Edgar was a rare surgeon in England. He accepted that the use of leeches and God weren't the only way to cure an ailment or heal a wound. He trusted in Mercy's herbal medicines and Elena's knowledge of healing.
"For the people of Kent, I would do anything. There are many men here, let us get to work," she answered.
In total, seventeen knights were in need of stitching, bandaging and bone setting. None of the injuries were overly bad, but only time would heal, and hopefully without any outbreaks of fever.
Elena worked tirelessly into the night, until the last dose of herbs had been given, and each knight lay resting with a blanket to keep him warm. Father Patrick had been by to say a prayer for each of the men.
Her ladies had long since retired. Edgar slept in a chair, his head on the trestle table. Only Mercy remained awake. Elena wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.
"Thank you, Mercy, for your help here this eve. Why don't you go and rest? There will be a lot more work tomorrow—several of these men will surely succumb to fever." She made a sign of the cross and whispered a prayer.
"Aye, my lady. Yer very welcome. 'Tis only my duty." The woman curtsied and left the hall.
Elena slumped into a chair by the fire, too exhausted to go upstairs to her chamber.
"You kept secrets from me, my lady."
She jolted forward. When had she fallen asleep?
Michael stood beside her—her arrow in his hand. He was clean; his clothes neat, and face freshly shaven. His male, earthy scent surrounded him, causing her senses to tingle with delight. His face was blank. She cringed inwardly at what a mess she must look, then thought better of it. Michael never cared about such things.
"Secrets?" Discreetly she wiped at her mouth, smoothed her hair and skirts, and sat forward. She would deny it was her arrow, as she was sure to only receive a lecture about leaving the defense of Kent to men.
"Aye. I almost died of apoplexy when I found our people outside the gates had disappeared without a trace."
She wasn't following. Elena raised a brow in question. "What are you talking about, Michael?"
He took a seat on the chair beside her. Lord Kent's chair. His long legs spread out before him, and he leaned back—strong shoulders taking up the expanse of wood. He owned the chair, filled it perfectly. He was suited for power. He raised a brow at her. "Does the word tunnel, strike any significance with you?"
She dragged her eyes from his body and stared into the fire.
"I hadn't thought to tell you, only because I assumed Lord Kent or one of the other knight's would have."
Michael slammed his hand on the arm of the chair and she jerked back, unexpectedly frightened by his show of temper.
"Not a damn one of them told me. We could have been ambushed from within our own walls!" He sighed. "I'm sorry, Elena, please don't be alarmed."
She nodded. "I'm not, you only—startled me."
"How am I supposed to protect this castle, the people, you, when I don't know all the secrets?" His brows drew together in deep consternation, and he turned to contemplate the blaze in the hearth.
She frowned. "I must say, I am surprised that no one told you."
"I'm not."
"What do you mean?"
"Kent kept it from me for a sennight that the attack was expected. He wants me to fail." Anger laced his words. His scowl was enough to send the hairs on the back of her neck to rising.
"I had no idea." But she should have. Kent couldn't stand it when he wasn't the most powerful person, or the center of attention.
"I know. Is there anything else I should know about? Any other secret entrances?"
"There is only the one tunnel that leads from the cellar to the chapel and then out to the caves."
Michael sat forward, his eyes connecting with hers. He held up the arrow. "And what of this?"
"'Tis an arrow." She bit the inside of her cheek.
"I bloody well know it's an arrow. 'Tis yours." His gaze bore into hers, willing her to admit she was the owner.
"How can you be sure?" Her voice was hushed as she tried to hide her surprise at him having realized.
"The owner of this arrow took out nearly a third of the enemy—saved my back a few times…" His words trailed off as he challenged her to deny him.
"A good shot, I suppose."
He grunted and twirled the arrow between his fingers. "Good would be an understatement. I pulled this arrow from the very center of a man's heart."
