John grunted and sat heavily on a nearby bench.
"Have you confirmed that it was Corydon?" Slane asked.
"No," John admitted. "But we have to assume it is him. Even if it isn't, it won't be long before he comes."
Slane dropped his chin to his chest. He knew John was right. He knew there was no way for the two of them to protect two helpless women against Corydon's forces. But if they moved, Taylor's stitches might open and the heavy bleeding could start again or the wounds could become infected. He sighed. "We have no choice but to wait until Taylor recovers enough to ride a horse. We'll have to take our chances here."
Corydon's men!
Taylor sat up quickly, her panicked eyes searching the room. A hot flare of pain speared her side. She touched her wound, feeling the soft cloth of the bandage that wound around her torso. She grimaced and sat still for a long moment, waiting for the pain to fade to a dull throbbing. Slowly, the agony eased and she took the moment to scan the dark room. The hints of sunshine inching between the shutters showed her nothing but an empty room. She eased her legs from the bed, favoring her wounded side, and she moved to the window slowly, taking careful, measured steps. With one hand still clamped over her wound, she pulled the shutters open; the strong sunlight that flooded the room blinded her. She covered her eyes and turned her face away from the blazing rays. After a moment, she shaded her eyes with a hand pressed to her forehead and turned her stare to the street below.
It, too, was empty. She didn't see Corydon's men. She didn't see any mercenaries. As a matter of fact, she saw no one at all. Not even Slane.
Suddenly, the door behind her opened. Taylor whirled, her right hand instinctively moving to her waist for her weapon. But it was not there. Another slashing burst of pain bit into her side.
A woman entered the room, a tray of food in her hands.
Taylor grimaced and grabbed her side again, softly cursing. She knew that face.
She hated that face.
The woman paused at seeing Taylor by the window. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Elizabeth was beautiful. Her chestnut-colored hair shimmered in the sunlight; her skin was flawless. Taylor lifted a hand self-consciously to her bruised cheek, trying to hide it from the woman's searching eyes. Something drained from her. How could she have hoped to compete with a woman who was everything a man could want?
Elizabeth set the tray down on the table near the bed and rushed forward. "You shouldn't be out of bed so soon," she said in a soft, sweet voice. "The stitches will break open." She reached for Taylor's arm.
Taylor yanked her arm away so violently she rammed her elbow into the shutters behind her. The pain in her side ignited again and it took all her will not to double over. "I can make it myself," she ground out between clenched teeth. But despite her claim, she stayed by the window, cradling her side.
Elizabeth folded her hands before her. "I brought you some food. The porridge is surprisingly good for that of an inn."
What a wonderful wife she would make. What a wonderful mother. A well of grief opened inside of Taylor, threatening to pull her down into it. She forced the lump in her throat down. Elizabeth was everything Taylor could have been.
Elizabeth moved to the bed and gestured at it. "Please. I'll have a look at the stitches now."
Taylor couldn't take her eyes from Elizabeth's hand. So slim. So soft. Graceful. Uncallused. Capable.
Taylor hated her. Staring Slane's betrothed in the face, she couldn't find one reason, not one, why Slane shouldn't marry her. Even her damned hand was perfect. Taylor set her jaw. "I'm perfectly capable of tending my own wounds."
Elizabeth clasped her perfect little hands before her. "I see," she said simply.
"No," Taylor said with an anger and bitterness she had never felt before. "I don't think you do. I don't think you can."
A frown crossed Elizabeth's unblemished brow. "Slane has asked me to see to your needs. With all your knowledge of wounds, you should know that moving around might cause your stitches to open. And we wouldn't want you to bleed to death, would we?"
Taylor's infamous grin stretched across her lips. "Well, at least one of us wouldn't."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "Since my beloved has asked that I tend you, I'll come to your room twice a day with your meals."
Beloved. Taylor felt her jaw tighten. Afraid of what she might say, she turned her back on Elizabeth to look out the window. The bright sun blinded her. But she stared into the light nonetheless.
