William had Jordan up in his arms before she even had a chance to go limp. Paris had practically jumped off the wall and was at his side, along with Deinwald and nearly every other knight save Kieran and Marc. But they were coming, William knew, for they had heard the battle cry.
Paris held out his arms. “Give her to me.” he demanded. “Let me take her into the castle.”
“No, damnation!” William snarled. “I will do it.”
Paris had taken care of quite a few more battle wounds than William and was quite competent. He sent Corin for Byron and tried again.
“William, she needs that arrow removed immediately,” he said with controlled urgency. He did not like the look in William’s eye. “Give her to me now. Please.”
William looked at him, and Paris was almost physically impacted by the pain he read in the depths. William was struggling with fear such as he had never known. He was terrified that if he let go of Jordan he would never see her alive again. But the terror lasted only a few short moments until his years of training took over.
William knew Paris was more experienced with battle injury. Rigidly controlling himself, the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life was hand Jordan into Paris’ waiting arms.
Paris fled to the keep. William resisted the urge to run after them as he turned to his men, now joined by the rest of his knights. Around them, the courtyard was quickly becoming a chaotic mass.
“The arrow must have come from the north tower of the keep from the angle of it,” he said, his composure returning quickly as he became the captain again and not the panicked lover. “Deinwald, take some men and cover every inch of the northeast tower and the wings below it. Kieran, Adam, Marc, to me. The rest of you with Deinwald.”
Broadswords were in hand as they raced to the entrances that would lead into the keep. Once inside, they split up and began a systematic search of the keep and adjoining turrets.
At least three dozen men-at-arms joined them in their quest. Heavy bootfalls echoed through the rooms and corridors as they secured the four-storied keep room by room and nook by nook, leaving nothing undone or unsearched. Even an unfortunate servant using the garderobe was rousted. Doors were thrown open and people were terrorized as the knights searched for a killer.
With Deinwald in charge, it was a loud and rough operation. He was exceptionally efficient and possessed a cunning and tactical mind, but his manner, as always, left something to be desired. He scared more than one servant woman into tears and had Michael corral everyone they came across so no one could escape interrogation. As William swept in from the west side of the keep, Deinwald swept in from the east so they could bottle up any assassin hiding in or fleeing from the north tower.
William was quieter and more efficient in his investigation than Deinwald’s loud actions, but he was by far more brutal. Not only did he have Kieran detain anyone they came across, but he had the man bottle them up in a small windowless chamber that was usually used for storage. Worse, the room was completely dark, so those who were being detained were existing in utter blackness.
There were reasons for his behavior, of course. He had become unforgiving and cold, an efficient machine of a man whose sole purpose was to discover who had injured Jordan. He was fairly certain that if he discovered the unfortunate knave he would run him through before words of accusation could escape his lips. With every step, he was becoming more and more determined to kill first and talk later. He didn’t even want to know why they did it; he already knew and his punishment would be swift.
At some point, they ended up on the fourth level of the keep near the north tower. Marc was on the third level guarding William’s prisoners while Kieran and Adam were flanking William in his search. They could hear Deinwald nearby, yelling at someone, and they knew their search was drawing to a close. Whoever had done it must either be trapped or in their custody. There were only two rooms left at this level. They were closing in.
William threw open the door of the first room, entering sword first. It was a bedchamber, normally used by guests, and he sent Kieran to the last unsearched chamber while he and Adam tore the chamber apart. A wardrobe was ripped to shreds and still they found nothing. As they were preparing to upturn the bed, they heard Kieran’s shout from the next room.
William and Adam raced next door. As they neared the chamber entry, they could see Deinwald and Michael running at them from the opposite direction. William was through the door first, spying Kieran over near a second doorway that led to a small corridor between chambers, normally used by servants. As William approached, he could see that Kieran was crouching beside a prone body. He had a dagger in his hand.
William pointed at the corpse. “Who is it?” he asked. “Did you do this?”
Kieran shook his head as he rolled a man, dressed in the clothes of a man-at-arms, onto his back.
“He was dead when I found him with this dagger stuck in his ribs,” he replied, holding the dirk aloft to show William. Then he threw a thumb over his shoulder, back into the servant’s passage. “Someone had propped him up just inside the door and when I opened it, he fell out.”
William surveyed the body, the room, and the rather elegant dagger before returning his attention to the corpse. “I do not recognize him. Do you?”
Kieran nodded. “I have seen him,” he said, peeling the man’s tunic apart as he began to search him. “I do not know his name.”
Deinwald eyed the corpse closely. “I do,” he muttered after a moment. “His name is Scully. His brother was killed last year in the same battle that nearly killed William. This man was a troublemaker.”
William glanced up at him. “Enough to make an attempt on a Scotswoman’s life?”
Deinwald could only shrug. “Perhaps,” he replied. “Surely this does not surprise you, my lord. It could have been this man, or another man, or any number of them. I fear this will not be an isolated incident.”
