by Karin Tabke
With the help of his men who constantly lingered in shifts at the threshold, they rolled him over so that she could tend the wounds on his back. Each time she gently rubbed the healing balm into his raw skin and he moaned in pain, she moaned with him. How he had survived such torture she did not know, but she thanked God every day that he had.
His men were silent, and she saw the worry and the anger on their faces.
“With Gareth’s help, and the offer of gold to anyone with information on the scourge, we have covered every hide of land from the Welsh border, north to Hereford, and have not seen any persons fitting your description, Lady Tarian,” Rorick said, coming from another hard day’s ride. And she knew they would not.
Feeling uncomfortable with her lies, she broke the tension. “Help me roll him over, Rorick, I need to change the soiled linens.”
The great warrior was as gentle with his friend as she would be with her babe. Their devotion to one another moved her beyond tears. The bond these men shared was truly profound. That they allowed her to tend their leader bespoke their trust in her, and once again shame and guilt assailed her. She pushed it away; her only goal now was to see Wulfson’s health restored. For he was at death’s door because of her.
Tarian bathed him where he lay, and noted that despite Wulfson’s deep sleep and fever his wounds were healing. But once night had fallen, her fears for his life came back with a vengeance. She could not lose him once found! Not now, not like this.
She slid into the bed, gently pressing her cheek to his chest, and took his hand and laid it to her belly. “Your child grows inside me, Wulfson. He will need his father. I need his father.” With her head to his chest, she lay silently hoping for a shift in his heartbeat. Though strong, it was dull, and she thought too much time passed between each beat. “I love you, Wulfson, more than my own life. I will go to Normandy with you. I will follow you to the ends of the earth.” She pressed her lips to his chest. “But you must wake up, Wulfson, you must fight. Your child needs you. I need you. Please wake up and live.”
Throughout the night and into the next day, she made him promises she knew in her heart she could not keep, but she knew of no other way to give him the will to survive: if not for himself, then for his child. She pressed the damp sponge to his lips; she rubbed balm into his cracked lips and knitting wounds. She sang to him, she spun wild tales of the two of them fighting side by side, conquering the world. She spoke earnestly of her love for him, and asked his forgiveness.
His fever broke that night, and his swollen eyes opened. “Dear God, Wulfson, do you see me?” She prayed they had not taken his sight.
She watched him focus and squint. He closed his eyes again, only to slowly open them. His calloused, scarred hand moved to hers, and she let spill the hot tears that had been building for nearly a week. “Wulfson,” she breathed, “you live.”
He nodded and swallowed. She brought the cool damp sponge to his lips and pressed it to his cracked lips. He sucked the wine from it. “You must eat. I have porridge for you.”
His dull eyes looked up at her, and her heart broke all over again. She smoothed his hair from his face and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Wulfson, do not leave me again. You are alive. You will heal.”
He closed his eyes again, and she let him sleep.
She spent the rest of the night watching over him, smoothing away the vestiges of the fever from his skin. She fell alseep, then, came slowly awake, and realized his breaths were strong and even, his skin cool against her fingertips. She rose up to find his eyelids slowly opening, and her heart sang at the fierceness of his gaze. She smiled and pressed her lips to his. “Welcome back, milord. I have missed you.”
“What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“I will tell you all just as soon as you sip some broth.”
She helped him sit up in the bed, putting several pillows behind his back, careful not to chafe his tender skin. He winced, but did not show any other sign of discomfort. As she spoon-fed him, she asked, “Do you remember the day at the pond?”
He nodded.
“’Twas as simple as a kidnap. I was the target.”
He stopped her hand and took it in his own. “Were you harmed?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.
“Nay, I told them they would not get a copper should they touch me. I gave them the same threat regarding you.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Wulfson, I nearly died when I saw what they had done to you!”
“How, did you escape?”
She looked down at the bowl in her hand. “I gave them my dowry money. For your life and mine.”
He sat silent for long moments, and she prayed he would not ask more questions. “How? How did you get it to them?”
Her hand shook as she raised the spoon. “There was a casket at Briarhurst. I but gave them the location. Once they returned with it they abandoned us.”
He shook his head and squeezed her hand. “I failed to protect you.”
“Wulfson, there were too many of them, and they had planned well. No man could have fought them off and survived.”
“What of my horse and sword?”
“That black devil returned here, as did Silversmith. He gave your men and mine much cause for alarm. Your sword is secure by the hearth; it awaits only your hand.” She pressed another spoonful of broth to his lips. When the bowl was empty, she said, “Let the broth settle and I will get you something heartier. Now I must tell your men you have come out of the fog. They have been like worried nursemaids, the lot of them.”
When she made to move from the bed, he grabbed her hand and tugged her back. He did not have the strength to pull her all the way down. His eyes rose to hers. “Did I dream it or did you tell me that the child you carry is mine?”
Emotion rose up in her belly. She desperately wanted to tell him the truth. But she could not. He would force her to go to Normandy, and that she would never do. “If it pleases you to think it so, then I do not mind.”
He scowled, and she smiled. “Ah, there it is, the infamous scowl.”
When she moved again, again he stayed her. “Did you tell me you love me?”
