Redeeming the Rogue Knight

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  Anything to keep the old woman from suspecting that upstairs she had a drugged nobleman tied to her bed who would very soon require her attendance.

  Chapter Five

  Through the haze of pain, Roger became aware he was not alone in the room. He groaned weakly, trying to speak, but his throat was too dry. His arms were leaden and would not rise. He fought down panic.

  Cool fingers stroked his forehead, brushing the hair from his brow and easing away his anxiety. A woman’s voice, soft and high, murmured soothing words that jumbled in his mind. He felt something cool and damp pressed to his brow, stroking gently and he sighed.

  ‘Joanna?’

  The stroking stopped. ‘No.’

  An unfamiliar voice.

  The hands moved down to his jaw, firm strokes cleaning away the grime from his cheeks. Despite the coldness of the cloth, Roger’s skin began to burn hotter from within. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him unbidden with such gentleness and desire began to awaken, tickling with devilish fingers at his groin.

  Good. If he could still contemplate a spot of swiving between the sheets he was not yet dead. He opened his eyes to see who was caring for him, but his lids felt unaccountably heavy. He forced them wide anyway, but the brightness hurt and the woman was silhouetted against the window so he could see nothing of her features. He screwed his eyes tight, wincing.

  A pale face framed with fine, light-coloured hair and the impression of a grey dress filled his mind: the girl from the inn who had been half-terrified to death by their appearance.

  Lucy Carew. He hoped it was she who was nursing him. He remembered her mouth, hot against his, resisting at first in alarm, but quickly giving in to his kiss and meeting him with as much fire as he was exuding. It would be pleasant indeed if it were she.

  Lucy—Roger would assume it was until evidence proved otherwise—removed the cloth from his forehead and put it to his cheeks, freshly damp. She began to bathe his neck and chest, lifting each arm to wipe it before moving down towards his waist, which sent shivers of bliss cascading over him. The sensation was so unbearably erotic Roger felt he would be consumed by the sheer pleasure of it. However, when he gave himself up to the indulgence, he realised the reaction was in his mind alone. His body was refusing to acknowledge anything was happening to rouse him. Perhaps he was closer to death than he had realised after all. He lapsed into sleep with this troubling thought.

  * * *

  He woke again to find himself being bathed still. Or perhaps a second time because now the room was darker. The hands moved over his body as before, but shifted now to his right shoulder. As they probed the wound searing pain shot through him, obliterating any thoughts beyond making the torment end. He cried out, but his voice rasped painfully.

  ‘Thirsty...’ he managed to croak.

  Those bewitching fingers stroked his brow once more. He felt the back of his head cradled and lifted, firm fingers burrowing deep into his thick hair. A cup was put to his lips.

  ‘Not too fast,’ a soft voice instructed.

  It was ale. Cool and thirst-quenching. Roger could not remember the arrow being removed, or Thomas returning, but the pain in his shoulder was so intense it must be from the brand that sealed the wound. Panic filled him once again and he twisted his head from the cup. Lucy’s firm hands guided it back and the cup was put to his lips once more.

  ‘Drink this,’ she commanded, her voice allowing no possibility of disobedience. ‘It will ease the pain.’

  Her voice brooked no argument. If it meant those delicate fingers exploring his body once more he would do anything she asked.

  It was not the same cup. This brew was sickly and bitter at the same time. He was being drugged.

  He groaned with relief. Wonderful woman, to ease his pain in such a way.

  His head began to swim once more. Oh, he’d thank her indeed when he was back to strength with everything working as it should. He could think of so many ways to show his gratitude that did not even involve leaving this bed.

  ‘The arrow?’ he mumbled. His mouth now felt too small to hold his tongue.

  She drew a sharp breath and the hand at the back of his skull tightened briefly. She muttered something to herself and Roger caught Thomas’s name.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. It’s still in your shoulder.’

  He felt her move away and shortly the door closed, leaving him alone.

  The news was bad, but the matter was out of Roger’s hands for now. However hard he tried, he could do nothing to fight the sleep that was claiming him.

