by Lynn Kurland
“Are you going to take a nap with me?” she asked, trying to smile.
He tucked the covers around her and shook his head. “I am not.”
Jessica stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could pull away. “Richard, I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m just worried about you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself. If you want to blame me for what happened to you, you’re well within your rights—”
“I’ve never thought that and don’t intend to start now,” she retorted. “Can’t I be concerned about your welfare?”
He looked nonplussed, as if she’d said something he just couldn’t comprehend. Jessica gave up and reached for his hand.
“Come here, please.”
His expression turned wary. “Why?”
“Because I want you to come down here and put your face close to mine.”
“Why?”
“So I can apologize without shouting, you jerk!”
He bent over obligingly. Jessica put her hand around his neck, then pressed her cheek against his.
“I should have used the chamber pot. I’m sorry. I’ll listen to you from now on.”
Richard snorted but remained silent.
She brushed her lips across his thin scar once more, then pushed him away. “I’d like you to stay and nap with me, but if you’re going to go, then get out of here now. All your frowning is making me tired.”
He straightened and left the room. Jessica rolled over onto her uninjured side and closed her eyes. Her energy had been depleted, most of it spent sparring with Richard. The man was just exhausting.
• • •
It was dark before she heard the sound of someone else in the chamber. Eventually, after listening to a good deal of grumbling and muttering, Jessica felt the bed dip. A calloused hand reached for hers.
“It is late?” she asked.
“Late enough.”
“Hold me?”
How gentle were those powerful arms as they gathered her close. Jessica pressed her face against Richard’s neck and sighed at the pleasure of the warmth. His hint of a beard was rough against her forehead but she didn’t mind that either. She put her hands on the hard wall of his chest and let the heat of his body seep into hers. Richard’s hand trembled as he brushed her hair back from her face and she knew it was because he was trying to be gentle. She snuggled closer to him and felt herself drifting off to sleep.
With her last bit of energy, she wondered about the words she’d spoken between screams while Richard was cauterizing the wound. I, Jessica of Edmonds, plight my troth with thee, Richard of Burwyck-on-the-Sea . . .
Was a betrothal agreement as binding as a marriage contract?
And did it count when the groom was just trying to distract the bride? It was something she had to discover but she knew she would have to tread lightly while doing it. Caring about Richard’s reactions had really put a damper on her usual habit of saying whatever came to mind. She didn’t want him stomping off when she couldn’t chase him. And she certainly didn’t want to make a mess of something that could turn out to be the most wonderful thing in her life.
She felt sleep creeping up on her like a relentless tide. She tried to summon up a craving for German chocolates. Or New York traffic. Late-night television.
Nope. What she really needed was currently scratching her back with the most careful of scratches, humming an off-key melody under his breath. Jessica smiled.
As far as trades were concerned, she’d just cleaned up.
Her mother would have agreed.
27
Richard closed the bedchamber door very quietly and propped his sword against the wall. It had been a very unsatisfying morning. John had conducted a thorough search of the surrounding countryside but no one seemed to remember having spoken to Gilbert de Claire—at least no one was willing to admit the like. Gilbert’s descriptions of the man changed on an hourly basis and Richard despaired of ever finding the one who had inspired him to commit such an act.
The thing that troubled him the most was all Gilbert’s talk of faeries and the like. It sounded as mad as something Hugh would have babbled, but perhaps Hugh wasn’t the only daft soul in the north of England. Richard had heard stories that had curled his toes, tales of foul creatures capable of all manner of atrocities. Several of those tales emerged periodically from Blackmour, but that was a keep perpetually shrouded in mystery just the same. Richard wanted to believe he had more control over his imagination than to believe such ramblings.
None of that mattered to him, for it had done nothing to aid him in finding Gilbert’s ally. Over the past week Richard had come to believe that Gilbert wasn’t completely at fault. That didn’t mean that Richard had any more pity for the lad, or that he intended to keep the boy about the castle; it only meant that Richard fully intended to punish Gilbert’s ally just as brutally once he had the ruffian in hand. As far as Gilbert was concerned, he would be deposited into his sire’s keeping within the se’nnight. Richard suspected the lad would be more than grateful for it, no matter what sort of parental irritation he might stand to face.
Richard put all thoughts of his squire behind him and crossed quietly to the bed. Jessica would probably be asleep again and he didn’t want to wake her. The more she rested, the sooner she would heal and the sooner they could talk. For the first time he could remember, he actually wished to have speech with someone else about something other than the destruction, rebuilding, or manning of his keep.
The saints pity him for a lovesick fool.
He took a deep breath. He wanted to ask Jessica if she remembered binding herself to him. Did she want to be wed in France? What color gown would she want? He was prepared to pay for something in scarlet, simply because it was expensive, but she might prefer green. Aye, emerald green with gold threads shot through it, to match her eyes. He would wear silver and blue to match his. When they stood before the priest, they would be just as handsome as his chess queen and king of gold and silver. Perhaps he would gift her the set. It was his most precious possession. It was right she have it.
