All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  Rafael was horrified. “You do not realize how fortunate you have been, and would cast it all away! You play the fool!”

  “It is not folly to want to experience more than a locked chamber in a tower,” Elizabeth retorted. “I would journey afar and I would love a man with all my heart. I would taste the pleasure to be had abed and I would know both joy and sorrow. I would savor all that can be experienced and take chances, rather than avoid risk. I would choose my fate.”

  Rafael would have argued with this uncommon view, but Elizabeth clasped his face in her hands, her touch silencing him. Her eyes shone with a resolve he found most beguiling and he found he could not step away.

  “And I would do all of this with you, Rafael Rodriguez,” she whispered with fervor, then kissed him soundly.

  The touch of her lips sent a welcome heat through him, resonating with his need to celebrate Ravensmuir’s triumph on this day and reminding him that he had survived both battle and visit to Hell. Rafael could have caught her close, or carried her off to savor her delights in private, but her passion made him want to ensure that she was not disappointed or mistreated. There was a fire between them, to be sure, but it was one he would not encourage.

  He knew his place, as lowly as it might be.

  Elizabeth was not truly surprised that Rafael stepped away from her kiss, nor was she astonished that his manner was wary. He could not see the ribbons, after all, and she appreciated his skepticism.

  She would simply have to change his thinking.

  She did not doubt that it would take some time and persistence to do so, but already she had made encouraging progress.

  She smiled at him, knowing that disconcerted him. “And so, again, you protect me from my own impulses. Your deeds speak more loudly than your protests, Rafael.”

  His lips tightened to a grim line. “You see only what you wish to see.”

  “I see that we made similar choices, both more concerned for Malcolm than ourselves. I think that bodes well for our future together.”

  “I see that we have no future together,” he replied tersely.

  “Indeed?” Elizabeth did not abandon the notion. “I would wager...”

  Rafael interrupted her sharply, his temper showing yet again that she had struck close to the truth. “No need is there to wager! You are defiant for its own sake, as is the way of so many maidens long indulged.” Elizabeth might have argued, but he leaned closer. “Believe as you would, but I have no time for maidens who make trouble simply for their own amusement.”

  “You misunderstand me. I do not willfully make trouble...”

  “Indeed you do.” Rafael was disdainful. “What is the difference between you and Jeanne Douglas, who would send men to their deaths because the man she desired to wed married another?” The comparison insulted Elizabeth, as she did not doubt Rafael intended. “Secure yourself in Ravensmuir’s solar, as is fitting for a maiden of your lineage. Find your embroidery, my lady, that you may yet be chaste on your nuptial night, for on this day, in this hall, there will be much celebrating of a most earthly kind.”

  Elizabeth refused to be daunted for she discerned the root of his protest. “Once more, you would see me defended, as a knight should protect his lady.”

  Something flickered in his dark eyes. “I tell you again: I am not a hero in one of your tales.”

  “But you could be.”

  “I will never wed,” Rafael repeated with force. “That was long ago resolved. But should you wish to be despoiled and abandoned this day, I will not decline your offer.”

  Elizabeth caught her breath.

  “Wed one of your countrymen,” he counseled in a softer tone of voice. “Choose a man whose assumptions are much as your own, bear him children and be happy.” Rafael held her gaze, as if to be certain she knew he made no jest, then he spun on his heel and strode to his companions.

  Sadly for this warrior, Elizabeth was not so prepared to abandon him or this quest. She trusted the ribbons, and she believed he was the sole one who could keep her from Finvarra’s grasp. The fog that had enveloped her since Finvarra’s pledge to claim her was banished in Rafael’s presence, which could be no small sign either.

  Never mind how vital she felt when she was with him.

  She watched him stride away, considering what he had confessed to her, seeking a clue for her quest. She needed to learn more of how Rafael had been betrayed, and when he had been helpless and hungry. Therein lay the key to his conviction that he could never wed. She eyed the floating ribbon, considered how much he had already responded to her, and knew that she was right.

