She crouched beside the pot, watching it steam gently, while her thoughts dwelt on the man currently sleeping on the bare floor of the cave. He was incomprehensible to her. He’d been the King’s Huntsman for years, and escorted her out into the countryside on many occasions, but through it all she’d never really known him. He was always calm, always polite, and invariably cold to her. He’d been one of the few people in the castle she could have sworn held no love for her. Indeed, most of the time it seemed as though he actively disliked her.
And now, to find out that he had been there all along to protect her, was shocking. To be hiding in a cave in a desperate attempt to escape capture, even more so. But most shocking of all was to find that he was not the cold, callous person she thought. He’d left the cave—left the safety of their hideout—to go gather the things that Isabelle needed.
The pot of roots was just beginning to form bubbles, so Bianca poured in some fresh, cold water and the heat subsided. With the mash safe for the moment her eyes drifted over to linger on Robin. She wondered where he was from. Given that he was taking them to Albion, it seemed possible that he hailed from that kingdom, but Isabelle spoke of his people being different, as though they lived somewhere far away, in a land separated by both distance and custom.
He certainly looked no different from the people of the nearby kingdoms. He could have passed for a member of any of the Toldan noble families. His hair was black, like her own, and framed a face that held a dangerous kind of beauty. His features were keen; the sharp jaw, the fine nose, the hard-edged line of his cheeks, and his eyes… They were blue, but where hers were a deep midnight, his were the shade of blue found at the heart of a flame. Bright, and vivid, and—
And wide open.
They stared at each other, through the rising steam. He seemed wholly unconcerned at having woken to find her staring at him, and, despite being caught, Bianca felt no chagrin. He was a mystery, and she could no more help being fascinated by him than she could help her concern for Isabelle. So she focused on him, and delved in those glowing depths for answers to questions she didn’t even understand. As their eyes stayed locked together the silence grew, filled with a crackling energy that ran along Bianca’s skin like the precursor to a lightning storm. Robin lay quiet and completely still, yet the intensity in his fiery blue eyes bore into her, quickening her heart and catching her breath. She felt trapped, and only now did she realize that even as she searched for answers in him, he searched for them in her.
She tried to think of something to say, some words that would break this tension between them, but her mind was blank, enveloped by walls of intense, brilliant blue. It was Robin who broke the spell.
“You have put my gatherings to good use.”
Her eyes flew to the pot, and she gasped. Grabbing one of the linen bandages she dragged the mash away from the fire, saving it from boiling by only a few seconds. Then she snatched her hand away from the scalding pot, before the heat could sear her even through the linen. She heard Robin give a startled cry, and the next moment he was at her side, cradling her hand in both his own, examining it closely.
“It’s fine.” She tried to reclaim her hand, but he stubbornly held it.
“It is reddening. You could have burned yourself badly.” As he spoke he took the linen bandage and dipped it in her pot of cold water, then laid it gently against the skin on her palm. “That was a foolish thing to do.”
“I’m fine.” She tugged again, but still couldn’t extricate her hand. “I couldn’t let the mash burn. Isabelle needs it.”
“And do you not need two functioning hands?” He sounded irritated. “For that matter, does not Isabelle need both your hands? You are the only one here with the skill to care for her.”
“My hand is fine,” she said sullenly, as Robin lifted the cold, wet linen free and bent to examine the skin. “It isn’t as though I—”
She broke off with a gasp. Robin was gliding his fingers gently across her hand, testing for tenderness, or pain. Truly, there was none—she hadn’t been burned at all—but the intimacy of his touch, light and tickling, almost a caress, stole her breath away.
“Indeed, you have not harmed yourself this time.” He ran his fingers over her palm one last time, then closed her own fingers over the rapidly fading redness. “But you should have more care for yourself, Bianca.”
