"I should have looked at it last night." Guilt gnawed at Tessa as she tried to still the fluttering in her stomach. "I should have insisted."
"It would have done no good. I wanted to hold you. Just hold you." Rafe's grin faded, his gaze shifting to her lips with a wistful sadness. "But much as I'd like to do that now, I fear"—a muscle in his jaw knotted as his gaze fell to his wound—"we dare delay no longer. Whatever is in my leg is embedded deep, and it is tearing my flesh."
She felt a chill steal over her skin, dread thick in her breast.
"Tessa." His voice was whisper soft, bracing. "It will have to come out. I don't think I can do it."
Tessa choked back the bile rising in her throat. "I can." She desperately wished she felt half of the confidence conveyed in those two words.
"I know you can, querida. Any woman who defies the flames and mocks Neville Warburton would scarce be disconcerted by a tiny sliver in a man's leg." There was a gentle teasing in his voice. He lifted his bloodstained palm from his thigh, revealing the jagged gash beneath.
Tessa pressed her fingers to her lips as she fought the urge to retch. In the raw wound, she could just see something dark, buried a finger's depth beneath the skin. The agony Rafe had suffered must have been horrendous, she thought. How had he survived in the ocean, let alone come to her aid upon the rocky shores?
She raised her eyes to his, and she could not keep the fear from showing in her face. She had nursed Hagar diligently, but she had never had the inborn skill of a true healer. Yet her fingers were deft with the carving tools she used to fashion her marionettes. If she could draw on that ability, perhaps there was a chance. Her gaze skittered back to the wound.
Never had she—practical, cynical Tessa—expected to experience such raw sensation or this frightening feeling that seemed to slam into her stomach with the force of a blow. She wanted to blurt out that she couldn't possibly aid him, that she would only injure him the further. But his gaze was so steady and the planes of his face held such a rugged masculine beauty that it tugged at Tessa's soul.
A wounded Galahad. A captive king.
She turned away hastily, plucked the torch from its sconce, and wedged it between two stones so that the light shone on the wound.
"It is only a scratch."
Rafe's voice seemed to come to her through a haze, but she shoved back the hateful weakness that threatened to overtake her. She glanced at her hands and saw that they were smudged with dirt. She dampened the sash with water from the flask and scrubbed her fingers as best she could. She heard fabric ripping, heard Rafe cursing, and when she turned back to him, she saw that he had torn the breeches free of his leg.
Muscle-hardened flesh the hue of burnt sugar surrounded the injury; a sprinkling of dark hair dusted the sun-browned skin. Tessa's fingers trembled. She stilled them.
"This will take but a moment," she said briskly, but her whole body ached with tension. "Ready?"
"As much as I'll ever be." He shot her another blinding smile, only the whiteness about his lips betraying his pain and his dread.
Tessa sucked in a deep breath as her eyes focused on the object lodged in Santadar's leg. As gently as possible, she probed the wound, attempting to grasp the end of the splinter that was tormenting him. She heard a hiss of pain, glimpsed white-knuckled fists clenched in the straw.
Tessa could feel the edge of the hard object, could feel the texture of wood slick with blood. She struggled to grasp it, draw it out, but it slipped from her fingertips. The splinter was very firmly lodged.
She glanced up at Rafe's face. His head was flung back against the hay, his eyes clenched shut. Agony was gouged deep in every line in his face, yet he made no sound.
"I can't hold on to it," Tessa choked out.
"Do it! Are you afraid of hurting me?" Even in his pain, Rafe taunted her, baited her. His eyes were open now, glinting challenge. "Such weakness is forgivable in a mere woman."
Fury shot through Tessa, fire-hot. She thrust her chin out as her fingers dug faster, deeper into the torn flesh around the sliver of wood. She grasped it firmly and pulled with all her strength.
A ragged groan escaped Rafe's lips as the splinter slid free, and Tessa staggered back, her eyes fastening on the object she held in her hand. She swallowed, her stomach lurching, as she stared at the sliver of wood that had buried itself in Rafael Santadar's whipcord-taut muscle. It was as wide as two of her fingers and as long as her hand.
