But her heart thumped wildly when her breasts pressed against the iron-hard muscles of his ribs, his skin so hot she could feel it through her clothes. He groaned again, and she felt the deep, pain-filled sound reverberate through her. Willing herself to relax, she pressed her body along the full length of his, and tucked the blankets and the fur closer around them.
Gingerly, she stretched one arm across his flat midsection. Even through the cloth of her sleeve, she could feel the heat of his skin, and beneath her bare fingers she felt fever raging.
The heat radiating from him combined with the warmth of the blankets, her snug tunic and leggings, and the steam swirling around the chamber soon had her perspiring.
She thought of removing her garments, but quickly discarded the idea. The rough material was all that now separated her from Darach’s entirely naked, very male form.
She watched the unsteady rise and fall of his broad chest.
“Do not dare to die on me, Scotsman,” she whispered.
Holding him tight, she tried to pray, but for the first time in her life, the words would not come. None of the litanies she had repeated so often for so many years seemed able to contain all she felt.
Closing her eyes, she whispered a single word, putting all her heart into it.
“Please.”
~ ~ ~
Laurien guessed the hour to be long past midnight when she awakened in the darkness. Darach had been tossing fitfully, trying to throw off the covers, and it took constant effort to keep him still lest he reopen his wound.
To her dismay, she could feel that he was still ablaze with fever.
She slid out from under the blankets and came around to the table on his side of the bed. Twice now, she had risen to prepare a strong tea of valerian root, black pepper, and sunbride leaves, to deepen his slumber and clear his fever. But she had only managed to get a little of it into him. He seemed to be sweating more heavily, at least. That was a good sign.
She dipped a cloth in the basin of clear water beside the bed, and began to bathe his face and chest again.
“You must fight. Is that not what warriors are supposed to do?” she challenged as she moved the cloth over his neck and shoulders. “You have to fight.”
He made a sound, deep in his throat.
But it was not a groan of pain.
“Feels… good.”
Laurien stopped in mid-motion, her hand on his chest. Had he actually spoken? In French? Or was she losing her mind?
He opened his eyes. “S-smells…” He wrinkled his nose and cast a perturbed look at the poultice on his chest. “W-what is… that?”
Laurien almost laughed with relief and joy. His speech was slurred, his eyes glassy and staring, but he was conscious. And he had uttered a complete sentence! It was enough to make her giddy.
“A poultice,” she answered his question at last. “To help your wound heal more quickly.”
He blinked up at her as if trying to see through a fog. “You… look terrible.”
“Merci.” She smiled at what was likely a very accurate appraisal. “You are a most charming patient.” She put down the cloth and picked up the full cup of dark tea from beside the bed, holding it to his lips. “Finish this and I shall think about forgiving you.”
She supported his head as he drained the cup of its strong brew, though not without a few sputtered protests at the taste, which Laurien found encouraging.
Offering a silent prayer of gratitude to God, she began to think the Scotsman might live after all.
He lay back, closing his eyes, and was silent a moment. Laurien thought he might have fallen asleep.
Then he shivered again. “Head feels… strange.” He opened his eyes, frowning, trembling now. “So… cold.”
Laurien’s rush of cheerful confidence abruptly stilled. “Your head feels strange because the drink is supposed to make you sleep more deeply,” she said softly. “So be an obedient patient and cease your struggles against it.”
His lashes drifted downward again and Laurien moved back to the far side of the bed. She waited until his chest was rising and falling more evenly. Then she gently lifted the covers and eased herself down on the mattress.
The slight movement, however, was enough to make him open his eyes. He blinked at her in disbelief, mumbling, his speech growing more slurred as the sleeping potion began to affect him. “She mmmeans to… t-torture me.”
“I mean only to warm you until your fever breaks,” she admonished as she inched closer. “So put any other thoughts from your mind.” Slowly, she reclaimed her position beside him, her eyes never leaving his.
He made a low, very male sound of appreciation as her body fitted to his.
She stared at him accusingly. “This is for your benefit—and by that I mean your health. And since, as you pointed out…” She rested one arm cautiously across his midsection again. “…I look less than appealing at the moment, I trust you will find no cause to misbehave.”
“But ’twould be… mmmuch more… ef-effective,” he said weakly, “if you… remove your…”
“Never mind making suggestions about my attire.” She ducked her head so that he could not see her smile. For the first time, ever, she took pleasure in his teasing. “Go to sleep.”
When she looked up again, she saw that, for once, he had followed her orders.
Chapter 9
It was late morning by the time Laurien awakened again. She lay with one hand on Darach’s uninjured shoulder, and she slid her fingers along his chest, smiling upon finding that his skin had regained its normal warmth.
“Thanks be to God,” she murmured, giving in to the urge to remain where she was just a moment longer. “I do believe you will recover, stubborn Scotsman.”
“That homespun tickles,” he murmured, his eyes still closed. “You should take it off.”
She snatched her hand away. “You… you are… I thought you were asleep!”
He opened one eye. “’Tis near impossible to sleep with you scratching away at my side.”
