scots are not involved in these raids.”

“How can you be so certain, Alex?”

“I’ve been dealing with them this last year and they’re just as concerned about these raids as we are. They’re worried the raids will move to their land. I know they are truthful. I can’t explain it more than that. You’ll not convince me otherwise, Bryce. We’re on different sides of this argument. Let’s leave this discussion for another time.”

It was good to see his friend talking again. Bryce had been preoccupied for a good part of the journey. He wasn’t certain what attributed to Bryce’s attitude. Perhaps it was the delay caused by his unexpected nuptials or Bryce’s private audience with the king, which apparently did not go well. Bryce didn’t offer to share what had happened, and Alex wouldn’t pry. He supposed the man was entitled to his mood. Over the last year Alex had grown to know Bryce and his father, Ramon, well. Bryce would seek him out to talk when the time was right. For now it was good to see the heaviness lifted.

“Well Lord Alex, this is where I leave you.”

Alex didn’t need to peer over his shoulder but rather knew Bryce’s small retinue approached.

“How long do you plan to stay at Glen Kirk before you return to Wales?”

Alex looked at the knight. “I’ve decided not to accept the king’s invitation. I’m certain he will understand.” He glanced at the castles towers in the distance. “Glen Kirk will do.”

Bryce followed his gaze. “Yes, I’m not surprised.” His men emerged from the forest and entered the small clearing. Bryce’s horse danced, eager to get under way. “We’ll wait here with you for your men and wagons,” said Bryce, easily bringing the horse under control. “They can’t be too far behind.”

“No need. The sun is mostly gone and you’ve another hour’s ride before you reach Ravencroft. We’re on Glen Kirk land. There won’t be any trouble.”

“As you wish. Then I will leave you to continue to gaze at your gift, m’lord, and contemplate your evening.” Bryce affected a mock bow. “Well done, Alex. You made me a pretty penny.” He wheeled his horse to the west.

“If I had known you had wagered I would have claimed half,” Alex shouted out after him. “Safe travels.”

Bryce raised his hand in salute and set off at a comfortable pace. His men fell in behind him.

Alex’s gaze slid back to the castle’s crenellated tower. Glen Kirk was anything but a gift. He had worked long and hard to make the castle prosper and to keep the people safe. He dealt well with the Scots through mutual respect and clear understanding. His eyes soaked in the view. He would never tire of staring at her graceful lines and majestic bearing. He never doubted his success. Something deep down told him Glen Kirk was his rightful place. He urged Prime, his destrier, forward.

Prime’s ears flattened. Alex, instantly alert, detected a change in the surroundings. The stillness was deafening. He heard not a sound. He glimpsed the west trail. Bryce and his men were out of sight. Relief his friend was out of harm’s way was only momentary. The rustling of the underbrush gave away the raider’s positions. Whoever it was had started to move. He knew his men and wagons were not far behind but they wouldn’t reach him in time. He would have to fend for himself. The crack of dried wood to his right drew his attention. A stout branch snapped back and struck him a hard glancing blow from the left. The combination of surprise and brute force unseated him and threw him to the ground.

His warhorse kicked and nipped at the raiders who broke through the trees. Prime stood defiantly by Alex and kept the attackers at bay.

Alex jumped to his feet with his sword drawn. He slapped the horse’s rump, a signal he was ready. The horse turned south, bolted and stampeded through the knot of men. The well-trained horse raced down the trail toward Alex’s advancing soldiers.

Alex quickly evaluated the field of attack. Prime had done a good job of thinning out the men. Many lay broken and bleeding on the ground. The advantage shifted to his favor. The few survivors who remained were dazed. He had to strike before they reorganized.

He swung his blade shoulder high in a wide arc. The men backed away. One slipped off to the right to circle behind him. Alex used the momentum of his swing to turn completely around and faced the lone attacker. He let his swing continue and drew his blade across the man’s throat. Blood spurted from the fatal wound creating large blotches on Alex’s tunic. The raider fell to his knees blood pulsing from his severed throat. His mouth opened and closed like a beached fish but he made no sound. He crumpled forward into the red mud.

Alex pressed forward. He bellowed his war cry and the seasoned warrior exploded into action. He slashed, sliced and skewered the less-proficient fighters with efficient and fluid swordplay. He progressed from one stroke to the next. His brown riding tunic and white shirt were splattered crimson. He continued his attack, now focused on the more senior men. His blade whipped through the air and whistled with a deadly cadence. The blows, in rapid succession, were marked by the ring of steel against steel a mere second or two apart.

