by Diana Bold
But her skin was cool, even a bit clammy to the touch. Reluctantly, she got out of bed and dressed in the many layers of clothing necessary to help ward off the chill. Several of Hawkesmere’s knights needed her attention, and guilt consumed her as she hurried down the winding stairs to the herbarium on the bottom floor of the tower where she kept her supplies.
How could she have slept the day away when so many needed her help? Lord Simon had angered more than a few people—including the castle’s priest—when he had named her as Hawkesmere’s official healer and encouraged her to move into the secret-filled castle tower that had once been Lord Sebastian‘s private domain. She did not take her responsibilities lightly.
The Trevelan she had nursed back to health could not possibly have been as handsome as the man of her dreams. In fact, she had never seen a mortal being so beautiful. Besides, what flesh and blood man would tenderly hold a woman through the night without attempting to force himself on her? That alone was proof that she had been dreaming.
Stepping out into the bustling bailey, she gave one last regretful glance up at her tower bedchamber. Dream or nay, she prayed he visited her again.
* * *
Sebastian collapsed upon the rocky Welsh beach, panting heavily. The long swim from The Whale to shore had made his shoulder ache unbearably. In fact, during the last hundred feet, he had wondered if he had the strength to make it. He feared he had torn Kaylee’s careful stitches wide open, losing the precious gift of blood she had given him.
He turned to see Rhoswen stumble out of the water behind him. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and sank to her knees at his side, shivering a bit despite her thermal suit. “How are you? Is your shoulder holding up?”
“It aches,” he admitted. “Can you look and see if the stitches have held?”
“Of course.” Her trembling hands peeled the stretchy fabric off his shoulder, probing gently.
He bit back a curse as she touched a particularly tender spot, but her brisk efficiency calmed him. If there were ought to worry about, she would not be poking him so roughly.
“It looks fine,” she confirmed, moments later. “A little red, but healing well.”
“That is a relief,” he muttered. “We have enough difficulties already.”
She brushed a few wet strands of hair from his eyes and then pressed her lips to his brow. “Thank you so much for bringing me with you, Sebastian.”
He leaned into her kiss, wishing for more time. His eagerness to get back to Hawkesmere and help his people had driven him thus far, but now he was all too aware that every step he took toward Hawkesmere was one taken away from Halcyon.
With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. His time of hot showers, endless information and cleanliness was over. Battle, exhaustion, filth and hunger… these were the things he was accustomed to. He was a fool to imagine ever finding a permanent respite. He could only hope that once they had ascertained Trevelan’s fate, Rhoswen would see that she had to return home.
His brother would never allow him to return to Hawkesmere, and he could not bear to drag her along on the life he was going to be forced to live.
He held up the waterproof pack that contained their clothes, wishing desperately for his destrier. They had a long walk ahead of them. “Shall we change and begin our journey?”
* * *
Rhoswen trailed Sebastian through the thickly wooded forest, fighting her exhaustion. She was having difficulty keeping up with the swift pace he’d set, but didn’t dare ask to take a short rest. She’d promised she wouldn’t slow him down and meant to keep her word.
For some reason he’d pulled away from her since they’d Surfaced. She wished she could delve his mind and see what was going on in his head, but feared what she might find.
Somehow, he seemed to have gotten the mistaken impression that her quest to save Trevelan was about something more than guilt and regret for having put her friend in such a terrible position in the first place. Sebastian seemed jealous, when he had no reason to be.
She wanted to put him at ease, but whenever she tried to bring the subject up, he refused to talk about it. They’d been walking most of the day, and he’d yet to say more than half a dozen words to her. She could only hope that when they camped for the night, he would let her get close to him.
Longingly, she thought of the muscle rub he’d given her on the trip to Halcyon. She wanted that back: that tender hunger she’d fallen in love with. The silent warrior who strode toward a battle he seemed convinced he could not win was a stranger to her.
She pulled her crumpled map from her pocket, studying it as she stumbled along behind Sebastian. Many of the landmarks the ancients had used to mark their way had disappeared due to the vast passage of time, and she was no longer certain she was even going in the right direction.
If she’d read the map right, the entrance to Old Halcyon should be several miles further, past the bend in the river. She prayed it was there. Otherwise, Sebastian was bound to think she’d made the whole thing up as a pathetic attempt to bind him to her for a few more days.
The secret entrance to Titania’s Tower was the only gift she had to give to Sebastian, her only contribution to making sure he lived through the next few days.
“How much further?” Sebastian asked. He gestured upward, toward the threatening clouds on the horizon. “I fear a storm is brewing.”
“Not much further,” she promised. Please, she prayed, let it be there.
* * *
Miranda paused to catch her breath, shivering as the winter wind whipped through her cloak. The trek from Hawkesmere Castle to the village below had sapped her strength and frozen her to the bone, but as she gazed at the small, rickety hut at the very edge of the settlement, all her discomfort fell away.
Almost home.
Lifting the edge of her damp, heavy skirt, she hurried forward through the melting snow, shifting the weight of her basket of supplies. Not much further now.
