by Paula Quinn
“So, Captain, ye’re going to try to kill me because of the direction of a few brief glances?”
“No, I’m going to discover how good you truly are to be able to glance away at all.” He moved in a blur of speed, bringing his sword left and right, raining sparks around their boots as metal clashed with metal. He withdrew, flipped his hilt to his left hand, and advanced from the opposite direction.
Hell, Colin thought when the tip of Gates’s blade scratched his neck as it swooshed by him. He wanted a demonstration of Colin’s true skill, and Colin ached to give it to him. But how would he explain why he’d concealed it?
An instant later he didn’t care about explanations or anything else. He looked down at the blood seeping through his shirt from a deep cut to his shoulder. He was barely aware of Lady Gillian’s demand for Gates to stop, and de Atre’s laughter somewhere behind him.
All right then.
Parting his legs, he flipped his claymore into his left hand and balanced on his feet. If ’twas a fight he wanted, Colin would give him one.
They met in a clash of metal, Gates driven back on his heels by the sheer force of Colin’s strength. Colin advanced without pause, cutting through the captain’s defense with powerful, crushing blows. He blocked every strike to a screeching halt, struck from every angle, swift, precise, and effective.
Gates held him off for more than a quarter of an hour, but ’twas clear he was weary. His reflexes slowed and three times Colin could have delivered a lethal blow. Inactivity was a pitiful reason to lose a war. But this captain didn’t care about wars. He was driven by his own purpose: to protect a lady’s virtue from the jackals around her… including himself.
Colin lowered his sword. He didn’t want a victory over Gates. “I would never harm her, Captain,” he vowed.
“You will bring harm to her.” Gates lifted his blade over Colin’s head, forcing Colin to block it. “Do you not understand that?”
“Nae, not entirely.” Colin pushed away from him. “I’m not clear on why Devon takes every opportunity to shame her, yet a few mere glances could bring her harm.”
Realizing the fight was over, Gates sheathed his blade and rested his hands on his knees, his breath coming heavy. “And I’m not clear on certain things about you.”
Colin returned his blade to its scabbard and lifted his gaze to Lady Gillian, who was striding toward them. A coastal breeze snapped her skirts around her ankles and blew tendrils of hair loose around her face. When she reached them, she looked at the blood staining Colin’s sleeve and then glared at Gates. She said nothing, which seemed to ruffle the captain’s composure more than fighting with Colin had.
“Are you done in your garden?” Gates asked her, straightening.
“I am.” She didn’t blink but folded her arms across her chest and continued to stare at him.
“Good, then I’ll see you to your rooms.”
“You will see me to the Great Hall, where I will tend to the wound you inflicted on Mr. Campbell, and then I would have words with you alone.”
She was angry. Colin wondered if his injury was the cause and then put the thought from his mind. ’Twas nothing but a scratch. He’d received worse at the Battle of Sedgemoor and had seen to the injuries himself. He didn’t need a woman to mend him. He certainly didn’t want a woman worrying over him.
“I can see to it myself,” he said when Gates did not refuse her request right away.
“Nonsense.” She turned her glare on him. “I’ve tended to the men’s wounds before. You are no different.”
He didn’t know why her words made him scowl, or why he’d just fought the captain with blades instead of just apologizing for looking at her, or why he couldn’t look away now.
“I’ll have Margaret see to him,” Gates finally said, regaining his poise and his breath. “I would have words with Mr. Campbell—”
“Margaret can balance a tray on her hand and her hips in a man’s lap,” Lady Gillian contended, unwilling to budge on the matter. “A needle and thread in her fingers will likely render him useless while he fights off infection. Now let us go before we draw a crowd and Mr. Campbell bleeds all over the courtyard.”
She turned on her heel without another word, leaving both of them to stare after her and then eye each other helplessly. Colin followed first, with the captain muttering blasphemies behind him.
A few men loitered about in the Hall, Lefevre among them. When the French mercenary saw Colin’s bloody arm, he laughed and raised his cup to him. Colin acknowledged him with a brief nod and then strode to the nearest empty table.
“Captain.” Lady Gillian pulled out a chair and motioned for Colin to sit in it. “I will need a bowl of water and my needles. Please have one of the men see to the task while I examine the wound. Mr. Campbell, remove your shirt.”
Colin fell into the chair silently and glowered up at her. He had no stomach for being pampered like some English peacock in need of a nursemaid. But he found his protests caught somewhere between her full pink mouth and the vivid blue of her eyes. Would she be so determined to have a look at him when she saw the number of scars marring his form?
What the hell did he care? Was he losing his bloody mind, worrying over her aversion to his bare chest? So what if she thought him ugly. Mayhap she would quit looking at him and he could get on with his task without thinking about her with every damned breath he took.
“Your shirt,” she commanded, standing over him.
He aimed his most deadly frown at her and she bit her bottom lip, either frightened of him or trying not to laugh at his last feeble attempt at dignity. Neither reaction pleased him. Jaw taut, he yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.
As he suspected, Lady Gillian’s eyes widened before she quickly looked away.
