GREENWOOD

by Sue Wilson

  "I feel like the devil himself."

  Thea nodded, pressing her lips together.

  "Cannot sleep...even your potions...useless."

  "The fever is strong."

  "Stronger than I?"

  She smiled crookedly. "No, my lord."

  "Then I will not die in the night?"

  She did not answer, could not answer. When it had been his time, Brand had gone so quickly. Tears burned her eyes and she willed them away.

  Without speaking, she came to his side, good judgment and caution fleeing, and gathered him gently in her arms. She drew the fur and down coverings about them both, murmuring soft words of comfort into his hair, and held his shuddering body through the night.

  The fever broke at dawn.

  ~*~

  Over the course of the next several days, Thea stayed by the Sheriff's side, wandering through the unknown twists and turns of his recuperation with him. She was never certain it was anything she did or didn't do that made a difference in his progress. As with many things, Nottingham seemed in charge of his own recovery.

  In the end, Nottingham had simply had his fill of sickness. The day after the fever broke, he slept deeply and soundly, awakening only to take broth or herbal draughts, and making of himself such a picture of compliance that word quickly spread throughout the castle: yes, the Lord Sheriff had survived, but his travail had transfigured him into something infinitely more docile. Either that or the herb woman seen riding with him had bewitched him with some mystical decoction.

  The second conjecture, of course, was totally false, and the first only a rumor born of premature reports and no small amount of wishful thinking.

  Soon the Sheriff had recovered not only a good deal of his strength, but most of his vile humor. He spared few words on the discomfort of bedding grown lumpy, bed coverings too numerous or too few, the stale odor of sickroom air, and a prolonged enforced fast of broth and weak ale when his taste was decidedly bent toward suckling pig. He criticized the bandages for being too constricting or too loose and declared the poultices to be no more than disgusting globs of decaying plant matter, set to ferment in wine-a truly unfortunate waste of his best claret.

  Thea bore his incessant complaints in silence. She had learned, of necessity, the rhythm of his moods and some of the telltale signs that prefaced a change in them. The more unpredictable the shifts in his temperament, the closer the Sheriff was to full health.

  He did not return to the vulnerability of his fever, nor did he speak of it. It was as if his desperate dependence of that time had vanished or, indeed, in his mind, had never happened. Thea saw no reason to remind him, her own stunned involvement in Nottingham's version of reciprocal bathing still a vivid memory she would rather not recall. She remembered instead something she was sure the Sheriff would have preferred she forget. Thea had determined that the Sheriff of Nottingham was, after all, human and mortal, and privately afraid of being both.

  A sennight after her arrival at Nottingham Castle, she finally risked a confident sigh of relief. The fever's ruddy mottling had fled from his complexion, and the angry red around the wound turned to paler pink. She stitched the healing laceration closed with silk thread and one of the surgeon's more delicately forged needles, fortifying the Sheriff-unnecessarily, she suspected-with strong wine.

  That task completed, and for the first time since her arrival at the castle, she could see her longed-for departure clearly on the horizon. Her spirits rose, and she experienced a contented sense of fulfilled purpose. She felt strangely charitable toward the Sheriff now that her sentence with him was coming to an end and she had managed to save him from death and herself from the gaol. She tolerated his growing demands with good nature, supped graciously at his side, listened to his grumbling well into the night, and willingly broke fast with him at dawn, all with an agreeableness that surprised her.

  Only the appearance of Gisborne could dampen her spirits. Apparently motivated by curiosity and no small amount of misplaced bravery, the Sheriff's cousin dared to slink back into the chamber to assess the situation for himself.

  His timing notoriously poor on the best occasion, he arrived at dinner to find his cousin still affecting a languid posture in bed, one long leg bent at the knee and indecorously bare of linen sheet or fur wrap. Thea sat at the Sheriff's side, a kitchen tray laden with broth, ale, bread, and cheese between them.

  Aware of the lieutenant's close inspection, Thea sipped from a cup of steaming broth, then stirred and blew into the mixture to cool it before holding the cup to Nottingham's lips.

