But from what?
Eric stepped forward and Rook barked, startling Faith who had bent down to examine a plant. She would have fallen on her backside if Eric had not quickly come to her rescue. He caught her beneath her arms and effortlessly lifted her to stand on her feet.
She immediately took a step away from him and he allowed her the distance. “I did not hear you.”
“I did not mean to frighten you.”
“Rook usually alerts me.”
“He saw me and made no move until I did.”
Faith patted Rook’s head. The dog wandered off to investigate his surroundings, pleased with receiving his deserved praise.
Eric took several steps toward Faith and she in turn took several steps away. She was nervous and he did not blame her, though he had no intentions of allowing her apprehension to stop him.
“You search for plants?” he asked, having seen Bridget and her on more than one occasion with a basket full of rooted plants.
She nodded and glanced at the ground around her.
Disregarding the obvious was doing neither of them good. He chose to be direct. “You understood this moment would come.”
Her head shot up and her eyes widened. “Yes, I am but nervous.”
He took slow, cautious steps toward her as he spoke. “Would it ease your worry to know that I do not consummate our marriage out of duty, but out of desire?”
Faith smiled. “Truthfully, you do?”
He stepped closer until he was but a mere inch away from her. “Truthfully, I do.”
She spoke softly and did not retreat from his close presence. “It does ease my worry.”
“I am glad,” he said and reached out to run his finger over her lips. “The taste of you lingers on me and reminds me how very much I enjoy your flavor.”
She spoke the obvious. “You wish to taste me.”
“Every part of you, Faith,” he whispered and lowered his mouth to hers, his hand slipping behind her neck to draw her to his waiting lips.
His kiss was potent. There was no tenderness or teasing this time; he demanded and she simply surrendered. And she wanted to. Truth be told, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
And the truth?
It was being acted upon at that very moment. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed but the two of them and their desire to unite as one. She would hold on to that feeling of unity, of oneness with each other, and hope and pray that he felt the same as she.
His mouth briefly left hers to speak. “I will not hurt you.”
“I know,” she said just before he claimed her mouth again.
His kisses turned urgent and his hands roamed her body, starting at her breasts and running down along her slim waist and over her round backside. He pulled her up against him with an intimate roughness that excited her and she moaned softly into his mouth.
His smile was wickedly satisfying when he drew his lips off hers. “I will make the woods echo with your moans.”
She blushed, her cheeks flushing a gentle red. “All will hear.”
“I do not care,” he said with a laugh. “Your moans please me.
“And your moans?” she teased daringly.
“You think to make me moan?” he asked with surprise and delight.
“I can try,” she challenged and moved her hand to explore his hard chest, his flat midriff and courageously and with a brief hesitation she ran her hand between his legs to squeeze his bulging manhood.
He gasped, she moaned.
She was about to withdraw her tentative touch when his hand covered hers and squeezed harder.
“Your touch is always welcome.”
His reassuring words pleased her.
“But now it is my turn.”
Her hand fell away with his and his band moved to intimately stroke between her legs. Her body instantly grew limp and she dropped her head against his shoulder, her hands grasping his tunic, her moans muffled by his chest.
“I am going to take my time with you and introduce you to all the pleasures of passion.”
He continued to massage her intimately with a gentle roughness that left her feeling senseless and sensual.
His suggestive whispers caused her to shiver, especially when he said, “This time when you climax I will be inside you.”
“Yes, Eric,” she barely murmured. “come inside me.”
He shivered this time, her innocent invitation fueling his passion to near eruption.
Rook’s whimpers startled them both and they drew apart.
Eric ordered the dog to leave, his voice gruff and impatient.
The big dog simply ignored him and looked with sorrowful eyes to his master.
“For his own good, tell him to leave, Faith,” Eric said, his hands moving to untie the cloth belt at her waist.
Faith knew Rook well and she suddenly grew fearful. “Something is wrong.”
Eric groaned and attempted to remain calm. “Nothing is wrong. He wants attention.”
“No, he is trying to tell me something.”
“He is jealous.”
“Nonsense. Something disturbs him.”
“Yes, my hands on you,” he snapped with anger.
“Eric, please,” she begged. “I tell you, something is wrong.”
He took a deep breath and gathered his warring emotions. Part of him wanted to kill the dog and part warned him to pay attention.
Rook’s whimpers grew louder.
“What is it, boy?” Eric asked, his own senses on alert.
Rook took off into the woods.
Eric cursed silently and followed him. Faith was close behind.
Eric had no trouble keeping up with the large dog and Faith, surprisingly, was not far behind. Several minutes passed and Eric was beginning to believe his first suspicion was correct—the dog was simply jealous. But as Rook broke through several bushes and rounded a tree, Eric’s breath caught in his throat.
Faith came up breathless behind him, took one look past Eric’s stiff form and shocked face and wasted no time in running past him.
Borg lay in a small clearing, covered with blood from the arrow that stuck out of his chest.