Laurien noticed that his words were quite clear and distinct. She suddenly felt uneasy lying so close to him—and intensely aware that he was not wearing a stitch of clothing.
She started to rise. “Since your fever has cooled, milord, you are welcome to have the bed to yourself.”
Before she could slip away, he reached beneath her shoulders with his good arm and drew her back against his side, uttering a sound that was half groan, half sigh. Laurien’s heartbeat doubled. It appeared that her ministrations may have worked too well. He was regaining his strength with alarming speed.
“Let me up,” she commanded.
Her words went unheeded. Unfortunately, he had lost his all-too-brief tendency to follow her orders.
He blinked at her, his lashes half-lowered, his eyes still bright with the last of his fever and the lingering effects of the potent drink she had given him. He was unpredictable under the best of circumstances—and there was no telling what he might do with the potion clouding his reason.
He might not even be aware of who she was or what he was doing.
His broad hand moved downward from her shoulders to her waist, slowly. Laurien remained still. She knew a quick jab to his ribs would gain her freedom, but she could not bring herself to hurt him.
“Milord, with my valerian root tea in your blood, you haven’t the wits of a turnip just now,” she told him firmly, determined to regain control of the situation. “Nor do you have the strength to do… whatever you are thinking of doing. So let me—”
She lost the rest of her demand in a gasp as his hand slipped beneath her tunic to seek her bare skin. He caressed the curve of her hip, her waist.
Laurien scarcely breathed, his callused fingers igniting fire… and moving upward. “Darach—”
“You are… so soft,” he whispered, his voice filled with an almost painful longing. “Soft as… sunrise.”
“Now I know you are not in your right mind.” His beha
vior was almost certainly the result of the strong elixir she had given him, yet his words filled her with an ache that was at once sweet and alarming.
He stroked the underside of her breast.
Laurien gave a startled squeak. “Milord, release me!”
“Mmm… nay, Camhanach.” His arm flexed around her to draw her closer. “I think I shall keep you.”
He seemed to have lost all capacity for reason. “Y-you will remember none of this on the morrow.”
“Then I should make the most of it now.” He lifted his head toward hers.
Before he could kiss her, he went pale and fell back on the pillows, trying to catch his breath.
Laurien wriggled out of his hold, scooting to the other side of the bed. “Now do you believe what I said?” She straightened her tunic, her thoughts and her senses almost as jangled as his. “You are not presently fit for… for activity of any sort.”
He sighed, his gaze following her as she got out of the bed. “Do you know what you do to me, leannan? To have you so close… and me unable to do aught about it?”
“Do you think I would have come willingly to your bed if you were able to do aught about it?”
“Oh, lass…” He smiled wickedly. “We shall see… anon. By God, we will.” He closed his eyes. The brief expenditure of strength had obviously cost him dearly. He kept murmuring, sleepily. “And if I die before I have a chance to do aught about it… Saints’ blood, I shall kill myself.”
“Shhh.” She shook her head at his rambles. “Let yourself sleep, turnip-wit.”
“But you will torture me endlessly… in my dreams, Camhanach. In my dreams… “
Sleep finally claimed him again, leaving Laurien to wonder if he had even realized it was her in the bed beside him—
Camhanach, he had called her.
“You did know it was me,” she accused the slumbering form.
She noticed he wore the slightest trace of a grin.
~ ~ ~
By mid-day, Laurien had tidied the chamber, changed Darach’s bandages and applied a fresh poultice when he woke, and had two maids help her change his sheets and pillows. She had even managed to get him to take more tea and some broth.
Now she stood at the window, looking out through the open shutters. The autumn air felt cool and damp, sharp with the scent of the burned siege towers. A stonemason and his apprentices were already working on the walls below, patching the damage inflicted by catapult stones. She noted with a pang of regret that the scaling ladder had been cleared away.
She had paid her debt to the fair-haired knight who had saved her life… but her chance at freedom was gone.
Closing the shutters, she returned to the bed where he was dozing. She had relented in her efforts to keep him covered, and he lay with the blankets pushed down to his waist.
No doubt the man could not help but be arrogant, she mused as she sat beside him, when God had given him such imposing size and strength. His broad shoulders, his arms, even his neck and his ribs seemed solid as iron. And saints’ breath, the scars that marked his skin. How many battles had he faced?
The only softness she could see on him was the thatch of hair across his chest, the same dark golden color as his beard. Partly hidden by the bandage on his left side, it covered the flat planes of muscle, narrowing over the ridges of his ribs, becoming a line down the center of his lean stomach, which disappeared—
“Enjoying the view?”
With a gasp, she looked up to find Darach observing her with amusement in his blue eyes.
“Nay,” she said briskly. “I am merely… appraising the condition of my patient. Never have I seen a man with… with so many scars.”
He grinned drowsily at her. “And how many naked men have you seen?”
She cleared her throat. “We treat anyone in need at the infirmary in Tours, man or woman.”
“Ah…” He blinked down at his scars. “I do admit, I have done my full share of living.”
“It appears that you have also done quite a bit of almost dying.”
He frowned. “I have managed to survive to the age of six-and-twenty.”