She turned from him so he couldn't see the proud glint that came for only a moment into her eye. Aye, it was vain to gloat, and she prayed for God to forgive her for taking lives, but all the same, she'd succeeded in protecting the keep just as she'd promised. It felt good to be in control of something. There were so many aspects of her life that she floundered for a grasp on. She'd learned the skill of archery in Ireland, and those mornings she was able to sneak away from Kent for a ride with her ladies, she practiced in the woods. If Kent ever found out, he would have beaten her. Instead, those occasions where he insisted she join him for a hunt, she pretended to miss every target.
"Look at me, Elena."
She turned her gaze back on him, startled by how close he was now. He leaned all the way forward, his knees touched hers, his face was only inches away, and he held the arrow up to her nose.
"Admit it was you who shot this arrow."
Her mouth went dry, stomach fluttered. How could she possibly answer him when all she could think about was kissing him?
She licked her lips. "I cannot."
He grunted and sat back, his eyes still fixed on hers. "Elena, do you not remember?" With brows raised, he looked like he was teasing her.
"Remember what?"
"I am the one who taught you to paint a golden ring on your arrows."
Now she frowned in earnest. She did not recall this piece of information. She'd been doing it so long, she didn't recal why. Her stomach turned to ice as she racked her brain for some memory. No wonder he'd known it was her. Michael had always been proud of her skill, but she'd become so used to fading into the background. Kent would never stand for her having participated in the battle, even if she did fell many an enemy.
"I can see from the way you are frowning you don't remember. Well, princess, the ring represents your royal crown."
With his mention of her childhood name, visions bombarded her mind. Visions of a young Michael helping her notch her arrows. Michael running and pointing toward her arrow in a target. Michael painting a ring on her arrow and saying, "a crown for a princess."
"What did you think you were doing?" he asked, incredulity coming out in his tone.
"Well, obviously saving your hide." She let her annoyance at him show. How dare he insinuate she had done anything other than save his sorry arse!
"My hide did not need saving," he growled. "Leave men's work to men, just as we leave your work to you."
Anger rose from deep inside her and gnashed its teeth. She stood, and poked him in the chest. "You are only here because of me."
Michael rose from his seat, his face flushed with temper. He stepped closer to her, the tips of his boots touching the silk of her slippers. A tremor of fear passed through her. She had crossed the line and she well knew it. Too late to take anything back.
"Do not forget the reason you summoned me. If you wish me to keep you safe, best heed my rules."
Fears subsided and anger reared its head again. She wasn't afraid of Michael. "You are not my husband!"
She regretted the words as soon as she said them. But what could she do? There was no magic to pull the words from the air and make them disappear. Michael's face was stricken. Pain, anger, disappointment all painted on his chiseled features. What deluded impulse had made her shout such a contemptuous thing at her beloved? The man she wished was her husband. The man she'd intended to be her husband…
Elena did the only thing she knew how to do well. The only thing that kept her alive these past several years.
She ran.
She ran from her words. Ran from the chaos that was her life. Ran from the pain she caused—the ruin. Never again would Michael look at her with fondness. This was the thanks she'd given the man who'd traveled from another country to protect her. What madness addled her brain?
Not enough sleep. Too much stress. Years of abuse. This is what her mind screamed. She'd lashed out at the only man she trusted. In the safety and darkness of the stairwell she leaned back against the wall, one hand covering her heart and the other pressed against her hip. She breathed deeply and evenly, trying to calm herself. She was on the verge of hysterics.
And then, anger boiled anew. Lifting the hem of her dress, she charged up the stairs toward her solar. The man she'd bet her life on had just tried to rule over her. The lout! How dare he?
A strong hand wrapped around her arm and urged her to turn around.
"My lady..." Michael whispered.
Her mouth fell open, and she shut it again, feeling like a fish out of water. Why was he being so gentle with her? After all she'd said? She knew then exactly what type of husband Michael would have been: the perfect one. She wrenched her arm from his light grasp and turned to continue up the stairs. She couldn't face him. Mortification, anger, hurt, all warred within her.
Elena almost tripped on the next stair as Michael tunneled past her, blocking her way.
He gazed at her in question, beseeching her. "Elena, please."
