Slane reached them, pressing his own body against them to protect Taylor from the pushes and jabs of the mad crowd. With the child squirming between them, Slane dipped his head to meet Taylor's eyes, a swelling of pride in his chest. But when she lifted her exquisite eyes to his, Slane saw the brightness of pain reflected in them. She began to slide down the wall, but Slane caught her around the shoulders with one hand and removed the child from her arms with the other. In the next moment a woman appeared at his side and took the boy from him. Slane barely saw her embrace the child and rush him away into the night.
Slane scooped Taylor up in his arms, refusing to acknowledge the dread racing up his spine, encircling his stomach, and squeezing until he could hardly breathe. He gently moved her to a nearby table and eased her onto the bench.
"That was downright deceitful, Slane Donovan," Taylor muttered, but stopped as she closed her eyes, swaying. When she steadied herself, she lifted her left arm and glanced down at her tunic.
Slane followed her gaze. Her tunic was soaked with fresh blood. Worry sliced through him like a blade.
"Get away from her, Donovan."
Slane whirled to see Magnus Gale, a trencher of food in one hand, the hilt of his sword in the other. He was a muscular man, encased by a protective shell of chain mail armor.
"She's mine," Magnus added, his teeth clenched. "And so is the reward that goes with her."
"There will be no reward, Magnus," Slane corrected him, rising to face the man. "I am bringing her to my brother's castle." Slane turned back to Taylor. "We need to get you to a physician," he said. He searched the room with his eyes, finally lifting his own tunic over his head and pressing it tightly to her wound. He took her hand and noticed how cold it was. Outrage engulfed him. He placed a kiss to her knuckles before pressing her hand firmly against the wound. "Keep pressure on it or you'll bleed to death."
Magnus slapped his hand against Slane's bare shoulder. "She's not going anywhere with you. I'm taking her to Castle Donovan."
Slane whirled and struck with the speed of a cobra, wrapping his hand around Magnus's throat. The trencher fell to the ground, spilling the food across the floor.
Slane drove his body forward, forcing Magnus to stumble backward, picking up speed as he pushed the other man along, finally slamming him hard into the wall with such force that the entire building seemed to shake. Slane ripped the sword from Magnus's sheath and tossed it across the room. Then he tightened his hold on Magnus's throat.
"Maybe you didn't hear me the first time, you filthy scum," Slane said through gritted teeth. "The lady travels with me."
Magnus struggled for a moment. Then he went absolutely still.
"My lord," the barkeep called. "I want no trouble here. Please. Take your argument outside."
"That's a fine idea," Slane called out to the barkeep. He held Magnus still and turned to glance at Taylor over his shoulder. "Can you make it outside?" he asked.
"I—I don't know," she answered quietly.
Suddenly, Magnus lashed out his foot, swiping Slane's feet from beneath him. Slane landed hard on his back. Immediately, the mercenary retrieved a dagger from his belt.
"Now you die, Donovan," Magnus sneered, bringing his blade crashing down.
Slane grabbed Magnus's wrist, stopping the strike, the deadly tip of the blade hovering only inches from his chest. Slane jerked his feet up, flipping Magnus over his head.
Both men quickly shot to their feet, eyeing the other warily. "What is she to you, Donovan, that you risk your life for her?" Magnus snarled, backing toward Taylor.
"If she dies because of your foolishness, then you will die."
Magnus chuckled, still inching back. Slane jerked forward, but Magnus slashed the blade at him, halting his movement. Then Magnus moved suddenly, racing toward Taylor.
A small scream escaped her throat as she instinctively swung her hands at him. But her reflexes were slow and Magnus easily ducked her arms, encircling her waist with his large hands. His brutal touch, so close to her wound, made her cry out as he lifted her off her feet.
Slane dove to his left, twisting his body in midair, rolling off the nearby table top to come to his feet right in front of Magnus. His fist wasted no time in connecting with Magnus's nose. He smiled with grim satisfaction as he heard bone crunch with the blow.