  "You've sealed your fate with him, eh, Thea?" Gisborne commented, inclining his head toward the cup of broth. "Tasting his food like that, I mean. You should tell her, Cousin. There are guards paid to do that."

  Nottingham glowered and took the cup in his own hands, while Thea hastened to her feet, smoothing her skirts with a self-conscious motion. She stepped away from the bed, refusing to acknowledge the Sheriff's henchman with any word or gesture other than avoidance.

  Gisborne brushed past her, and with a quick, graceless move, grabbed a nearby chair by its spindled back, twirled it around, and set it down backward, closer to the bed. He swung one leg across to straddle the seat, and pulled his dagger from the sheath at his waist. Leaning across the chair's back, he stabbed a portion of still warm bread.

  "It remains a mystery to me, Thea," he continued, examining the bread before dunking it in the pot of broth, "why you're so intent on saving this miscreant's life. You're not enamored of the bastard, are you?"

  Thea squared her shoulders and considered whether she dare take it upon herself to order the uninvited guest from the room. Gisborne, however, did not spare her even a backward glance. He fixed his stare on the Sheriff and raised both brows as if his question were so much mealtime merrymaking.

  "She's not enamored of you, is she, Cousin?" he asked again. Receiving no reply from either quarter, he closed his mouth over the sopping bread. "Pity," he mumbled through his wet mouthful. "She's a considerable improvement over your usual fare, and more skilled in her methods than your previous leech-although it is being argued from dungeon to battlement, and every corner between, exactly what it is she does."

  From across the room, Thea saw the muscles along Nottingham's bearded chin tense and the furrow between his brows lengthen as he pressed his lips together. His dark eyes glanced from the broken loaf of bread to the second hunk Gisborne held to his mouth, a wordless announcement that the lieutenant had assumed and said far too much for his own safety.

  "You'd do well to turn a deaf ear to castle gossip," the Sheriff said, his steel-edged threat pushed between tensely held lips.

  Gisborne cleared his throat. "I must be intruding. I beg forgiveness," he said, feigning apology. "But do consider making an appearance among your subjects soon, Cousin, before the rumor gets out of hand."

  He stood and returned the chair to its proper place, then turned, looped his thumbs through his belt, and made a falsely obeisant bow to Thea. With raised brow, his gaze traveled the length of her in one extended and thorough examination. "I'd keep her if I were you," he called back over his shoulder.

  "I'm sure you would, Cousin."

  Thea bore the affront silently, but her hands drew into angry fists at her sides and her cheeks flamed as she watched Gisborne retreat down the steps and through the door. "My initial assessment of him is correct," she said tightly. "Your kinsman or no, Gisborne is an idiot."

  "Come now," Nottingham said, his voice a mellow attempt at appeasement. "Sit beside me. Don't let what Gisborne says mar our time together."

  Thea stood her ground, silently fuming and not at all sure she wished to be appeased. "Gisborne and half the castle, apparently."

  "The talk offends you?"

  "The talk is untrue!"

  "Then where is the offense? That they talk at all, which is as natural as the sun's rising, or that you have somehow ascertained the nature of their conjecture and it displeases you?
"

  "You know as well as I do what they're saying, and it bothers you not in the least."

  "Not so. I'm greatly bothered that there is no truth to the tales. Come," he said again, reaching for her with an outstretched hand. "Give castle rumor the attention it deserves-which is none-and your Sheriff...." His voice trailed off, letting her imagine vividly the kind of attention he preferred bestowed upon himself.

  Thea bristled, her goodwill to abide the Sheriff's banter fading. "You have had so much attention in the past week, you're positively feeble from it. I won't coddle you a moment longer, Lord Nottingham." She crossed her arms in front of her. "I pronounce you well. Fit. More fit than you've a right to be. Gisborne, I am pained to say, is correct. Quit your mewling, and be amongst your people. Show them you are returned to your normal overbearing and ill-contained self. Hang someone from the castle walls to prove it. Gisborne himself comes to mind-"

  In a flash, the Sheriff threw off the blankets and bounded from the bed. He grabbed her heartily about the waist and laid a finger against her lips. "Delightful suggestion," he whispered conspiratorially. "And I shall do it now, to whet my appetite for removing your disrespectful tongue."