Their eyes locked and for a brief moment all time stopped. Her troubles melted away as she gazed into his bluish-green eyes. Her chest pounded with un-expelled breath. She let it out, only to suck it back in again. Her heart beat erratically, and her feet, disobeying her pleas, moved one step closer to him.
Again her lips parted, but no words came out. They reached for each other, and for a breath of time she almost let him kiss her. Almost let the desire that had been building in them both break free. But she couldn't. Not on the stairs, not when they were so exposed. If someone were to see...it would be the death of them both.
Elena turned her head, resting it on the cool stone wall. "I can't..." She couldn't finish the words that needed to be spoken.
"Oh, my love." Michael's voice sounded choked, as if he held back a great force of emotion. He grasped her arm to him, laying his head upon her shoulder and kissed the tender spot in the crook of her elbow. Elena stifled the moan threatening to escape from such a simple yet sensual gesture.
"I'm sorry for what I said. I know how much you must have lost coming here for me, and for me to act like such a wretched woman toward you—" Tears streamed down her face as the words came out in torrents. "Please, forgive me. I didn't mean it. You know more than anyone in this world that I would give anything to be with you."
"Shh…" He pulled her into his warm embrace.
Suddenly she didn't care who saw them, she wrapped her arms around his waist.
"Michael—"
"Hush, love, I know," he murmured into her hair. "I'm so sorry for letting my anger at this whole situation out on you. I was but afraid you could have been hurt."
If only fate had not wronged them from the beginning. If only she were stronger. If only...
"Come with me," Michael whispered. His lips pressed against Elena's ear as he spoke. Shivers danced their way deliciously across her limbs. Her face filled with heat.
Sadness gave way to a sense of excitement rippling through her veins. She hadn't felt this adventurous since she was a child—and even then it had been with Michael.
Elena found herself being pulled up the spiral stairs. The corridor was dimly lit by a wall sconce and shadows lurked everywhere. At any moment she expected one of Kent's spies to jump from a dark corner and declare them adulterers. But no one did.
"Where are we going? We can't, you can't," she started when saw they headed toward her bedchamber.
"Shh…" He held his finger to her lips to silence her protests.
When they came to her solar door, she placed a wavering hand on his forearm.
"My lady's maids sleep in the adjoining chamber."
"We shan't wake them," he murmured.
Her heart hammered in her chest, half from excitement, half from disbelief. He wouldn't dare!
Michael opened the door quietly and they slipped inside. She paused for a moment, her breath held, chest burning. Her eyes nearly popped from their sockets, and her ears felt like they would drown in the silence it was so deafening. Michael gripped her hand in his, so warm, so large. They hurried through the door of her solar, past the room which held her ladies and then into her adjoining bedchamber. He closed the door, barring it.
One hand gripping her on the waist, Michael pulled her taut against him. They stood together like that for a moment, just enjoying the heat of each other, the feel of a body pressed against one's own. Lord, she had never experienced anything quite so exquisite.
Elena knew what was going to happen, if she let it. She craved it, but abhorred it at the same time. The way he made her feel when he touched her was unreal. He filled her with desire and pleasure, something she'd never experienced before. For her, intimacy had only ever yielded pain. From start to finish. Kent was cruel with her body.
She shivered.
"Are you cold? I will build up the fire." Michael walked to her hearth, took a poker, and stoked the embers. He added on a few more logs until it blazed high.
She should let him know the cause for her shivers were not from lack of warmth but from fear.
As if sensing she needed to be coddled and wooed, he took a fur blanket from her bed and placed it in front of the fire. He sat down, and patted the spot beside him. Elena smiled wanly and joined him, leaning against his broad frame. Michael scooted to sit behind her, tucking her neatly between his sinewy thighs, and pulling her back against his firmly muscled chest.
She tried to relax, to lean into him like she wanted to, but fear of discovery made it impossible.
"Let go of your troubles," he crooned into her ear. The bristles from his day's growth of beard tickled her sensitive flesh. His hands rubbed gently up and down her arms. "I was careful. No one saw us. Not even the shadows."
