William looked at his third-in-command, his mind clearing somewhat. Nodding shortly, he quit the room without as much as a glance in Jordan’s direction.
He didn’t even stop to think as to why Kieran suggested he should not be in her room; it never occurred to him that he knew about their relationship. They all knew, and fortunately they were thinking, where William was unable to for the moment.
As on the battlefield, they were sworn to protect and serve him always, even in unfamiliar matters of the heart.
*
Jordan was so hot. The sun was mercilessly beating down on her, roasting her alive. She tried to put up her hands to block the rays but every time she did something would slap them back down.
“No, you fool! Jordan’s running a fever and she’s delirious,” Jemma she yelled.
Fear surged through him like a bolt. He nearly ran Jemma over in his attempt to get to Jordan’s room.
She lay atop her bed covers, her face flushed. She was still for the moment but in case she should start to thrash again, he saw that her other maid was standing at the ready next to the bed.
William dropped beside the bed, his hand on her forehead. His heart sank with anguish; she was on fire. “How long, Jemma?”
“I awoke a half hour ago and she was sweating rivers. I dunna know how long she has been like this,” she replied.
He stood up. “We’ve got to cool her down.”
He went back through the antechamber and jerked open the door. There were three men-at-arms, trusted men, standing watch. William snapped orders to them rapidly; one to get the tub, one to get Byron, and one to send Paris to him. The men scattered to do his bidding.
Back inside the bed chamber, Jordan had begun to thrash again. He heard Jemma call out and ran to the bed, pushing her out of the way and grabbing Jordan’s flailing arms. She screamed something in Gaelic and he tried to soothe her, feeling so utterly helpless. He could think of nothing more than to pull her against him and pin her arms, whispering comforting words in her ear and praying she would hear him.
But Jordan was not about to be pacified so easily; she screamed and yelled and twisted about with strength he had never before seen in a woman. Yet he kept a constant stream of gentle words, hoping that somewhere deep in her delirium she would calm down.
His face was by her head. She felt him and, angrily, head-butted him so hard she split his lip and her scalp. He snatched her by the hair, holding her head still and all the while still speaking gently. Eventually, her struggling became less and less to the point where Jemma approached and dabbed William’s lip with a soft piece of soft linen. After a few more moments of tussling with her, she went limp once again.
“She is burning up,” he whispered to Jemma.
Jemma nodded, her eyes wide with fear. What if Jordan died? She could not even fathom it. She was frightened to the core.
The tub arrived and instantly the soldier, the two maids and Jemma were filling it with buckets of tepid water while William continued to hold Jordan’s hot body tightly in his arms. Paris arrived shortly thereafter and began driving the servants and Jemma like an Egyptian slave master.
“Damnation, where is Byron?” Paris ranted, kicking over a bucket that had been left on the floor.
William was holding Jordan, pressed to him like a rag doll, her head laying on his shoulder. He didn’t respond to the tirade. When the last bucket of water went in, Paris chased the soldier out and tore off his cloak.
“Get her in here, William,” he said quickly.
Jemma almost mentioned that her cousin still wore her linen shift, but stopped herself. Jordan would not like to be stripped naked in front of two men, even in her current state, so even if she were only a thin nightshift, ’twas better than nothing at all.
William gathered Jordan to him and took her into the antechamber where the others waited. Everyone positioned themselves around the tub as William held her out over the water.
“She’s not going to like this one bit,” Paris remarked, leaning over to better assist William.
He was right. The moment her over-heated body touched the water, Jordan stiffened and shrieked like a banshee. He dropped her right into the tub, up to her neck in the water and became completely soaked holding her down in it. Paris, on the other side, took the brunt of the splashing. It was no time at all before the entire floor of the antechamber, as well as the occupants, were soaked to the skin.
Jordan screamed and cursed and fought against Paris and William. She was babbling in Gaelic the entire time and they could not understand a word of it, but William kept talking to her, hoping she would become rational enough to understand.
“What is she saying, Jemma?” Paris sputtered as a big splash of water hit him in the mouth.
Jemma shook her head. “Something about demons. She thinks ye are demons come to get her.”
Jordan’s struggling weakened and she began to weep. William wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her fears away, but the cold water was doing her good. The fever had to come down.
The door opened and Byron blew in, glancing at the residents but not uttering a word about the state the room was in. He set down his bag and moved to Jordan, putting his hand on her forehead.
“She’s hot,” he stated the obvious. “I can give her something to take it down. Then I need to get a look at the wound again.”
He administered a potion made from boiled willow bark, a task that was most difficult, considering Jordan would have no part of it. But between Byron and William, they managed to force down a good portion of it.
“There,” Byron said quietly. “That should help the fever. Now let’s get her out of there.”
William lifted her out, water cascading from her all over his leather breeches. Byron wanted her out of the wet shift, so William held her while the maids and Jemma stripped off the see-through fabric and placed a fresh surcoat on her.
At first, Jemma was vehemently opposed to William holding onto her naked cousin, but she had to relent when she realized they needed his strength to help them. Jordan had passed out cold and was total dead weight in his arms.
