‘Do you have the means to pay for it?’ Lucy asked, indicating the cup he held out. He pouted and Lucy folded her arms in annoyance. It was the best wine and did not come cheap.
‘I’ll pay, though you’re a hard woman to ask a man in such a condition.’
Lucy thought of the sack of flour growing emptier in the pantry, the holes in her thrice-mended undershift and the leak in the roof of the brewing shed. A knot of anxiety clutched at her belly at the thought of how she would pay for replacements or repairs with so few customers to bring in money. If Sir Roger had accepted another bowl of stew, she would have gone hungry herself.
She wondered whether to tell him that, but decided against it. Her affairs were none of his business, but if Sir Roger was as rich as he claimed to be, he could well afford to buy his wine, whatever his condition.
‘I can’t give my wares away. I need to live,’ she said. ‘I won’t charge you for what you’ve had so far, but from now on you pay for what you drink and eat.’
‘That seems fair,’ Sir Roger said agreeably. He shifted uncomfortably, wriggling a little higher on the bed. ‘Speaking of such matters, I have that need we alluded to before coming on me again. I would rather attend to it myself, however if you don’t want to let me loose I’m more than happy for you to assist.’
Lucy felt the heat spread across her cheeks as understanding dawned. She had only been able to do what had been necessary while Sir Roger was drugged and unaware she was touching him. The thought of handling him while he was conscious was excruciating, especially after his earlier indignation at her insult to his manhood. A slur she had neither meant nor which, in truth, had been warranted. Far from it. She kept her eyes fixed on his face, in case they began to stray to the area under discussion.
‘You only need one hand for that,’ she snapped. ‘The pot’s under the bed. Call me when you’re done.’ She dragged the pot out and edged it within reach of his hand with her foot, then left the room.
At the top of the stairs Lucy leaned against the wall and ran her hands across her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. She had been more at ease with his presence while he had been under the control of the sleeping draught and she had forgotten how relentless his ribald comments had been when he arrived. Even lying down and weakened, he was the most masculine man she had ever encountered and his vitality was disturbing. His words had the ability to set her heart beating with the pace of the drummer playing on market day. Despite her best intentions to ignore his words, a flash of his roguish grin or glint in those deep brown eyes caused her body to respond of its own accord. The battle was increasingly harder won.
Sir Roger called her name and she took a couple of deep breaths before going back in.
‘Let’s get this over and done with while we still have light,’ she said briskly. ‘Tell me what to do.’
Sir Roger looked taken aback by her change in demeanour.
‘First I’ll have another drink of wine. Don’t worry, I’ll add it to my account,’ he smirked.
Lucy poured one and handed it over.
‘Now you have one as well,’ Sir Roger instructed. ‘You’re as pale as the moon and your hand was trembling. I don’t want you passing out before we’re done.’
‘I don’t need wine to settle my nerves,’ Lucy admonished.
He laughed. ‘Really? In that case you’re a rare woman as well as a modest one. It works for me every time. Drink!’
Lucy perched on the end of the bed, knees pressed together, and sipped from the cup. Despite her protestations to the contrary, the taste was welcome.
‘You’ll have to come closer,’ Sir Roger instructed. ‘Bring everything to this end, including the wine.’
Lucy shuffled down towards Sir Roger, unwilling to put herself within his reach, but knowing she had no other option. She laid the equipment out beside her, save for the knife, which she kept in the pouch at her waist.
They sat face to face, Lucy twisting round on the bed to sit beside the reclining man. They were as close as lovers exploring each other as the prelude to lovemaking. The dark curls that framed Sir Roger’s face lifted as she exhaled and his wine-scented breath was soft on her cheeks. It would take only the slightest motion forward and their lips would be close enough to touch.
They both raised their eyes at the same time and when they met a jolt passed through Lucy as violent as the lightning bolt that had split the old hawthorn tree the winter previously. It reached down inside her, tugging at her stomach and more intimate parts, stirring feelings she had long forgotten existed.