Tessa flung the wood away from her then hastened to cleanse and bandage the wound, her fingers infuriatingly awkward.
"Wildwitch..."
She stilled at the soft word, her gaze shifting to his death-gray face. The tiniest of smiles tipped his lips. "I knew... knew you would brave the devil... if I dared you."
Tessa's mouth dropped open as she watched his lush, dark lashes flutter down onto high-chiseled cheekbones. Sweat born of agony had beaded on his brow and along the hard line of his jaw.
Indignation had welled up inside her, but as she glared at Rafael Santadar's perfectly carved features, the anger drained away. The lines of pain had softened in sleep; his lips were now curved into a half-smile, and his breathing was steady, peaceful.
Tessa watched him for a long moment, her hands absently winding the bandage around his leg. He was handsome, this Spaniard, and brave. Yet even if he had been cursed with the visage of one of the gargoyles on Warvaliant's parapets, Tessa knew she would have found him beautiful, for his inherent recklessness, courage, and raw masculinity were tempered with deep compassion.
Her fingertips drifted to his face, brushing back one wayward strand of raven hair that had fallen across his temple. "They could not touch her.” Tessa could hear his voice in her memory, achingly gentle, as he strove to comfort her. "God scoops innocents up in the palm of his hand before the flames can touch them."
"But before God swept her up, did she send a sea phantom to bewitch me as one final bit of mischief?" Tessa whispered, her fingers gliding down the curve of his beard-stubbled cheek. "Did she send you?" As she tested the firmness of his full lower lip, something she thought long dead stirred in her breast. "Oh, nay, Rafael Santadar," she said, shoving the emotion away. "You are just another man, one who will most likely lie dead soon, or be imprisoned in the Tower. And because of you, I may well rot there as well, after Warburton finishes with me."
Dread skittered up her spine, and she shuddered at the image that loomed in her mind—Neville Warburton, his thick red eyebrows, his eager, slack lips. She could almost feel the weight of the nobleman bearing down upon her.
"I'll kill him if he dares touch you," Rafe had snarled, death a blue flame in his eyes.
"Bloody fool." The words caught in Tessa's throat. "Do you not know it is hopeless to fight? Camelot crumbled to ashes centuries past. Merlin lies trapped in Melusine's cave, while Galahad..." She let the words trail off, tears stinging her eyes. "Nay, it would make no difference to you if the whole world crawled on its belly, would it, Rafael? As long as you stood true. But your pride cannot batter down this dungeon's walls, nor can your honor defeat Warburton's power. And after they have done with us, there will be no one in all of England to champion the cause of a peddler girl and a Spanish sea rover."
Unutterably weary, she curled up beside him, letting her head sag until it rested on his chest.
"I wish to God I were a witch," she breathed against the thrum of his heart. "I'd conjure up a key to fling wide that cursed door. I'd cast open the gateway to hell and shove Warburton into its depths, and I'd sail off with you on a sky ship, with canvas woven of clouds and a rainbow hull." She stopped, suddenly aware her fingers had been stroking Rafe's chest, aware, too, of a metal circlet warm beneath her fingertips.
She raised her head, her hand closing over the object that hung around Rafe's neck on a gold chain.
A ring.
A shaft of something akin to jealousy shot through Tessa as she stared at the delicate bit of jewelry that could only adorn some woman's
dainty hand.
Did the ring belong to the Spaniard's lady fair? A wife who awaited him in Spain, serene amid a bevy of indigo-eyed babes? Or a convent-bred beauty being readied for the return of her betrothed?
Tessa pushed herself to a sitting position, her fingers open to display the gold circlet in the palm of her hand. Torchlight gilded it in flame, picking out the intricately wrought device; a stag courant on a chevron. Tiny gold letters were just visible on the crest's enameled border. Though she could not read, Tessa knew in that heartbeat what the words proclaimed: "Honor's Sword."
She gasped, feeling as though an invisible fist has slammed into her stomach as the crushingly familiar crest tumbled her back to the great hall of Valcour Castle, where the hawk-like countenance of her father's benefactor, the noble Tarrant St. Cyr, Earl of Valcour, flashed before her.
