He closed his eyes, drifting back into sleep and enjoying the sensation of a soft, warm body nestling close to his.
* * *
When the sun warmed his face, he awoke for a second time, feeling better than he could remember, even before Thomas’s rude interruption in Lord Harpur’s house. Lucy was still asleep against him.
‘Lucy…’ he breathed, dipping his lips close to her ear. ‘Lucy, it’s morning.’
She sighed, her shoulders rising and her breasts swelling against Roger’s naked chest with a maddening sensuousness. Her head burrowed against the hollow beneath his jaw. He’d had a woman beside him at John Harpur’s house, he recalled, though with Lucy so close he could not bring her to mind. Perhaps before long he would convince Lucy of the benefits of sharing his bed for purposes beyond nursing him. It gave him something to hope for at least.
‘Is it morning?’ Lucy mumbled. She rolled her head sideways and opened her eyes. As they focused, Roger stared down into them, examining the fine, pale lashes surrounding eyes that fought a constant battle to be either blue or grey. They widened further as Lucy became aware of how intimately she was lying with Roger. She sprang back, moving away from Roger to get to her feet, but inadvertently brushing against his lap and causing all manner of sensations to awake within him. He almost gave up his intention of hiding his freedom as the urge to bed her came upon him.
Lucy wiped her hands over her brow, smoothing tendrils of hair that had stuck to her forehead. She dipped her head modestly, but not enough to disguise the roses that blossomed in her cheeks.
‘I apologise! I didn’t intend to fall asleep here.’
‘Ordinarily I would take it as a personal affront if any woman fell asleep in my arms before I’d finished with her,’ Roger said. ‘However, under the circumstances…’
He grinned at her, not caring if she noticed his arousal. Lucy looked Roger up and down and an expression of worry crossed her face, as if unsure what had passed between them.
‘You remain unsullied, don’t fear,’ Roger said.
Her lips pursed slightly. Her eyes slid to his shoulder.
‘Does it hurt?’ Her voice was terse.
‘A little.’
He lied. It hurt more than he intended to share with her. ‘The bleeding has all but stopped, I think. You managed well last night, Lucy. I won’t forget what you did.’
She gave a faint smile, but her eyes became hard. ‘Good. You can rest for the day. I’ll bring you food when I have time.’
She walked towards the door, pausing by the end of the bed to gather the empty wine jug.
‘You’re leaving me?’ Roger asked.
Lucy looked back over her shoulder with disdain in her eyes. She had changed from a sleepy kitten to a haughty cat in the space it had taken to cross the room.
‘Yes. I have a child to tend to and ale to brew. My last batch was tainted somehow. Filled with dust.’ She frowned, a small crease bisecting her brow. ‘I have an inn to clean and run. I don’t have time to stay talking to you.’
‘It wasn’t talking I had in mind,’ Roger muttered beneath his breath as she went out.
He lay back and closed his eyes. He slept again, on and off, fitfully, as sounds from outside reached his ears and wound into his dreams. The wails of Lucy’s son from outside, a clattering noise from the room below, the sound of conversation and laughter that took him by surprise. Lucy had been either serious or angry when he had been in her presence and he had not imagined her being merry. He wondered who had provoked it and was taken aback to realise that he was jealous.
* * *
Lucy returned at midday, bringing bread and cheese that she placed on the floor within his reach. He feigned sleep, though watched through slitted eyes as she moved around the room, her hips swaying sinuously and her step light. She tensed as she came closer to the bed even though she must have believed him asleep. He felt her hands on his bandage, fingers probing his flesh with a light touch that was unbearably teasing. That she was capable of such gentleness yet could transform into a fury at the slightest provocation fascinated him. Which side would come to the fore when she was making love? He was desperate to find out.
He should have got her into bed by now. Why was she so determined to resist what she so clearly wanted? Perhaps the voice that caused her laughter was the reason. The boy must have a father somewhere after all.