The warm August air was thick with the pungent smell of battle. The coppery taste of blood permeated the rising mist in the small clearing. Alex advanced and pushed his attackers back toward the forest path. He would catch his enemy between him and his advancing men.

Someone approached from behind him, someone he knew and trusted. Alex didn’t stop. He was too busy with the attack in front of him. The sound of his men advancing up the trail reached him. One man after another fell until someone with a well-placed knife broke through his rear defense. With a single stroke white heat seared his side. He tried to turn and defend against the attacker but all went black.

 

 

“Lord Mitchell, he’s lain here for two days. I’ve sent John to fetch Lady Lisbeth.”

Through the pain, Alex overheard Ann, his housekeeper. She stood vigil at his bedside.

“John? Why did you send him and not one of the messengers?” asked Bryce.

Ah, Bryce was with him too. Someone, he suspected Ann, straightened the bed linen with a gentle touch.

“There aren’t many left in service. The king’s protectors scared them away.” Ann gave the linen a final tug.

“You mean the rumors of the curse.” Bryce’s voice held a bitter edge of cynicism.

“No, not because of the rumors, which are ridiculous, but because over the last two years no one in this castle has cared about the village or the people,” she dipped her head toward Alex. “Except for him.” 

“Bryce?” Alex’s whispered words went unheard. Exhausted and in pain, he fought to open his eyes, to no avail. He would not surrender control. Instead he struggled to take in bits and pieces of the conversation.

Barely able to stay awake, Alex glimpsed Bryce turn a curious eye to him. Bryce shook his head and gave Ann his attention. “He’ll not be happy having her minister to him.”

“Lord Mitchell, she may be his last hope.”

Alex caught the worry in her voice. He gritted his teeth and remained motionless. He could feel it building. He braced for another wave of pain that would sweep over him.

“Why, Ann, you’re fond of the man and still you bring in the witch? She’s exiled herself to the old hunting lodge. Best she stays there.” The words hung in the room. “But I suppose she won’t be there much longer.”

Alex knew from experience the hostile glare that accompanied the sound in Bryce’s voice.

“M’lord, I know your feelings about the girl. I don’t understand. I remember the way you followed each other around when you were children. We both know she’s no witch.”

“Then explain her unusual power with herbs and tonics.”

“She’s no different than her mother, rest her soul. She too was a gifted healer. That doesn’t make either of them witches. Didn’t Lady Darla help you when you broke your arm so badly everyone thought it had to be cut off?”

Alex could feel the anger rolling off Bryce but he couldn’t dwell on it. He knew more than saw his close friend flex the fist of his sword arm. A sudden pinch of pain and he stiffened himself for another surge of agony.

Ann hovered over him. “His fever worsens. He’ll not last the night.”

The worry in Ann’s voice compelled Alex to fight through the cobwebs and remain alert.

“I’m surprised he’s lasted this long.” Bryce whispered. “What will I tell the king?”

The slap of riding gloves against Bryce’s thigh startled Alex.

“I told Alex the thieving Scots couldn’t be trusted. I’d lead the English against them myself if the king would bring up his men from Wales.”

Suffering the incessant pain was useless. He had to take command. Concentrate. He needed to concentrate. Little by little he fought to control his body. His eyes fluttered opened. He was unprepared for the assault of light streaming in from the window. He raised his hand to shield them and gathered his wits amidst his aching head.

Ann rushed, pulled the shutters closed to darken the room and returned to his side.

A cool cloth touched his feverish forehead. He silently thanked the angel. With his eyes closed, he relaxed and let the soothing cloth take him to a tranquil place. A few more minutes and he would try again.

A gentle knock brought him back to the present. The hinge creaked and a cool breeze danced across his damp face. Thankfully, the pain subsided enough for him to pry open his eyes again. Lisbeth glided silently into the room. Her long brown cloak billowed out around her and gave the eerie appearance she floated on air. Through narrow slits he detected her shadow approach. A fresh scent seeped into the stale room. He sniffed the familiar light evergreen mixed with mint, rosemary and spicy floral scent. Lavender. She handed Ann her small healing kit and cloak. In his dazed state he could still make out the outline of her black mourning dress next to him.

Something primal and compelling kept Alex conscious. He was always aware when she was near. Her soft lilting murmur drove the buzzing from his head. The ache eased into a dull roar. Everything was a struggle, staying awake, keeping his eyes open. Faith, breathing was an effort. He squinted and worked hard to take in the scene. There were a few minutes left before the light once again would be unbearable. He needed to rest his eyes, but not right now. He forced himself to stay in command of his senses.

“Good day, Lisbeth. I’ll leave you to your patient.” Bryce’s voice was courteous yet arrogant.