She lifted a shaking hand to his shoulder and brushed a finger alongside the crust of blood, taking care not to touch it. The skin was cooler than when she had feared he had a fever and no longer slick with perspiration. He inclined his head to follow the gesture and his breathing sped up. Lucy held the lamp close so she could see the arrow and peered at it, her fingers probing with more firmness as she examined the area.
‘I think it missed the bone completely.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘Someone must be looking out for you.’
‘I seriously doubt I warrant that privilege,’ Sir Roger said with a curt laugh.
He blinked rapidly and his gaze dropped to his right arm, which hung motionless down the side of the bed, the hand curled into a loose fist. He covered Lucy’s hand with his left one. The gesture was gentle and there appeared to be no flirtation in what he did. He had made no further request to be freed.
‘Why did you kiss me the other night?’ Lucy asked.
‘I thought I might be about to die. It seemed a better way to leave this world than expiring on the floor in my own blood, don’t you agree?’ Sir Roger replied after a pause. ‘Any man would have done the same.’
And any woman’s lips would have sufficed, Lucy thought, with an instant clarity that caused her stomach to writhe with self-contempt. She was simply a convenience.
‘You said you didn’t want to die unmourned. Don’t you have family?’
‘Family doesn’t equate to grievers,’ Sir Roger said tersely. He lowered his head, but when he raised it he gave her a crooked smile that was more like the man she had become familiar with.
‘You could kiss me again now. For luck.’
He eyed her intently. Once again Lucy felt the intense drive to do as he asked but it was tempered now with the knowledge that it was not she herself that he had wanted. She shook her head.
‘You’re not going to die today so there’s no need.’ She hoped it was true.
‘Check the back of the arrow,’ Sir Roger said, lowering his hand. ‘If it isn’t completely smooth use the knife to cut away the splinters. I can’t risk infection. When that’s done you twist and pull from the front, gently and slowly, and get ready to staunch the bleeding.’
‘Should I get the poker?’ Lucy asked.
He grunted a laugh.
‘You’re fixated on the thing, aren’t you? It will be too cold by now. You wouldn’t even manage to burn me like you did before.’ He stroked his finger across the mark she had left in illustration. ‘No, I’d prefer to save that for a last resort. Dress it with honey if you have any, pad the wound and bind it as tight as you can. Will you remember all that?’
‘I think so.’ She tried to make her voice brave and to exude a confidence she was far from feeling.
Sir Roger sat forward. He leaned his head against Lucy’s shoulder, his chest pressing against hers. His beard was scratchy against the side of her neck when he turned his head. It tickled the soft flesh below her ear, causing her heart to race with the sensation. Gingerly she reached her hands around Sir Roger and ran her hand along the protruding length of wood. Thomas had almost completed the task and it took only a few strokes to ensure the wood was smooth. Sir Roger grunted once or twice and gave a sharp hiss, but urged her to continue each time she paused.
When she was satisfied, Lucy slipped the knife back in her pouch and helped Sir Roger lean back once more.
‘It’s done.’
He nodded. His lips were white from where he had pressed them together. It must have been more uncomfortable than he had revealed.
‘Do you want more wine?’ she asked, reaching for the flask and pouring it before he had a chance to answer. This time, when he passed her the half-empty cup she did not hesitate, but drained it in one.
Sir Roger felt for her hand resting in her lap. ‘Lucy, when the arrow comes free it is going to be painful. I might behave as an animal would and lash out.’
He looked deep into her eyes. She studied the brown depths ringed with thick dark lashes. They radiated honesty that she was not sure she could trust.
‘If I do anything that hurts or scares you, it is not intentional. I mean you no harm, Lucy. Will you trust me in this, if nothing else?’
Lucy bit her lip and nodded. A ragged whimper escaped her and to her horror her eyes blurred.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sir Roger asked with gentleness in his voice that surprised her.
‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had to do anything like this before,’ she admitted, her voice beginning to quiver. ‘I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong and hurt you.’
‘You won’t.’ He smiled and his hand tightened momentarily on hers, his thumb coming to rest against the hollow of her wrist where the pulse galloped.
‘I trust you.’
Lucy grabbed a handful of cloth, ready to stem the flow of blood, and folded it into a thick pad. Sir Roger guided the hand he was holding to the arrow, easing her hand around the wooden shaft between the iron tip and his flesh and enclosing it in his. He raised an eyebrow questioningly. She nodded. He drew his knees up behind her to brace himself for what was to come.
Impulsively Lucy dipped her head forward and brushed her lips against his. The hairs of his beard were soft against her cheek and she tasted the trace of wine as she enclosed his lower lip between hers.
‘For luck,’ she whispered. She pulled back before he could draw her into a deeper kiss. Enjoying the astonishment that suffused his eyes, she smoothed her hair back.
‘I’m ready.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was not easy and it was not quick. The arrow had gone clean through the flesh as Lucy had suspected, but because it had remained for so long it took a lot of twisting and pulling before it was free of the crust of blood. At the first twist, Sir Roger bit down on his lip, drawing blood. He jerked his head to the bundle of cloths and demanded Lucy give him one. She wiped the trickle of blood away, hushing him as she might comfort Robbie when he fell in the yard. Whenever she had attempted similar with her father he had brushed her away angrily, but Sir Roger’s eyes filled with pained amusement.
‘I’m not your babe in arms. Just give me the damned cloth to bite on.’
There was blood, but less than Lucy had feared. It oozed rather than spurted, welling up between her fingers as she pressed the cloth to his back against the hole. Sir Roger did none of the things he had warned Lucy he might do. He swore loudly and repeatedly, using expressions Lucy had never heard, not all of them in English, but he directed none of his ire at Lucy.
When her fingers became slippery with gore, Sir Roger pushed Lucy’s hand out of the way and pulled the arrow the rest of the way by himself, leaving her to reach around behind to staunch the bleeding. When the shaft came loose with a stomach-churning, sucking pop, Sir Roger gave one final resounding roar. The arrow dropped from his hand, the iron tip clattering on the floorboard. He wiped his arm across his now-pale brow where sweat had slicked his hair down and lay back, eyes closed.
‘Now do what you need to,’ he said brusquely.
Lucy realised her own body was clammy, whether through effort or tension. She shivered, but had no time to dwell on it as the blood was welling and trickling down Sir Roger’s chest. She pressed the remaining cloth bundle against it with her free hand and found that she had somehow ended up half-lying across Sir Roger’s lap. If she moved she would lessen the pressure on the wounds. She wrapped the strips of cloth beneath his armpit and around his shoulder.
‘Keep pressing on the pads,’ Sir Roger wheezed.
‘How long do I need to do this?’ she asked.
Sir Roger half-opened one dark-ringed eye. His complexion was ashen and he looked weary. ‘Until the bleeding has lessened and the bandages are sufficient to keep the pressure. Or longer, if you like.’
His voice sounded thick with exhaustion. ‘You can stay there all night if it pleases you. I make a point in never passing up the chance for a companion.’
He closed his eye again. Lucy pulled back the cloth covering the front of the wound to see if the bleeding had stopped, but the rapid welling confirmed she would have to stay where she was for the time being. Her shoulders were aching from the uncomfortable position she had been holding them in. She switched arms, so that her right passed behind Sir Roger’s back, and let the heel of her left hand push against the wound on his front. It was easier to apply the pressure this way, even if it did mean she was now almost lying chest to chest with him as if they were embracing.
Beneath the blanket that covered him, Lucy was becoming intensely aware of the shape of his legs and his hips pushing against her. She wriggled to get more stable and felt him move in response, hips tilting. An increase in firmness beneath the blanket made her remember the other things she had done for him. An aching throb of desire caught her by surprise.