He walked to his side of the bed and opened the curtains.
The bed was empty.
“I’m over here, Richard.”
He closed the curtains, took another courage-bracing breath, and looked around the end of the bed. Jessica sat on one of the benches in the alcove with a blanket draped about her. Richard scowled. The bloody window was open! He strode across the chamber and shot her a displeased look before he reached for the shutters.
“Please don’t,” she asked quickly. “I was going stir-crazy.”
“What is stir-crazy?”
“Cabin fever. An intense irritation felt after too many days cooped up in the same small place.” She smiled up at him. “I had to look outside.”
“You’ll catch a chill.”
“I’ll be fine.” She reached for his hand and pulled him down next to her. “How was your day?”
“’Tis only half-finished and I’ve had better.”
“Has Gilbert’s father come yet?”
“In a few days. If my messenger can see his way clear to bring the man to the gates.” He pursed his lips. “Gilbert’s sire thinks Gilbert will lose something of himself for each hour he’s late. For all I know, he’ll be told that Godwin will begin at Gilbert’s groin and work his way outward.”
Jessica burst out laughing. Richard was so surprised at her reaction that he could only stare at her.
“Sorry,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I known I shouldn’t laugh, but Godwin really is a terrifying person.”
Richard leaned back against the wall and let his features relax. He even attempted a half smile. Aye, Godwin was ferocious, constantly overstepping the bounds of good humor into humor that was rather dark. Richard had passed years laughing silently at his guardsman’s jests.
Jessica shook her head and Richard immediately sobered.
“What?”
“You’re starting to smile again. You’d better stop before it gets away from you and you start to grin.”
Richard reached for her hand and took it between both his own. “So, you think to tease me as well, do you? I have no qualms about thrashing my guardsmen in the lists for their sport. What recourse have I with you?”
“You could kiss me.”
He hesitated, then caught the look in her eye. “More teasing.”
“I think I’m getting pretty good at it.”
“You certainly seem to be enjoying it,” he agreed.
Jessica leaned her head back against the wall and smiled at him. “I feel a lot better today.”
“You look better.” He reached up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “Did you eat what I sent with Warren?”
“Yes. And now I want a bath.”
He shook his head.
“Richard, I’m becoming a little pungent,” she said, starting to frown. “I want a bath in a tub, not one by hand.”
“The burn isn’t healed sufficiently.”
“Tough.”
He held up his hand with the ring. “See this?”
“I’m ignoring it. Go get me a bath or I’ll get it myself.”
“Didn’t you know that the Church warns against the practice of bathing? I’ve known souls who haven’t touched water since they were christened.”
“You bathe every day.”
“I also spent much time in foreign countries where cleanliness was prized. I found I liked it.”
“Well, so do I,” she said stubbornly. “I want a bath.”
“Only if I’m there to give it to you,” he said, then heard his words and wondered where they’d come from. Oh, aye, he was trying to keep her safe. It would be a poor thing indeed if all his fine tending was ruined by a foolish bath.
“Richard!”
Her face was scarlet. Richard suppressed the urge to pull his suddenly stifling tunic away from his neck.
“You’ll require aid,” he said defensively. “Would you rather have Warren help you?”
“I’d rather have that little girl that helps Cook.”
“She’s a child. She isn’t strong enough to hold you up should you faint.”
“I don’t want you to do it,” Jessica insisted.
Richard set his jaw. This wasn’t the time or the place he’d wanted to discuss their betrothal, but Jessica was being ridiculous and likely only because she didn’t understand their situation.
“I have every right to do it,” he growled.
Her gaze flew to his. She looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Those words we spoke,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the bed. “You remember which ones.”
She ducked her head so quickly he didn’t have a chance to see the effect of his words.
“The betrothal?”
Her voice was barely audible.
He cleared his throat roughly. “Aye,” he answered.
“The betrothal.”
“Then it’s binding?”
Those words were like spiked balls being driven into his chest. She didn’t want it. She wouldn’t look at him because he either terrified her or disgusted her.
Did she know of his childhood shame?
He rose swiftly. “It can be broken,” he said harshly.
Jessica’s head snapped up. “Broken?”
“By the bloody saints, don’t look so relieved!” he thundered.
“I’m not—”
Richard spun on his heel and strode across the room.
“Richard, wait—”
He snatched up his sword and banged from the chamber. He ignored the men who stared at him in amazement, thumped down the stairs, and jogged across the courtyard. He heard Jessica’s voice in the distance calling his name, but he didn’t stop. He saddled the mount he’d been using while Horse recovered and trotted out of the stables.
He saw Jessica limping across the bailey, her dark hair streaming behind her, but he didn’t stop.
He thundered down the road, forcing men to leap aside or be trampled. John stood at the outer gates and simply watched as Richard rode by. Richard ignored his captain. He ignored the fact that he might meet up with Gilbert’s sire’s men and not be protected. At present he just didn’t care.