It was a long moment before Taylor heard Elizabeth's soft footsteps pad across the floor and the gentle closing of the door.
Taylor slowly returned to the bed and gingerly sat down, holding her left arm tightly against her throbbing side. Anguish filled her, warring with the anger, the confusion, but most of all the sense of defeat.
She lifted her eyes to the tray. There were clean cloths on it as well as bread and a bowl of porridge. She knew her wraps should be changed. She knew it and she didn't care. Anyway, the longer she was hurt, the longer she would have a reason to stay near Slane.
Slane entered the inn quietly and spotted John sitting at one of the tables near the hearth. "Nothing," he announced with relief and stretched out his hands toward the inviting warmth. He had been out most of the afternoon, searching the area for any sign of Corydon or his men. But the only men to be found were either plague- infested shadows pleading for help or decaying corpses lying at the side of the road. There had been no sign of Corydon.
Slane heard soft footsteps and turned to see Elizabeth approaching him with a mug of ale. He smiled his thanks and took the offered mug from her hands. He took a long drink, quenching his parched throat before asking, "All went well today?"
Elizabeth cast a glance at John.
Slane straightened his back in dread. "What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"
Elizabeth returned her eyes to Slane. "I tried my best—truly I did. Please don't be disappointed."
Slane quickly set his mug on a nearby table and grasped Elizabeth's hands. "Is it Taylor?"
"She's such an obstinate girl. She wouldn't accept any of my offers of help, wouldn't allow her wrappings to be changed," Elizabeth said.
Slane lifted his eyes to the ceiling, dropping Elizabeth's hands.
"And she wouldn't eat. Not all day," Elizabeth added. "I thought she was going to hurl the tray of food at me when I was last in her room."
Slane's face was flushed as he headed for the stairs. How did Taylor expect to get her strength back if she didn't eat? And she knew the wrappings needed to be changed! What was she thinking? God's blood! Slane thought. It isn't enough I come back to the inn exhausted from a day of searching, but must I return to this nonsense? By the time he reached the second floor, his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles ached.
He shoved Taylor's door open so hard it smacked against the wall. "You didn't eat..." he proclaimed, but his voice trailed off. Taylor was sitting up in her bed, the glistening candlelight flickering over her wild hair, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek. His anger, as well as his breath, rushed from him at the sight of her.
"I wasn't hungry," she said.
God's blood! he thought. Why does she affect me like this? He crossed the room in two strides. He saw the dark rings beneath her eyes before she turned her head away. "You didn't let Elizabeth change your wrappings."
A scowl crossed her face and she looked toward the window.
The candlelight flickered, brushing her skin in its golden glow like the loving stroke of a painter. Slane had expected an argument, had prepared himself for one. Perhaps she really was as tired as she looked. He sat on the side of the bed. Still, she would not turn her eyes to his.
A grimace flickered over her face for a brief moment and then it was gone.
"It will do you no good to starve yourself," he said more quietly, hoping to draw her into conversation.
It worked. She snapped her eyes to his, and he saw the rage shining almost as bright
as the fire snapping on the wick of the candle. "Then don't send your damned beloved with my food," she retorted hotly. Suddenly, her brows knotted in agony and her eyes swept closed.
Slane felt her body stiffen in the bed beside his. "Taylor," he said in alarm and reached out a hand to her.
"Damn you," she whispered through clenched teeth. She caught his wrist in a tight grip before he could touch her. "Get out of here."
His outstretched fingers curled into a tight ball. Why had he been such a fool? He knew the constant throbbing, the burning, the pain she was feeling. Gently he removed his wrist from her hand.
She opened her eyes in surprise.
Slane leaned forward, smoothing a few strands of hair from her forehead. "You don't have to hide from me, Taylor," he whispered, gazing down into her eyes. "I know how bad it hurts."
