Everlasting

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  He did as she asked, and then began to unlace his gambeson.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He peered at her over the collar, his dark brows raised. “Did ye na say ye would treat my wounds?” She nodded at him, somewhat confused by his question.

  “Ye would prefer ta tend them through my garments?” he inquired, eyeing her soberly, as if that were a perfectly acceptable choice.

  “Nay, I only…I thought…I’m sorry, of course you must remove your garment.”

  He began to do so and winced.

  “You need help,” she observed, starting toward him without pausing to think.

  “Mayhap,” he agreed. “I could send for my squire. I can manage the unlacing, but the thing is stiff with blood in places and difficult ta lift over my head.”

  Abrielle bit her lip and weighed the awkwardness of undressing him against the risk of spending more time alone with him, sweaty and half dressed, as they waited for his squire to be summoned and arrive.

  “No need,” she said, deciding in favor of haste in the matter. “Since I’m already here, I can help in your squire’s stead.” She endeavored to sound brusque and efficient, rather than reveal her true state, which was one of fear, apprehension, and, she had to admit to herself, excitement. She didn’t want to be alone with him like this, helping him disrobe, feeling all shaky and strange inside.

  She moved only close enough to touch him with outstretched arms, but he swung around, cutting that cautious distance in half, as he lifted his arms over his head. Grasping the bottom edge of the loosened gambeson, she tugged upward.

  “Ouch.” It was far more bark than whimper, but more than enough to cause Abrielle to stop the moment the word was uttered.

  “I think,” he said, sidling even closer, close enough for her to feel his breath on her neck when he gazed up at her, “that ’tis best we do this very, very slowly.”

  As innocent as she was, Abrielle was woman enough to deduce that the sudden heaviness of his breathing was not due to pain alone. He was as disturbed by their nearness as she was; she heard it in his rough-edged burr and saw it in the heat in his eyes.

  “That is one approach,” she acknowledged, swaying toward him just long enough to secure her grip on the garment. “But I am of the mind ’tis best to rip it off in one motion. Like this,” she added, doing so.

  “God’s soul, woman,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry to have caused you pain, but it really is best over and done with.” She eyed him worriedly. “Did I hurt you overmuch?”

  His attempt to scoff ebbed into a cough. “Just a wee bit, lass. And ’tis grateful I am for your care, no matter the cost. ’Tis an angel of mercy ye are.”

  He was left with only a linen shirt and the leggings worn beneath his chain mail. The shirt had a dark patch of blood across his ribs, and it stuck to his skin when he moved. He loosened the laces and was about to pull the shirt off when Abrielle stopped him. After dipping a cloth in the warm water, she gently pressed it over the wounded area, moistening the shirt until she was satisfied she could pull it away from his skin easily.

  “Stand up,” she said. He obeyed and Abrielle took the open front of his shirt in her hands. “I promise it won’t hurt this time.”

  Slowly, her touch whisper-soft, she floated the shirt away from his body, leaving him standing before her naked from the waist up. She had to close her eyes until she remembered how to breathe. Though there was a wide scrape across his ribs that even now continued to bleed slowly, she could only see the width of his chest and the smooth, curving slopes of his muscles. She knew he was looking down at her, but she did not dare meet his gaze.

  It was when a drop of blood from his face splashed onto his chest that she was brought back to herself. “You may sit now,” she told him, her own knees feeling weak, and when she, too, was seated, she dipped a clean cloth into the heated water and pressed it gently to his face.

  “Hold this here while I see to your ribs. I do not think the wound there is so deep.”

  “Aye, I took a blow from a lance. More of a scrape than anything. The bruise will be bonny.”

  “It already is,” she said drily. She decided to pretend he was simply any other man, one of many she’d treated in the past, but the ruse just did not work. Touching his skin made her feel things she was sure no decent maiden should feel. She could hear his breathing as if it were her own, smell the tang of his smooth skin, and see the pulse beating in the intriguing hollow of his throat.

  She quickly stepped away and opened her cache of herbs. Grinding several together, she made a paste and spread it across the wound, before winding long strips of fresh linen about his torso to keep the area clean.

  “You can don your shirt,” she said with great relief when it was done.

  “Over my face?” he asked, the bloody towel still pressed to his cheek.

  She felt foolish and knew her own face was afire. “My apologies. I’m so tired that I cannot keep my mind on the task at hand.”

  “Ah. Then ’tis but fatigue I feel when I’m near ye and every other thought and care turn ta naught?” he asked softly.

  “How should I know what it is you feel?” she snapped, and though she tried to scowl as she reached for the towel in his hand, her touch was gentle. She carefully pulled it away from his face and washed the wound, troubled to see that it still bled freely. “I fear I’ll need to stitch this closed.”

  “Or burn it,” he suggested matter-of-factly, shrugging when she looked aghast. “I’ve had that done before.”