Chapter Twelve
Gillian lived in a castle with more than a hundred men. She’d seen bare torsos before and mended dozens of wounds inflicted upon men she didn’t like, or barely knew.
But this was different.
She didn’t dislike Colin Campbell, but, God help her, she’d never seen a form like this one before. From shoulders to belly, this was a body honed to perfection, sculpted by daily, rigorous training. Not overly muscular, his lean corded sinew twitched beneath his glistening skin, damp and still wound taut from his morning’s exercise.
She let out the breath caught between her chest and her throat and looked away.
Get a grip on yourself, Gillian, she told herself, stunned and disgusted by her base appraisal. He is just a man. Just like all the rest.
“I can tend to myself.”
His gruff voice dragged her attention back to him. Her eyes lingered over the powerful length of his arm reaching down to snatch something from the floor. An arm that had overpowered George.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he stood up, his shirt dangling from his hand.
“I’m leaving.”
“Oh, do stop being a child. I will be extra gentle with you.”
His mouth opened into a curiously alluring O before it curled into an indulgent smirk. “Woman, I’ve dug musket balls out of my flesh with a knife. I don’t fear anything ye can do with a needle.”
She offered him a cheeky smile in return, though for some reason his declaration and the quiet authority in the way he spoke it made her kneecaps ache. Of course, her weakness could be blamed on the way he stood before her like a statue carved in cold granite. He looked like the kind of man who could dig bullets from his own flesh and not flinch.
“Very well.” She folded her arms across her chest in defense of his dangerous appeal. “Now that we’ve established how strong and manly you are, would you sit down and let me tend to you before you bleed all over the chair?”
He didn’t protest, but his muscles remained coiled and he was ready to spring back up from his seat. Gillian breathed a silent sigh and moved closer to examine his wound. She didn’t like prideful men. In fact, she didn’t like men in general
. She kept that thought firmly in her mind while she reached her fingers to his flesh.
He flinched, anticipating her touch. They glanced at each other at the same time. Lord, but his eyes were captivating, like twin sunsets ringed by darkness and shadows. Deep, mysterious wells of emotion boiling beneath the surface. However stoic he appeared, his eyes were alive with the storm of passions unleashed. What were they? What moved him, drove him, made him smile? She wanted to know.
“It’s deep,” she said, blinking away and over his bloody shoulder to glare one last time at George.
What in Heaven’s name had come over him to fight with real swords? He’d fought like he was trying to kill Colin. Why? Did it have to do with her? With Edmund? She hoped not. Colin Campbell was far more dangerous than he led others to believe, but he had been nothing but respectful to her and kind to Edmund. She would not have him harmed for things he hadn’t done, save for in George’s own head. She would speak with him about it later. Her bowl of water had arrived, along with clean rags, and if she didn’t set about her work now, she might be too afraid to touch her patient later.
“Who closed those previous wounds?” she asked, dipping a rag in the bowl to begin cleaning around the injury.
“I did,” he practically growled at her.
She quirked her brow at him but he’d severed their gaze and looked straight ahead. What was he so angry about? She shrugged a shoulder, suspecting it had much to do with George.
“All of them?” she asked, continuing her work. And there were many. At least six other tears in the arm he was bleeding from now. Four that she could see on the other. A small nick on his collarbone, two large gashes across his chest and three round gouges, the size of musket balls, on his rippled belly. Lord, he’d spoken true.
“You’re lucky to be alive, Mr. Campbell.”
“Luck had naught to do with it.”
“What had it to do with then?” George asked, coming to stand at her side. “Mastery of the sword, perhaps?”
Colin glanced up at him briefly. “A passion fer my life when someone is trying to take it from me.”
Gillian listened while she dabbed his shoulder clean. George had been correct in his suspicions about the mercenary. Had this been a test to force Colin into proving his skill? She knew George was clever, but he’d still almost taken off Colin’s arm.
“Passion stirs many things in a man,” her captain agreed, looking him over slyly. “Let us hope that being a fool is not one of them.”
Gillian cut a glance to her friend and then looked up at Lieutenant de Atre when he appeared over her with her needles and thread.
“Lord Devon wishes to speak with you, Captain. I am to escort the lady to her rooms when she is finished sewing this one up.”
Gillian didn’t look at de Atre while he spoke. Her eyes found Colin’s instead. They shared a moment of displeasure at the lieutenant’s presence. This time, she looked away first. She nodded to George when he told her to make haste with her task, then set her mind to work as he left the Great Hall.
“Would you like some ale or wine to aid with the pain?” she asked Colin quietly.
“Nae.”
“Looks like you’ve been losing fights for quite some time now, Scot.” Lieutenant de Atre laughed, looking over Colin’s flesh.
“Lieutenant,” Gillian said with annoyance clipping her voice, “if you must stay here, would you be so kind as to remain silent?” Your voice makes my skin crawl.
He glared at her as if he’d heard her silent thoughts, then muttered something about her being a cold-hearted bitch and stomped off to join three of his comrades who were sharing some ale.