  He would have been incorrigible, Thea decided. Totally reprehensible. Someone only barely clinging to the lowest rung of humanity-had he not smiled. It was a quick, self-conscious gesture betraying far too little practice, but Thea relented nonetheless.

  "So you keep threatening," she said. "You are full of talk without substance, my lord."

  "And you seem to thrive on lethally provoking my self-restraint." He paused and took her hand between his, his voice dropping to a serious whisper. "You've saved my skin, woman."

  He brought her hand to his lips and held it there until she raised her eyes to his. It was always dangerous looking at him so directly, but whether the danger came from him or from her own feelings, Thea was not sure.

  She felt torn between twin desires: that he put his lips to the backs of her fingers and let her feel again the intoxicating heat of his mouth-or that he release her and let her run from the solar, from the castle, from Nottingham, until he and this whole unsettling nightmare were gone.

  He did neither.

  Gently he turned her hand, unfolded her fingers, and touched his mouth to the center of her palm. Thea found herself risking a smile. While the Sheriff might have stumbled clumsily over any genuine words of thanks, he was powerfully proficient at this single, enticing endearment. She supposed there were worse ways of taking one's leave.

  "I am relieved beyond measure you are well," she said, her fingers settling on the coarse, black silk of his beard.

  "Are you?"

  The warm pressure of his mouth increased, followed by the lazy caress of the tip of his tongue as it trailed across the well of her palm. Thea caught her breath. This was no social gesture, no simple gratitude for saving him, and not even close to a humble apology for having intruded so heedlessly into her life. It certainly did not feel like leave-taking.

  She wanted to withdraw her hand, certain it would be the most expedient way to end something that should never have started in the first place, but her heart beat faster as the forgotten heat of desire bled into her resolve.

  Still capturing her hand against his lips, he circled her waist and drew her close. Thea could not remember a time when she had been so tempted to fold herself into a man's embrace, and there was so much more she did not remember either. The stirring of want and need, the substance of a man's body, hard and lean muscled against her thighs. The way his fingers spread across the small of her back and smoothed down over her hips, bringing her nearer. His every touch became an indelible memory imprinted on her.

  Suddenly, the danger of her situation meant nothing, and that was the most frightening realization of all. She pulled her hand back slightly, feeling his fingers lace firmly between hers, refusing release. Excitement and panic mingled at the insistence of his grip. If he did not stop this, she would never forget him!

  Frightened, she pulled her wrist away with a determined jerk and broke through his embrace with a desperate, wrenching move. The feel of his hands and lips lingered, and she folded her arms across her chest and clenched her kirtle sleeves with shaking hands, not knowing if the gesture would be a shield against him or only crush the sensation of his caresses deeper. Silence rang heavy in the air, and for once no retort came quickly to her rescue.

  His expression registered no surprise at her rejection, but settled swiftly into a dark frown, and his hands tore at the bedcovers as he searched for something hidden in the tangle of furs. "My robe, woman! And see if there's not some stronger ale than this swill you've been feeding me!"

  He changed that quickly. One moment tender, or playing at tenderness, the next seductive, and she was quite sure he had not played at that. Now gruff, barking brusque orders.

  She did not respond at first, but stood watching him, wishing she could make sense of him, wishing she could wipe the after-image of his lips from her hand. His moods were too inconstant, his thoughts and feelings too unfathomable. Damn him! A week of his angry eruptions and solitary despair, made alarmingly palatable by his intermittent, seductive play! She was having difficulty enough trying to understand herself.

  Thea found his robe lying across a cushioned chair and held the garment out to him. He accepted it without looking at her and shouldered into the rich, brown silk, wrapping it around whatever bruised dignity he suffered with an elegant, almost magnanimous air.