  He fell into a deep slumber and dreamed of Lucy.

  * * *

  When Roger next achieved full awareness, it was night once more and opening his eyes did not require the effort it had earlier in the day. The air that kissed his skin was cold, deliciously so, for his flesh felt hotter than he would expect, especially one spot just above his heart. His vision began to clear. He craned his head to search for Lucy, but he was alone. He shivered and pain surged through him, radiating from the wound outwards. The God-rotted arrow was still there, wasn’t it? He bit down on his lip to stop the sudden trembling that began as he thought of what removing it would entail.

  His stomach growled and he became aware of another discomfort; a clenching ache in his belly that demanded to be filled. He had barely eaten yesterday and by all accounts had slept the whole day away. No wonder his limbs felt leaden and his body weak.

  ‘Hello! Is anyone there?’ he called. His throat rasped painfully. He coughed and tried once more. ‘Woman? Dove? Where are you? I’m hungry.’

  Roger waited for her to arrive with increasing irritation. Possibly the wench would be serving in the room downstairs and could not spare the time immediately. The inn was unusually silent compared to those Roger had been in before. Perhaps that wasn’t the reason. He would have to go in search.

  He tried to move his arms, but they would not lift from beside his body. The right arm he expected to be weaker, but the left had nothing to hinder it. With mounting anxiety he tried again. Something was preventing him. He took a deep breath and tried to fight down his fear, but visions filled him of a life of paralysis, his body useless and relying on the goodwill of others to survive. A puppet being fed and wiped like a babe.

  His father’s form swam before Roger, his puckered eyes gazing sightlessly on Roger’s face and his twisted arm hanging limply by his side.

  ‘At least you have your sight. Be thankful for that.’

  Roger moaned, remembering his father bellowing a warning, the lance splintering. Was a similar incapacity to be Roger’s penance? He clutched at the rough blankets covering him. The relief that flooded him as he felt his hands curl about the homespun cloth was incomparable. He tried once more to bring his hands together and this time he succeeded in lifting them both, but bringing them together was impossible. A tugging at his wrists was confusing, but the last dregs of the painkilling draught Lucy had given him were wearing off and as a result his head felt less clouded.

  Concentrating on what he felt, he came to the conclusion that he had not lost the use of his limbs. He was being restrained by something tied around his wrists holding him to the bed. He tilted his head to look at his arms. Cold sweat broke out across his body as he confirmed it.

  The bitch had tied him down!

  He jerked his left arm up and his right was wrenched from the bed, hitting the floor with a loud thump and bashing his knuckles. The movement caused further pain in his shoulder and he gritted his teeth to stop from crying out. He eased his hand upward to the sore spot above his heart that had mystified him earlier and his fingers touched blistered flesh. Someone had burned him.

  Had he been subject to torture and blocked out the memory? He cast his mind back to Lucy’s pale, frightened face that had f
illed his vision the previous night as she cut his clothes from him. In his earlier befuddled state he knew Lucy had bathed him, given him water, and soothed his pain away with her gentle hands and soft words. She had done all that knowing he was bound. Would the next thing she did be to slip a dagger between his ribs or slit his throat? It seemed unlikely. He could not imagine the quivering girl would have dared do something so rash as take him captive alone, so she must have been instructed to do it by someone else. If she was not responsible for his situation, who was, and was Lucy being mistreated also?

  Roger’s fists clenched. The worry for Lucy’s wellbeing was so unexpected it brought him up sharp. He gave a wry smile. He had often been accused of dishonour. What a pity those who had laid the charge at his feet would never know how he had spared a thought for the girl before they both died. Memories of battles in France threw themselves about his brain, captured soldiers herded like cattle, roped together awaiting death. Innocent townspeople slaughtered, women and children among them.

  Where once he had dreamed of glory in the lists, of prizes and cheers, the sights of carnage now featured regularly in his nightmares. Was that to be his fate? Panic flooded his limbs and he began to pant like a tethered dog. He twisted, rocking from side to side to try pulling free, but he was securely bound.

