“You don’t stand a chance at winning against me.” Uther sneered.
“Pardon me if I don’t take your word for it.”
“Your mother should have drowned you at birth.”
“Unfortunate as it is for you, I’m still alive.” Henry smiled. “Shall we get our dragons?”
Lord Uther gave a nod and stalked off. Reven followed his brother.
“I told you to stay at the castle.” Henry wheeled and marched over to Sorcha. He grabbed her by the arms wanting to shake some sense into her. Someone killed her dragons. As sick as that was, that very someone might want her dead as well.
“Your hold is too harsh,” she told him.
He let go and touched the purple spot on her jaw just were it swooped under to form her chin. “How did you come by this mark?” he stroked lightly.
“Someone hit me.”
“So help me God, I’ll kill him.”
“It was a she. Lady Kathryn and I had a bit of squabble. Well not exactly a squabble, more of a disagreement which led to her hitting me with a goblet.”
“What did you say to warrant her attack?”
“It started when I came looking for you. I confronted Sir Reven about killing my dragons. He says he didn’t do it, yet he’s missing his pendant. Anyway, the conversation turned to his relationship with Lady Kathryn, whom he says he is not marrying.”
“How did that lead you into a fight with her?”
“Sir Reven and I parted ways. Then a man grabbed me.”
“Someone grabbed you?”
“Let me finish. I thought it was Sir Reven, but it turned out to be some brawny guard of Lady Kathryn’s. He took me to a pavilion where she was waiting. She intended to kill me. She said Sir Reven would never marry her until I was gone. Apparently she believes he’s obsessed with bedding me.”
“I agree he does have that wish, but I’d not call it an obsession. He told me he bed Kathryn yesterday. He thinks she took his pendant and used it as payment to the men that killed your dragons. I’m beginning to believe he is innocent. His brother is pushing for this marriage between Reven and Kathryn too much. Uther and Kathryn are plotting something and I believe Reven is to be a victim as well as you.”
“He is very insistent about not marrying her.”
“I know.” Henry waved over Duncan when he saw him.
“Milady,” Duncan greeted Sorcha. “You have my deepest sympathies.”
“Thank you, Sir Duncan.”
“What can I do to help, Henry?” Duncan asked.
“Take Sorcha back to Pembroke.”
“No,” Sorcha protested.
“You’re a distraction,” Henry warned. “With you here, I’ll worry that Kathryn might try to hurt you instead of having my complete attention on the dragon fight with Uther. Now leave.” He walked away, leaving her with Duncan.
“Sir Henry?” she called.
He glanced back. She looked scared and fragile just like earlier when he flew her away from the field of dead dragons. He didn’t like how the circumstances had affected her or how he was adding to her distress. Impulse suggested he rush back and comfort her.
“Be careful,” she said.
He gave her a nod, then continued toward Charger. While his steward helped him dress in his armor, he saw Sorcha leave on one of his brother’s dragons. Duncan flew his dragon behind her, giving her escort. Once they were out of sight, he focused on his battle with Uther.
He gauged his opponent with all due diligence. He had never won a battle against Uther. But he’d only had two chances. The Dragon Fighter Society was for knights. As a ruling lord, Uther only had the privilege of competing as an honorary guest. He did that infrequently, yet he was very skilled at the game.
Henry wasn’t going to lie to himself, he was nervous about the outcome. Should Uther kill him, what would that do to Sorcha?
Chapter Eleven
Sorcha rushed to the castle embrasure the moment she heard the swooshing of dragon wings. She looked into the sky as three riders guided their beasts to land outside the gates of the fortress. Not liking the poor vantage point, she turned from the opening and left the room. She hurried down the stairs, crossed the foyer, and outside.
She spotted Ware first. His grave expression froze her to the spot just inside the doorway. She looked beyond him to the other two men carrying a third. Sir Duncan and Sir Reven walked. As they came closer, she saw the man they toted in the sling of their arms.