So the thought of wedding him was distasteful to her. So she’d learned of all he’d endured during his childhood. She likely thought him sullied by it. He’d offered his heart and she’d cast it down like a thing diseased. Maybe she had good reason. There was surely no excess of love in him.
Well, she could bloody well have her freedom. He’d give it to her just as soon as the pain inside him dulled enough to allow him to get the words out.
He rode until the beast beneath him was heaving furiously with the effort of taking in air. Richard dismounted and walked alongside the horse. He saw riders coming toward him and didn’t bother to draw his sword. He did, however, drag his sleeve across his face. Let them think his eyes were watering because of the fierceness of his ride. They would never think those were tears of rage. They certainly weren’t tears of hurt. He was bloody furious with Jessica for her cruelty. Mercy? Nay, the woman hadn’t a smidgen of it in her. Nor compassion, nor love. A bitch, that’s what she was.
He said the words over and over again, trying to make himself believe them.
His own guardsmen pulled to a stop before him. Sir Stephen struggled to control his dancing mount.
“Lady Jessica . . .” he panted. “She fainted. She’s bleeding, milord.”
“Let her bleed,” Richard snarled.
“My lord!” Stephen gasped.
Richard swung up into the saddle and turned the stallion homeward. He’d cure her, then never touch her again. Perhaps he’d personally search out a way to send her back to her time. Matilda might be able to help, as it was likely witchcraft that had brought Jessica to him.
He rode into the inner bailey to see a cluster of his men huddled near the spot of the future great hall. Richard parted them, then caught his breath in spite of himself. Jessica lay there, crumpled like a bit of discarded cloth. He carefully picked her up and strode up the steps to his bedchamber, barking orders over his shoulder.
Within moments he had her stripped and was looking at the damage. She had opened up the wound. He couldn’t bring himself to heat another knife in the fire. He put salve on it and bound it tightly. Once that was seen to, he covered her and patted her face to force her to wake. Her eyelids fluttered. When she saw him, she reached for him.
“Richard, you misunderstood me—”
“I misunderstood nothing,” he said bitterly. He pushed her shoulders down into the pillows when she tried to rise and forced himself to ignore her words. Lies, all of them.
He left her in Warren’s care.
He made it down to the bailey and walked across his great-hall floor. No walls, no roof, merely a floor. He walked to one edge, sat down, and dropped his face into his hands, sighing wearily.
It hurt, far worse than he’d ever imagined. Was this love, unrequited though it was, he felt in his breast? What a terrible emotion. This was far worse than the terror he’d felt when he’d seen her clutching her bloody side, or the apprehension he’d suffered while she’d been feverish. This was a pain that smote him in every part of his being.
He sat there, silently, until the activity in the keep stopped, the sun went down, and the stars came out. Then he rose, walked back to one of the tiny chambers off the kitchen, and rolled himself up in a blanket on the floor.
And knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink.
28
It was two days before Jessica could get back up out of bed. First had been the bleeding that only lying still seemed to control. That had been frightening enough—almost as frightening as what she suspected was going on in Richard’s head.
After she’d healed sufficiently to put an end to the threat of bleeding to death, she’d had another obstacle to deal with: Warren de Galtres and
his determination to do the chivalrous thing and keep her in bed.
“If you don’t let me up right now, I’m going to deck you,” Jessica promised on the third morning after Richard’s abrupt departure.
Warren shook his head. “Richard told me to keep you here.”
“I couldn’t care less what he told you! I’ve been trying to get out of this bed for two days now. I have to talk to your brother.”
Warren shook his head again, more slowly this time. “You do not wish to talk to him in his current mood, my lady. Powerfully foul,” he added. “I’ve never seen him like this.”
She could just imagine. Either Richard thought she didn’t want him, or he didn’t want her. Whichever it was, he had left plenty annoyed. If he hadn’t wanted her, he would have just stood and said as much, then walked away calmly. That led her to believe that he thought she didn’t want him.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Jessica didn’t like resorting to violence, but Warren was really starting to get on her nerves. She gave him one last warning look.
“Let me up, or you’ll regret it.”
Warren obviously came from the Richard de Galtres school of thought because he only smiled indulgently.
“Now, Lady Jessica—”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Jessica said. Without giving him any warning, she planted her foot square in his groin.
Warren doubled over with a gasp. His eyes watered immediately.
“Jessica,” he wailed.
“Just relax, kid. I’ll bring you a bottle of wine to ease the pain.” She managed to get to her feet and drag on a pair of Richard’s hose to go with her tunic before she had to sit down. When Warren resuscitated himself sufficiently to rise, Jessica leaned over and plucked his dagger from his belt. She pushed him aside and helped herself to Richard’s cloak before she left the chamber.
Sir Stephen was standing guard. His eyes widened when he saw her. “Lady Jessica . . .”
“Don’t start,” she said, waving the knife. “I’m armed.”
“You should be abed.”