  ‘Wait,’ he commanded himself aloud. There was no need to speak but it served to drown the silence and reassure him. ‘Think, don’t panic. It’s rope, not irons. And it’s a narrow bed.’

  He dropped both arms to the floor and twisted them to reach beneath, trying to undo the knots, but the effort of contorting his right shoulder was excruciating. Cold sweat once again broke out across his body. He would not gain his freedom that way so his only option was to wait. And plan.

  When he heard a footstep on the stair he dropped his head to one side so that his hair covered his face and eased his left hand close to him to give himself as much slack on the rope as he could. Lucy entered and he watched through half-closed lids as she placed a lamp and cup on the chest at the foot of the bed. She came to his side and knelt, placing a bowl beside her. If she was being instructed, someone would be waiting for her to return downstairs.

  Roger closed his eyes, though the urge to watch what she did was tempting. She brushed his hair back from his face, slipping the jaw-length tangles behind his ear. He let her begin to bathe him as she had done before, first his brow and face, fingers tickling where they brushed against the growth of beard that felt too unkempt for his liking. Her hands travelled to his neck, her fingers tracing the cloth along a route from the sensitive flesh behind his ear to the hollow at his throat. The cloth was rewetted and wiped across his chest.

  Roger clenched his fingers, readying himself to move as soon as the opportunity presented itself, but when Lucy removed the cloth and placed her bare fingers above Roger’s heart he almost decided to abandon his plan, giving himself up to the sensations of pleasure at her touch.

  Almost, but not quite. Lucy made a small circle with her thumb around the burn mark and gave a sigh of worry. Goosebumps rose on Roger’s flesh. If he was about to die, no condemned man could ask for a better prelude to passing, however Roger did not intend to die. Carefully, so as not to be noticed, he eased his hand off the bed. He risked opening his right eye ever so slightly and saw Lucy’s face was creased with anxiety.

  As Lucy reached down for the cloth she leaned forward. Roger whipped his left hand up around her, ignoring the pain this caused his right shoulder as the rope pulled taut, and seized her around the back of the neck. She cried out, a mixture of surprise and pain. Ignoring the sound, Roger tightened his fingers and pulled her head towards him until her eyes were level with his and their faces almost touching.

  ‘You have a lot of explaining to do!’ he snarled.

  He moved his thumb around until it pressed against the side of her windpipe. He could feel the blood pounding through her veins beneath his touch. Tears sprang to Lucy’s eyes. Guilt writhed within Roger at the discomfort he must be causing her, but he bit it down. He had been forced into this violence by her actions.

  ‘Set me free or I’ll choke the life from you,’ he growled.

  Her hands came around Roger’s, clawing at his skin as she attempted to prise his hand free. He held tight and she scraped the nails of both hands against his wrist. Ten sharp daggers. Time ceased to move as they glared at each other, her eyes fearful beneath the defiance that simmered in them.

  Lucy’s neck was slender, the skin smooth. If Roger squeezed the creamy flesh a little more she would lose consciousness before she drew his blood. He found as he looked at her reddening cheeks he did not wish that. He slackened his grip the slightest degree. She could not break free, but he would not cause her lasting ill if she did not struggle. He held her rigid with the same ease with which he steadied his gelding in the midst of battle, or set his destrier at the tilt, until Lucy knelt motionless, as obedient as the animal itself.

  ‘We can stay like this as long as you like, or you can save yourself time and pain and release me from my bonds. Do you have a knife? Any weapon?’

  She could not move her head to shake it, but her lips formed the word ‘no.’

  Nothing she could use against him, but nothing Roger could seize to free himself. He held her, wondering what to do.

  Lucy’s eyes darted around the room before settling back on Roger. Instead of beginning to pull against him once more as he half expected, she lowered her hands to her sides. Lucy dropped her gaze and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Roger gave a tight smile. The last time they had been in such close proximity was when he had kissed her. Despite his anger at her betrayal he considered pulling her closer and doing it again.

  He was not expecting her to bring the water bowl around and dash the hard pot against the side of his head.