Kieran, who had been searching the dead man’s tunic and clothing, suddenly pulled forth a necklace from inside the man’s undergarments. As he held it up, they could all see that it was a gold necklace with large, rough-cut emeralds. It was an exquisite piece and Kieran looked at William, puzzled by the trinket.
“This is not the usual possession of a soldier,” he commented.
William stared at the jewelry. “Nay,” he said slowly, “it is not, but it is the possession of a woman of some wealth.”
Kieran said what they all were thinking. It was far too obvious. “A woman that perhaps does not want a new stepmother?”
William looked at Kieran for a moment, their gazes locking before emitting a grunt of disgust and realization.
“Aye,” he muttered. “A woman like that. I did not believe her capable of stooping to that level but I suppose anything is possible. Pay a man enough, a man who recently lost his brother to the Scots, and he will do her dirty work.”
Kieran handed William the necklace. “What will you do?”
William stared at the very expensive piece of adornment. He didn’t have an answer. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving his men in stunned and repulsed silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jordan came out of her haze when Paris laid her upon the bed. She could hear Jemma crying and struggled out of her unconsciousness to reassure her cousin.
“Be still, my lady,” Paris’ voice was soft but firm. “You must lay still.”
“What had the bloody bastards done to ye this time?” Jemma cried, rushing to the other side of the bed to better see her cousin.
Paris grabbed Jemma’s arm and pulled her away from the bed. When she opened her mouth to scream at him, he clamped his hand over it. The look in his eyes frightened her.
“Be still, Jemma,” he growled. “If you want to stay in this room then you must be still and quiet and do as I say. Otherwise, I will physically remove you. I will not have you upsetting Jordan. Do you understand?”
Something in his tone tol
d her that he would stand for absolutely nothing but blind obedience. She nodded once and he removed his hand. Calmly, they both returned to the bed.
Jordan was wide awake, her right hand touching the shaft that protruded from the top of her left shoulder.
“An arrow?” she gasped as she met Paris’ gaze.
“Aye,” he took her hand away from it. “I must remove it. Lady Jemma, will you find me all of the clean linen you can get your lovely hands on, please?”
Jemma, her eyes wide with fright, obeyed without a word. Paris took his dagger and tore away the material from around the wound, baring her entire left shoulder, arm, and the top of her breast. His expert fingers gently felt over it, his touch as soft as a baby’s but Jordan whimpered anyway, frightened, as she closed her eyes and turned away.
A lone tear trickled down her temple. She was sickened by the arrow in her shoulder, crying from the shock of it more than the pain.
Sympathy clutched at Paris’ heart. It was a good thing William wasn’t in here, making his job more difficult than it already was. He wondered angrily what in the hell was keeping Byron.
“Did you enjoy your walk this morn?” he asked pleasantly, trying to get her mind off the object in her shoulder. “I saw that you obtained some new material.”
Her eyes opened. She looked so pale and fragile and lovely lying on the pillow. Tempting, too, but he chased that thought away as quickly as it came.
“Aye,” her voice was shaking. “I was going to have some new dresses made.”
Jemma dashed back into the room, dumping a load of linen on the bottom of the bed. Paris glanced at it.
“Good,” he said to her calmly and patiently. “Now go into the hall and see if you can see Byron coming.”
He did not want her in the room when he removed the arrow. Jemma nodded nervously and fled. As soon as she was gone, he slammed the door behind her and went back to Jordan. Smiling down at her, he braced one leg on the bed and firmly grasped the shaft of the arrow.
She paled when she realized what was coming. She nodded as if giving him silent approval to continue, unconsciously putting her right hand on his, fluttering delicately against him. It could have been a most erotic action, under different circumstances.
“Swiftly, Sir Paris,” she whispered and turned her head away. “I shall be grateful.”
He gave her no time to prepare, no time to wonder when the stab of pain was coming as he gripped the shaft and yanked it straight up, straight out.
Her scream cut him to the bone. She began to cry loudly as he slapped the linen over the coursing blood, pressing hard and trying to hold her still with his other hand. She gripped his arm, her nails biting into him in her anguish.
“It is all over, sweetheart,” he whispered, listening to her sobs. “It is all over now.”
She continued to cry and his heart was breaking for her. Leaning down, he touched his forehead to hers in a silent gesture of comfort. He had to do what had been done and his only regret was that it had caused her so much pain. He knew exactly how she felt.
Jemma burst into the room, shrieking when she saw the bloodied arrow on the coverlet. Paris was practically lying on top of Jordan, trying to comfort her and staunch the flow of blood and keep her still at the same time. She shrieked again and ran to the other side of the bed.
“What can I do?” she demanded wildly. “What help do ye need?”
“Where is Byron?” Paris’ head came up to look at her and Jemma swore she saw tears in his eyes.
“I saw him coming up the stairs,” she stammered.
“Then there is nothing you can do right now,” he told her, looking back down at Jordan. She was quieting. “Your job will come after he has tended your cousin.”
Shaken, Jemma backed away and collapsed in the nearest chair. Watching Paris tend her cousin as gently as a mother tends a baby reformed many of her negative views toward him. Mayhap he wasn’t so bad, after all.