Finally she could free her hand, and she wasted no time scooting away from him. Then, carefully protecting her hands with the thick layers of her riding skirt, she busied herself with the pot holding the steaming mash. She settled it atop a small rock, where the air could flow around it and cool it as fast as possible. Picking up a small stick of firewood, she stirred, letting the steam escape and using the vigorous motion to break down the heat softened roots. All the while she felt Robin’s eyes following her, but he said nothing, so she ignored him. At last he rose and went to check the horses, who were resting peacefully just inside the waterfall.
It was time to take another look at Isabelle’s back. When Bianca knelt down beside her friend, Isabelle cracked her eyes.
“Bianca?”
“I’m here, Isabelle. Robin went into the forest and brought back some plants for me. I can treat your back, now.”
“Hurts.”
“I know, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid this will hurt, as well.” Bianca kept her voice low and calm. “Do you want some water before we start?”
“No, just… Do it.”
As gently as possible, Bianca began lifting the linen from Isabelle’s back. The strips of cloth came away, smeared with blood and the telltale signs of infection. Beneath the bandages, the unhealed lash mark was a gut-clenching sight. It was swollen into strained white flesh, and the vivid, angry red streaks of infection reached from hip to shoulder. Bianca looked back at Robin with worried eyes. She had never been forced to treat an infection so far gone.
“This will help, but…”
Robin came back over to them, and looked down at the awful wound. “It may not be enough.” Bianca bit her lip and nodded. “What else can you do?”
“If I were home, I would try to lance it. But lancing can be dangerous, and at home I have sweet birch to give her, and honey, to coat the wound. Here—” Bianca broke off in frustration. “I need my still room.”
Robin put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Use your poultice. It may work as you hope. By tomorrow, the king’s men should be well past this place. If Isabelle is no better, we shall try to find the things you need.”
“Besides,” Isabelle spoke, startling Bianca. She’d thought the queen had drifted off again. Her voice was weak, but still managed to sound amused. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer you keep sharp objects away from my skin.”
Bianca leaned down and kissed Isabelle’s temple. “I will do my best.”
“Of course you will, love. I have faith in you.”
Cleaning out the wound was horrible, but necessary. Bianca kept her touch delicate, but Isabelle still gasped and winced as the edges of the gash were slowly blotted free of the awful, oozing infection. She jerked away reflexively, and then tried to apologize.
“I’m sorry, I can’t… I can’t hold still.” Isabelle’s voice was shaking, and Bianca knew her friend needed help.
“Robin, could you?” He didn’t speak, but moved to kneel by Isabelle’s head, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and preventing her from moving. She gave a small sigh, almost in relief, and Bianca bent back to her task.
Once the wound was cleaned Bianca fetched the mash. It was still warm, but no longer scalding. She left it at Isabelle’s side, and went to clean her hands as best she could beneath the waterfall. Then she returned to her patient, and, trying not to jar her, carefully straddled her hips, sitting down gently so that her own body weight held her friend motionless. With her damp, clean fingers she scooped up some of the root mash mixture, took a deep breath, and looked at Robin.
“You’ll need to hold her shoulders
still.”
She waited until she saw his body weight shift, pinning Isabelle firmly, and then she began to smooth the mash deep into the wound. Isabelle’s body jerked, and she let out a pained cry, but she couldn’t move. Bianca kept her hands steady, making sure she covered every surface, packing the wound well, and moving with as much haste as she could. In reality it only took a few moments, but Isabelle’s half muffled sobs made it seem like an eternity. When Bianca was done she tumbled off her friend, and then crawled over to where she could lay her face down level with Isabelle’s.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Isabelle!”
Isabelle looked at her with tear stained eyes. “Oh Bianca, love, don’t say that. It isn’t your fault it hurts.” A shiver passed over her. “It doesn’t even,” she shuddered, “hurt that much, I’m just—” Again she shook. “So cold.”
“I’ll get your blanket.” Bianca wiped her eyes and laid a clean cloth across Isabelle’s back, then tucked her up under the heavy blanket. By the time she had Isabelle firmly wrapped, the injured woman had closed her eyes, losing contact with consciousness once again.