“Henry.” Her hear sank with fear.
She tried to get to him, but Ware grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“He’s badly injured, Sorcha. A dragon’s talon cut him deep,” he told her. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good for him. You must have strength for he may be in his grave before the day is done.”
“No.” She jerked her arm free. “He wouldn’t abandon me to a life without him.”
She practically flew to the dining hall. Her pulse raced with the fear that she’d never get to tell him how much she loved him.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded of Sir Reven, pushing him away from Henry. “This as all happened because of you.”
“Sorcha.” Sir Ware held her back from scratching out Sir Reven’s eyes. “Reven went against Uther. Because of Reven, Henry isn’t lying dead on the tournament field.”
She looked at Metta standing in the kitchen doorway, her arms loaded with sheeting and medicine. Thomas stood by her with a jug of fresh water and a medical bag.
“Come in,” Sir Ware directed the servants.
Sorcha went to the dining table where they had laid Henry. She searched for a breath of life in him. Her father had suffered many injuries sustained by dragons. She was the one he relied on to tend his wounds, stitch his flesh back together, and nurse him to health.
When Duncan and Thomas pulled Henry’s blood soaked shirt off, Metta’s gasp held a distinct sound of hopelessness.
“Is he dead?” Sorcha asked.
“No, miss.” Metta dipped a rag in the basin of water Thomas held. She wiped at the heaviest patch of crusted dry blood on Henry’s side.
“Does it look as bad as we thought?” Sire Ware asked the servant.
“I’ve never seen a man survive anything like this,” she answered.
“I have, and he can recover.” Sorcha moved to the banquet table.
The long planked top made Henry look small in comparison. It reminded her of when she first saw him, lying in the street outside the Milstead Tavern. He’d appeared harmless and weak, soused with ale, but he’d showed her differently when he came to her rescue. Now, she put all her hope in that strength.
Her fingers shook when she reached for the front of his bloodied chest.
“Sorcha.” Ware grabbed her hand.
“Leave me be. I’ve pulled my father through worse. I know how a dragon’s talon curves, how it slices, and how much damage it can do. I don’t think the puncture is fatal.”
“Ware, her father was Kell Bronson. I believe her when she says she’s dealt with these sorts of wounds.” Duncan argued for her.
She looked up at Ware and saw the pained way he tried to hide his feelings.
“I won’t let him die. I love him,” she told Henry’s brother.
Ware let her go of her arm. She put her hand to Henry’s chest and rubbed the spot over his heartbeat. It felt strong. That was a good sign. His dark lashes remained down. Not a flutter or twitch indicated he’d ever look at her again with his enchanting green eyes.
She took the wet rag from Metta and washed the blood from Henry’s skin. She wiped carefully along his ribs and around the deep laceration still oozing blood. In the widest part, she wadded up a dry piece of cloth and plugged the hole, as if she corked a bottle.
“Help me roll him over.” She wanted to inspect all of him since it seemed hardly possible that one slice could keep him unconscious.
Sir Reven came close. She glanced at him as he helped Duncan turn Henry on his side.
“Not because Henry and I are best friends, that’s for sure. Henry figured things out pretty damn close to the truth about your dragons. Kathryn stole my cross to leave at your field and had Nimbly killed to make it appear I was the one to blame. Uther didn’t know what she was up to until afterward. I told him to turn her over to the courts. He sided with her, something about having other plans for her, so she’d remain under his protection.”
Sorcha continued looking over Henry, motioning the men when to turn him. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
Sir Reven shrugged. “Haven’t a better place to be. Kathryn tried setting me up for a crime and Uther thinks I’m expendable. I think it best I don’t go home for awhile.”
“I’ve invited Reven to stay here at the castle for the time being,” Ware said.
“You believe him?” Sorcha looked at Sir Ware. “He tells you a story and your take his word for it?”
“No. I trust what I saw him do to his brother.”
Satisfied with her inspection of Henry’s chest and back, Sorcha looked at the filthy leggings. She touched the bloody spot on the leather on the upper part of his thigh.