  The real challenge would lie in convincing Rafael.

  Rafael was resolved. He would leave Ravensmuir and Scotland without delay, and he would take a dark-haired whore on his route south. He would ride a dozen of them to break Elizabeth’s spell, two dozen if necessary, and he would see his ability to fight with dispassion restored. He would leave this land behind, and all the madness it had conjured in his mind, and his life would be as it had been for decades.

  A part of him prayed it would be that simple.

  Another part of him marveled that he prayed at all.

  Rafael knew Elizabeth followed him, as stubborn as her brother could be, but did not alter his course. There was gruesome labor to be done, the aftermath of war, and if Elizabeth did not care for the view, that was not his concern. One of the Sable League had fallen, but there were more pressing matters than Reynaud’s final rest. The living must be tended before the dead.

  He had to see Ranulf first.

  “And so my turn is come to endure your torment,” Ranulf said when he spied Rafael approaching.

  Rafael frowned. “I apologize for the delay but I had to attend to Malcolm last night...”

  “I know it and I would never blame you for it. He might have died, while I merely lost all the blood in my heart.” That Ranulf made a jest was a marvel, for he had endured the pain all the night long. There was sweat on his brow and his usually ruddy face was yet more red. He was breathing heavily and held his right hand in his left. The bundle of cloth wrapped around his hand was wet with blood. “Your injury waits to be tended as well,” he said, nodding at the blood on Rafael’s arm.

  “It can wait a little longer.” Rafael noted Ranulf’s pallor and had to acknowledge that he had lost a goodly measure of blood. “At least you tried to halt the bleeding,” he said and untied the cloth that had been knotted around his injured hand. He could see Ranulf’s thumb and the tips of just two fingers protruding from the cloth.

  Had Rafael not enjoyed the companionship of Franz, rotted and dead, the night before, he would have said his worst nightmare was before him. Ranulf was maimed, perhaps not so much that he would have to surrender his trade, but the injury would hamper him for the rest of his days.

  “I tried to bind it, as you oft advise,” Amaury said and Rafael knew the other man shared his discouragement.

  “You did well,” Rafael acknowledged, even as he made to open the cloth. He schooled his own expression, knowing that Ranulf would watch closely for his response. He was relieved though, that the injury wasn’t worse.

  At least Ranulf still had the majority of his hand. It was good, too, that the thumb had not been lost. The men gathered around him tried to hide their reactions to the sight revealed, but Rafael felt the ripple of shock pass through them.

  Maimed. It was a poor portent for Ranulf’s future, no matter how he considered it.

  Ranulf’s index finger dangled from his hand, attached solely by a bit of flesh, while his middle finger was cut short. Two digits were completely gone, the stump that remained looking like no more than a pulpy mass. Rafael could see the white of the bone in Ranulf’s hand, and he noted how Ranulf shook with the shock of his injury. Damage to the face or the hands tended to elicit the most violent reactions, even if the injury was less critical.

  “You are fortunate,” Rafael said, speaking more heartily than the injury deserved. Ranulf e
xhaled in relief at this verdict. “You might have lost your entire hand.” If that had been the case, the injury would have been much more likely to have ultimately killed Ranulf.

  Even this could fester and put his life in peril.

  Even this would keep him from fighting so well.

  “Strange then that I do not feel so fortunate,” Ranulf managed to say.

  “Ungrateful wretch,” Tristan growled playfully. “Dame Fortune will turn her back upon you now!”

  “Indeed, it would have been much worse if you had lost your hand. How then would you have pleased the ladies?” quipped Louis.

  “Or even yourself,” Gunter teased gruffly and the men laughed. Rafael was keenly aware of Elizabeth’s presence as she hovered several steps away, and felt awkward with the earthy talk of his fellows.

  Still, talk would not hurt her, and it might convince her of Rafael’s argument as his own words had not.

  Ranulf managed a smile. “You give little credit to a man’s quick thinking,” he retorted. “Much less his inventiveness.”

