His head came up from the trunk. “Jordan? A sound name. Yet it is usually a man’s name.”
Jordan moved a few steps closer. “My mother, being a pious woman, named me for the River Jordan,” she replied. “Jordan Mary Joseph is my full name. Moreover, I was intended to be a male child.”
The man’s eyes grew intense and Jordan felt a shiver run down her spine. It struck her just how handsome he was, English or no, and her cheeks grew warm.
“You are most definitely not a male child, Jordan Mary Joseph,” he said, almost seductively. “How old are you?”
“I have seen twenty years,” she replied, flattered and disarmed by his statement.
“Then you are married with children,” he stated. “Was your husband on the battlefield?”
“I have no husband,” Jordan said flatly. At twenty, she was embarrassed that she had not yet wed; it was a sore subject and one she certainly did not wish to discuss with him.
“No husband?” he repeated, evidently shocked. “Why not?”
She frowned. “Ye ask too many questions, English.”
He did not reply. He lay back against the tree again, closing his eyes. His strength was draining and Jordan guessed that his death was swiftly approaching.
As she gazed at him, she began to feel pity for the knight. He was perhaps ten years older than her, and was still a young man. He was very big with enormous hands and big, muscular legs, and his facial features, although surrounded by mail and a helm, were chiseled and handsome. She was coming to feel sorry that his life would soon be over from a wound sustained in a senseless, meaningless skirmish.
A thought occurred to her; she knew that she could make his last hours more comfortable with what she carried in her satchel. The healing items were meant for her own people but she simply could not leave the knight and not help him. It was her soft heart tugging at her, concern for another. She hoped her Scot ancestors moldering in the ground would forgive her treasonous act.
“English,” she said softly. “Would ye let me tend yer wound?”
One eye opened in mild surprise. She could see suspicion in the mysterious depths.
“Why?” he whispered. “So you may finish what your clansman started?”
“Nay,” she answered, although she didn’t blame his distrust. “So that I may make yer last hours a bit more bearable.” When he did not reply, she frowned at him. “I promise I wunna intentionally hurt ye. Ye can bleed to death or ye can let me help ye; ’tis all the same to me.”
After an eternal pause, he reached up with effort and tore the helmet from his head, revealing dark wet hair plastered to his pasty head. Clumsily, he began to remove his armor.
Jordan closed the distance between them with small, rapid steps and knelt beside him. His hands were heavy and unwieldy and she batted them away, finishing the job of the removal herself. She fumbled a bit with his cuisses, or thigh armor, because the wound was along the edge of the armor where it met his breeches. A vulnerable point, she noticed. She felt a little apprehensive being so close to an English warrior and deliberately avoided his gaze. She could feel his eyes on her, watching every move she made. Her palms began to sweat as she stripped off the remainder of the protective gear.
As Jordan bent over her work, her pink tongue between her teeth in concentration, the knight studied the fine porcelain features and the huge round eyes of the most amazing green color. He could see it even in the moonlight. Her eyebrows were arched ever so delicately, and her lashes were long and dense. She had stopped biting her tongue long enough for him to see that her lips were soft and sensuous.
Her hair licked at him as she moved and the scent of lavender was unmistakable. Her hair was dark blond, straight and silky. Every time she threw the satiny mass over her shoulder to keep it out of her way, he was greeted by the perfume of the purple buds and found it utterly captivating. Even as he stared at her, he could not believe this woman was a Scot; she embodied everything he had always believed they were not. In fact, it took him a moment to realize that she was physically perfect. If God himself had come to him and asked him to describe his perfect mate, he would have described Jordan feature for feature. It was an odd realization.
Unaware of the knight’s thoughts, Jordan glanced up and met his gaze and was faced with the most fascinating shade of hazel she had ever seen. Yet for his size and his strength, and the fact that the man was obviously a seasoned knight, they were the kindest eyes she had ever encountered. Unnerved, she tore her eyes away and continued her good deed with draining concentration. The man intimidated her in too many ways to comprehend.