Magnus took the punch, his head rocking back, his hold on Taylor tightening. When the blood started to flow from his shattered appendage, he smiled. Then his booted foot lashed out, hitting Slane in the stomach. "She's mine," Magnus shouted. "You can have her after I get the reward."
"She's worth nothing dead, you fool," Slane snarled, fighting back the pain in his stomach. Slane reached for the hilt of his sword, and when he saw Magnus's eyes shift to follow the movement, he grabbed a nearby mug of ale with his other hand and hurled the liquid at Magnus's face. The ale splashed into his eyes, and Magnus blinked rapidly, desperately trying to clear his vision.
Slane seized Magnus's wrist, then grabbed Taylor's arm, yanking her from the other man's hold. Slane pulled back and delivered a stunning blow to Magnus's already bleeding nose, then followed with another lightning-fast strike to his chin.
Magnus fell heavily to the ground, his dagger clattering across the floor.
Rage burned through Slane's body and he charged forward.
Magnus kicked Slane back and rose, speeding toward him, catching him around the midsection and falling on top of him.
Slane lashed out, landing a heavy blow to Magnus's throat. He heard a sickening crunch. Then, suddenly, Magnus fell heavily on top of him, his full weight crushing down on Slane mercilessly. Slane struggled to get free, finally managing to wedge a knee between himself and Magnus. He pushed with his leg, moving Magnus enough to be able to slide out from under him. He quickly moved to his feet and towered over the prone mercenary, waiting for him to rise.
But he never did.
Slane waited a long moment before finally bending down to grab Magnus's shoulder and turn him over. The mercenary's eyes were wide and glassy. Lifeless.
"My bar," the barkeep groaned, appearing from behind an overturned table. "Who's going to pay for all the damages? And the loss of my revenue?"
Slane's gaze slid to Taylor. She hadn't moved from the spot where she had fallen. She was face down, her hair fanned out over her face, drops of blood beginning to drip from her side through her tunic.
"Fetch me a physician," Slane said heatedly, "before I destroy the rest of your inn."
Slane moved to Taylor, kneeling at her side. His own thoughts mocked him. She's so strong, so brave. She'll be all right. His throat closed. She wasn't moving. He was afraid to touch her, afraid that he would never see her eyes open again. "Taylor?" he whispered in a husky voice. He reached out a hand, only to discover it was trembling. He gently touched her neck and prayed, holding his breath. With a relief so intense it drained him, he felt her blood pulsating beneath her hot skin. "Oh, God," he whispered in gratitude. He quickly grabbed his fallen tunic and pressed it tightly to her wound. He smoothed her hair from her brow and leaned over to see her face. "Taylor? Taylor, can you hear me?"
Her eyes opened halfway, as if she would fall asleep at any moment. "Oh," she groaned, and tried to push herself over. Pain stiffened every joint as it coursed through her veins. She curled her knees to her stomach and lifted her hand to grab her wound. Her hand brushed Slane's and her eyes opened to meet his stare.
The agony in her gaze tore at his soul.
"It hurts so bad, Slane."
He brushed the loose hair from her eyes, cursing himself for being too slow. "The innkeeper went to fetch a physician. You'll be fine," he tried to assure her, attempting to hide the doubt in his voice.
"I could really use..." She stared up into his eyes for a long moment before agony tore across her face. "Slane," she gasped, tears coming to her eyes.
He pulled her body closer to his, pressing his face into her hair, kissing her temple. "I'm here, Taylor,"
he whispered. "I won't leave you."
"Slane?" A man's voice called from the doorway. "What's going on?"
Slane glanced up to see Elizabeth and John standing just inside the inn.
Slane's first impulse was to let go of Taylor and ease her back down to the floor. But his body refused to obey. His second impulse was to explain everything all at once in a torrent of words. But his lips refused to obey. His third impulse was to pull Taylor even tighter to his body as if she needed protection from the slender woman standing in the doorway with sharp, questioning eyes. His arms obeyed that one.
Elizabeth's brow furrowed; then her gaze swept the room, taking in the broken tables, the dead man on the floor. When her eyes returned to Slane, they were scowling in confusion. "Darling, what happened? Are you all right?"