  “Or what skills he might have with his left hand,” added Bertrand.

  “Who yet has eau-de-vie?” Rafael demanded of his fellows, interrupting their jests.

  Two flagons were shoved at him and Rafael took them both. The one with the least in it he gave to Ranulf. “Drink it all,” he instructed.

  “You owe me now,” Giorgio teased Ranulf behind Rafael. “I was saving that for Guilia.”

  “God forbid that I should have to answer to your whore for the loss of one of her pleasures,” Ranulf retorted, his voice weaker than Rafael would have preferred.

  He removed the small pouch that was always fastened to his belt. It was wrought of leather, folded cleverly so that it both held a few implements and created a clean surface when it was unfurled. Anticipating him, Louis cast down his cloak to cover the ground beside Ranulf. As always, Rafael deliberately did not recall how he had gained this expertise or this small pouch.

  He had paid for it, that was for certain.

  Amaury had brought a bucket of water and crouched beside it, intent as usual in learning as much as he could from Rafael. Watching another was how Rafael had learned what skill he had in the treating of wounds, but he always explained to Amaury what he knew in addition.

  There might come a time when he had need of such service and was unable to tend to himself.

  “The flesh must be closed so the wound can heal,” Rafael said and Amaury nodded.

  “Why the eau-de-vie?” Elizabeth asked, moving closer. The men froze for a moment and Ranulf averted his gaze.

  “This is not a view fit for a lady,” that man said gruffly.

  “Nonsense,” Elizabeth replied, her tone firm. “I often aid Eleanor in tending illness and injuries at Kinfairlie. I know to make possets and poultices, and one day, I might be wed to a man who defends our holding. I would like to know this skill.”

  Rafael felt his comrade’s surprise, but in truth, he did not expect her to linger long. He moved the cloth so she could see the damage fully, heard her catch her breath, and was certain she would flee.

  Instead, she eased closer to get a better look. Rafael felt surprise slide through the ranks of his companions and felt no small measure of it himself.

  “You did not answer me,” she chided, her hand landing upon his shoulder with an ease undeserved. Rafael felt his neck heat, for he knew his fellows had noted the gesture.

  “I do not know. I was taught to rinse the wound and all that would come in contact with it.” Rafael shrugged. “As the tactic works, I do not question it.”

  Elizabeth eyed him, consideration in her gaze. “Taught by whom?”

  “It is not of import,” Rafael said tightly.

  She pursed her lips, clearly thinking otherwise, and her gaze was knowing. He had to learn to control his tone in her presence, for she took ridiculous encouragement from his shows of temper. “Must it be eau-de-vie?”

  “I was taught that it was best.”

  Elizabeth nodded understanding.

  Ranulf’s hand had been washed as best as the men could manage and Rafael inspected it before he nodded approval. He opened his pouch, then chose a needle and linen thread.

  “Praise be for our secret weapon,” Bertrand said with satisfaction. “I feared you might be lost upon that field last night, and then woe should come upon us all.”

  “We would all be dead twice over without Rafael’s skills,” agreed Tristan.

  Rafael bristled, guessing that Elizabeth would make more of this talk than it merited.

  Gunter held fast to Ranulf’s shoulders and watched. Rafael cut off Ranulf’s finger, severing the last bit of flesh, and put the finger aside.

  “Can it be joined anew?” Elizabeth asked.

  Rafael shook his head, wishing it might be otherwise. He threaded the needle and set it on his opened pouch. He lifted the second flagon of eau-de-vie and liberally doused both needle and thread.

  Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest, her brow furrowed in concentration. Rafael knew she would not endure the next part.

  He met Ranulf’s worried gaze. “This will hurt,” he warned his fellow, knowing that was not the half of it. Ranulf would feel as if his hand was being burned off, but Rafael had learned this trick long before and though he did not understand it, he trusted its effectiveness.