Heat flushed her cheeks but that she could not deny. “Aye, Wulfson, with all my heart I love you. Would that it could change things.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Where does that put me?”
She smiled sadly, and touched her fingertips to his lips. “Where you have always been: you will kill me if your king commands it.”
He shook his head. “Nay! It will never be so.”
She shushed him and hurried from the room.
From that moment, Wulfson recovered at a miraculous rate. He was out of the bed and walking slowly around the chamber the next morning, though with a noticeable limp. “They made my bad leg worse,” he told her. But he soldiered through the pain. He ate with the gusto of ten men, and on the second day after he awoke he insisted on dressing and going down to the hall. He was welcomed with wild cheers, not only from his own men but hers as well, and several of the villagers who milled about. That night there was a great feast, and Wulfson called his men to him.
“I leave for Normandy in three days’ time.”
“Nay, Wulfson!” Tarian gasped. “’Tis too early. You must heal completely.”
He scowled. “I appreciate your nursing, Tarian, but I am not a milksop of a boy who needs more coddling. I will be well enough to ride and defend myself in three days. Do not nag me to stay.”
She nodded and bowed her head just slightly, then turned and hurried to her chamber. She knew he would be well enough to ride in three days, but then she would have to pay for his life. So be it. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.
Wulfson fought the urge to give chase to Tarian but he resisted it. His heart weighed heavy with emotion for her, but he would not show weakness for a woman, even one as spectacular as she, in front of his men. Instead, he turned to them with a tight, bitter smile. “I want the bastards who did this to me
, and I want them alive. I will ride to the corners of this miserable place until I hunt each of them down and split their bellies open with my own sword.”
Manhku growled low, and said in his broken French, “’Tis too gentle. Burn their eyes out and cut their fingers off one at a time, then their toes, then their hands, then their feet.” He grinned at them all, his sharp teeth glittering. “Hack them to death piece by piece.”
Wulfson smiled and raised his cup, “Manhku, you devil!”
His men drank and they plotted and they planned, but more than that, they celebrated Wulfson’s survival. Long after the torches had been put out, Wulfson made his way up to his chamber. He would apologize to Tarian for his gruffness, but he would also make her understand he was not a child. For the first time since he awoke, he felt the hot surge in his blood for her. But he doubted he had the strength necessary to make love to her.
Wulfson was surprised to see his squire and not Tarian at the threshold of his chamber. The lad smiled and bowed. “Sir Wulfson, I am most happy to see you up and about. You gave us all a great scare.”
Wulfson stopped and gazed at the boy, who was struggling to keep the moisture in his eyes from rolling down his cheeks. He cuffed the boy lightly, and gruffly said, “I too am happy to be up and about.” He looked past him into the empty room. “Where is Lady Tarian?”
“Her chamber, sir. I will fetch her for you. But before I do, I have prepared a bath for you.”
Wulfson shook his head. “Nay, lad, I do not have the stomach to sit in warm water. Mayhap tomorrow. Go fetch the lady, then see to your own needs.”
As the door shut behind the boy, Wulfson slowly moved about the chamber, undressing himself. His body, while it did not flare with fire, still stung. His leg pained him greatly. The heat where the club had struck him would not subside, though the cool cloths Tarian had pressed to the area had soothed him. He would ask her to do so again when she came to him. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his thigh.
He heard the creak as the door opened, then closed. “Tarian,” he whispered.
“I am here, milord.”
He looked up into her bright eyes and saw no vestige of hurt. Indeed, she looked about to fight. He smiled. He raised his hand to her and she moved closer to him, but not close enough for contact. “Do not fear for my health, chérie. In a few days, the fever will be gone from my leg and the weight of my mail will not cause me any discomfort. I have survived worse.”
She shook her head, her eyes still bright. “How could you survive worse than this? You were at death’s door!”
“Trust me, I survived a year in a Saracen hellhole. I can survive anything a cowardly Saxon metes out.” He patted the bed beside him. “My blood is on fire for you, Tarian, but I fear I have used my strength for the day.”
Instead of sitting beside him, she brought a full pitcher of cool water to the nightstand and dipped linens into it. “Lie back so I can lay the compresses on your thigh.”
Clad only in his braies, he lay back and they both smiled at the rise in his braies. “The day I can no longer rise to you, Tarian, is the day you can bury me.”
She laughed softly and pressed the linens to his skin. “Aye, I fear your heart would long have stopped beating but your cock would still salute. ’Tis a most voracious limb you have there.”
“Aye, when it comes to you, he has a mind of his own.”
Tarian sat down beside him and pressed the palm of her hand to him. Wulfson hissed in a sharp breath. “Thank God they did not touch you there.”
He wrapped his hand around hers and he squeezed. “You make me forget I have no strength.”
She shook her head, her long hair cascading around her shoulders and waist, and pulled her hand from his. “Nay, not this night.” She hovered over him and pressed him back into the pillows. “I do not want to hurt you.”
His arm slid around her waist and he pulled her against him. She did not resist, nor did she engage. “You could never hurt me,” he said softly, kissing her.
She kissed him back and he tasted the wet saltiness of her tears. He pulled back. “Why the tears, Tarian?”