A strange look crossed her face. Uncertainty. Acceptance. She seemed to relax beneath him, and he felt as if he had been granted the world. He didn't want to move for a long moment. He didn't want to ever move. In her room, under the cover of darkness, he could put aside his oaths and codes and concentrate on her recovery.
But if that was all he was doing, then why should he have to put aside his oaths? The beginnings of guilt pulled at his conscience. He sat up, almost painfully tearing himself away from her. He had promises to keep. His betrothed waited for him just two doors down.
And yet, he couldn't leave. His hands followed his gaze to her side. He touched the hem of her tunic and hesitated for a moment, steeling his nerves. Steeling his emotions against seeing her flesh. Slowly, he moved the tunic up her body. Over her curvy hips, past her waist.
A white wrapping encircled her stomach, holding some other cloths in place over her wound. Slane gently untied the wrapping and pulled it away. Then he carefully peeled the bloodstained cloths from her wound.
Slane's brows furrowed as he studied the ugly red line marring her skin, the black crosshatching of the stitches. No sword should ever have touched such skin. He reached out to examine the stitches. When his fingers touched her flesh, a shock seared through him. He felt her stiffen beneath his touch, and he quickly slanted his gaze to hers. But there was no pain in her eyes.
Slane once again lowered his eyes to her naked flesh. He couldn't help but notice the swell of her breast peeking from beneath her tunic.
Desire heated his blood and he felt himself grow hard. He realized with a start that he was stroking her skin and his caress had moved upward from her wound. Close to the rounded part of her breasts, the part hidden beneath the fabric. Why, in another second...
He tore his eyes from her breasts, focusing on her wound. He cleared his throat softly, but it sounded like the boom of thunder in the quiet room. "It doesn't look infected," he said.
"No," she agreed, a strange huskiness to her voice.
He lifted his eyes to hers again. They were locked on him and Slane felt a wave of warmth wash over his body. Slane quickly dropped his gaze. He ran his fingertips over her skin, down to her waist, where his touch lingered a second too long. I'm just seeing to her wound, he told himself. The wrappings have to be changed...
His gaze again moved to her breasts. The slow rise and fall of her chest seemed to match the pounding of blood in his ears. Then he looked up, but it wasn't her eyes that captured his attention. It was her lips. They were parted and moist, as if she had just licked them. And full, so damned full. Begging to be kissed. Calling to him.
He cursed quietly and grabbed one of the clean cloths from the tray beside her bed and slapped it onto her wound. She stiffened. He lifted repentant eyes to her, mumbling, "Sorry."
He retied the wrapping around her stomach, knotting it to hold the fresh cloth in place. He ran a hand along the wrapping, wondering what her skin would feel like pressed up against his. Wondering how she would look with her hair wild about her shoulders, lying beneath him, those beautiful eyes lidded and her mouth parted in a gasp... He pulled away from her so quickly that he knocked the soiled cloths from the table. His body was trembling so ferociously he fled the room without another word.
Slane pushed open the door to Elizabeth's room. She was sitting on the bed, her thin brown locks freed from her headdress and flowing down her back. She turned, a comb in her hand, and greeted him with a glorious smile. "I was just thinking that we should probably ask Duke Roza to attend the ceremony. Perhaps he'd bring some of his famous apple cider."
Slane hadn't heard a word she said. He marched up to her, seized her by the arms, and pulled her against him. He lowered his lips to hers, crushing them beneath his. He tried with all his might to picture her in bed with him, her thin body curled lovingly in his arms. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts returned to Taylor's body. And that bare glimpse of her creamy flesh so close to the rounded part of her breast. He knew in that moment that he was lost. He knew he could never feel the same passion with Elizabeth that he did with Taylor. He growled fiercely and released Elizabeth, stepping back from her. He couldn't meet her confused gaze. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
He turned his back on her and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Marry Elizabeth, he would. Taylor was betrothed to his brother. She would save hundreds of innocent lives by marrying Richard. Slane had promised Richard he would bring Taylor to him. He had given him his word. His word was his oath.