Gillian’s hands trembled as she put her needle to flesh. Sewing a man didn’t make her queasy. Being alone with Colin Campbell did. Was she so pitiful then, that she could become so undone by a man simply because he was kind to her son? Or worse, because he had the most piercing, smoldering eyes she’d ever seen? She moved in closer, trying desperately to ignore the pulse beat at his neck, the strength of his jaw just inches away. When he turned his head to watch her work, she almost stuck the needle in the wrong place. Pausing, she drew in a breath and began again.
“Ye don’t like him.”
She drove the needle through. He ground his jaw.
“He smells like a sewer.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said, following the length of thread through his arm.
She relaxed, more because she liked the rich baritone of his voice than because he was finally speaking to her without sounding like he’d rather be doing anything else. His thick, melodic pitch soothed her nerves. She thought she might like to listen to him speak to her all day.
“You fought Captain Gates with your left hand.” She glanced at his gaze.
“Aye.”
“Most believe such a practice reveals a sinister nature.”
“They are most likely correct. My father was referred to as the devil in his younger years.”
Gillian smiled. He did not smile back. No matter. In fact, she rather preferred his dispassionate response over the lecherous grins she usually received from the others. “Did you come by the rest of these scars in practice or in battle?”
“Both,” he told her, his brow heavy above his eyes as he moved them to the men drinking and laughing on the other side of the Hall. “I wear them proudly.”
“And so you should.” Her eyes lingered over them before lifting to meet his as he turned them back on her.
“Some find them repulsive.”
“Fools. I… I mean”—she stumbled over her words when that unfathomable gaze went warm on her—“they are… you are…” She pierced his skin again and felt his muscles constrict beneath her fingers. “Oh, do forgive me.” She let go of her needle and stepped back. “Perhaps I should have Margaret see to you, after all.”
“Ye’re doing fine.” He reached for her hand and pulled her back, setting her poor nerves to ruin. “Continue.”
Could she? Everything about him was driving her to distraction. Perhaps if she wasn’t standing over him, so close that her leg brushed his outer thigh. She moved around him, to the left, then to the right, but found no position comfortable from which to sew him. She wiped her brow and then realized he was watching her with a curious quirk shaping his mouth. Lord, but he had nice lips.
“I… I cannot seem to find—”
He took her by the arm and moved her between his thighs. “Better?”
Dear God, no, it wasn’t better. She felt a bit faint and prayed she wouldn’t swoon into his lap. She didn’t want to like him. She certainly wouldn’t let herself trust him completely. But Lord, she hadn’t been so close to a decent man in more years than she cared to recall. “Better,” she managed, but didn’t move to retrieve the needle dangling from his shoulder.
“Captain Gates is verra protective of ye.”
“Hmmm? Oh, aye, he is.” She picked up the needle and resumed stitching. “Sometimes, too protective.”
“He has his reasons, I imagine.”
Gillian caught him eyeing de Atre. “He does,” she agreed, following his gaze. “Thankfully, some of them are afraid to even look at me.”
“I’m aware.”
Damn it to hell, but she stabbed him yet again. “Is…” She forced herself to go gentle on the next stitch. “Is that why he challenged you to swords?”
“That may have had something to do with it.”
He had been looking at her then. She felt him looking at her now. Something flipped in her chest and made her palms grow moist. Why had he been looking at her? Twice the needle nearly slipped from her hands. “You must forgive Captain Gates. He worries over Edmund.”
“And Lord Devon, what does he worry over?”
Gillian finally glanced at him, not understanding his meaning.
“Will he lose yer father’s coin or perhaps his military support if ye leave this place?”
She paused her work to look at him fully. What was he saying… �
��Leave this…?” Her words trailed off and she shook her head. “No. He will lose me.”
“Woman!” Lieutenant de Atre called from his place across the hall. “Hurry the hell up with that. I’ve other things to do.”
For a moment Colin’s expression went so dark on him that Gillian feared he might snatch one of the daggers peeking out from his boots and hurl it into the lieutenant’s chest.
“Perhaps it is best if we don’t speak of Geoffrey anymore. Edmund will be waking soon and I don’t wish to spoil my good mood. Tell me instead how you received some of your wounds.”
He looked at her like he wanted to refuse and question her more on things she preferred not to think about. Such as marrying her cousin and never leaving Dartmouth.
“I imagine,” she said, stopping him, “your body has many thrilling tales of battle to tell.”
She didn’t think tending to him could be any more difficult, but when he smiled at her, she felt the defenses that had taken her years to build weaken… along with her knees. It was nothing like the pleasant, though somewhat inconsequential smiles he offered the others here. His gaze on her softened, warming her from the inside out. Oh, his many battles may have thickened his hard shell, but beneath was a man crafted of fire. So hot that his voice dancing across her ears burned her nerve endings like languid flames.
“This”—he pointed to the nick on his collarbone—“was given to me by my sister. She has a treacherous temper.”
Gillian smiled back at him, forgetting her frosty shield that helped to keep the men at bay. Forgetting everything else for one blissful moment. “And this?” She touched her finger to a scar running down the length of his arm. “Her as well, or something more dangerous?”
“A thief who tried to rob me on the road.”
Oh, what an adventurous life he seemed to have led. Fighting in the king’s army, meeting robbers on roads that led wherever he desired.