Part of her tension floated away. "What if Kent decides he wants to visit me?" she whispered, hating the fact that she reminded not only herself, but Michael that she was a woman already married.
He continued to stroke her arms, rubbing away her fears. "He won't come to you tonight." His words were strong, not a single strain of doubt laced within them.
All traces of fear subsided, and she truly relaxed, a sigh escaping her. Michael's arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close. She rested her arms over his, their fingers entwined. Her head fell back against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head. Even though the kiss was fleeting, it sent a tremor coursing through her. She wanted Michael to make love to her. Show her what it was like to be in such an intimate embrace, his flesh inside her. No anger, just love pulsing through her.
"Michael?" she asked, suddenly shy, her gaze fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth.
"Aye?" His voice was low, his fingers danced within hers.
Suddenly Elena pulled away, turning to face him. She knelt between his thighs, her hands braced against each of his cheeks. She brought her lips to his, placing a delicate kiss upon them.
"Make love to me," she breathed against his mouth. "I want to know what it's like to have a man, a real man, love my body."
Michael moaned deep in his throat, his hands coming up to thread through her hair. "As you wish, princess."
His mouth pressed more firmly to hers, his tongue sweeping out to tease the crease of her lips. Elena opened for him, wanting him all the more. Their tongues tangled, rubbed, danced back and forth, igniting a fire inside her she'd never known. He gently pushed her back onto the fur rug, his mouth never parting from hers, and he trailed his fingers over shoulders, her chest, and down the center of her breasts. The gentle flutter of his fingers was akin to a hundred butter
flies dancing over her. Her stays were an unwanted restriction against the sensation. She wanted to feel his fingers against her bare flesh. But she needn't have said a word. Michael trailed a path over her hip and untied the belt loosely knotted there. A distant plop told her he'd tossed the belt aside.
Her stomach leaped into her throat. This was truly happening. At long last. In the woods when they'd handfasted, she'd dreamed of it and not a day had passed when she hadn't longed to be in his presence. If it weren't for Kent, she'd be Michael's wife in truth. Tonight she would pretend.
'Twas a sin to desire him. 'Twas a sin to let him touch her. Well then, she was a sinner. And Elena wasn't going to stop him.
His lips burned a path from her mouth to her neck, where he nuzzled her, sending ripples to rise on her flesh from head to toe. She moaned softly at his touch. Michael lifted her gown until it was mid-thigh, and he traced circles from her ankle to her knee, and then stopped, hovering over the bare flesh of her thigh. She opened her eyes to find him gazing deeply into her own.
"Elena, you have no idea how long I've been dreaming of this moment."
She smiled. "From the moment I met you, I wanted you to be mine."
"The dreams and fantasies of a little girl are hardly what I had in mind." He winked, his lips quirking into a teasing smile.
Elena laughed softly. "No, they melded into the desires of a woman—a wife, your wife."
Michael growled low in his throat and pushed himself to kneeling. He lifted her right leg and kissed her ankle before removing her slipper. The touch of his lips on a spot so sensitive sent a roll of delicious desire coursing through her belly. With nimble hands he peeled her hose down and off her foot, where he again kissed her ankle, only this time it was bare flesh to his lips. Elena gasped, her hands clutching the fur rug beneath her. Michael placed her naked limb, knee bent up, on the side of his hip. Her gown and chemise fell between her thighs, hiding her most sacred spot, but a feral gleam in his eyes showed her he had caught sight of the dewy curls nestled at her center. Her womb contracted, fluttered, a sensation she'd never experienced before. She sucked in her breath, and bit her lip. Michael was bringing out a side of her she'd never known. A side she wished to have only ever known—not the fear making love had wrought in this castle. This feeling should have been hers years ago. He showed her what it was like to be made love to, slowly, sensually, lovingly. He continued the ritual with her left leg, kissing her ankle, removing her slipper and hose, and kissing her flesh again. He placed her leg on the outside of his opposite hip, and knelt between her parted legs.
Knights of Valor Page 13