  Roger let loose a string of obscenities. Lights flashed behind his eyes and his grip loosened enough for Lucy to be able to twist free. She fell backwards, crashing to the floor in a tangle of skirts as her legs slid out from under her, giving Roger a glimpse of shapely calves encased in thick woollen stockings. He craned his neck to glare at her. She looked back from her position on the floor, her body spreading before him as if in offering, the contours of her full breasts and rounded hips contrasting with her slender waist. He’d wanted to take her in his arms, bury himself between her breasts and sate himself between those soft thighs, but even the loveliest woman lost her shine when she cracked him over the head.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ Roger snarled.

  ‘I work for myself,’ Lucy replied. ‘This is my inn.’

  Roger raised his left hand, pulling the rope taut. ‘I mean who told you to tether me here?’

  Lucy tossed her hair from her brow and her eyes narrowed. ‘That was my idea also.’

  ‘You must set me free. I’m working in the service of the King!’

  ‘Don’t lie!’ Lucy spat. ‘Thomas said you were mercenaries.’

  Her voice dripped with scorn and suspicion. Why would she believe he had a respectable purpose, too, if she knew that.

  ‘I’m both. Undo the ropes and let me free!’ Roger cried in exasperation. A thought struck him. He pointed to his chest. ‘Did you burn me, too? Was this your doing?’

  Lucy paled. Wordlessly she twisted on to her front with a grace that reminded Roger of a cat and scrambled to her feet. She was through the door and gone before he could call her back.

  That was all the confirmation Roger needed. He lay back on the mattress, furious at Lucy’s betrayal and his own foolishness. He had conjured assailants who had forced her to act as they demanded only to discover she had taken it upon herself to imprison him and hurt him further. He had believed her to be a gentle, compassionate woman, not a calculating madwoman. Now he wished he had wrung her neck like a chicken while he had the opportunity.

  Rog
er swallowed and licked dry lips. His throat ached with thirst and his belly constricted with emptiness. He should at least have waited until she had brought the cup to him. Now he would have to wait for who knew how long for the hellcat to come back before he could slake his thirst. Assuming she did return.

  ‘You never did know how to charm a woman,’ his brother remarked. ‘Always pushing. Always demanding. Always forceful.’

  ‘Go away, Hal!’ Roger muttered. ‘You aren’t here.’

  In which case the thought was his own, not his brother’s judgement. Hal had once accused Roger of rape. He’d been innocent, but that Hal had considered him capable of such violation was something Roger still resented years after the event. Now his roughness had succeeded in terrifying Lucy. It was doubtful she would come back into his presence before Thomas returned. Assuming Thomas did return. Surely he would come back as soon as possible, knowing his sister was alone with Roger.

  Roger clenched his fist and pounded the mattress in frustration. Too many possibilities, and all the while the arrow was still in him and the wound would begin to fester unless it was removed and cleaned.

  And now he realised he needed a piss.

  Like it or not, Lucy was his only company and the only means of getting what he needed. He had to entice her back and convince her to free him. Anger had not worked. That had been badly done. Roaring at the girl and threatening murder had achieved nothing. He had been too long in wars and not enough time in the company of respectable women. Orders and shouting might work on the men he had commanded, but he had lost sight of what women desired.

  Roger gave his first genuine smile for days. If there was one thing Roger was skilled at, it was convincing a woman to do his bidding. It would take honey cake, not threats, to entice this little dove to his side. If he put his mind to it, he was certain he could make Lucy fall in love with him for as long as it took to gain his freedom, recover and leave.

  * * *

  She came back after a shorter time than Roger anticipated. Without a candle to mark the passing of time he had kept his mind busy by singing songs in Italian and French that he had picked up around various campfires, and cataloguing the location and number of men he had recruited to join the Company. If every man showed up to be recruited, and if Sir Hugh Calveley went to France as the King requested, Roger would be a richer man than when he left. Rich enough to afford a horse decent enough to win in the tournaments. Rich enough to overcome any nobleman’s objections to him as a son-in-law.