It took all three of the women to peel off the wet garment, but even as Jemma stripped off the shift, she made sure that she covered Jordan’s private parts with a large piece of linen that also served to dry off her skin. William almost laughed; if Jemma only knew that he had done more than just look at her privates.
Dry and back in the bed, Jordan started coming around. William tensed when he saw her moving again, preparing for another go-around, but her eyes opened and she focused lucidly on him.
“English?” she whispered.
He stood over the bed, trying not to show any more emotion than was absolutely necessary, but it was damn difficult. “Aye, my lady?”
“What…what are ye doing here?” her voice was no more than a baby’s whisper.
“Ye’re sick, Jordan,” Jemma stood next to William. “Ye were delirious. Sir William was the only one who could control ye.”
“What happened to yer lip, Jemma?” Jordan demanded, off the subject. She still wasn’t completely sound of mind.
“Nothing, Jordi,” her cousin replied.
“She cut herself shaving,” Paris quipped from behind William.
Jemma shot him a nasty look, fighting off a smile. Jordan looked thoroughly confused by everything.
“I must get to sleep,” she said. “I am exhausted. Got to go to town tomorrow, ye know. Will ye go with me, Jemma? Or are ye going back to Langton?”
Jemma looked confused but, thankfully, did not think anything of the remark. William had yet to tell her of her fate and had not the desire to get into it with her tonight. Still babbling, Jordan faded off once again.
Lord de Longley came to Jordan’s chambers near noon the next day. His old face was wrought with worry when Deinwald opened the door to admit him, and he pushed directly into Jordan’s bedchamber.
William, Paris, Byron and Jemma were still there
in various positions all over the room. William stood by the long windows, gazing out over the courtyard. When he glanced at De Longley he was glad that the man had not come any earlier. He had been beside her bed all night; ’twas the first time he had moved from the chair to catch a breath of air. Somehow being across the room from her made him look a little less concerned, mayhap a little less suspect.
But every time he looked at her his heart was squeezed a little tighter and he was closer than ever to losing his sanity.
De Longley went to the bed, gazing sadly on Jordan’s blond head.
“How does she fare?” he asked no one in particular.
“Her fever rises and falls,” Byron said. “But she weakens.”
De Longley looked at the physician. “Is she dying?”
Byron shrugged. “I hope not, sire. But I have done all that I can.”
De Longley looked back at her. He did not want her to die. How in the hell was he going to explain her death to the king? With a curt nod, he quit the room and left Lady Jordan’s fate to the angels.
The day dragged on and still Jordan did not awaken. Twice more they were forced to submerge her in cool water and Byron had taken to lancing the wound every hour, then packing it with healing herbs and mud to draw the poisons out. The willow bark potion kept her fever from going wild, but she could not shake it and she was weakening steadily. William was falling deeper and deeper into despair.
It was near dusk when Byron bent over her, examined her again, and straightened wearily.
“Captain,” he said quietly. “You might want to consider sending for a priest.”
William, leaning against the far wall, went rigid. Paris, knowing what was coming and unable to stop it, chased Jemma and the maids from the room on a hastily thought-up pretense. Once they were gone, what William said or did would matter little to Byron.
“She is not going to die,” William said through clenched teeth.
Byron looked at him. “A precaution, my lord.”
“Nay.” William boomed. “I will not hear of it. She’s going to live, do you hear me? I will not allow her to die.”
Paris stepped in. “Be reasonable, William. Think with your head and not your heart. If Byron says she needs a priest, then mayhap we should summon Father Sutton.”
William’s hands shot out and he grabbed Paris by the tunic, slamming his best friend into the wall so hard that the entire room shook. He continued to hold him there, gripping him so tightly that his knuckles were white.
“I said no,” he seethed “No priest. She’s not going to die.”
Paris was a little startled by the violent motion but did not fight back. Byron, for his part, had just received confirmation of what he had already suspected; William was in love with the fair maiden. He’d heard the rumors. Now he saw they were justified.
“William,” Paris said helplessly. “I am not wishing her dead by suggesting a priest. Surely you know that.”
William looked long and hard at him. The longer he looked, the more despair and anguish he felt. Paris gazed mildly back at him, afraid to say anything more lest he get his teeth knocked out. After a moment, William released his friend.
“Get out, both of you,” he growled. “Byron, leave your medicaments. I shall tend to her myself.”
Not the best idea, but the other two could do nothing more than comply. Byron shrugged and moved for the door while Paris lingered.
“What if de Longley asks for you?” he wanted to know.
“To hell with de Longley,” William snapped. But he forced himself to calm, turning to Paris. “Tell him I have retired to my chambers and am not to be disturbed. Tell him anything. Keep Jemma and the maids out of sight so he will think that they are with her. I have to do this, Paris. I cannot stand by and watch her die. If she does…if she does, I have to know that I did everything in my power to prevent it. She saved my life once. ’Tis my turn to return the favor.”
Paris clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically before moving through the antechamber and to the front door. He paused a moment before leaving.
“Should you need me, my lord, I shall be right outside,” he called. Receiving no answer, he quit the room and paused wearily in the hall outside.
