by Jen Holling
And he was a fine one. Broad and strong, fine of feature. His nose was straight, his mouth full and wide, made for smiling. She remembered his smile, too. She'd received it a few times since she'd arrived at Braighde Pele. He would have had dozens of bastards if he'd been a whole man. He might have them yet. She wondered if his back kept him from lying with women
As if sensing her intense scrutiny, he turned his head and caught her stare.
Her cheeks blazed and she quickly looked away—then turned back, the words bursting out of her, unbidden. "What? You think me faithless to my family for holding such beliefs? Faithless to my true self?"
After a moment he nodded. Aye, I do. But more than that, I wonder who put such words in your mouth. They sound nothing like William or Rose, and they certainly do not sound like you."
"They are God’s words, given to me by God’s messenger."
"God’s messenger!" Stephen covered his mouth, his eyes wide with shock, "Here? On earth? And who might that be?"
Deidra's eyes narrowed at his mocking. "God’s messengers here on earth are pastors, reverends, the like, you addlepate."
"Oh." He let out a huge sigh of relief, then grinned at her sour look. "So you were told this by a pastor. No doubt a witch-hunting one."
Aye," She sighed deeply. "He sees the evil in me."
A witch hunter sees evil in a wean who crawls by kine if it stops giving milk. That's what they do. They hunt witches—that's why they're called witch hunters. And they wouldn't be very good at their chosen occupation if they never found any, so they see witchcraft in everything."
She shook her head. "No. This man is different. He has witnessed my father and Rose heal and knows it is the work of God. He does not want to bum them. And he has spared me for so long out of some odd courtesy to them. But he knows I am different. That I am not good as they are."
Stephen sighed and frowned at her. "You are wrong, lass. But I can see you're deaf to sense, so I'll not waste any more breath trying to convince you."
That stung. It didn't matter that he was right; he couldn't convince her, and the more he tried, the more she would argue her case. What bothered her was his lack of interest in trying. He didn't really care, not if he would give up so easily.
She closed her eyes and shook the foolish notion from her head. Why should he care? She didn't care about him! Again she regretted her foolish decision to allow him to join her. Not only would he slow her down but now he was making this journey miserable with his tiresome conversation.
She decided that she wouldn't listen to any more of it. She would shut him out as surely as she shut the animals out.
Stephen longed to stop for the night, but he refused to suggest it. He knew what Deidra thought. He was dead weight, slowing her down. And she was right. Fortunately he didn't particularly care what she thought. Still, he was determined to prove her wrong, which meant she would be the one to decide when to stop for rest and sleep.
Unfortunately, she had stopped talking to him. He must have annoyed her by telling her she was not evil and now she looked anywhere but at him, her mouth a thin line.
He prayed she would decide to stop soon and not make him break the silence. His back screamed. His belly cramped. The agony made him queasy, and he had nothing but whisky in his belly to boch. He had been dosing himself liberally from a leather flask He’d brought, but it was not helping.
Duke wasn't doing well either. At first he had run ahead, diving in bushes and chasing birds. But now he walked behind them, tail sagging and tongue lolling.
Stephen noticed that as the sun sank, Deidra's shoulders drew up tighter. Her gaze scanned the barren landscape around them, eyes wide and wild. It dawned on him with sudden sickening horror that she was not going to stop. She feared something, and if he didn't find out what, they might ride all night. The thought made him light-headed. He gripped the saddle horn hard, willing the nausea to pass.
"Deidra? Is something amiss?"
"No," she said too quickly, pushing curls off her forehead. They fell right back.
"The horses are tired. Perhaps we should stop for the night."
Her gaze darted around nervously. "I want to find a cottar...a shielding...something."
They hadn't passed a cottage in miles, and though it had been years since Stephen had ventured this far from home and even longer since he'd been this far north, he still recalled it being sparsely populated. In fact, he was relatively certain they had little chance of passing a cottage in the next couple of hours. He wanted to sprawl over his horse’s neck with fatigue and disbelief, but his back would never allow such an extravagant range of movement.