Where in God's name had Rafe come by such a ring? she wondered wildly. What in God's name did it mean? Had he stolen it? Was it booty from one of his sea clashes? Nay, it was not in Rafe to flaunt thievery, even if he had raided another ship.
Then what if...?
Her fingers closed about the ring, pressing it into her palm. Maybe there was no need for conjurings or magic. For if Rafael Santadar was somehow linked to the mighty house of St. Cyr, the Spanish sailor might well have just performed a miracle more astonishing than any a mere witch could have wrought.
Chapter 6
"Rafe?" Tessa squeezed his name through a throat thick with tenuous hope as she reached out and gently shook his shoulder in an effort to rouse him. "Rafe, wake up."
A rumble came from his chest, and his eyelids opened slowly, as though weighted down with lead. "Tired..."
"Dammit, you blasted witling, wake up!" Tessa loathed herself for the anger in her voice. Her fingers tightened about the ring, and she tugged the chain up over his head.
Rafe cursed as the links raked his neck. "What the blazes—" His lips were pale with pain, and the ravages his wound had inflicted upon him were still carved upon his face. Befuddled by sleep and slowed by weakness, he groped at his throat where the chain had raked his skin. Confusion clouded his face; then his eyes narrowed in fury as he realized the ring was gone.
His gaze locked upon the gold links dripping from Tessa's fingers. "What the devil—"
She pressed her fist against her breast, her breath catching in her chest, as she saw the weal on Rafe's skin where she had torn the chain free.
"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, trying desperately to sort out the thoughts roiling in her mind. "Rafe," she managed at last, "I have to know how you came by this."
She extended her hand then opened it. The enameled crest caught the light from the torch, reflecting it on Rafe's taut face.
"It is mine." There was defiance in his voice, and fury. "It belonged to my mother."
"Your mother?" Tessa echoed, scarce hearing Rafe's angry words, her eyes filling with tears of relief as a laugh bubbled from her lips. She heard Rafe struggle upright, felt his eyes boring into her.
"Sí, wildwitch, I had a mother."
"Tell me about her," Tessa implored. "Tell me everything, Rafe."
"She was beautiful. Gentle. Kind. And she died when I was but a lad. I scarce remember her."
"Her name? Rafe, what was her name?"
"My father called her Nanita."
Rafe's brow crinkled in confusion, his eyes reflecting some long hidden pain. "It is the only name I ever knew for her." He seemed to gaze into the past, his voice softening. "But I can still see her in the garden of a beautiful castle among the orange trees and the vineyards, her hair all gold about her face as she caught a butterfly for me."
"But you must know something about her—something else!" Tessa urged.
"It was a long time ago." It was as though the memory had raked open in Rafe some aged wound, and he stiffened, his face hardening again. "I've spent a lifetime trying to forget it. Why should it matter now?"
"It matters, Rafe. More than you know." Tessa clasped his fist in her hand, her voice low, earnest. "There is an Englishman, an earl who owned the ships on which my father sailed. His daughter, son-in-law, and grandson were killed by cutthroats years ago in Spain."
"But what has that to do with me? I know nothing of your earl, nor of your father, Tessa, and as for the man's grandson, I—"
"I believe you may be that grandson."
Tessa started as Rafe ripped his hand from her grasp, and she was stunned at the rage and dread that crossed his features.
"No, that is impossible! My mother... could not have been English."
"You said but a moment ago that you have few memories of her, that you know naught of her name except that your father called her Nanita. The earl's daughter's name was Anne. Anne, Rafe. She wed a Spanish grandee and sailed off with him."
"That means nothing, Tessa! There is no proof that—"
"That you are Lord Tarrant's grandson? Then tell me, Rafael Santadar, tell me where your mother got this ring." Tessa thrust it at him. "It displays the stag courant, the St. Cyr crest!"
Rafael uttered a black oath, and his hand flashed out and snatched the ring from her grasp, as though to shield the treasured memento of his mother from some heinous scourge. "There are a hundred ways she could have come by it!" Rafe snapped. "Whatever you are scheming about, you can cast it to the winds, for I'll have no part in it."