  "There are two of Gisborne's sentiments which are entirely true," he said, as he gathered the embroidered folds of the robe across his lap and seated himself on the chair. "You are more skilled a surgeon and more learned an herbalist than my physician ever pretended to be, and there is not a soul of reason who would argue me. I must confess. I had my reservations. An unlearned herb woman? Had my circumstances been less dire-"

  The Sheriff looked up at her, and his voice dropped. "I owe you a great debt. In every way, your common peasant wisdom has proved superior to my surgeon's dubious textbook knowledge. I shall consider some means of repayment. Perhaps any taxes you've left unpaid."

  "That is not necessary."

  "Don't be foolish. Of course, it is. Taxes are so impossibly high, and everyone owes them."

  Quite against her will, Thea's heart softened at the manner in which the Sheriff had misunderstood her generosity. The man misunderstood a great many things. She turned toward him and smiled a trifle wearily. "I meant only that no payment is required, my lord."

  "Ah, an even greater foolishness. Or perhaps you simply wish to keep the Sheriff of Nottingham forever in your debt-in which case you've hidden a clever but rather calculating streak and who knows how many concealed motives."

  "No hidden motives, my lord. I am glad you survived my ignorance, that there was naught in my 'common peasant wisdom' that did you harm."

  "And are you relieved, as well, to be taking your leave of this place?"

  "I have missed my home more than I thought possible," she admitted.

  "I see."

  He propelled himself from the chair and strode across the room, umber satin following him in a silken rustle as his robe dragged through the rushes on the floor. He paused before the tall windows and looked out into the distance, his face unreadable. "That brings me, then, to Gisborne's second truth," he said, dark eyes fixed on the green haze of trees along the northern horizon. "A rather coarsely worded truth, as it was stated, but truth nonetheless, and one which, in view of your expectations, I am loathe to delay announcing."

  "My lord?"

  He turned around, a tall, shadowed figure back-lit by the obliquely angled rays of the late afternoon sun. She felt his stare, heavy with judgment, and the slight shift in his taciturn features, suggesting some decision debated, and reached.

  "You are leaving me without help, with no surgeon to attend me. Quite a dilemma, with murder lurking in the miserable hearts of half my men." A smirk twisted his lips
with bitter irony. "And no one I trust within twenty miles of Nottingham-" He looked at Thea meaningfully. "Except you."

  She stiffened. "Are you so certain you can trust me, my lord?"

  "No," he replied truthfully. "I am not. There are few enough trustworthy souls left in the shire these days. And it is your longed-for retreat from this castle that forces me into this dangerous predicament to begin with. So much for the loyalty of my obedient subjects. No matter. You are forthright, even in your dislike of me."

  Thea was tempted to disprove her reputed forthrightness, to say she felt nothing more for him than neutrality, but he continued without letting her speak.

  "Don't make a liar out of me, woman. It is clear I cannot buy your affection, any more than I can buy your services. But perhaps that is what I need: honesty that bends not at the ring of sterling, that is the marrow, the essence, of the person. You see, Thea," he said as he approached her, "I live surrounded by two types of people: those who would gladly thrust their blades into my back the moment I am turned; and the sycophants who, though they cannot stand the sight of me, either fear or enjoy my power enough to pretend otherwise. And then you come, defying categories. I feel safer knowing your feelings, as disappointing as they are to me personally, than having to guess at your true allegiance."

  Thea looked away, unable to bear his continued scrutiny under the brunt of words like honesty and allegiance. She was here, she had done what needed to be done to save his life, and would do it again, all things considered, but if what the Sheriff wanted now was an oath of loyalty-

  "There is also," he continued, "this single irrefutable fact: you did not kill me when you could, nor have you made an attempt at any time you've been at my side, although surely you've been tempted. And you are, after a fashion, armed." He gestured to the surgical instruments that lay on the bedside table. "And I am quite defenseless."

  "You are never defenseless, my lord."

  A smile passed across Nottingham's face and was quickly gone. "Let us just say that it does not appear to be in you to take a life, and I find that reassuring."