As she approached, Slane noticed the haughtiness and the slight tilting of her chin as she gazed at Taylor. He felt the stirrings of resentfulness somewhere deep inside him. But hadn't he been the same way when he had first met Taylor? "Yes, I'm all right," Slane answered. "But she's not. She has a bad cut on her left side that needs to be sewn shut. I sent the barkeep to fetch a physician, but I don't know if he's going to find one in time to help her."
"Let me do it," Elizabeth said, kneeling beside him. "I'm quite capable. You know I am." She tried to nudge him aside, but Slane refused to release Taylor. "Darling, fetch me some clean towels and warm water. I have a bag on your saddle. Bring it to me."
Slane glanced down at Taylor. Trepidation made him tighten his grip. If he left, if he released her, she might just slip away. She might close her eyes and never open them. Something akin to panic flared to life in him. He noticed the blood on his fingers. Taylor's blood. But if he didn't release her and let Elizabeth tend her wounds, she would bleed to death.
He eased her to the floor and watched Elizabeth lift Taylor's tunic. Her wound was worse than he thought. Blood oozed out of her body. Spilling over her creamy flesh, the dark liquid looked like an ugly stain moving across her skin.
Worry ate at the borders of Slane's soul. He turned his head to find Taylor staring at him. In her eyes, he saw such panic that he impulsively picked up her hand. "It's okay," Slane assured her. "Elizabeth has sewn me up more than once."
"Darling," Elizabeth reminded him. "My bag."
Slane nodded and rushed to the door, passing the order along to John. He spoke briefly with a barmaid, giving her instructions for clean towels and warm water. Even as he spoke, his eyes remained on Taylor. He watched her every intake of breath, her every grimace of pain. And he knew the second she closed her eyes. He waited for her to open them again. But her lids remained down. Open your eyes, Taylor, he willed. Her eyes stayed closed. She looked so peaceful now, as though she were sleeping or...
Unable to bear his gnawing dread any longer, Slane raced to Taylor's side. "Elizabeth?"
"We need to move her to a room. I can't do it here. She's going to have to rest for a while. You know how easily these stitches come undone."
Slane nodded in agreement. "I'm sure there are plenty of rooms available here now." Slane glanced down at Taylor, at her once again bruised and battered face, but this time he knew of the beauty that lay beneath the awful travesties marring her features. And it was a beauty that still shone through the bruises and the dried mud. A lock of hair had again fallen over her eyes, and he desperately wanted to brush it aside. Instead, he bent and picked her up in his arms, trying to ignore the limpness of her body, the way her head lolled backward. He tried to ignore the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Elizabeth followed him to the stairs. She shook her head, dusting off her dress. "I can't imagine where a woman received a sword wound. She must be very ill bred. Who is she, Slane?"
Slane's teeth clenched. "She's my brother's future wife," he replied.
"Poor Richard! I fear he will be gravely disappointed."
"Slane?"
Slane started awake. It took a moment to remember he had seen Elizabeth to a room and then had left her to come and sit by Taylor. He had been so angry, so furious, with Taylor when she had left. But now, faced with the thought she might very well die, he found his anger gone and something else—something he had not known before—surging in his chest.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by the candle. Taylor's beautiful green eyes were open and looking at him. He surged to his knees before the bed and captured her hand in his. His body shook with relief. He leaned forward, brushing his knuckles over her cheek; he was not surprised her skin felt feverish to the touch. Hurriedly, he dipped a rag into the bowl of water positioned on the floor next to the bed and ran the cool cloth across her forehead.
"Taylor, Taylor," he whispered to himself, "what am I going to do with you?"
"You could get me an ale," she whispered.
Slane grinned as he continued to rub the cloth across her forehead, but his gaze shifted to her eyes. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
She groaned. "I feel like a horse trampled me," she finally answered. She lifted her hand to her side, gently touching her wound. A slight scowl darkened her features. When she again turned her gaze to Slane, her eyes were resolute. "Why didn't you tell me?" she wondered.