  “Pain is better than death,” Ranulf said, his voice shaking as if he did not quite believe it. He lifted his injured hand, his arm shaking, then averted his face and closed his eyes. With his free hand, he gripped Gunter. “Do what you must.”

  “Hold him fast,” Rafael advised the others and they did as he requested. Ranulf took a breath, bracing himself, and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Rafael spilled the eau-de-vie over the open wound.

  Ranulf roared in pain and seemed to rise from the ground in his agony. The wound might have boiled, for fresh red blood spilled from it with vigor. Gunter held fast to Ranulf’s shoulders and the others gripped his legs. That mercenary swore thoroughly, and Rafael wondered whether Elizabeth had ever heard such language. When he glanced her way, she had flushed and was biting her lip, but still watching.

  “I am sorry, my lady,” Ranulf said, his voice weak.

  “I completely understand,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

  Ranulf held out his shaking hand again and strove to remain still. The blood was vivid red, but its flow had slowed again.

  Rafael stitched the wound shut as neatly as he could manage. The flow of blood lessened again, but Ranulf shook mightily in his pain. As the needle bit into his skin time and again, the fresh pricks in his flesh began to bleed. The large man moaned, but he did not withdraw his hand. He shook, sweat running down his brow. Rafael worked as quickly as he could, then cleaned the hand again with the liquor.

  Ranulf groaned then passed out in truth, his large form splayed across the ground. Rafael wrapped the finger securely in clean linen, and knotted the bandage. He cleaned the debris and washed his needle. Elizabeth was still beside him and he knew how best to send her fleeing.

  Time it was that the lady faced a challenge herself.

  “If you would,” Rafael said with a slight bow and handed her the needle. Elizabeth accepted it from him, confusion in her expression. “I would not have your lessons in embroidery prove to have been a waste of your time,” he said and understanding made her lips part.

  Rafael removed his tabard and cast it aside, then pulled his mail shirt over his head. His padded aketon was heavy with the blood he had shed and he wondered if it would be salvageable. He removed it as well, then winced that the bandage he had hastily wrapped around his wound was completely red. Elizabeth paled at the sight, then flushed as he unknotted the bandage. He winced as he pulled the cloth from the wound, for the blood had dried there. He saw Elizabeth’s gaze flick to the wound, an angry gash upon his upper arm that already ached mightily, and watched her swallow with discomfiture.

  Here
would be the test of her mettle.

  Rafael handed her the flask of eau-de-vie.

  “Show me what you have learned,” he said in soft challenge. He thought she would take the dare, but he did not believe she would finish tending his wound. Indeed, he might have a strange scar to prompt his memory of this day.

  Elizabeth glared at him. She took the flask from his grip with a quick gesture, but not so quick that he did not see her hands shaking.

  She was fetching when she was annoyed, even with her lips drawn taut. Her eyes flashed as she took a deep breath, then touched his elbow with her fingertips. There was steel in her posture when she flicked a glance to his face.

  “This will hurt,” she advised, then spilled a ferocious quantity of eau-de-vie into the wound.

  It took all within Rafael to keep from bellowing at the pain.

  His comrades, curse them, laughed.

  Eight

  War was Rafael’s world, and it was one Elizabeth did not understand in the least.

  Nor did she wish to know more of battle. The fighting and the killing was abhorrent to her, but she was fascinated by the way his fellows had turned to Rafael for aid when one of them had been injured.

  They trusted him, and it seemed to Elizabeth that men of such pragmatism would only trust another who had proven himself worthy of their confidence. Healing, also, could be the domain of women, and Elizabeth had to believe that any woman who matched her path to that of Rafael would have need of such skills.

  She had witnessed the making of possets for coughs and chills and fevers, had heard the arrival of babes, had witnessed the treating of wounds in the kitchen, and had learned how best to rock a child whose new teeth gave it woe.

  Stitching of wounds was new to her, though, and she would seize this chance to learn.

  Elizabeth had guessed that Rafael would challenge her. She had seen the light in his eyes when he had turned and had braced herself to do whatever he asked.