William didn’t even realize when he had left. His focus was entirely on Jordan. God, he was exhausted.
He spent all night bathing and tending Jordan, doing exactly what Byron had been doing. She remained unconscious although he talked to her constantly, hoping beyond hope she would hear him. Twice his voice began to crack from pure grief, but he forced himself to overcome and continued on as if she was sitting up responding to him as she always had.
But eventually the chatter died down. During the quiet lull he would sit next to her and tell her stories of his squiring, of his life in Wolverhampton before he came to Northwood. He spoke of his mother, something he had never done before with anyone. But she could not hear him, anyway. He would stroke her hair, swab her limbs to keep her cool. Once he even took to tickling her foot to see if she would react. It was the last desperate act of a man drowning in sorrow.
He refused to believe she was dying. True, she was weak and her wound was raging with infection, but she would pull through. He had seen men hurt far worse recover. She simply needed rest and Byron’s potions and she would be fine, and when she had recovered fully he would take her to Normandy and they would live out the rest of their lives together.
He had kin in Normandy; in fact his great-great grandfather had been a general for William the Conqueror, the man of his namesake. He had been named for the man who had confiscated England from the Saxons. Aye, he would return to the land of his roots, but just as soon as he would convince himself that she would improve, he would take one look at her ghostly face and his hopes would plunge all over again. ’Twas a vicious, unending cycle.
Toward dawn her breathing slowed dramatically and he was seized with dread; he knew her time was drawing near. He was grief-stricken with the fact that there was nothing more he could do for her. He would go to his grave knowing he had done everything possible but it was a bitter pill to swallow for him. He was unused to defeat of any kind, and he thought it bitterly ironic that with all of his strength and skill, he could do nothing more for her. If he thought ordering her to live would have done any good, he would have done so.
But there was nothing more to be done. Still there was one more thing he could do for her; she would not die alone. Fighting off a scream of anguish, he pulled off his boots and crawled into bed beside her, drawing the coverlet over them both and gathering her into his arms tightly as if he could hide her from the death that was coming to claim her.
Tears came to his eyes and his throat constricted painfully. When the tears found their way down his cheeks, sobs came. He pulled her tighter as if he could will his life-force into her. His heart was breaking and he could not stand the thought that he was going to lose her. All he could do was hold her and tell her over and over again how much he loved her.
Somehow, she was limper than she had been before, but was still breathing. Strange that she didn’t feel so hot anymore, but it was probably because her life was slipping away and all of the energy was gone from it. He closed his eyes tightly, pressing his face into the top of her head.
“Do not die, Jordan,” he wept quietly. “Do not leave me. I love you more than my own life.”
He had been awake for nearly two days. Without realizing it, without wanting to, he fell asleep with Lady Jordan cradled in his arms.
*
William awoke in the bed and found himself alone. Seized with a panic, he bolted from the bed like a man possessed.
“Jordan.” he yelled hoarsely. “God, no. Do not take her. Paris….”
He surged into the antechamber only to be met by Paris steadying him, gripping his arms fiercely.
“Keep your voice down,” Paris hissed. “You’ll wake the whole damn castle.”
William almost tore Paris’ arms off
. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“She is here,” came a soft and decidedly tired female voice. “She is here and she is famished. I thought ye’d never wake up, English.”
Had Paris not been holding him, William would have collapsed. He turned with sheer disbelief in the direction of the voice and was overwhelmed to see Jordan sitting in the high-back arm chair, wrapped in a soft blue robe with her feet resting on a cushioned stool. She was pale and wan, but she smiled at him and he came apart at the seams.
The next thing he realized he was on his knees in front of her, his face buried in her lap and gripping her legs as tightly as he could. He was deathly afraid that he was dreaming. Jordan stroked his dark hair weakly with her good arm, smiling down at him.
“Come, now, English,” she said softly. “Ye dinna think that I would truly leave ye?”
His head came up and his hands were all over her face, her hair, touching her body to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“Are you real?” he whispered raggedly. “I thought you were dead.”
She closed her eyes at his touch, too weak to respond with much else. “Nay, not dead,” she whispered. “Though I think I was at one point, but I kept hearing yer voice. I tried to follow it, hoping I would find ye. Next thing I knew I awoke in yer arms. Paris was leaning over ye and quite surprised to see me. He thought I was dead, too, and had come to pry me from yer arms.”
William’s mind was reeling. He looked at Paris, then back to Jordan again. He was at a loss for words. He wanted to hug her desperately but knew she was too weak to handle it.
“My God,” he breathed. “I hope I am not dreaming. I still cannot believe that you are actually alive. ’Tis too unbelievable.”
“For me, as well,” Paris interjected gently. “I came in here fully expecting to find you holding a corpse and as soon as I bent down to remove her, she looked at me and smiled. I nearly fainted.”
He looked at Paris then. “Why is she up?” he demanded, recovering somewhat from his shock. “She should be abed.”
“Because I asked him to bring me in here to allow ye to sleep,” Jordan answered for Paris. “I was fairly sore from lying in bed for two days. It feels wonderful to sit up, although I am as weak as a new babe.”
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 70