“What? Get in the way of his brother during the tournament to make it appear he was on Henry’s side?”
“When Henry was on the ground, Uther tried to lance him. Reven intervened and stabbed his brother’s arm to stop him,” Ware informed her.
She stopped listening when she found the deep puncture in Henry’s thigh.
“Help me get his leggings off, Sir Duncan.” She picked up a knife from the tools Metta put out on the night table and started cutting the threaded seam.
“That’s a steel spear tip.” Ware touched Sorcha’s shoulder. “Maybe you should let me dig it out.”
“I can do it.” She insisted. “I’ll need you, Sir Duncan and Thomas, to hold Henry’s legs down. Sir Ware, hold him at the shoulders.” She looked at Sir Reven. “If anything can bring a man out of unconsciousness ‘tis pain. Could you help too, Sir Reven?”
Sir Duncan and Thomas positioned themselves at the foot of the table where they grasped Henry’s legs. Ware moved to the opposite side of the table and gripped Henry’s right shoulder. Sir Reven gripped his left. Sir Ware gave a nod to proceed.
She washed the knife with the soap. From the decanter, on the table, she poured the ale over both sides of the blade. She dumped some on the wound, letting it trickle in around the lodged piece of steel.
Henry voiced his pain with a strangled moan. She pressed the knife tip into the hole and started cutting free the spearhead. Henry’s struggle accompanied his loud shriek.
She sniffed back her tears. “How can men be so cruel?” She almost couldn’t look at her beautiful Henry, sliced and hacked up like meat.
“Sorcha, finish,” Ware ordered.
Through blinding tears, she forced herself to concentrate on digging out the steel. She was relieved when she extricated the sharp spearhead and heard it clunk to the floor. Henry’s cries of excruciating pain were behind them.
“I need a needle and heavy thread." she told Metta as she pressed a wad of cloth on the puncture to stop the blood.
She looked at his muscular thigh, thinking how ironic that one wound could bring him to this sad state of weakness.
She couldn’t move while holding the compress, but reached as far as she could, pressing her lips to him in a kiss. “Please don’t die, Henry.”
His stomach quivered from her touch and his eyes opened. “I’m not going to die,” he answered hoarsely. His hand moved over the strands of her hair that trailed over him.
She met his eyes for a moment. Then they closed and he was silent.
“I didn’t believe he’d live.” Ware stood next to her and handed her the needle and thread. “And I don’t think he would have, if you weren’t here. Henry has been a wanderer all his life. He likes the carefree lifestyle of a dragon rider, and fighting in tournaments. If you still want a name for yourself, I’ll accept your challenge in the next tournament.”
“Ware, she’s a woman.” Duncan said in disbelief.
“A determined one, Duncan. Except with me she’ll have a clean fight and a fair chance to win. In return, Sorcha, I require two things.”
She shook her head, unable to think about anything but Henry. “I don’t care about any of that now, Sir Ware.”
“You will, once your scare with Henry is over. I don’t see you backing down from something as important as training dragons.”
“You are a lot like your brother.” She glanced up at him. “You know me well. What are your conditions?”
“I breed dragons, but I haven’t the time or inclination to train them. So I will give you all my business and in payment I’ll help you rebuild your herd.”
“You said two things.” She sniffed up the dribble of her nose and wiped it on her sleeve.
“Respect Henry. With the same passion you give your dragons. He’ll be more loyal than any man or beast you’ll meet.”
“I already know that, Sir Ware. It’s why I fell in love with him. I’d do anything to have his love.”
For two hours, she worked at stopping the blood, removing the splinters of battle, and sewing the skin like repairs to a torn dress. She washed away what she could and bandaged what needed covering. Then not caring who watched, she pushed his light brown hair back from his forehead and leaned close to his face.
“I’ll take care of you,” she whispered. She kissed him on the mouth.