With the armor off, Jordan could see the wound in his thigh was substantial. He had packed linen rags on it in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but he had quickly become too weak to do much more. It was a deep, long gash that ran nearly the entire length of his long thigh. She tore his breeches away in an attempt to have a clear field to tend the wound, noticing that his legs were as thick as tree trunks.
Jordan picked bits of material and mail from the wound, wiping at the clotted blood and dirt that had invaded the area. The further involved she became, the more she could see that the gash was all the way to the bone.
Jordan retrieved her bag and began to pull out her aids: whisky, silk thread and needle, and strips of boiled linen.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the open whisky bottle at him and keeping her eyes on the wound. “Drink this.”
He accepted the bottle from her and he took several long swallows. She took it back from him and set it beside her, pausing with a furrowed brow and thinking that even if he survived the wound, he would surely loose the leg. She did not know that he was still watching her face intently, marveling at the incredible beauty of it.
The knight, in fact, did not make it a habit of gawking at women. Outside of an occasional whore, he had never had a remotely serious relationship with a woman, although there had been many a female who had tried to woo him. He had a great deal of respect for the opposite sex, but Northwood Castle was his life and a wife did not fit into his plans.
“Will I live, Lady Jordan?” he asked after a moment. “Or should I prepare my greeting for St. Peter?”
She sighed and picked up the whisky bottle. Reluctantly, she met his eyes for a brief moment to convey a silent apology before dousing the entire length of the wound with the burning alcohol.
The knight’s only reaction was to snap his head away from her so that she could not see his face. Not a sound was uttered nor a twitch of the muscle seen. Remarkable, she thought. She had never seen anyone take the pain of a whisky burn so well.
Some women preferred to wash the whisky away with water before closing the wound, but not Jordan. The liquor itself did incredibly well in helping heal wounds and preventing infection, so she left it on and took her threaded needle and began to sew up the laceration. She worked quickly, knowing the pain was unbearable and was continually amazed that the soldier had yet to utter one word. She had seen men scream and faint in similar situations.
When she was finally finished, she laid a strip of clean linen the length of the wound and bound him twice about the thigh to hold it in place; once at the top of his leg and once near the knee. She worked so fast that she knew she was not doing a very good job. She just wanted to be done with her charitable act hurriedly, lest she be discovered. She was increasingly concerned that her aunts and cousins would come looking for her. She knew that jostling him about must be excruciating, yet he had not so much as flinched.
Only when she had stopped completely did he turn his head back to look at her, and she swallowed at the agony she read in his eyes. She found new respect for this Englishman who bore his pain with stoic silence. She began to hope that he would live, although she did not know why. She furthermore wished she had done a better mending job on his leg, taking the time she took with her own wounded.
“I dunna know what good I have done for ye,” she said quietly.
He grasped her so
ft hand tightly in his clammy one. Jordan stiffened, startled by the action and fighting the urge to yank her hand away.
“You are an angel of mercy,” he whispered. “I thank you for your efforts, my lady. I shall do my best not to betray them.”
His sincerity was gripping. Gently, she removed her hand and put her things away. The half-moon was high above and the scattered clouds had disappeared, bathing the land in a silver glow. Jordan felt as if she had done something good this night, albeit to the enemy and she felt better now than she had earlier when she first descended to the stream. Mayhap fate had led her to the stream purposely to find the soldier and tend him. She suddenly felt like returning to the battlefield to continue with her expected duties.
“I must return, English.” She rose and gave him a long look. “I will forget that I saw ye here.”
She turned to leave but he stopped her.
“My name is Sir William de Wolfe,” he said with quiet authority. “Remember it, for I shall return one day to thank you properly and I do not wish to be cut down while bearing a gift.”
It took a moment, but even in the moonlight he saw her face go white and her jaw slacken.