* * *
Later on, he felt a pressure on his shoulder that alarmed him until he opened his eyes to see a burly cat coiling in a circle on his chest to settle for a sleep. He hissed and it glared back at him with malevolent orange eyes. He shooed the animal off and it slunk to the floor grudgingly, but the activity served to make Roger feel restless. If he had ever spent this long in bed it was because he had a woman to occupy his time and, if the woman who currently absorbed his thoughts was not willing to join him, he needed to get his sluggish blood moving once again.
He swung his feet to the ground quietly so as not to make any sound that might alert Lucy. His head spun as he stood and he almost returned to the bed, but he set his jaw and succeeded in keeping his balance. He rolled his head around, feeling the muscles protest at the unaccustomed exertion. He walked across the floor, barefoot. His boots had been placed side by side in the corner of the room. A cold draught blew across him and he shivered. His cloak and jerkin were folded alongside his boots and the scrip with its pitiful contents was on top. He remembered his shirt had been cut to shreds. He wrapped the blanket around himself, wishing there was a fire to heat the room.
Once again Lucy’s voice floated up the stairs, but this time the tone was different to her earlier laughter. Roger edged closer to the door, recognising the wariness and anger that he had been on the receiving end of more than once. The sound of a man’s voice reached him, the words muffled but the tone irate, followed by Lucy’s answering voice, higher and more urgent now.
He’d heard no voices besides those of Lucy or her child and Roger’s senses became alert in a way they had not been for days. He had assumed any threat was done with. Was the danger not past after all? He attempted to pull his boots on, but gave up, discovering he had little strength in his right arm. He pushed the worrying thought to the back of his mind.
The voices increased in volume, Lucy’s becoming more indignant and urgent. Roger looked around the room for his sword, but could not find it. The only thing that might serve as a weapon was the poker that Lucy had forgotten and which had rolled under the bed. His fingers closed around it and a glint of metal caught his eye. He pulled out the arrow, shaft streaked with his blood. He tucked it inside the waistband of his breeches and pulled the blanket snugly to mask his semi-nakedness. He paused at the doorway to reflect on his state of undress. He’d bargain a year of his life for a simple mail coat. The polished armour he had worn when tilting in the lists seemed a dream. He was glad there was no one from his past to see the level to which he had sunk.
He crept down the stairs, clutching the poker in his right hand. The stairs were dark and the door was half-shut. Roger stood in the shadows, waiting to see what was occurring. Lucy was standing with her back to the stairs. Her spine was straight and her head erect. Her long braid was twisted into a roll and peeked out beneath the linen cap she wore. It gave Roger an unspoiled view of the elegant curve of a neck that he’d enjoy kissing. Her arms were folded across her chest and she stood with her feet planted apart. Roger did not need to see her face to picture the expression of cold fury it would bear. He enjoyed the prospect of witnessing her directing her ferocity at someone else besides him for a change. Ready to move if he needed to, he paused and watched to see how the situation would play out.
‘You drank it, you pay for it,’ Lucy said firmly.
‘It tastes like dog’s piss. Why should I pay for that?’ sneered one man. The other gave a croaky laugh.
&
nbsp; Roger craned his neck to look at who had spoken. The two male voices belonged to a couple of bedraggled-looking men, rangy and lean. Their clothing was poor quality—Roger would not have looked twice at it in the marketplace—and looked well worn. Across their bodies both wore belts and criss-crossed straps of leather and rope hung with trinkets. They had the red-eyed look of day-long drunkards. The bench in front of the counter lay on its side where they had seemingly tipped it.
‘You drank three mugs before you passed judgement!’ Lucy snapped, moving her hands to her hips. Her sleeves were pushed to above her elbows, giving Roger a glimpse of her bare forearms. ‘If you didn’t like it, you should have stopped at one.’