Since she’d moved into the tower, all her patients, both those from the castle and those from the village, had come to see her, making it unnecessary to journey down to the village except for cases of dire emergency. Though far more convenient, her new situation had enforced a distance between herself and her family she found hard to bear.
But as she once again shifted the basket of food her position had allowed her to procure, she knew the loneliness was worth it. Her family was the poorest one in the village. Her sister’s husband had once been one of Sir Simon’s bravest knights, but a saber wound to the thigh had left him lame. Now they existed on what Violet earned as a seamstress. With three small children and another on the way, it was never enough.
As she approached the door, Miranda took a deep breath, bracing herself for Garrick’s inevitable anger at her charity. Though admirable, his pride made it difficult to do as much for Violet and the children as she’d like. When she’d lived in the small, crowded house with them, he hadn’t found it nearly as hard to accept her help, and truth be told, she missed the easy camaraderie they’d once all shared.
A chorus of happy shrieks met her knock, and she smiled wistfully as she listened to the children falling over each other in their attempt to be the first to answer the door. She missed the children most of all, though when she’d constantly had them underfoot they had sometimes annoyed her beyond bearing.
“Aunt Miranda!” Gwen threw open the door, a triumphant smile on her small, fey face. The oldest of Violet’s children at the age of five, she shared her mother and aunt’s bothersome auburn hair, though her blue eyes came from her father.
Two year old Nan, a dark-haired little angel with green eyes, followed close on Gwen’s heels, holding out her arms in an imperious demand to be picked up. Setting her basket down just inside the door, Miranda swept the little girl up, spreading kisses all over her grubby little cheeks. “How are you, moppet? Did you miss me?”
“I missed you, Aunt Miranda!” The four year old,
Will, picked himself up off the dirt floor, where he’d obviously been shoved by Gwen. Fragile and given to poor health, his slight frame barely any bigger than Nan’s, he had a special place in Miranda’s heart. She’d nursed the dark-haired little boy through many frightening times, and deep down she feared he would not reach manhood.
Violet rose from her place at the hearth, where she’d been bent over a basket of mending. “It’s good to see you, sister.”
Miranda frowned at the weariness in Violet’s eyes and bearing. Though only twenty-two—a full two years younger than Miranda—Violet’s slim body was swollen with her sixth pregnancy, and she looked far older than her years. The grief of losing two of her children in infancy, the stress of her husband’s injury, and the endless hard work had taken their toll.
Though Miranda often envied her sister’s family, she would not have traded places with her. She’d far rather remain an outcast, with at least a little freedom and time to herself.
Crossing the small, cluttered room, Miranda sat Nan down at her mother’s feet and pressed one hand against Violet’s tummy. “How are you, Vi? You look tired. Is the babe well?”
Violet nodded and pushed Miranda’s hand away with a small huff of irritation. “I’m fine. It’s just been so cold this week. We’ve had a rough time of it.” Her gaze slid to the basket Miranda had left by the front door, and then quickly away.
Seeing her sister’s furtive glance, Miranda wondered with a pang how long it had been since Violet’s family had eaten a good meal. “I’ve brought you some things,” she said brightly. “A bit of ham, eggs and turnips, leeks, and a few cups of flour. There’s some beer, as well. I took it in trade for treating Sir Oscar’s gout.”
A low, bitter laugh came from the dark corner where her sister and brother-in-law slept. “How gracious of you, Miranda. An angel of mercy is what you are.”
“Hello, Garrick,” Miranda answered softly, keeping her irritation masked. Though she loved her sister’s husband like a brother and knew how much frustration his injury caused him, she grew tired of being the focus of his anger.
“She is an angel of mercy,” Violet snapped. “I don’t know what we’d do without her.”
“’Tis nothing,” Miranda hastened to assure them both, unwilling to be the cause of what she feared were increasing arguments between them. “As I’ve said many times before, my patients give me far more than I need.”
“Did you bring us a picture?” Gwen dragged the basket across the floor toward the table, her face filled with excitement.
“No,” Miranda answered, and the crestfallen look on her niece’s face filled her with guilt and regret. One of the benefits of living in the tower had been the piles of paper and ink her predecessor had left behind. She’d always been good at drawing animals and had taken to sketching the children something each time she visited. “I am sorry, my sweet. I didn’t have time to draw you anything this week.”
“Twas a lie, of course. She’d had plenty of time, but had been unable to draw anything but Trevelan. Several days had passed since the night he’d appeared in the tower, and she grew more certain with each passing day that she’d dreamt it all. If he were real, wouldn’t he have returned by now?
Lord knew, she didn‘t have such willpower. She’d have gone to him in a heartbeat if she knew where to find him. But another relentless search of the tower had still not revealed any secret passageways or tunnels, another indication that the wonderful night she’d spent in his arms was a product of her imagination.
“Will you draw me a unicorn next time?” Gwen whined. “I was hoping for a unicorn.”
“I wanted a dragon,” Will piped up. “A blue dragon.”
Miranda did her best to banish all thoughts of Trevelan and return her attention to her family. They were all she had, and she couldn’t afford to ruin what precious time she had with them lost in hopeless dreams.