“Sweet Jesu,’” she gasped. “Surely ye’re not the English captain they call The Wolf?”
He looked at her, sensing her surge of fear. He sighed; he did not want her to fear him. This was the one time when he wished his reputation had not preceded him.
“I simply said my name was de Wolfe, not The Wolf,” he murmured.
She looked extremely dubious. “But ye were in his command?”
He shrugged vaguely. “Now, back to what I said,” he said, shifting the subject. “I will return with a proper reward for you. Will you accept it?”
She could not be sure that the knight wasn’t, in fact, the hated Wolf, but it was truly of no matter now. It was done. Perhaps she did not want to believe he was the hated and feared devil, so she chose to believe as such. How could she live with herself if it was discovered that she had tended to the man that had killed more kinsmen that she could count? She knew she could not, so she forced herself to believe his words. Furthermore, her aunt had said The Wolf was dark and devilish. This man was uncannily beautiful in a masculine sense.
After a moment’s pause, she finally spoke. “English, if ye survive this wound then I will gladly accept yer gift.”
He smiled weakly, deep dimples in both cheeks and her heart fluttered strangely in her chest. He was indeed the most handsome man she had ever seen, even if he was English. But she had the most horrible lurking feeling that he was indeed who she feared he was. It made her want to run.
“Luck be with ye,” she said as she abruptly turned and trudged back up the hill.
William watched the figure in the billowing cloak, his pain-clouded mind lingering on the silken hair and beautiful face. He had never seen such a fine woman. Angel was certainly an apt term. If she were to be the last person he saw on earth then he would die a contented man.
He suspected that she did not believe his evasive answer but, thankfully, had made no more mention of it. The thought that she feared and hated him brought a curious tightness in his stomach that he quickly attributed to his helpless state. He did not want to admit that it might be regret.
He was growing weaker with each breath. His strength was waning as he leaned back against the tree, wondering if he would again see the light of morning. He closed his eyes for he could not keep them open, and without realizing it, his mind drifted into unconsciousness, safe and warm and dark.
CHAPTER TWO
April, Year of our Lord 1232
Langton Castle, 17.7km northwest of the English border
“What a lovely day,” Caladora exclaimed softly. “This is the first day the sun has dared show itself in months.”
Jordan eyed her cousin from behind her tapestry loom. “Bright the day, I give ye, but there is still a chill in my bones.”
“Yer always cold, Jordan.” The comment came from another cousin, Jemma. The brunette-haired lass stabbed at a pretty piece of embroidery. “Yer hands are like ice even on the warmest days.”
“Always,” Jordan concurred regretfully.
Caladora Scott, daughter of Nathaniel and Anne Scott, sat back to her needlework. Tall and lovely in a fragile way, she had the luxurious red hair with highlights of gold, a color enhanced on her older brothers Robert and Benjamin.
Jemma Scott, on the other hand, was as short and dark as Caladora was tall and fair, but she well-proportioned and busty. She was a very pretty girl and a possessed the true fire of a Scot; with three older brothers, she had learned to take care of herself. Her father Matthew was forever chiding his daughter on the true qualities of a lady, lest he never marry her off, but her mother Lilith had given up lecturing Jemma a long time ago.
Jemma would marry in due time, her mother knew, but her husband would have to possess the patience of Job and the strength of Samson to handle her. She had been betrothed shortly after birth to a young lad from the McKean clan; however, the lad had died at five years of age and Matthew was reluctant to promise her again due to her wild nature. No man wanted to tame the wild horse.
“Isn’t it wonderful that the English have finally come to their senses and have given us a few months of peace?” Caladora sighed, distracting the others from their wandering thoughts.
Jordan shrugged, biting at her lip in concentration. “We shall see how long it lasts. I dunna trust the English.”
“And what of the messenger that arrived yesterday?” Jemma wanted to know. “My father said he came from the English king himself.”