The argument was only a couple of pedlars arguing over their bill, nothing more sinister. Roger relaxed, his shoulders releasing the tension he felt he had been carrying for days. This was nothing to do with him and Thomas, but an affair of Lucy’s own. Whoever had been chasing them would be long gone. He hoped Thomas was dining in luxury at Calveley’s house. As soon as he felt able to ride, Roger would leave Lucy’s inn far behind and make his own way there. He’d wasted too much time lying around already and surely he would be feeling well enough after one more night of rest under Lucy’s care.
Roger turned to go, but two steps back up the staircase he stopped. His mind flashed back to the night he had arrived and Lucy barring his way upstairs with a ferocity that had surprised and impressed him. Later that night she must have assumed a similar position when she protected him and allowed Thomas to escape.
‘D’yer want us to spread the word yer serve bad drink?’ he heard one man sneer. ‘We’re heading into Mattonfield from here.’
This matter was nothing to do with him, but he had not liked the look of the two men, and Lucy was alone. He crept back down the stairs in time to see Lucy make a move past the men towards the doorway.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my ale,’ Lucy insisted.
Her eyes blazed, her pale skin making them seem all the brighter. The foolish girl looked like she intended to bar their exit. Roger whistled, low and quiet, between his teeth, torn between a sense of admiration for her doggedness and exasperation that she would put herself at risk for the sake of a penny’s worth of ale.
‘Going to stop us, are yer?’ scoffed one.
The two pedlars exchanged a glance. They laughed in unison in a way that made Roger’s hackles rise. Before Lucy found herself in a darker situation Roger pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
‘Gentlemen, good day,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Is anything the matter?’
A gasp of alarm burst from Lucy. Roger slid his gaze to her. She was standing rigid as a statue, her face paling further than he would have thought possible. Only her expression showed signs that she was a living, breathing woman. It changed from the indignation she had been showing to horror as she looked at him. Roger was used to reading the eyes of men as he faced them in the tiltyard or on the battlefield and in Lucy’s he saw a flash of genuine terror. And why wouldn’t she, when she believed him still captive upstairs?
He flashed her a brief smile designed to comfort her, but which caused her to look more terrified. The two pedlars stood uncertainly, their previous mirth turning to confusion. Calculating that the men were strangers to Lucy, Roger stomped into the centre of the room. Time to play the layabout husband she’d portrayed him as.
‘What’s going on, woman?’ he asked angrily. ‘Can’t I sleep without being dragged down here to deal with matters on your behalf?’
‘Her ’usband, are yer?’ asked the shorter pedlar. He scratched his crotch and grinned.
‘Yes, and if there’s trouble I want to know. No man drinks here for free,’ Roger growled. ‘Give the lady her payment and be off before I boot you out the door.’
The man looked down and, seeing Roger’s bare feet, gave a mirthless grin.
‘Like that, will yer?’
‘If it comes to it.’ Roger relaxed his glare, his voice laden with fake camaraderie. ‘I’ve talked my way out of a bill enough times so let me tell you, that isn’t the way to do it. You have to coax the lady into wanting to let you have her wares for nothing.’
He flashed a lustful grin at Lucy, who closed her eyes and looked away in distaste. He’d done it often enough in his time and a ripple of disgust shot through him at the idea of these two trying it with Lucy. Roger brandished the poker, ignoring the fire that streaked from his shoulder to wrist as he held it aloft.
‘Out! You’re not welcome here, and tell anyone that Mistress Carew doesn’t suffer attempts to cheat or blackmail her. The drink here is as good as anywhere.’
His head was beginning to feel light and the pain in his arm was increasing. This worried him more than he liked to consider now. He was used to lifting a sword four or five times heavier, to say nothing of the lances he had once wielded. If it came to it the men could probably beat him in a fight—then beat him senseless. He lifted his jaw, baring his teeth and jerked his head towards the door. He thrust the poker towards them, motioning to leave.
To his relief the men nodded at each other and sauntered to the door. Lucy stood her ground, unfolding her arms and holding one hand out. The thin pedlar dipped a hand inside his shirt and flourished a farthing. He flipped it into the air with a sniff. Lucy snapped a hand out, plucking it mid-fall with a practised air.