“It is not cold.” Robin stood just behind her, and spoke quietly.
“No, it isn’t.” Bianca tried to answer the unspoken question. “Sometimes a person will react that way, when their body is damaged. The pain gets muted, while their mind gets cloudy. And they’ll shiver as though they’re freezing, no matter how warm they are.”
“Is it a bad sign?”
“It’s a reaction to what happened, nothing more. She needs to rest, and give her body the chance to heal, and let the poultice work. If her fever breaks, we’ll know it’s working. If not…” Bianca shook her head. “I suppose I’ll have to try to lance it.”
“It is fortunate that you are such a skilled healer.”
The compliment startled Bianca enough that she turned to face him. There was nothing but sincerity in Robin’s face, but she scoffed.
“I am not a skilled healer at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A skilled healer would have been able to prevent this. A skilled healer would know another solution, besides cutting her open, and causing her even more pain! A skilled healer would—”
“Bianca!” Robin broke in, snapping her name. “Are you the only human in all the realms with no regard for yourself? You are skilled—for certain, I never would have known how to help Isabelle—yet you treat yourself like a tool, merely an object used to accomplish an end, and not even a valuable object at that!”
“I don’t, I—”
“You do! You expend yourself as though you mean nothing!”
“So what if I do?!” Bianca was, at last, well and truly angry. “What is so wrong with that? What is wrong in placing value on another’s life? What is wrong with being willing to sacrifice? Perhaps you would rather I treated others like game pieces? To be manipulated?”
“No! I would rather you treated yourself with one small crumb of the care with which you treat others! I would rather you acted as though your life meant something! I would rather you behaved as though you cared whether you lived or died!”
“And I would rather die myself, than to have yet another person lose their life because of my actions!”
The words echoed in the sudden silence of the cave. Bianca glared up at Robin, waiting for his next admonishment, but none came. All the anger had fled from those shocking blue eyes, to be replaced with concern.
“What are you talking about, Bianca?”
“Didn’t Dame Merriweather tell you all about me, before she sent you on her little errand?” Her voice was bitter, she didn’t even try to hold it in. “Don’t you know?”
“I do not.”
“Then you must be the only one in the kingdom.”
Robin took her hand, and drew her to the fire, away from Isabelle. There he pressed her down, waiting until she had settled herself before hunkering down beside her.
“Perhaps, since it is not a secret, you would share the story with me.”
Bianca sighed. Her unfamiliar anger had fled, and with it all her energy. She wrapped her arms around her chest, and stared into the fire. As always, the flames showed her the story Robin wanted to hear.
The story of Thomas.
As though it came from a thousand leagues away, and without a conscious decision to do so, she heard her voice begin speaking.
“You know that I spent most of my childhood with the MacTíre family?”
“I do.”
“I was happy with them; they treated me like one of their children. King Lodney had given me over to their care completely, and Lady MacTíre told me she had always wanted a daughter. I spent my working hours learning to read, and play the harp, and keep accounts, and my leisure hours trailing after my foster brothers. Fain and Liam were older, and they used to tease Jamie and me, calling at us to climb higher, swim faster, or run farther. The only one who dared tell them when they pushed us too far was Thomas.”
“I thought the MacTíres had but three sons?”
“They did. Thomas was the son of their castelaine. He was Liam’s age, but he’d grown up working alongside his father, and always seemed much older than the rest of us. More sober, more responsible. Even Fain listened to Thomas, and Fain almost never listened to anyone.” She smiled at the memory, then went on. “When Thomas wasn’t working with his father, he would come play with the rest of us. I followed him everywhere. I’m not sure, given how much I adored the MacTíre boys, how I ever found room in my heart to latch on to him, but I did. The moment Thomas joined us I would abandon Jamie to Liam and Fain’s teasing, and follow my idol around.”
“And he cared for you, as well?”