Cold and grimy, his lips moved, not much, not with any signs of vigor, but hope.
“Sir Duncan, Sir Ware, could you get him to his bed now?”
The men lifted Henry up.
“Be careful of his wounds, Sir Duncan.” She instructed. “Not too fast, Sir Reven.”
When they reached the room, Sir Ware stood by the bed as she sat on the mattress next to Henry. Sir Duncan left.
“Can I get you anything?” Sir Ware asked.
“No thank you, Sir Ware.”
“I think you can drop the formally, Sorcha, and simply call me Ware.” He walked to the corner of the room and dragged a chair over near the bed.
“You said Henry was always carefree in his actions. Did it make it hard for you to raise him? I mean after your parents died. Henry told me of their death.”
“Kilburn and I had a hell of time keeping him out of trouble. Our mother couldn’t have been more right about him. She said he would be the most rambunctious of her sons. He sought fun everywhere he went and never thought of the consequences.”
“Getting into brawls?” She smiled, picturing the first time she’d seen Henry lying drunk in the dirt.
“That was one way.” Ware agreed.
She felt Henry’s fingers tighten in hers and she turned her attention to him.
“Don’t tell her all my secrets or you’ll scare her off,” Henry muttered.
“Henry, how do you feel?” Sorcha leaned over him. “Are you in pain?”
He didn’t answer.
“He’s out again.” Ware got up. “I’ll leave so he can rest. I’ll have Thomas stay outside the door should you need anything. I’d say to relieve you from your bedside vigil, but I know that would be a futile request. So get what rest you can.”
“The nice thing about being a tavern wench, Sir Ware, is not caring what others think of my sleeping arrangements.” She smiled.
“You are every bit as graceful and refined as any lady in the land. I do not judge a woman or a man for how they conduct themselves in private.”
Sorcha turned her attention back to Henry. She bathed him more thoroughly and managed to get the soiled bedding out from under him so he lay on the clean sheet. From a cabinet, she took another blanket and covered him.
Late into the night, Henry’s painful groans of unrest brought her from the window embrasure. She sat on the bed and stroked his brow until he calmed.
“Y
ou have a kind and generous brother, Sir Henry Pembroke. What will you say to hear he is coming out of retirement to accept my challenge in the tournament?”
“He’s going to lose.” Henry coughed.
“Henry?”
He touched her arm and pulled her down.
“Sorcha.”
“I’m here.” She scooted down and nestled against the side of him free of wounds. “I’m here for as long as you want me, Henry.”
Exhausted by stress and the length of the day, her sleep was restless and interrupted often. If Henry’s breathing altered, she woke to check him. If he shifted, or mumbled, or groaned, she talked soothingly to quiet him. By the next morning, she woke to more than his uneasy movements. His long fingers curved over her breast and made her pulse quicken. His thumb mindlessly stroked the tip making her nipple stiffen beneath the bodice of her gown. His lips swept over her temple and caressed her cheek.
Slipping from his arms, she sat up.
“Don’t go, not yet,” he said with a raspy voice.
“You need to rest.” She turned to the table and picked up the cup of wine. “Here, sip this.”
Henry lifted his head, accepting the rim of the cup to his lips. He drank slowly.
“Enough.” She held the cup away. “You have plenty of time to get your fill.”
“You didn’t leave this time.” He touched her cheek and folded his fingers around her neck to pull her down. “Or are you just a dream?”
“I’m not a dream,” she whispered before their breaths mingled and sealed.
Henry circled his arm around her back and held her. His tongue pushed between her lips and glided over her teeth. Gently exploring, his wine flavored kiss deepened.
She balanced the cup in her outstretched hand trying not to spill it. Then Henry took a breath. He groaned from the pain of his wound. She sat back and put the cup on the table.
“Wait.” He tried to grab her arm.
“No more. You need to stay calm and still. You almost died.” She hurried around to the opposite side of the bed. “I have to tell your brother you’re awake.”
A Tavern Wench to Bed Page 14