She shifted her gaze to Sir Roger’s face. He was lying motionless. He appeared unaware of her presence and had given no indication he was aware of what his body was doing. As long as that state remained she could ignore it herself and the improper ideas that it gave her. She yawned and let her eyes close as tiredness whispered that she should rest. The events of the evening had left her drained and this was now beginning to make itself known. She would not allow herself to sleep, or to stay longer than necessary, but it would do no harm to rest for a short while. She was still telling herself this as her eyes closed and she drifted into sleep.
* * *
Roger woke to find the top of Lucy’s head pressing against his cheek. His first, confused urge on finding a woman lying face down in his arms was to decide which part of her body to caress first in order to wake her up to continue whatever pleasures they had enjoyed before sleeping.
His brain caught up with his instinct, overtook it and pulled sharply on the reins before he slid his hand down her slender waist to begin fondling her rounded thighs. He recalled who she was and why she was there. Lucy would not welcome his attentions, at least not at this moment in time—though, remembering the flashes of interest she had failed to hide, he did not give up all hope. More than this, the fact he was contemplating morning adventures was a good sign that he was alive and recovering.
It was starting to grow light and Roger let his eyes drift in and out of focus staring at the strands of brown, gold and tawny of Lucy’s hair that had come loose from her braid. It was better than concentrating on the sensation in his shoulder, which had changed from the dull throbbing ache to a sharper, more insistent pain. He flexed the fingers on his right hand, then tried to lift his arm. The resulting pain drew a shameful gasp from him and he dropped his hand again. It would take a day or two before he was able to use it at all.
The tugging at his wrist reminded him he was still tethered. For all her softening towards him, Lucy had not been persuaded to release him. He doubted that she would and resentment swelled in him. He was not prepared to remain her captive until she decided to free him. He could not imagine a more alluring jailer, but she was a jailer nonetheless.
He shifted and Lucy slid downward a little. Her hand, still pressing against his shoulder, was limp. She showed no sign of waking, but fortunately
the pressure she had applied before she slept must have been sufficient to stem the flow of blood. Roger grinned, remembering he had seen Lucy stow her knife back in the pouch at her waist after using it. The pouch was now within reach of his hand.
With exaggerated care, he crept his fingers along her girdle until he came to the leather bag. Slipping three fingers inside, he eased it open until his hand closed about the short, thick handle of the knife. Suppressing his elation, he drew it out. Still Lucy did not stir. She must be exhausted to sleep so deeply, but soon the cock would crow or her child would cry and she would wake. He would need to be quick.
It took a lot of effort and muffled muttering, and caused waves of sickness to flood over him as he braced his useless right arm, but Roger succeeded in pulling the rope beneath the bed taut and sawing at it until the threads split and gave. The relief that soared in his heart eclipsed any of the pain that coursed through him as a result of his endeavours. He stretched his left arm wide, feeling the muscles begin to spasm, then sing with the satisfaction of free movement. Roger was unused to inactivity and he needed to exercise, to ride, to swing a sword and wake the blood in his veins.
He pictured the look on Lucy’s face when she woke face to face with the tip of her own knife and realised what he had done. The woman was obstinate and rude, showing none of the deference he would expect from one of her rank to one of his. If she wasn’t so endearingly pretty he’d…
He’d what? Threaten her again? Beat her until she begged for mercy for her insolence? What would that achieve, other than to prove him to be the sort of man she had disparagingly described him as to the men hunting him? The sort of man his brother thought him to be. He could never harm the woman who slept so peacefully against his breast.
Besides, Roger knew he needed to rest, at least for the morning, and while Lucy believed she was at no risk she would feed and care for him. He returned the knife to the pouch and pushed the end of the rope out of view beneath the bed. When Lucy rose she would see everything as she expected to. When the time was right, he would reveal he had been free all along.
Winning the Mail-order Bride & Pursued for the Viscount's Vengeance & Redeeming the Rogue Knight (9781488021725) Page 53