“Oh no! Thomas couldn’t stand me. I was always in his way. And when he didn’t pay enough attention to me, I took to teasing him, as badly as Fain and Liam ever teased me. If he climbed a tree I climbed it as well, only higher. If he dove in the lake I dove deeper. If he picked a handful of berries I would pick baskets full. I must have driven him to distraction, when we were children.”
“And yet, you smile.”
“It’s a funny tale. I remember the day I told him I loved him for the first time. I must have been all of ten years old. We were having visitors that evening, and Lady MacTíre had forbidden me to go swimming, since my hair was already clean and brushed and braided. The boys were under no such injunction, so I was sitting on the bank, watching them throw each other around in the water. Thomas came up the bank to sit on the grass and let his breeches dry, and I was just mesmerized by the way the water formed into perfect drops on his brown skin. The words just came tumbling out of my mouth. I told him I loved him, had always loved him, and I hoped that one day he would ask Squire MacTíre for my hand.”
“What did he say?”
“He gave me a look of utter horror, and ran for the house.” Robin’s eyes were wide, but Bianca grinned. “He was only eleven! Just a boy. And I was still a child. Oh, my heart was broken, of course. I went sobbing to Lady MacTíre, telling her my life was ruined, and over, and she might as well send me to the nunnery.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said to not despair. That we all grow up, and that in due time Thomas would see the beauty that was right under his nose.”
“And did he?”
Bianca sobered. “Not before we all went through a great deal of heartache. That year was the same year that Prince Jestin and Squire MacTíre were killed on a hunting trip with Brannon. The same trip where Fain went missing. At the time, we didn’t know what had happened to him. The MacTíre family lost its head and its heir, all at once, and the kingdom lost its crown prince. It seemed as though everyone, everywhere was in mourning, and none more so than in our little household. Lady MacTíre was grief stricken, and Liam… Liam had never wanted to be the heir. But when Fain went missing he stepped forward to do his duty. He asked Thomas to tutor him, to teach him how to run the estate. Thomas’s father and Lady Mac
Tíre kept things running smoothly, while Liam frantically tried to cram years of learning into his head. Meanwhile Jamie and I were rather at loose ends. We’d lost a father and a brother, but really it was though we had lost our whole world.”
“What happened?”
“Time passed. We all learned to fill the gaps that had been left behind. For my part, I tried to take care of Jamie, and take over some of Lady MacTíre’s household duties, so that she would be free to focus on business. The kingdom itself was in turmoil, with Prince Jestin’s death, and King Lodney was full of grief and care. He only sent two messages, one consoling us on the death of the Squire and Fain, and another a few years later that I never saw, but can well guess at the contents.”
“Why? What do you think it said?”
“I was getting older. Still young, but marriageable for all that. After the king’s second message, Lady MacTíre had a long talk with me one evening about my prospects. I suspect the king was concerned, given Brannon’s new status as the crown prince, that someone would try to woo me in order to gain a position at court. At any rate, Lady MacTíre assured me that she wouldn’t force me to wed so early, but that a decision regarding my husband would have to be made, soon. I was heartbroken, and when she dismissed me I ran to the stables. I don’t know what I thought I would do—run away, or just throw myself in the straw and cry—but it turned out that Thomas was there.”
Each moment was still crystal clear in Bianca’s memory. How she’d stumbled against the door on her way in, and the sound had made Thomas turn towards her. The look on his face when he saw her tears, and how the words had come tumbling out of him, as though he couldn’t help it.
Bianca, sweetheart, what’s wrong?
She’d fallen into his arms, letting him sweep her up and settle her against his chest, while she sobbed out her fear, that she would be promised to a stranger, someone she could never love, all because of who her father was. He’d lifted her up and walked to the corner of a paddock, where an old trunk of riding leathers made a handy bench, then settled her down on his lap, brushing her hair gently from her forehead, wiping her tears, and murmuring reassurances.
Once Upon a Romance 03 - With True Love's Kiss Page 6