Byron, tiny and bald in flowing black robes, descended into the room and spoke a few short words to Paris, who reluctantly pushed himself off Jordan to allow the little man better access. He began to dab this and wipe that, digging into his bag and bringing out strange vials. Jemma watched curiously as he and Paris conversed over the wound, the severity, and Jordan’s health.
It began to occur to Jemma that mayhap all English weren’t as bad as she had always been led to believe. Certainly, Kieran wasn’t bad. And William was more than kind to his cousin. And now, Paris and Byron were working over Jordan as if she were a blood relative. Mayhap all English were not that bad. It was strange to think that when all she had ever done was associate the English with pain and hatred.
That day, Jemma grew up, just a bit.
*
Jordan was sleeping by the time William went to her rooms. It was late in the afternoon and the smells of dinner were wafting in the air through the bailey, making the dogs whine.
Paris was still there, as was Jemma. Deinwald and Michael stood vigilant watch in the hall, and William dismissed them from the duty as he entered the chambers. Paris greeted him in the antechamber.
“How is she?” William fired at him.
“She sleeps,” he was told. “Byron gave her poppy for the pain and it knocked her out cold. Tell me what you have found out. Michael and Deinwald said you found the would-be assassin.”
William proceeded to brief him on everything they had discovered and everything he suspected. It was not a pretty tale. When he had finished, Paris did not look the least bit surprised.
“I always knew the girl was a petty little bitch but I never believed her to be a murderess,” Paris said quietly.
William nodded, feeling his fatigue catch up with him. It had been a long day. “I must see Jordan now,” he said, moving past his second. “We will discuss the strategy of what to do about it later. But for now… I need to see Jordan.”
He proceeded into the next room. In the dark and warm bedchamber, Jemma was seated in a chair next to the bed, a piece of needlework in her hands. She glanced up at William.
“Sir knight,” she greeted him.
Had he not been so concerned with Jordan he would have done a double-take at Jemma’s sweetly polite tone. He leaned over the bed, putting his palm on her forehead, her cheek.
“No fever,” he whispered. His gaze lingered on Jordan’s sleeping face a moment before glancing at Jemma. “You are excused for dinner, Lady Jemma. I shall take the watch now.”
Jemma stood up. “I am not hungry, truly. I would rather stay.”
He looked at her sharply but saw she was not arguing, simply stating her preference.
“You have been here all day,” he said, not unkindly. “Go and take some nourishment, then you may return.”
“If you will allow me to escort you, my lady.” It was Paris from the doorway.
Jemma looked indecisive for a moment before slowly setting her work down and moving for the door. When Paris offered her his arm with a standoffish look, as if he expected her to slap him, she made a face at him and snatched his elbow firmly.
“I willna bite, ye silly goat,” she snapped.
Paris smiled; he liked the banter they had developed. In fact, he quite relished sharpening his skills against her formidable insults.
“Ah, that is the Lady Jemma I have grown to know,” he said approvingly. He laughed when she screwed her face up.
When they were gone William bolted the door and went back to Jordan’s bed, collapsing slowly into the chair Jemma had occupied. His eyes never left Jordan’s pale, sleeping face.
Suddenly, it hit him all at once; the arrow, the attempt at her life, the blood, his fear… everything. He closed his eyes as if to block out the surge of emotions that welled within him, his eyes stinging with what he knew to be tears. He could not remember when he had last wept but he knew the pang to be the beginnings.
Her hand lay limply by her side. He collected it reverently into his big fists, holding it up against hi
s forehead as if he were praying over her. He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing strength from her warmth, her pulse. She was alive, thank God, and he was relieved to his soul. ’Twas a frightening thing to come so close to losing something he loved so completely, that it left him shaken.
He felt weak, like a frightened little boy. He was torn between being angry for the scare and so damn thankful for her safety that he was prepared to do a lifetime of penance for it.
He hated Analiese with a passion he had never known. His natural urge was to seek vengeance, but his common sense ruled his mind. And, under no circumstances, was Jordan to know who had made the attempt on her life. He raised his head, staring at her sleeping face and putting her hand to his lips. God, he loved her.
She twitched and rolled her head, her eyes slowly opening. They rolled back in her head a couple of times, indicative of the potency of Byron’s poppy potion before she was able to focus long enough to see him sitting there, looking at her.
“English,” she whispered, concerned. “Why are ye crying?”
He hadn’t realized he had been. Then he felt a drop hit his flesh as he held her hand to his lips and realized that he had been crying the whole time he had been sitting there.
“Because I could have lost you,” he whispered hoarsely. He didn’t know what else to say.
She smiled weakly and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Then her eyes closed and she drifted off again.
There was a knock on the door an hour later. William rose from the same position he had been in since his arrival and opened the door.
Jemma stood in the door way, flanked by Kieran. They were both solemn and quiet. William stepped back and allowed them entrance. To Jemma, he looked dazed.
“How is she?” she asked him.
“She sleeps,” he replied.
“The earl is on his way up, William,” Kieran said. “Mayhap you… you should not be here.”
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 69