  “It has not been done by me, and not on your face.”

  “So, ye dinna want ta ruin my handsome looks?”

  “You flatter yourself,” she retorted. “Have you considered that I do not want to be the cause of making you even more frightening to animals and small children?”

  “Needle and thread, it is,” he agreed.

  She was thankful for the rare lighthearted moment, hoping to hide the effect he truly had on her. Something had changed between them, or mayhap something had changed inside her. ’Twould take more thought to sort it out than she could hope to muster with the double distraction of his body that she’d just watched perform feats of strength and daring, and the expression of undisguised interest on his darkly handsome face. It would be easy to let herself be carried away at moments such as this, if not for the fact that his easy charm was a reminder of the time he hadn’t bothered to be nearly so amiable to her. Say what he might in defense of his treatment of her on their first meeting, of his refusal to court her when he could have, a woman in her position needed to be certain of a man, and she could never be certain about Raven. She could not allow herself to forget that only now was he choosing to use his charm on her, that he’d not deemed her worthy before.

  “This will hurt,” she said as she settled near him with the threaded needle in hand.

  “I’ll manage, lass,” he replied, his tone warmly reassuring.

  The only way she could comfortably work on his face was to stand above him. But he was so large that even with him seated on the bench, she barely had to bend over to work on him. She was hesitant when first she had to push the needle into his flesh, but he didn’t even flinch, so she quickly pulled it through the other side.

  His eyes were so blue as he looked at her, his lashes so dark and long, she simply had to force herself to think about something else; she decided to comment on the tournament, saying, “My stepfather tells me that Thurstan’s attack on you was a legal maneuver.”

  He waited until she was pulling on the thread to say, “’Twas, therefore I knew ta be prepared, especially with one such as he.”

  “But the rest of the field had been competing all day. To just wait until the end like that…”

  “But he didna win that way, because he couldna collect enough captives.”

  “I don’t think he cared about winning as much as attacking you.”

  “Concerned about me, lass?” His low v
oice rumbled through him, through her hands that rested on his face.

  “I’m concerned about fairness,” she answered primly.

  “Och, there’s nothing fair in war.”

  “But this wasn’t war!” she remarked hotly.

  “It’s always war ta men like Colbert. All part of the game, ye know.”

  She held the needle back to study him. “How can you take this all so blithely, when you could have been killed?”

  “And would ye have grieved for me?”

  “As I would for any fallen champion,” she told him. “There. ’Tis done. And with your handsome face more or less unaltered.”

  He laughed softly as she looked about quizzically. “Shears…shears,” she murmured to herself. “I know you’re here somewhere.”

  “Use your teeth,” urged Raven.

  She rolled her eyes. “It would tug on your stitches.”

  “I can bear it…can ye?”

  There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes and Abrielle knew he was thinking about how close she would have to get to him to do as he was daring. She wanted to curse the blood of the bold Berwin of Harrington that coursed through her veins, rendering her so often incapable of tamping down the desire, indeed, the need, to meet a challenge offered. As if in slow motion, she bent forward, gripping the knot with her fingers to keep the tension away from his face, then bit the thread in two. His moist breath on her neck was hot and thrilling. She felt his arms come around her hips and stiffened, pushing against his shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, bothered by how breathless her voice sounded.

  “I’m about my prize now.”

  “But it should be given in public, where all can see that I fulfilled my part of the bargain.”

  “Worry not, lass, they’ll assume I took my kiss in private.”

  Swooping an arm around her shoulders, he lifted her up and laid her across his lap as his open mouth plummeted down upon hers. Overcome and overwhelmed, answering his kiss with all the passion she was capable of exhibiting, Abrielle yielded to the intrusion of his tongue, welcoming it tentatively with her own before their passions intensified to a flaming fire that burned within them. She became as hungry for him as he was for her and found herself clinging to him as if they were the only couple in the world. She felt compelled to press close against him as her exploring fingers stroked over his back.

  Raven had known that she would be passionate; his fear was that after all her denials, she would not be capable of feeling it for him. She tasted of the sweetest strawberries, all warm and moist, making him think of pressing for more than just a kiss.

  Suddenly Abrielle gasped and scrambled off his lap, her breasts rising and falling as she struggled to breathe. “That was…that was…cruel and unfair.”

  “How so?” he countered. “Ye freely offered a kiss ta the winner, and I always win.” His blue eyes were now darker than ever, the color seemingly taken from the most tempestuous of ocean waters.

  She cursed herself for having fallen, however briefly, under his spell. “’Twould serve you well to remember that ‘always’ is a long time. You’d be wise not to take my lapse in good sense here today as a sign. I will never marry you, for I cannot trust you. Count yourself fortunate to have won the tournament purse, because you’ll never have my possessions, you’ll never have me.” This last she spat out, her blue-green eyes flashing, her wrath that of an outraged lioness.