She only shook her head, unanswering. Frustrated by her behavior, Wulfson demanded, “What is wrong, Tarian? I cannot abide your tears!”
She sniffed back a sob and shook her head. “I—I have not recovered from seeing you so tortured. I feared for your life, Wulfson. I was terrified. I would have done anything to save you.”
He pulled her into his arms, and the only pain he felt was the swelling of his heart. He kissed the top of her head and quieted her with soft words. But he did not admit that he too was terrified, for in his gut he knew that William would not relent.
Twenty-two
The next two days passed in a whirlwind of activity. The energy in Draceadon was palpable as Wulfson made arrangements for his trip to Normandy. His men as well as hers had a sense of hope that Tarian could not share.
On the third night, the night before Wulfson was to depart, Gareth took her aside. “My lady, word has come. The knight Warner has escaped.” Dread took hold of her so tightly she thought she would faint from lack of breath. From his continued scowl, she knew there was more.
“William’s royal messenger was sighted. He comes with a large contingent of knights. It does not bode well for you. We must flee tonight.”
Tarian’s worst nightmare was realized. William was bent on her destruction. She nodded. “Gather the documents and wrap them in a skin, then put them in a leather cask and keep them with you, Gareth. I have sent word to Rangor to meet us just past Dunloc. We will fly west to Powys, where Rhiwallon awaits with men.”
Gareth’s scowl turned ugly. He was solidly opposed to her marriage to Rangor. “Keep your sharp words to yourself, Gareth. ’Twas either marriage to that ruffian or Wulfson’s death. I would rather live as Lady Lerwick than see Wulfson dead because of my fickleness.”
“When the Norman learns ’twas Rangor who kidnapped you and ordered his torture, there will not be a rock on this island for him to hide beneath.”
Tarian nodded. “He will not come to Wales.”
“Do not be so sure of it.”
Her captain stalked off, and Tarian turned to find Wulfson’s eyes on her across the hall. She smiled and made her way toward him. “Come and sup, milord.”
He did not move when she took his hand and tugged him toward the trestle. “Is all well with your captain?”
She smiled up at him and said, “He worries overmuch. Come, the food is ready.”
As they were seated, and the prayer said, Tarian forced herself to make merry as the others. Hope and anticipation rode the men hard, for in the days since Wulfson’s torture the Blood Swords had slowly allowed her into their inner circle, acknowledging her dedication to their brother, and they had hopes also that if anyone could change William’s mind ’twould be his captain. But try as she might, Tarian could not follow along. Because it mattered not. By then she would be long wed to Rangor, and all would be for naught. Wulfson sensed her mood, and she was grateful when he retired early with her. But once the door was closed behind them, she saw the hot glitter in his eyes.
“Come to me, Tarian, as God created you. Give me all that you have this night, for it may be months before I set eyes on you again.”
She smiled, her blood warming despite her fear of what the morrow would bring. Slowly she undressed before him, only the low glow of the candlelight exposing her. When she pulled the shift over her head and dropped it to her feet, she heard a sharp hiss of breath from Wulfson. She stared at him, knowing that the passion in his eyes was reflected in hers. He slowly walked toward her, his limp barely noticeable. He pulled off his tunic, then his undertunic. His chest rose and fell with anticipation, and she noted he had regained most of his lost weight. He looked the picture of health—except for the scars that crisscrossed him. He quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothing, letting it fall where it would.
He st
opped a hand’s-breadth from her, and stared at her. Her skin warmed and her full breasts quivered beneath his gaze. He reached out a hand to her left breast and laid it upon the high swell of it. She felt her heart lurch against his touch. Her nipples tightened painfully. She closed her eyes, willing his lips there. Hot shards of desire pierced her womb when his hot lips took a nipple into his mouth and he gently suckled her. She leaned against him, her knees not having the strength to support her. His strong arm wrapped around her waist, holding her to him. In complete surrender she offered herself up to him. He hoisted her in his arms and strode to the bed, where he gently laid her down. He was hot and hard for her. She reached up to touch him, and it was his turn to hiss in a harsh breath.
He knelt beside her on the floor and pressed his lips once more to her breasts, then trailed them down to her belly. He splayed his hand across her there and looked up into her eyes and she nearly confessed all to him at that moment. His lips traveled lower to her mons. Her hips rose to him. He pressed his lips to her and she cried out. Digging her fingers into his thick hair, she pressed him more firmly against her. In a wild undulation, her hips rocked to his suckling of her there. She could not forestall the harsh wave of desire that hit her instantaneously, nor the subsequent one when he slid a finger deeply into her. “Wulfson!” she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut as the sublimity of him overwhelmed her.
His lips and hand rode out another shattering climax. Her body undulated wildly beneath him and she knew if he did not fill her soon she would die of want.
He rose above her on the bed, and spread her thighs with his knee. He gathered her up into his arms and watched her as he slowly entered her, inch by sensuous inch. She watched his face harden in passion, his brilliant eyes never wavering from hers. “You are mine, Tarian Godwinson. No man but I will ever have you.”
Emotion welled up with the force of a summer storm. He thrust high into her. “Say you are mine.”