"No part in it!" Tessa exclaimed incredulously. "Don't be an idiot! Don't you see? This ring is your salvation! If we can somehow smuggle it out to Lord Valcour—or escape Warvaliant and reach the earl's castle, perhaps the ring will buy your life."
"No!" Rafe's roar stunned Tessa, seeming to reverberate off the damp stone, echoing back his anguish. She froze, staring into his face, his inner pain wrenching at her heart. It was as if, in that moment, she could see into his very soul.
They were his enemies, the English. They had destroyed his ship and nearly taken his life as well. How many of his crew had Rafael Santadar watched drown in his hours adrift in the sea? How much had his helplessness to aid them cost his fierce pride? And now she was telling him that the blood of his hated foes ran in his own veins...
Tessa swallowed hard, sympathy rising inside her. Yet she could not—dared not—allow Rafe to cut himself off from this, his single hope. She would not allow him to indulge his pride, because... because she could not bear to watch him die.
That realization shook Tessa to her very core. She did not know what she felt for Rafael Santadar, this man she had met only one night ago. She wondered if some sprite had woven their spirits together when they were nothing but their parents' dreams. It was as though the tales of the sea phantom were made real the first time she looked into Rafe's blue eyes.
Nay! she chastised herself sharply. The only reason she cared about Rafael Santadar was that he was a truly good man and, as such, was rarer than the most precious of jewels.
"Rafe," she said softly, searching for the words that would wound him the least, "I understand what you are feeling—the anger, the confusion. But—"
"You understand nothing." His gaze pierced her. "I loved my parents, Tessa. My mother was an angel, always smiling and laughing, and my father was like a magnificent knight riding out of a legend. I remember him tossing me astride his horse and racing out across the fields. I remember him weaving flower crowns to place upon my mother's hair as I wandered about in our favorite grove." His mouth hardened, and his eyes narrowed. "But most clearly of all I remember how they died—cut down by a band of murdering brigands as we traveled the road from Seville."
Tessa winced at the picture his words painted, the grief in her own heart still so fresh she could sense Rafe's agony.
"I saw them," he went on relentlessly. "I saw the sabers bite into their flesh, heard my father's death cry as he struggled to gain time for my mother and me to escape. I was four years old, tall even then, with a wooden sword my father had bought for me at a market. I wanted to help him fight but my mother caught me up i
n her arms and tried to run. They stabbed her, and left her for dead, and they slashed me with a knife—here." His fingers knotted around the high neckline of his shirt and wrenched it open.
Tessa flinched as her eyes locked upon the scar arcing across the muscled column of his throat. "Sweet God!" she cried out, her hand rising of its own volition, fingertips touching the faded white line that marred the bronzed perfection of his skin. "How did you survive?"
Rafe shrugged, bitterness filling his eyes. "Maybe the murdering bastard who sought to slay me was distracted by my mother's jewels or by the riches to be found upon my father's body. Maybe one of the saints held back his blade. I do not know. One of the thieves bent over me, his features masked by harlequin paints, and cut me. I must have lost consciousness, for I remember nothing after that, until some movement jarred me awake."
Rafe ground his fingertips against his eyes. "It was my mother. I'll never forget her face, Tessa. Her eyes were like wounds, brimming with agony; her skin was like ice. She was delicate, small and badly wounded, but she half dragged me to a hermitage tucked up in the hills. She laid me in the arms of Brother Ambrose and begged... begged him to care for me. And then"—the slightest tremor shook his voice—"she died."
"Rafe..." Tessa's own voice broke, and she reached up, cupping his face in her hands. "The ring—"
"It was Ambrose who gave it to me. Somehow it had escaped the murderers' eyes. Ambrose worked a chain in gold for me, and hung it around my neck. And he honored his promise to my mother, loved me as though I were his own son."
"But you never knew who your parents were? Never knew where you had lived? Did no one search for you?"
"Ambrose's hermitage was most remote. He liked to stay far from the temptations of the world. If anyone ever came looking, they never found me. Two years passed before Ambrose could even get me to speak. And by then any memories I might once have had as to where I belonged had faded."
"Then it is possible your mother was the St. Cyr heiress," Tessa ventured.
To Chase the Storm Page 8