Jordan scowled. “Pah. He was probably sent here to demand our unconditional surrender.”
“Jordi, ye are a cynical soul,” Caladora said.
“ ’Tis my right to be cynical,” Jordan replied. “I have seen war and death by the English for nigh twenty years now. I canna trust them.”
There was a knock at the solar door. A soldier in the green and red Scott tartan entered and bowed deeply.
“Ladies, Laird Scott requests Lady Jordan’s presence in his hall immediately,” he said.
Jordan secured the loom sticks and brushed her hands against her brown brocade surcoat. “Mayhap me Da wishes me to chase off the English messenger,” she muttered.
Caladora and Jemma giggled at their cousin’s jest and returned to their sewing when the door slammed shut.
Jordan found her father alone in the cavernous great hall of Langton Castle that smelled of smoke and rushes. Generations of Scotts had walked these floors, had spoken within these walls, and it reeked of family and war and the passion that was in every Scotsman. Thomas sat in his large oak chair, his graying brow furrowed. He watched his beautiful daughter sweep gracefully into the room, her surcoat swirling and her long hair flowing.
His heart was breaking. For the sake of his clan, his family and peasants alike, he was being forced into a precarious position and Jordan was to become the sacrificial lamb. He dreaded telling her that her future was to be irrevocably changed. His stomach was twisting in knots of anxiety so much that he wished he could die rather than have to tell her what was to come.
His sweet Jordan Mary Joseph, the only child he and his beloved Elinor had been blessed with. With Elinor gone, Jordan had been his life and his salvation, and now he would lose that, too. He wondered if his grief would kill him.
“Greetings, Da,” she kissed him.
Thomas forced a smile and grasped her hand. “Sit wi’ me, Jordan.” He moved to the side and allowed her a corner of the huge chair. “Give the old man a hug.”
He put his arms about his daughter and held her tightly for a moment as he collected his thoughts. Jordan could sense something in his manner and she was puzzled. He was usually loud and supremely confident, but not today. He seemed pensive and subdued. She didn’t like it.
“What’s amiss?” she asked.
Thomas looked at her, memorizing each feature. He knew he had to
tell her before he lost his courage. He’d already put it off as long as he could and if he delayed further, he might never tell her at all. With every breath he took, his bravery was waning.
“Yesterday a messenger arrived from King Henry,” he began.
“I know, I saw him,” she replied.
“He brought a missive,” Thomas replied, trying to keep his manner calm and even. Jordan was sharp and would pick up on any apprehension. “Apparently the man is as weary as we are of the border wars and wishes to seal a peace.”
Jordan’s eyes darkened. “Dunna trust him,” she said. “He will strike when yer guard is down.”
“I think not,” her father said patiently. “We will both be sacrificing a great deal for this peace and neither would do anything to jeopardize it.”
His words didn’t make much sense but she knew she didn’t like them. She was suspicious and forced her father to look at her.
“What sacrifice?” she demanded. “What are the demons demanding from ye? Our land? Money? What then?”
Thomas was riveted to her green eyes, intensely so. He dreaded bringing forth the words but he had to. “Ye,” he finally murmured. “ ’Tis ye he is demanding, lass.”
Jordan stared at him as the news set in. Then her eyes widened enormously until they threatened to pop from their sockets. Thomas tried to anticipate her reaction, wanting so badly to beg forgiveness and plead understanding.
He could not bear it if she hated him forever. He wanted to explain everything to her, to make her understand that he made the best decision he felt he could. He prayed she would grasp his battle-weary reasons. He was so very tired of fighting and dying for a bloody bit of land.
“What?” she gasped, then louder. “He what?”
Steady, man, Thomas told himself. Be strong. “I promised ye in marriage to a noble of the king’s choosing to cement a peace alliance,” he said evenly. “This will be a great honor for ye, Jordan. You will be the instrument of peace for our clan and for the generations yet to come. Do ye not understand that, lass?”
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 43