“Only by God’s grace… wait a moment, you are but six-and-twenty?”
“It is not the years that take their toll,” he said, the drowsy grin returning, “but the miles traveled.” He pointed to a curved mark on his ribs. “This one is from Sicily.” He pointed to another scar. “Persia. Crete. This one I got in Lisbon fighting for a prince.” He let his hand fall back onto the mattress. “I have one from an angry lady in Byzantium… but I should not show you that.” He blinked sleepily. “It is in a rather embarrassing spot.”
“I do not need to see the one from an angry lady in Byzantium,” she said dryly. “I have been wondering what in Heaven’s name this is.” She touched a mark that circled his right bicep, a symbol of a vine. It looked as if it had been drawn with the black ink she used at the convent.
“From a Greek island,” he said with a wistful sigh. “The villagers there believe that if a young man lacks the courage to stand the pain of the marking, he will be of no use in battle.”
“It is permanent?” she asked in amazement.
“I have had it for ten years. They used soot from burnt bark, mixed with some kind of liquid, and pricked the skin with a bronze needle until they drew blood.”
She winced at the mere thought of it. “And you were only sixteen?”
“I may have been a bit drunk,” he admitted, chuckling. “In truth, I may have been very drunk. But they said the marking would offer protection from death in battle.” The humor left his expression. He looked at the white bandage across his chest, then met her gaze. “Seems to still be working.”
She ran her fingertips over the black vine. “You were traveling the world, alone, fighting as a mercenary… at sixteen?” she whispered. “What about your family?”
“I became Sir Malcolm’s squire at twelve.” His eyes began to drift closed. “At sixteen, I…” It took him a moment to finish. “Had a disagreement with my older brother, Eamon. I left.”
She lifted her hand to the scar on his left cheek, her touch and her voice gentle. “And this?”
He looked away, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “The disagreement with my older brother.”
Closing his eyes, he said no more.
“Are you in very much pain?” she asked softly. “Do you need anything?”
“Nay…” His voice was a weary murmur. “I do not… need anyone.”
That was not what she had asked. But Laurien knew that he needed more sleep, not more questions from her. No matter how curious she might be to know the rest.
What sort of terrible disagreement could have driven him to leave his home, his family, the country he loved when he was so young?
Glancing at the table beside the bed, she realized she had also neglected to ask where he had gotten the little knight talisman.
~ ~ ~
An hour later, she stood at the open window, warming her face in the sun, when the sound of the door swinging open made her jump.
Sir Gaston, his helm and gloves tucked under one arm, strode in. His gaze swept over their patient before locking on her. “I am told he will recover?”
“He will.” She nodded. “He had a fever, a bad one, and I feared…” She glanced at Darach. “But he fought his way through it.”
“You have done well.”
Laurien felt more than a little relief at his words. “You did not expect such skill from a mere woman?”
“It comes as a pleasant surprise.” His mood obviously lightened, Gaston smiled as he slipped the coif from his head, running a hand through his matted black hair. “Glenshiel has cheated death more than his share of times, and someday, I am afraid, it will catch up to him. But not this time, thanks to you.”
Laurien crossed to the foot of the bed. “He should rest, for several more days.”
“Aye, but knowing him, he will not wait that long.” Gaston went to a large che
st that sat against one wall. Lifting the lid, he tossed in the helm and gloves and began rummaging through it. “I bring other good tidings, milady. The battle is ended. Beauvais has yielded.”
“So soon?” Laurien’s heart thumped strangely at the news. From what little she understood, warfare was normally a slow business. Even small battles often lasted a se’nnight or more. But with the siege over and Darach on the mend, they would be leaving soon.
He intended to take her out of France, across the sea to Scotland—and she had no idea what dangers awaited, or how the Scots might treat her.
She must find some way to escape before they reached the coast.
“Beauvais has lost too many men,” Gaston explained as he took a few garments from the chest and closed the lid. “The captain of his guard, Sir Anton de Moulin, was killed today—and Beauvais sent word that he is finally prepared to end to our troubles peacefully. After two years…” He glanced around at the stone walls and ceiling, looking enormously pleased. “This chateau is mine.”
“My congratulations, milord.” Laurien sat on the bed.
“We are to meet at his chateau in Arras to discuss the details.” Gaston sat on the trunk to pull off his boots. “And I am taking the mercenaries along, in case it turns out to be any sort of trap.” He leaned toward her, his elbows on his knees. “I will, of course, leave your guard here.” He nodded toward the door.
“How could I possibly escape?” Laurien gazed down at the Scotsman, her voice softening. “He thwarts me at every turn.”
Gaston did not say anything for a moment.
“Lady Laurien… you should take care…”
When he did not finish, Laurien glanced at him. “Milord?”
The dark-haired knight looked from her to his friend and back again. “I have a story that you should hear, milady. About the day Darach and I first met.” He settled back against the stone wall behind him. “We were both fighting for a lord of Aquitaine, and helped liberate the man’s castle from his enemies. During the battle, Darach and I rescued a pretty serving maid. Blue eyes, she had, and a body like—”
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 12