  She turned her back on him and ran, wishing she could closet herself in her own bedchamber, but knowing she had to play the hostess at the final feast of the tournament. Throughout the evening, she smiled and said all the correct things, but she felt like a puppet, as if someone else were telling her what to say. It took every effort not to look at Raven, not to burst into tears of sorrow and anger. She should be choosing among her suitors, but their faces blurred together, their smiles seemed false, and she could not think what to ask to learn about each of them. She felt like a failure, and knew by her mother’s troubled frown that her parents were worried about her.

  OVER THE NEXT two days, the castle once again emptied of visitors, and Abrielle avoided the question of choosing her husband. She knew her mother and Vachel were being patient with her, a kindness she truly appreciated. She made lists of names, and wrote down the reasons each man would make a good husband, but every time she thought of exchanging a wedding kiss, she saw herself in Raven’s arms.

  Sleep came with difficulty, and on the third night, she thought she would be exhausted enough to finally sleep until dawn, but in the wee hours of the morning she came slowly awake, hearing a muted weeping, interspersed with cries of pain, drifting from the corridor just outside her chambers.

  A sudden fear that some sort of tragedy had happened and that her mother was at her door, needing to speak with her, sent a cold chill shivering down her spine. Desmond’s fall down the stairs was too fresh in her mind to imagine that such a thing couldn’t happen again, perhaps even to one she fervently loved.

  Frantic to learn who was weeping and what had prompted it, she struck sparks against a flint to light several tapers in the candelabrum beside her bed before slipping a robe over her nightgown. Upon snatching up the fixture, she held it aloft to light her way as she hurried into the antechamber. For the sake of caution, she pressed an ear against the door, but all seemed quiet, at least at the moment.

  “Who is out there?” she queried.

  “M’lady, don’t ope…!”

  Recognizing her maidservant’s voice, she set aside the candleholder and then paused as she heard what sounded like a slap, followed by a muted groan. Abrielle’s hackles stood up, for it seemed evident that some brutish knave was cuffing Nedda about.

  Appalled, she lifted the oak plank from its niches and, after hurriedly setting it aside, snatched the portal open. Her eyes immediately fell on Nedda, who was garbed in a robe and nightgown. At the moment the woman was lying on her side on the floor. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and across her cheek. Standing behind the woman was an enormous oaf whose face was badly scarred and heavily bearded. A voluminous bush of gray-streaked black hair flowed around his massive shoulders.

  An intensely foul odor drew her gaze askance. A startled gasp was wrenched from her as she espied a shorter, somewhat wider version of the huge lummox who towered over Nedda pressed against the wall beside her door. Like his companion, his gray-streaked hair was so wild and woolly that it was impossible to tell where his hair ended and his facial bush began. For barely an instant he grinned at her with rotting teeth fully in evidence, and then, as she whirled about in a frantic effort to return to her chambers, he leapt forward to seize her.

  Retreating with a startled gasp, Abrielle sought to slam the door in the brigand’s face, but he pushed it inward with such force that she was sent stumbling across the antechamber. Crashing into a chest near her bedchamber door, she experienced a sudden, sharp pain as her head hit the stone wall behind it, nearly knocking her senseless. Stunned, she slithered over the top of the chest, past its decorated doors, and finally came to rest on the rug. From there, she peered as if through a long tunnel at the short, rotund beast who sauntered near.

  Leaning his head aslant to align his face with hers, the man grinned at her in obvious amusement. “Me name’s Fordon, if ’n ye be a-wonderin’.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the larger oaf standing over Nedda. “That’s Dunstan.”

  “What do you want?” Abrielle mumbled, making every effort to clear her befuddled senses as she pushed herself upright against the decorative chest. It was a piece that Lord Weldon had brought back from the Crusades. She had never realized before how hard and solid it was until forced to confront it head-on.

  In the hall beyond the open doorway, she saw the taller oaf, Dunstan, grasp Nedda by her nightcap-covered hair and, with one hand, haul her to the tips of her toes. With an amused chortle, he sent the servant whirling into the antechamber, where, after several rotations, she fell i
nto her mistress. Abrielle had been making every effort to get to her feet in spite of the fact that her senses had been knocked badly askew. Once again she was sent sprawling, this time in a crumpled heap beneath Nedda.

  Frustrated, bruised, and seething with rage, Abrielle waited as the servant extricated herself and finally reclaimed some measure of her sorely bruised wits as she sat upright against the chest again, whence she glared at the two brutes who grinned back at them. Abrielle was definitely in a mood to serve vengeance upon the obnoxious pair, but hadn’t yet figured out how she could manage that. At the same time she was wont to wonder how they would enjoy being buried piecemeal in the decorated chest that had recently caused her so many bruises.

  Abrielle extricated her hand from her tangled clothing and wiped the back of it across her bruised mouth, but paused at the moisture she felt. Glancing down, she found her knuckles smeared with blood.