He cleared his throat. "I think that's unlikely, Deidra."
She gave him a sharp look. "Why do you say that?"
"Because there isn't much out here. We haven't passed anything in hours."
"That only means that we're due to come across one." She desperately scanned the gloaming, her voice growing shrill.
She knew better than that. It meant nothing of the sort. Stephen frowned at her. There was something here he was missing. There was a reason the idea of stopping without a shelter made her so anxious.
"No, that's not what it means. A man could travel for days out here without seeing a soul."
Her mouth flattened. "There are things out here."
What things? Understanding dawned. She didn't want to sleep out in the open where anything could get at her. She claimed to ignore the animals, but she couldn't, at least not all of the time. She must be vulnerable when she slept—that was what had brought her to the stable last night. Countess shook her mane and snorted, eyes rolling toward Deidra. Deidra pointedly looked away.
He would wager his last drop of whisky that she didn't want to sleep anywhere near the horses. Things were suddenly much clearer and even more dire than he'd feared. Would they ride all night if they didn't find shelter? Stephen didn't think his back could bear it.
"Deidra, we have to stop."
She didn't respond; instead, her head turned, eyes scanning the horizon, skin pulled tight over cheekbones.
"Deidra, listen to me. We cannot just ride all night. The horses must rest. Duke is exhausted. We must rest."
She swung toward him, eyes wild, lips thinned. "No! I didn't invite your dog along. You are the one who must rest. I could ride all night." Hysteria edged her voice. Her chest heaved as she sucked in deep breaths.
"Peace. Just stop for a moment. Not for the night."
Her jaw hardened and he thought she might refuse. Then her shoulders sagged as if she could no longer hold up under the weight of this cross she bore. She drew rein. "Very well."
Stephen didn't relish dismounting in front of her, but there was nothing for it. He'd known the cost when he'd decided to make this journey.
He pressed the ball of his foot into the right stirrup. Pain lanced up his thigh, stabbing at the base of his spine. His mouth went dry and he couldn't swallow. He forced his left leg to swing over the horse's back. Pain slashed through him, shoving every other thought from his mind, removing shame and pride. His fingers curled into the saddle and he clung to it, hanging on so he didn't crumple to the ground. He pressed his face into the horse's withers. Sparks of light danced behind his eyelids. He couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't see.
Vaguely, in the distance, he heard a voice speaking his name. Hands touched his waist, urging him to the ground.
"No," he ground out into a mouthful of sweaty horse hair.
"Let go." Her voice was firm and her fingers wrapped around his, trying to pry them from the saddle.
He didn't feel like fighting. He released his grip and sagged backward. She grunted, catching his weight and keeping him from falling. She lowered him to the ground.
“A blanket," he gasped.
She scurried away. Soft whining and a wet nose pressed to his ear. Duke. He licked Stephen anxiously.
"Shoo—go away!”' Deidra said, returning a second la
ter with Stephen’s rolled-up blanket, Duke whined plaintively, but the wet tongue disappeared,
"Inside!”' he gasped, "there is a bottle."
His eyes squeezed shut, so he didn't see what she did. He couldn't hear much either over the pain screaming through him and his heart thudding in his ears. Every rock on the ground dug into his side. His back locked rigid with pain, breaking and twisting.
"I have it," she said.
"I need to drink some."
The smooth, cool lip of the bottle pressed against his lips. Thick, bitter liquid dribbled over his tongue and down his throat. He drank it greedily, then choked and fell into a coughing fit that nearly made him faint.
He heard Deidra’s voice over him as if from a distance, tight and angry. "Damn you, Stephen Ross—you knew this would happen!" She still held him. She sat on the ground, one leg stretched out, his back resting on her thigh, her arm around his shoulders. He let his head fall against her shoulder. Soft curls pressed to his forehead. It soothed him, her arms, the soft texture of her hair, her breathing as her chest rose and fell.