Mine. The whispered thought rang in his head. The very idea startled him.

Lisbeth looked at Bryce. “Good day, Bryce.” Alex heard the touch of sadness in her voice. Then all was quiet.

The flexing fist at Bryce’s side was not lost on Alex. Neither was Bryce’s discomfort at Lisbeth’s silence and steady stare.

“Ann, send word when … I will need to tell the king,” Bryce mumbled. The door closed behind him.

“You can wash up here.”

Lisbeth stepped quietly to the porcelain basin placed on the battle chest between the window and hearth. She cracked open the shutter.

Alex heard the clatter of the basin and splatter of water hitting the cobbled stones on the ground outside his window.

“John told me about the ambush in the forest.” Lisbeth spoke softly to Ann as she returned the basin to the campaign chest.

He closed his eyes and willed his sluggish body to respond. He grabbed on to anything that would kept him in the moment, the splash of water refilling the basin, the crackle of the fire and snap of clean linen.

“The attack came within sight of the tower,” said Ann. “His big blade caught the last of the sun. The flash alerted the tower guard and he sent the men out. Prime, bless the beast’s heart, raised the alarm with Lord Alex’s soldiers who followed on the trail.”

 

 

Lisbeth took the linen Ann offered.

“He was dazed but awake when the men brought him in. John helped get him out of his clothes, examined every inch of him, cleaned and dressed his wounds. His lordship was troubled and restless. He kept mumbling about someone behind him. He couldn’t understand who attacked him or why. He wanted no meal but had an awful thirst. He drank several tankards of ale and fell asleep.”

Her hands dry, Lisbeth gave the linen back to Ann and stepped to Alex’s bedside.

“In the morning he didn’t break the fast nor attend practice. He never misses practice. His captain attempted to rouse him but he found Lord Alex with a fever. No one could wake him. That was two days ago.”

“You should have called me sooner.” Lisbeth’s eyes remained on Alex. “John told me none of his injuries were serious enough to make him this ill.” His dark wavy hair was plastered to his head except for a stray lock that fell over his forehead giving him a boyish appearance. Lisbeth reached under the blanket and threaded her fingers through the soft hair on his torso to rest her hand on his bare chest. A sense of unease gnawed at her. She pushed her doubts aside for the moment and concentrated on the man. His breathing was shallow and slow but his heartbeat was strong. With her other hand she reached to lift his eyelid.

Alex’s eyes flew open. He captured her hand in midair. His gripe was like a vise. Eyes like silver lightning pinned her in place.

She tilted her head and looked at his hand grasping hers. A tingling sensation sent a dizzying current from his grasp all the way up her arm. The room took on a golden haze. Her earlier unrest morphed into a shiver that raced up her spine. A fleeting image of him crushing her in his embrace skittered across her mind.

His soft breath heated something deep inside her when he brought his face closer to hers. Her heart thundered with anticipation. His firm lips kissed her eyelids and advanced to her ear. Mine, he whispered. A delicious shudder pulsed through her body. He marched on to her lips and coaxed them open. His spicy scent swept over her. He captured his prize and swept in with his tongue in victory. Forever echoed in her head.

She blinked and the haze vanished. A jumble of confused thoughts and feelings assaulted her. Once again she stared into his magnetic eyes. Her lips throbbed with hunger for his. She dropped her lashes to hide her confusion. A dream? A wish? She’d never had such visions. She gave herself a shake to rid herself of the final images.

Under her palm, still on his chest, she felt his swift intake of breath and quickened heartbeat. A disturbing thought swept over her. Had he seen it too?

She lifted her hand from his chest and attempted to retrieve the other from his grasp. He would not give it up. After a few silent moments he released her. His hand fell to the bed like a deadweight. His eyes darkened in agony.

“Where’s the pain?” she asked with authority. Already the loss of his touch left her cold. She didn’t wait for him to answer. She carefully slipped the blanket down to expose his well-defined chest and trim hips laced with recent bandages. In her work as a healer she’d seen many shirtless men.

Dark curly hair dusted his wide chest. The manly patch narrowed down his torso until a thin line disappeared beneath the blanket. She glimpsed at his face and noticed the devilish gleam in his eye amidst his pain. He pulled one corner of his mouth into a tight smile. Of all the naked chests she’d seen, his was perfect.

Ancient words filled her head and cleared her mind. His body was a field of scars. She touched the scar at his neck. He lifted his chin to give her a better view. She worked down his torso concentrating on the new wounds. Her fingers fleetingly traced each one. Satisfied they were clean and on the mend she moved on to the next one.