Chapter Nine
“Faith, help me,” Borg gasped as she fell to her knees beside him.
Blood covered his entire chest and for a brief second she froze, her nightmares rushing over her and the fear of death thick in the air. Then just as abruptly she sprang into action, taking command.
“I need my healing basket, cloths, and I need him moved to where there is more light as soon as I stop the bleeding,” Faith said to Eric as he dropped to his knees beside her.
“How?” Was all Eric could manage to say. He had seen many a man lose his life or limb in battle, but this was his brother and he felt helpless watching his life’s blood spill on the ground.
“Accident, I think,” Borg said with difficulty.
“You will be all right,” Eric commanded sternly.
Borg gave him a painful yet confident smile. “Yes, Faith will save me.”
Faith wished she shared his confidence in her and reminded her husband of her request. “Now, Eric, I need those things now.”
Eric gave Borg’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You will save him,” he said to his wife. Not an order or a command, but simply a statement of fact. Then he fled the woods, Rook remaining behind to stand guard over his master and the injured man.
Faith tore off the end of her tunic and with a delicate touch began sopping the blood around the wound. At closer inspection she saw that the arrow had lodged itself more in the shoulder area and with luck no vital body parts were damaged. But she could not be sure until she removed the arrow and probed the wound.
She worked carefully and diligently on her friend, and he had become her friend. He spoke often with her, offering bits of advice concerning Eric and answering her endless questions. He truly was a gentle and caring soul. She could not, would not, let anything happen to him.
<
br /> “How bad?” Borg asked, his voice strained from the pain.
She answered honestly, her hands busy cleaning the blood from around the wound. “I am not certain.”
“Tell me.” Borg barely got the words out when he coughed, winced from the pain and turned a deathly shade of white.
“I speak the truth,” she assured him, sorry for his discomfort but with her attention more fixed on his injury.
“You will . . .” His words trailed off as his stamina lessened.
She finished for him, knowing it was important to him. “I will tell you everything, good or bad.”
He closed his eyes and his breathing eased, if only a little.
Eric burst through the woods, Colin fast on his heals with several men running to keep up behind him. Bridget ran beside Colin, keeping up every step of the way, her expression one of desperate concern.
Eric placed Faith’s healing basket down beside her, his immediate attention going to Borg.
Faith read the concern in his eyes. “He but rests.” She gave a reassuring touch to his hand.
“You will make him well.”
Again a statement of fact, but one Faith intended to clarify. “I will try.”
Bridget knelt opposite of Faith on Borg’s right side. “What can I do?”
Borg slowly opened his eyes and smiled at Bridget.
She smiled back. “Now, Borg, do not go worrying yourself. Lady Faith will see that you are up and about in no time. And I will personally see to the care of your recovery.”
That brought a wider smile to the large man’s face and Faith was glad to see it.
“I need to make certain the bleeding has stopped before we take a chance and move him,” Faith explained to those around her.
“How about the arrow?” Colin asked.
“That cannot be removed until he is taken where there is sufficient light for me to see the damage more clearly. Now if you gentlemen would step back and let me work. You block what little light I have.”
Eric and Colin immediately did as she asked, stepping far enough away to allow the sunlight that filtered through the magnitude of trees to shine down upon her.
“Someone shot that arrow,” Eric said quietly to Colin, his eyes remaining on his wife and surveying the difficult task at hand. “Find out who.”
Colin nodded, his concern and eyes focused on the scene before him.
“Bridget,” Faith whispered softly.
The young woman instantly gave Faith her full attention.
“You must come around this side and help me.”
Bridget rested Borg’s hand on the ground and scurried around to Faith.
“My other side.”
Bridget finally realized what Faith silently requested of her and moved in position to block the side of her face that bore the scar.
“Now pull my hair back away but just enough so that it does not fall in my way,” Faith instructed.
Bridget did as she was told, catching sight of the thin scar that marked her and saying a silent prayer for her well-being.
Faith finished cleaning up the wound around the arrow, packed the surrounding area with clean cloths and prepared Borg to be moved.
“Eric,” she called out and he was immediately at her side, though not before she shook her hair free, making certain the long curls once again concealed the scar.
Borg’s eyes drifted open briefly and he gave Eric a weary smile.
“Break the end of the arrow off as carefully as possible,” Faith directed.
She placed her delicate yet skilled hands around the base of the wound while Eric snapped the arrow like a dried twig.
Borg winced, though his eyes remained closed.
Faith examined the wound again and seeing that only minor bleeding had occurred, she ordered Borg moved. She realized the arrow had to be removed immediately and the wound cleansed and stitched if he was to recover properly, that is, if the arrow had not done any severe damage.
A large cropping of flat-topped stones near the campsite had been prepared with a thick layer of straw and covered with a blanket for the injured man. The height of the makeshift bed provided Faith with easy access to work on Borg. She wasted no time in issuing more orders for boiling water and for Bridget to prepare several herb mixtures.