Slowly, he began to feel his back again. At some point it had ceased to be an individual body part and had just been a screaming ball of knotted muscles. It still hurt like hell, but he could feel it: a spine lined with muscle, hips and buttocks. All accounted for and in agony.
She still harangued him angrily, but he found it comforting.
"I knew you would slow me down, but I let you talk me into this foolishness and now you cannot even move."
Stephen cleared his throat. "Calm yourself. And I will be able to ride just fine tomorrow."
She gave a short, sarcastic laugh of disbelief.
Aye, I told you, I'm crippled, not invalid. However, I cannot keep abusing my back all day and night without resting it for a tic, aye? So let’s stay here tonight."
Her body stiffened, but she didn't say a word. She had to know they couldn't move, not in his current condition. If he'd been with someone else he might have cursed his injury, but the way he saw it, his current pain was her fault. Even she couldn't be immune to the effects of their day in the saddle. She just hid it better.
The poppy juice worked it’s magic, making him loose and languid. "You ken," he said, "had you allowed me to bring servants, we would have had tents and camp beds and hot food. And tonight I'd have a woman to massage liniment into my back. But no, you cannot have anyone else along. Now see what happened?"
"You're blaming this on me!" She yanked out from beneath him, and his head slapped the ground. Pain jarred through him. He grunted and cursed.
"I can't believe you are trying to put the blame on me!"
"It was a jest, lass—a jest."
"No, it wasn't. Aye, you're right—we would have had all of that. And I am sorry, but if you need all of that you shouldn't have come along. You should have stayed in your castle where you would be safe and fed and pampered."
He lay on his back, staring at the stars piercing the sky. "Everyone needs to rest, lass. Even you."
She sniffed. "I'm fine. I could have ridden on for days."
Stephen shook his head slowly, a small smile pulling at his lips. She was stubborn. The poppy juice didn't make the pain disappear, but it made it easier to bear. Waves of lethargy swept over him. Duke belly-crawled to Stephen's side and lay his head on Stephen's thigh. Stephen rested a hand on the dog's head. He started to drift off to sleep when a small, cool hand slid beneath his neck. A folded blanket slipped beneath it to pillow his head.
He opened his eyes. Deidra leaned over him, her smooth skin smudged with road dust. "Would it help if I rubbed the liniment into your back?" she asked softly, blue eyes wide and anxious.
Her question stunned him. That was the last thing He’d expected her to offer. Was this some sort of poppy-induced hallucination? He’d had a few of those before, and they had prompted him to stop taking it.
Whatever it was, reality or fantasy, he meant to play along. He found his tongue quickly enough.
“Aye, that would be of great help in getting us on our way quicker in the morning."
She gave him a brisk nod. "Where is the liniment?"
He told her where she could find it. When she returned, she stood over him, staring down.
"You need to roll over, don't you?"
He grinned. “After you help me remove my shirt."
Her eyes narrowed, as if evaluating whether he was capable of lechery. Apparently deciding she had no choice, she shooed Duke away again and dropped to her knees where she set to work unhooking his leather jack. He helped her pull it off his arms, then she went to work untying the bottom laces of his shirt.
"There," she said, sitting back on her heels. "Now you can just push it up in the back."
He hid his smile by struggling to roll onto his stomach. He rested his head on his bent arm. She pushed his shirt up and gasped. He didn't have to look at her face to know what she viewed with horror.
"Did it hurt?" she asked in a hushed voice. Before he could answer, she answered herself. "What am I asking? Of course it hurt."
Her fingers touched the healed but mangled skin gently, tracing over the ragged edges of the scar. He shuddered with intense pain-pleasure, and she drew her touch away. The strong medicinal scent of the liniment tingled the inside of his nose. Her fingers, gloved in the greasy cream, dug into his back. He bit back a grunt of pain and squeezed his eyes shut. It always hurt at first. Her fingers worked at his knotted muscles, pressing and kneading, forcing the muscles to loosen.