Slane looked away, returning the rag to the bowl by the bed. Why did he feel guilty? As if he had betrayed her somehow? The thought was ridiculous. He had no allegiance to this woman, only to his brother. "It wasn't important," he said defensively. "Our relationship—yours and mine—is nothing more than it seems."
He still couldn't lift his eyes to meet hers. He heard a sound and turned his head to see that cynical twist to Taylor's shapely lips.
"I guess I was mistaken," she whispered.
Slane saw the way her lips trembled, the way her throat worked. "I never intended to hurt you, Taylor," he said quietly.
"No, it just seems to work out like that."
Determinedly, he pushed the guilt away. "Tell me. What were you going to do? Where were you planning to go after you ran out on me?"
"It didn't really matter where," she answered. "Just as long as it was away from you."
This time he managed to hold his gaze steady. Her eyes were large and the deepest green he had ever seen. They made him think of a lush green forest. The candlelight shimmering around her head made her almost angelic.
Unbidden, his fingers picked up a lock of her hair, and it curled around his knuckles. "My God, you are beautiful."
"You'd better get away from me. Very far away from me," she advised. "I'll bring you nothing but trouble."
Slane nodded. He knew she was right, knew he should get as far away from her as he could. But she needed him. "Very far away," he echoed. But he lifted his hand to rub it along her jaw, over her bruised cheek. He ran his finger across her hairline, whispering, "I thought I had lost you." Then he found himself leaning his arm next to her head, his lips mere inches from hers. Her sweet breath fanned his face.
She looked up at him.
"So beautiful," he whispered as he lowered his lips towards hers…
A pounding at the door caused him to bolt upright. "Sir!" a voice called from behind the closed door.
Slane stared at the door, practically frozen in place.
"Slane?" the voice called and Slane recognized it as John's. "I've seen several strange-looking men walking the streets nearby. Clad in black. They haven't come into the inn yet, but I think they might soon."
Slane shot a knowing glance at Taylor. Corydon's men. He rose and took a step toward the door, but then faltered. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in her room. He turned his gaze helplessly to Taylor. For a long moment, their gazes locked and held. There was sympathy in her gaze, yet he saw humiliation in the grim set of her lips.
"He's not in here," she called to John.
"Sorry to disturb you, lady Taylor," John answered after a moment. "But if you see him, please tell him he's needed downstairs."
For what seemed like an eternity, they stayed motionl
ess, their gazes lingering. Finally, the footsteps receded and the spell was broken. Taylor turned her face away, and Slane felt her agony, her shame. What in heaven's name am I doing? he silently demanded. I shouldn't be here in the middle of the night feeling like a criminal. I only came because she is wounded. But deep down, he knew that was not the reason he had come. He had feelings for her, strong feelings. And they compromised everything he stood for. He was honor bound to Elizabeth, to his brother. But in the face of all that, there was something inside of him that just didn't give a damn. He wanted Taylor. He wanted her with every muscle in his body.
Slane stood stiffly. "Are you going to try to run away again?"
"Not in this condition," she answered just as formally.
At least there was no sarcasm in her voice. "Please stay and let me see to it that your wounds heal properly."
She nodded her head. Slane moved to the door and paused. How could he stay away from her? How could he keep his vow to Elizabeth and honor his brother when Taylor was so near?
Slane opened the door and left the room. How could he not?
"We can't move her," Slane told John. He faced his friend in the common room, the fire from the hearth crackling behind him. "Not until her stitches heal."
"It's not safe here," John murmured, leaning close to him. "Think of how dangerous it is for Elizabeth."
"What would you have me do?" Slane demanded, his angry gaze burning into John.
John straightened under his harsh demeanor, but said nothing.
"I can't move Taylor," Slane repeated. He crossed his arms, scowling at his friend. "I was hoping the plague would scare Corydon away."
"I can take Elizabeth," John offered. "I can escort her to Castle Donovan and you can meet us there when Taylor is ready to be moved."
Slane shook his head. "By yourself, you are no match for Corydon. And I can't leave Taylor alone. If only there was someone else I could trust with Elizabeth's safety."
Knights of Valor Page 69