Eric and Colin assisted her in cutting away Borg’s tunic and only after she had forced warm liquid down Borg’s throat did she order Eric to remove the arrow. Again Borg winced, but not to the degree he would have if Faith had not given him the soothing drink to dull his senses.
Her freshly washed hands were instantly at his chest, probing delicately.
“Tell me,” Eric ordered, unable to stand silently by any longer.
“I do not think there is any severe or permanent damage. The arrow hit clear and clean, and with stitches and rest, I think he will do well as long as I can keep the wound from becoming red with fever. But presently, I must get this wound closed and the bleeding stopped.”
He heard the urgency in her voice and stepped aside, joining Colin but a short distance away.
Bridget could not remain beside her the whole time Faith worked. She required her help in preparing the thread and bone needles and seeing to preparing several herb mixtures. Faith had no choice but to allow her hair to fall in her way and as she continued to work she grew more annoyed with the interfering and persistent strands. But Eric, Colin and the circle of men that had grown considerably stood too close around her for her to tie her hair back away from her face and risk exposing her secret.
Faith cleansed around the wound with a special mixture of herbs that were meant to help heal and ward off fever. She washed her bloody hands once more before taking the threaded needle in her hand. The arrow’s mark left a hole that would take considerable skill and patience to mend, but it was the blood that continued to flow slowly from the wound that worried Faith. If she did not close it fast enough she feared for Borg’s life. While bleeding an ailing person was often thought effective, Faith held a different opinion. She had seen too many injured people grow pale and weak from blood loss and die soon afterwards. Borg had already lost enough blood; she could not chance him losing more.
She explained the immediate situation to Bridget, instructing the young woman to have all the needles threaded and ready to hand to her so that she could continue her task without interruption. Bridget would not fail her… she was certain of that. She knew exactly what needed to be done. Bridget had performed a similar task before, only then it had been Bridget herself who had done the stitching.
Bridget prepared everything as per her instructions, even cleansing her hands frequently upon Faith’s insistence. All was in readiness for them to begin.
Borg fought to open his eyes and look at Faith. “I trust you.” Then he looked to Bridget and said, “I care for you.”
His simple declaration brought tears to Bridget’s eyes and she hastily wiped them away, her hands ready with the needles that would help save his life.
Faith took the slim bone needle from Bridget with confident hands and set to work. Only minutes into her task she realized the stitching would be an ordeal. The blood began to flow in earnest, her fingers turned slippery and her hair refused to stay out of her way. No matter how hard she tried, the task was taking longer than she had planned.
She had two choices. Keep her secret and risk losing Borg or tie her hair back and face the truth. Her choice was simple.
She quickly cleaned her hands in a freshly filled water bucket at her side and without hesitation grabbed her mass of red curls and tied them back away from her face, exposing her secret to all those around her.
She heard the gasps, caught how Bridget blessed herself and mumbled a prayer for her, but she ignored it all and set to work at saving Borg’s life. Without the interfering strands hanging in her eyes she was better able to see to her task and her fingers moved with agile speed and efficiency even though the blood continued to ooze, though with much less frequency
as the wound was stitched closed.
Faith was so engrossed with tending the ailing man that she had not noticed that he had opened his eyes. He stared at her, though not in shock, disgust or sympathy. He stared at her with understanding and she was forever grateful for his empathetic look.
The wound gave her trouble near the end, where the gap was wide, and she bent down close to work tight, neat stitches in his shoulder. She felt confident that he would recover, even with the heavy blood loss. She would see that he rested and ate properly and within no time she felt certain he would be on his feet. And while it would take him time and exercise to regain his full strength, he would at least be up and around.
She did not bother to glance in Eric’s direction; she did not need to. She could almost feel his blazing eyes burning into her and when she turned she knew full well she would face the full wrath of the Irish devil.
After cleansing her hands again, she applied a salve around the stitches that she hoped would help prevent the feared swelling and reddening that preceded the onset of fever. Bridget assisted her in wrapping a wide cloth around Borg’s chest and over his shoulder.
Borg did not protest when she held a wooden ladle of warm liquid to his lips. He simply drank and once again closed his eyes; but not before saying thank you.
Faith fussed over him until there was nothing left to do but turn and face her husband.
“Bless you, m’lady,” Bridget whispered and took Borg’s hand in hers.
Faith turned not only to face her husband, but also the whispering crowd that had gathered to watch her heal Borg.
All eyes focused on her, though it was her scar they looked upon, which did stand out for all to see. The pale, thin scar stood like a beacon against her flushed face.
She was well aware what was on each of their minds. How had she come by it? And how far beneath her tunic did the scar travel?
No one made a move. The whispers suddenly turned to soft murmurs and drifted off on the late afternoon breeze, and then there was silence. The sound was more horrible than any battle cry for she knew that beneath it laid rage.
One look at her husband, and she forced her chin up and took a firm and proud stance.
His blue eyes blazed and he fought to maintain his enraged emotions. His hands were fisted at his sides, his breathing was too controlled and his mouth too firm. She wondered just when he would explode.
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