As Taylor's wounds healed, she could feel herself growing anxious to be out of her room, itching for some sort of exercise. She had snuck out of bed more than once to stretch her legs, to get her muscles working again, and it was on one of these occasions that she pushed open the shutters to look out at the bright morning. She heard a woman's laughter and her head swiveled to the road. At first, she saw no one, but as she strained, leaning out the window, she could make out two forms: Slane and Elizabeth coming around the corner. He pointed to something and Elizabeth tittered.
Taylor pulled back from the window. But it wasn't quick enough. She saw Slane lean over and press a kiss to Elizabeth's cheek. With a curse, she drew back into the darkness of her room, closing the shutters on the sight. That had been three days ago and she had not opened the shutters since.
But now, the feeling of restlessness and unease grew again inside her, becoming stronger with every passing moment. I have to get out of this accursed room, she thought. Before the walls close in on me. She rose from the bed and, despite her better judgment, snuck from her room, pausing in the doorway to check the hallway. When she found it empty, she moved out of the room and down the stairs. As she reached the bottom stair, her eyes scanned the room, and she noticed with some relief the inn was quiet and empty. A fire burned brightly in the hearth at the far end of the room. She could feel the faintest hint of warmth coming from the flames, and it helped wipe away some of the residual chill she had brought with her from her cold room. She thought for a moment of moving closer to the hearth, closer to the warmth… closer to the snapping, popping logs hissing dark promises of searing heat and charred human flesh.
She turned away from the fire and took a seat at a table near the stairs, turning the chair around to straddle it, habitually favoring her wounded side.
Slane had not been to see her in days. The only one to visit her in all those lonely days, to help her change her bandages and bring her food, had been the innkeeper's wife. Taylor shook her head.
What had she expected? She certainly didn't want to see Elizabeth. And she knew that Slane was doing everything in his power to stay away from her.
"Can I get ya something?"
Taylor glanced up to see the innkeeper. Rollins was his name, she remembered. She gave him a small grin. "An ale," she said. She heard his footsteps disappear into the rear of the inn.
Taylor rested her chin against the back of the chair. She didn't need anyone. She could survive by herself. Then why did she feel such loneliness inside her?
Something rubbed against her leg and she looked down. A calico cat turned to brush against her leg again.
A feeling of desolation swept through her and she reached down to stroke the cat's fur. I don't need anyone, she stubbornly told herself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. And stop thinking about him.
"There she is," Taylor heard a woman's voice whisper. Her hand froze and the cat dashed away.
Two sets of footsteps moved toward her. Her jaw clenched and her eyelids drooped as the familiar disdain washed over her, shielding her heart.
"Slane was worried about you when he found your room empty," Elizabeth said to Taylor's back.
Taylor couldn't look at them together. The image of Slane kissing Elizabeth's cheek surged to the front of her memory, and no matter how hard she tried to push it aside, it stubbornly remained embedded in her mind's eye.
"You shouldn't be down here," Slane said. "Not this soon."
The timbre of his voice sent tremors through her body. Taylor tried to ignore them, but a part of her heart was crumbling.
After a long moment of awkward silence, Elizabeth asked, "How are you feeling?"
Taylor didn't answer. How could she respond when she would feel better dead?
"You are looking better," Elizabeth observed. "Now all we need to do is give your hair a proper washing and you'll be quite an attractive girl. Won't she, Slane?"
There was no response, but Taylor could feel Slane's gaze on her back.
"I'm certain Richard will find you most delightful," Elizabeth continued. Taylor swore she heard contempt in the other woman's voice.
What difference would it make what Richard thought of her? All she wanted was to join forces with him and kill Corydon. For Jared. Taylor stood and turned, sweeping her eyes over the couple. They were perfect. A knight in shining armor and his lady. Her stomach turned over. They belonged together. There was no room for an outcast mercenary.
Her eyes locked on Slane's, and she thought she saw a shimmer of sympathy there before he averted his gaze to Elizabeth.
Knights of Valor Page 70