Until they had vanished from sight, she stood as gracefully as a queen dismissing her courtiers to let the men pass. When they had gone, her whole body wilted. She looked smaller, more vulnerable, and Roger’s muscles sagged in sympathy. Or maybe it was the effort of standing upright after so long lying down and on an empty stomach. Nausea washed over him. He’d seen men taken like this after battles. Fine during the skirmish when their minds were occupied, but losing their breakfast or keeling over into a faint once the fighting was done. He was determined not to be one of them.
He looked at the woman standing rigid by the doorway and realised with a sinking heart that she looked more terrified of him than she had of any difficult customer. He cursed his stupidity at charging downstairs and revealing his freedom so soon. There was nothing to be done now but get Lucy to help him once again. Though it pained him to be so reliant on her, he jerked his head towards her.
‘Come over here, Lucy Carew,’ he growled. ‘I’m not going to hurt you but if you don’t help me sit, I’m going to fall down where I’m standing.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lucy’s stomach lurched at Sir Roger’s words, the deep growl reaching inside her with the ferocity of a fist embedding itself into her guts.
‘How…?’ She swallowed, her words sticking in a throat that grated like a well-used grindstone. ‘How did you…?’
Sir Roger held up his arm holding the poker. The length of rope dangled from his wrist.
‘How did I free myself?’ His voice was cold. ‘I borrowed your knife while you slept and cut the rope. It was not an easy feat one-handed, but I was careful and you noticed nothing.’
She’d returned the knife to its home earlier today, but instinctively her hand moved to the pouch. His eyes followed the movement.
‘I put it back straight away, naturally,’ Sir Roger said, smirking. ‘I don’t like to show my hand unless I have to. Quite literally in this case.’
He raised an eyebrow and looked at her as if he expected her to laugh at his feeble jest. Lucy had never felt less like laughing. Her skin crawled at the thought of his hands having such freedom while she slept. She told herself that taking the knife was the only liberty he had claimed and hoped it was the case. She wrapped her arms around herself. Shaking already from her dispute with the two pedlars, she backed against the wall beside the open door, unsure if her legs would bear her weight much longer. Her sole comfort was that the man standing before her looked equally frail. He still held the poker out,
but the tip was beginning to waver and he looked like he was having to concentrate on keeping it still.
As she remembered the way he had raged at her, demanding to be freed and his powerful hands tightening around her throat, bile curdled her stomach. Now he was free without her leave and his wound was dealt with. He had no reason to treat her kindly. She had faced down the vagrants alone and plenty more before them without being reduced to a quaking mess, but she’d seen the muscles that were now concealed so oddly beneath Sir Roger’s blanket and had felt the strength in them to her cost already.
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she whispered.
An expression flashed across his face, but she read it as irritation rather than anger. He lowered the arm holding the poker, which was now visibly shaking, and leant on the end, supporting his weight as an old man might use a cane.
‘If I wanted to hurt you I could have strangled you as you slept,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘Or used the end of this rope on your backside and thrashed you until you cried for having the impudence to tether me like a dog. It’s what you deserved and the fact I didn’t should prove you’re safe in my company.’
Lucy met his eyes. His face was changing from ruddy to ashen and his forehead shone with sweat. Swathed in the heavy blanket he cut a strange figure, but not a threatening one. He brought to mind one of the monks who sometimes passed through the town, though the expression in his eyes was anything but holy. She noticed his feet were bare and somehow it was this that comforted her more than anything.
‘If you’re trying to reassure me, you’ve got a strange way of going about it,’ she remarked. ‘How long were you planning to keep up with your deception?’
He shrugged, winced and blinked as the gesture obviously caused him discomfort. Lucy scrutinised him. He must still be weak and the longer he stood there, the less able he would be to attack her at full strength.
Winning the Mail-order Bride & Pursued for the Viscount's Vengeance & Redeeming the Rogue Knight (9781488021725) Page 54