She started to use her fists. His teeth bit into his bottom lip until he tasted blood. She was stronger than she looked. He imagined her in his mind, working at his back, sleek, slender muscles standing out on her arms, mouth grim, curls damp and clinging to the sides of her fine-boned face. She was beautiful, exotic, strange. He decided he wanted her, to taste and feel her. It had seemed a rather unlikely proposition at first, but here she was massaging his back. She was unpredictable.
Her hand rested on his hip. "Roll onto your side." She sounded out of breath.
He realized he was aroused, and he hesitated but did as she bid, pushing himself onto his side. His back was definitely improved from her ministrations.
She started in on his hip. This time he couldn't suppress his cry of pain when she ground her knuckles into the tight muscles. Pain radiated from his back and down both legs, and she was attacking it right where it hurt the most.
"With hands like yours, I can't believe you're not married."
She gave a short laugh. "What man would marry a woman for her hands?"
"I would."
She laughed again, but this time it was edged with bitterness. "It’s not as if you have much of a choice."
His eyes sprang open. Had she just insulted him? A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You think I can't get a worthy woman."
"Well, you are a cripple. And a bastard."
"I'm also rich and pretty."
Her fingers dug hard into the muscles of his side.
"Ouch!"
"Forgive me," she said with false humility. "Unbuckle your belt."
His heart skipped a hopeful beat. "What?"
"So I can pull down your trews and rub the thigh."
"Oh." He did as she bid. If she noticed the state of his erection, she said nothing at all. He was surprised he could be so excited, considering the amount of pain He’d been in, but he was. He wanted her quite badly.
"So," he said as she worked the muscles of his thigh. "Why aren't you married?"
"Who'd have me?"
"Lots of men. You're fetching."
She snorted but said nothing.
He twisted his neck to look at her. Her cheeks had flushed dusky in the dark. She pointedly kept her gaze on her work.
“Are you telling me no man has offered for you?"
"Who would? I'm a witch."
"The MacDonell women are all witches and they had no problem finding good men."
“Aye, well, they're beautiful," she snapped, her fingers growing rough and careless.
He considered whether he should leave her alone—she could end up really hurting him if he continued baiting her. But he decided it gave him too much pleasure to forgo,
“And so are you," he said, meaning it. The more time he spent with her, the more fetching she became. She was lovely and smart and strong, and she had a kindness to her that she tried to hide but could not deny.
Her mouth pinched tight. "I pray you—false flattery out of pity is insulting."
"Its not false. You are very bonny."
The pressure her fingers exerted lessened momentarily- "Roll to your other side," she said.
He rolled onto his back, then toward her. Instead of moving around behind him, she pushed his shirt up and his trews down on his left side and started kneading the muscles.
She was very good. Much better than the woman back at Braighde Pele. And not nearly as modest as he would have imagined. He could see many benefits to keeping her around. Of course, if she was right about the blood witch, he would have no need for a massage very soon.
He studied her face as she worked his flesh, her eyes intent, her face grave. She had huge eyes, with long, heavy lashes. They gave the illusion of softness and delicacy, when she was really anything but. As if feeling his gaze on her, those thick lashes raised, and her gaze met his.
His breath caught on the look: smoky, indefinable.
"Who ever told you that you weren't beautiful?" he asked softly.
She held his gaze for a long moment, her lips slightly parted, then she shrugged and returned her gaze to her work with a swallow that drew her neck tight. "No one.”
"Then why?"
Her lips curved into a bitter smile. "No one ever told me I was, either."
"I just told you."
She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated breath.
He grabbed her wrist. "I suppose that means nothing coming from a cripple, but I have known many beautiful women."
She stared at her wrist, enclosed in his hand. She tugged at it. She was so small and yet quite strong. But not as strong as he was. He held fast to her wrist.