A swelling and redness peaking over the edge of the blanket quickly had her attention. She lowered the cover further to evaluate it. The hint of foul odor filled the space around him.

She continued to lower the blanket. Once again he caught her hand.

“You’ll not want to look. I expect the wound isn’t a pretty sight, surely not one for you to see,” he whispered. She looked into his eyes and knew at once the grim reality he had accepted. He was going to die. He let his head fall back against the pillow. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

She placed a steady hand on his arm and looked at his enlarged pupils with concern. “I must examine the wound if I’m to help you.” Finally, she felt his muscles relax.

He turned his head to stare deeply into her eyes. “You’ve avoided me at every turn. Why come now?”

“I’m here to see to your wounds.”

“Aye, my death more likely.” He released her hand. He scanned her face while she exposed the bandage.

Silently, she ticked off a catalog of plants. Ancient words and melodies swirled in her head and crept out her lips while her skillful hands worked. She carefully cut away the bandage and exposed the wound. The overpowering pungent odor assaulted her nostrils. She looked again at his eyes. His pupils were enlarged and confirmed her suspicion—poison.

A disturbing thought persisted. He’d been like this for two days. She pushed the thought aside and bent to saving him—if she wasn’t already too late. The edges of the wound screamed an angry red. The infection was well past the edges of the lesion. The swollen area was crusted in some areas and drained ugly yellow pus in others.

“The wound must be cleaned.” She said this more to herself to confirm her decision. She glanced around and took stock of what was at hand. “Ann, some linen strips please, lots of them and three large men.” She looked at Alex’s powerful body. “No, four men please.” Lisbeth continued her preparations. Ann scurried out of the room. “Ann,” she called after the woman. “Hot water. Lots of hot water. I’ll need more than the hearth kettle can hold.”

She looked at the man who became more awake and alert by the minute. Usually a good sign, but now she’d rather he was neither. She’d brought many a warrior to his knees saving their lives. He would be no exception.

He raised his head and looked at her squarely. “What do you plan to do?” His voice was ragged and tired.

She hid her concern around her matter-of-fact tone. “The wound’s infected and must be cleaned.”

“How? You think to hold me down?” The hard lines on his face held no expression. He became more awake every minute.

“Yes, staying still may be difficult.” She noticed his hand begin to shake—a result of the poison. She must act quickly. What was taking Ann so long? She took a deep breath and remained calm on the outside. She rummaged through her kit and found what she needed, then busily prepared a tincture.

“You’ll not need to hold me down. I’ll not struggle.” His head fell back on the pillow.

She looked at him and noticed the shadow of a grimace pass over his face. “I don’t think you’ll be able…”

“I’ll make you a wager. If I lay still and leave you to your ministration, you will let me kiss you.” The teasing brought color to his gray cheeks.

Too surprised by his proposal to do more than stare at him, flashes of her vision raced through her mind.

“Do we have a wager?”

“And if you don’t stay still?” She bent back to preparing the tincture.

The amused gleam left his eyes. “Then you can call my men to hold me. But I will not die fighting my own men.” His teasing returned. “The thought of your kiss will keep me still. Do you agree to the wager?”

She brewed some dark tea with the water from the kettle and added the tincture. “I’m usually paid with chickens and vegetables. I’ve never been paid with a kiss.” No one could remain still. Not even him. She turned and faced him with the cup in her hand. She hesitated and reached in her kit and drew out an engraved stone. She put the cup aside and took the thin purple leather strip from her hair and threaded it through the amulet.

“If you wear this I will agree to your wager.”

He took a quick breath as a flash of pain caught him. He looked at the trinket then back to her. He nodded and let her put the amulet around his neck.

She knew he humored her but she didn’t care as long as he wore it. She retrieved the cup.

“And what’s this concoction you give me?” He sniffed at the cup.

“It’s to activate the spell in the amulet.”

His eyebrows flew up in surprise.

She let loose a mischievous laugh. “No, it’s only to take the edge off the pain.”

He relaxed and took the cup from her hand. “I’d rather drink your father’s ale.”

She lifted his head and helped him drink the tincture.

He downed the contents. His mouth puckered. “Let me live long enough to collect my wager. I’d rather die with the taste of your sweet lips on mine.” He chuckled but was caught once more with a spasm of pain.

He rested his head back on the pillow and turned to watch her. “Alas. My kiss will leave you wanting more I’m afraid. It’s a good thing you’ve called for my men. They may have to restrain you.”

She couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. Did he always face death with such boldness? She reached for the basin. “We shall see, m’lord.”

“Call me Alex. If we’re going to be intimate, we’re past polite.”

She froze at his suggestion the basin still in her hand. She took a calming breath. “We shall see… Alex.” She put the basin on the table near his bed. She was ready.