“I’ll draw you both a picture next time,” she promised. “A dragon and a unicorn.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The storm swept in over the mountains during Trevelan’s second trek back from the coast. The wind and snow blinded him, cutting through his thin clothing like needles. Numb and exhausted, he nearly missed the cave that hid the entrance to the tunnels. Even after he’d stumbled his way in out of the weather, he couldn’t shake the fatigue that scrambled his thoughts and made him want to sink to his knees and sleep the rest of the day away.
Dangerous, he realized, forcing himself to keep moving, to keep the blood pumping in his veins. If he fell asleep now, he might never wake up.
By the time he reached Old Halcyon, his thoughts had cleared a bit. As he soaked the last of the chill from his bones in the hot springs, he wondered how Miranda would weather the storm. The tower’s thick stone walls and heavy wooden shutters would protect her from the wind, but also held the chill like an icebox.
Perhaps he should check on her. He could restoke the fire, so she wouldn’t have to get up in the middle of the night….
The storm gave him an excuse, and heaven knew he’d been looking for one.
As he pulled on his ragged clothes, he promised himself he wouldn’t wake her and wouldn’t stay long. Besides, he’d had no luck in his endless search for food today, and Miranda always had extra. He hated stealing from her, but sometimes he had no choice.
He never took much, just enough to tide him over for another day—a small slice of ham, a piece of bread. He swore he’d find a way to pay her back someday.
An hour later, he stood in her herbarium, eating a carrot and shivering as the wind howled ferociously outside. The swim through the underwater tunnel that connected Old Halcyon with the tower was always harrowing, and he hated that there was no way to transport things from one side to the other without getting them wet.
He’d left one set of the clothing he’d taken from Sebastian on the tower side so he’d have something dry to don when he arrived, but his hair was still damp and quickly turned to ice as he made his way through the tower. A glance out the unprotected windows in the stairwell showed a blizzard of mammoth proportions brewing outside. Drifts of snow already obscured part of the castle. By morning, the people of Hawkesmere would have a hard time digging themselves out. Comforting himself with the thought that no one would be out in this weather, he eased open the door of the tower’s uppermost chamber and slipped inside.
Silence and darkness greeted him. No fire burned in the grate, and he sensed something was terribly wrong.
“Miranda?” he called, reckless with fear. “Miranda, are you here?”
When no one answered, he crossed the dark room to the grate, fumbling to find the flint and get a spark. An eternity seemed to pass before he managed to start a fire. Once it took, he lit the end of a twig to use as a torch and stood up, circling the room. A dusting of snow trailed across the floor from the doorway and frozen clothes were piled at the foot of the bed.
In the center of the mattress, huddled beneath a mound of blankets, Miranda lay deathly still. With a harsh cry he sat down beside her, pulling her into his lap and shaking her roughly.
“Miranda, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart. Please, wake up.”
To his great relief, he found the flutter of her pulse beneath the fragile skin at her throat, but she remained unresponsive. She wore nothing but her shift, and the blankets had failed to bring warmth back to her freezing feet and hands.
Knowing the risk he took, yet unable to think of any other way to warm her, he picked her up in his arms and strode down the stairs. He shifted her awkwardly, his arms burning with strain as he carried her down to the hot springs below.
Without pausing to disrobe, he stepped into the pool, fully submerging Miranda beneath the steaming water. When she broke the surface, she was gasping and choking, flailing wildly, her eyes wide and and unfocused.
“It’s all right,” he told her, gathering her close to his chest as he sank down on one of the rock ledges. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’
re safe now.”
She kept fighting him for a few moments, and it was all he could do to keep her from doing him serious damage. But at last his soft words seemed to penetrate and she subsided against him, breathing heavily.
“Trevelan?” she asked at last, her voice hoarse and almost unrecognizable. “Where are we?”
“The hot springs beneath the castle,” he replied, pulling her to a sitting position on his lap and staring down into her dilated eyes. “I found you in the tower. There was no fire, and you were freezing. I couldn’t rouse you, so I brought you down here.”
“You saved me.” She brought a trembling hand to his face, brushing his cheek with her fingertips. “I got caught in the storm when I was returning from visiting my sister in the village. By the time I got to the tower I just wanted to get out of those cold, wet clothes and get in bed.”
“You would have frozen to death by morning.” He hugged her tightly, shuddering when he thought of how close he’d come to losing her. Frightening to realize that without her, he had no one. “When I saw you lying there so still… I thought I was already too late.”
She returned his embrace, shivering uncontrollably as feeling returned to her frozen limbs. He murmured inanities, smoothing one hand up and down her back, hoping to offer some comfort.
As always, the soft press of her lovely body had its inevitable effect, and he shifted uncomfortably, wishing to spare her his animalistic reaction. No other woman had ever made him react so strongly. He wondered if she were really the cause of his base desires, or if he’d become a product of his environment.
He gave a soft, internal snort of self-derision at his inane thoughts. Of course it was her. Since the first moment he’d seen her, he’d been beguiled. Perhaps this attraction was in part due to the fact that her appearance was so different from all the women he’d known before, but he had a feeling he would have wanted her no matter what she looked like.