Ann arrived with four of Alex’s men close behind. She handed Lisbeth the linens and went off to refill the kettle.

“Have the men wait outside the door. I will call out if we need them,” said Lisbeth.

Alex gave her a grateful nod.

“Zhure nas sheer naf durzh.” The ancient healing song filled her head. “Ancient one give him strength to endure.” She submerged the linen strip in the basin of steaming water. “Zhure nas sheem naf sarzh.” She wrung out the cloth. “Ancient one give me knowledge to succeed.” She turned and noted him look at her hands, which were bright red from the scalding water.

He took up the soft soothing sound of her whispered words. “Zhure nas sheer naf durzh,” he said softly.

“Zhure nas sheer naf durzh,” she repeated under her breath.

She placed the compress on the festering wound. He barely stirred. She pressed the cloth lightly into place to draw the infection onto the linen. She removed the cloth when it cooled. The crusted pus loosened and clung to the rag. Over and over, she plunged her hands into the scalding water and wrung out the fresh hot linen. Before long the wound wept profusely. Little by little, it ran clearer, the linen eventually tinged with red. “The blood needs to run rich and red before you’ll be out of danger.”

“You’re doing fine.” His voice was rough with pain.

Startled by his encouragement, she stopped her hand poised to soak the next linen. She felt his eyes on her but resisted meeting his gaze for fear she would give her inner thoughts away. She doused the cloth and wrung out the water. She continued to save his life.

When the wound bled freely, a signal the infection was gone, she stepped back. Tired, relief flooded through her. She noticed his hand lying along his side and watched his fist open. She wiped the sweat from his face. She studied his eyes, pleased to see them clear and bright. Ready to apply the preparation to the wound, she hesitated. Something niggled at her. She learned long ago not to deny the feeling. She placed one more hot linen on the wound.

“Faith,” he swore. “The burning’s from the inside.”

“From the inside?” She removed the linen and carefully searched the wound. He squirmed from her touch. “Patience, I’m almost done.”

He let out a chuckle. “You’ll need to do more than that for me to lose the bet.”

She peered at him. Through all her ministrations he only voiced words of encouragement. As he had pledged, he remained still and did not complain. “You’ve found me out.” She continued her search. “I may have to concede.”

“Of course you will.” He shifted his hip toward her.

He may have moved to ease his pain but it provided her with a better view. Something caught her eye. “There’s something lodged in the wound.” A quick glance confirmed her suspicion. The pale color on his face told her the pain once again gripped him.

He nodded his acknowledgement.

She rummaged through her kit and took out small pinchers. With a gentle touch she parted the swollen flesh. His muscles tensed “It must come out.” She knew the pain grew worse.

He held the bed linen in fisted hands and said nothing. His body glistened with sweat. His chest labored in short shallow breaths. He moved not a muscle.

How he lay there without screaming was a testament to his endurance and control. She probed a bit deeper. Her instrument touched something hard. It was not bone.

He drew in a deep breath.

She took only a brief notice and remained set to her work. Carefully she snagged the smooth corner of the object and began to withdraw a piece of slender steel. The metal slipped from her grip and the fragment slithered back into the wound. Alex stiffened. She froze.

“Go on, don’t stop now,” he said through clenched teeth.

Beads of perspiration danced on her forehead. She hesitated with the pinchers over the wound, ready to proceed. No, she needed the other corner of the metal. She looked at Alex. His gray face told her she must act quickly.

“Go ahead.”

She held his eyes for a moment then continued. She attacked from the other side of the wound. The pincher latched on to an engraved edge. With a steady hand and a tight hold of the steel she plucked out what was left of a blade.

Alex let out a sigh of relief.

She brought the steel to her nose. An acrid smell caught her attention. She dropped the fragment into the basin. Poison. She suspected it was nightshade. No, there was something different about this poison. The preparation she usually administered would not be adequate. She searched through her things until she found the vial she needed. A few drops worked into the preparation would be enough. She applied the poultice with great care and bound up the wound. “You’ve won the wager,” she said while she finished applying the dressing.

“Did you have any doubt? Thank you, Lisbeth. You have my gratitude.” His eyelids slowly slid down and he settled into an exhausted sleep.

She turned to the basin to retrieve the fragment and watched tendrils of blood swirl in graceful patterns. The water clouded while she stared mesmerized at the shapes. When the liquid cleared, she removed the metal, dried and slipped the fragment into her pouch. Relieved, she took a deep breath and emptied the basin. He wouldn’t die. He would live to fight another day, not because of her care but because the vision in the basin told her so.