Читать книгу Dragon's Daughter - Catherine Archer - Страница 10

Fever.

Rowena quickly went to the fire and put the water back on to heat. Because of the likely inflammation in his lungs, she made a mixture of horehound and honey. Then she placed a combination of sorrel and marigold into her mixing bowl to treat the fever. While she waited for the water to heat, she fetched a shallow wooden bowl, filled it with cool water and removed a soft clean cloth from the chest beside the foot of the bed.

Then she stepped toward the bed, placed the bowl upon the narrow table and dipped the cloth into it. When she’d wrung out the cloth, she hesitated, her gaze fixed on his face, handsome in spite of the illness that had robbed it of color and animation. She should not have told Hagar to go.

With a sigh of impatience, Rowena told herself that this was completely foolish. She had performed this very task more times than she could count. To hesitate with this man was madness. He was nothing to her, and utterly unaware of her at any rate.

Her suspicion that he might be a noble, a man who came from the world of her father, made him no different from any other man who lay ill in her care.

Nonetheless, she took a deep breath as she smoothed the cloth slowly across that wide brow, her fingers brushing the thick, dark brown hair Hagar had washed. The stranger stirred slightly and Rowena stiffened. But he did not open those blue eyes and she forced herself to relax.

Yet as she ran the cool cloth over his high cheekbones and lean jaw, she found herself thinking that this man was the most handsome she had ever seen. There was a deep strength to his face that was belied by that one look she had had of his blue eyes, eyes that had seemed so surprisingly gentle. That gentleness was echoed in the softness of his mouth, which was now parted as he took in quick, shallow breaths.

Suddenly she realized that though this man was a stranger, completely unknown to her, she wanted to know him. To know something of the world he came from, the world of her father. It was a world she and her mother had lived in, at least for a time.

She wanted to know why the stranger had come to Ashcroft, and whence he would be going when he left.

Her mother had told her that the nobles valued their lands above aught else. But the look in his eyes when he had spoken of the unknown Rosalind…

If there was a Rosalind. What if it was all mad ravings?

Frustrated with her own whirling thoughts, Rowena drew the bench close to the bed and set about her task with renewed purpose. She grew increasingly aware of the intimacy of their situation. She was touching this man in a way she would never dream of doing if he were well, learning the smooth contours of his face in a way she did not even know her own. Gently she bathed the corded column of his throat, his powerful shoulders, wondering at the sheer masculinity of him, and feeling a more intense awareness of her own femininity.

When he groaned and tossed the coverlet from his chest, her gaze went to that wide expanse, which glistened with perspiration.

Her own breathing seemed more shallow, her chest tight. Although she knew it would help to cool him were she to bathe him there as well, Rowena dared not do so.

Thus she put all of her attention and energy into doing what she could—working on without ceasing, yet never growing less conscious of him as a man, even when her heavy lids sagged with exhaustion…

Rowena lifted her head from her arm, realizing she had fallen asleep. A low groan came from the bed beside her.

Instantly her gaze went to her patient’s face. The light from the fire was dim but she could see the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. He groaned again, his head rolling on the pillow.

Hurriedly she dipped the cloth into the cool water and wiped it across his brow. The moment it touched him he sighed, raising his hand to rub his throat, though it was clear he had not regained consciousness.

Again she wet the cloth, this time applying it to his lean jaw.

Without warning, his eyes flew open and he grabbed her, pulling her against the burning heat of his chest. “Rosalind…must find her…”

Instantly Rowena leaned back, but in his fever her resistance only seemed to fuel his determination to hold her. His arms were like iron bands, pressing her to him, to the heat and strength of his body, the body she had not dared to touch.

From somewhere there came a response in her own body, a hardening of the peaks of her breasts that shocked her even as a shaft of inexplicable pleasure raced through her blood.

Then, just as suddenly as he had taken hold of her, she was released and he fell back, unconscious once more. Quickly she crossed her arms over her aching breasts, her gaze focusing on the smooth tanned skin of the stranger’s chest as she wondered how touching it could have brought such a reaction from her.

She looked into his face. He was oblivious to her.

Of course he was. He had never thought of her at all. It was this unknown Rosalind who consumed him to the point that worry for her had fought its way up through the depths of his illness.

Rowena could only wonder in horror that she would react to this man as she had. All she could do to soothe herself was remember that when his health returned he would not recall this event. She would be wise to forget it as well.

She raked a hand through her hair, looking toward the shuttered window. How long until sunrise? No matter how long, or how ill he became, she was not going to touch that man again, not alone here in the darkness.

Rowena still had not done so when Hagar arrived, accompanied by Sean, not long after sunrise. Rowena found it hard to meet the older woman’s gaze, and even harder to meet Sean’s as she opened the door and moved back to the table, where she made a show of tidying up the things she had left out during the night.

Sean, who was garbed for fishing in a short tunic and heavy woolen hose, hesitated in the doorway as Hagar came forward, removing her cloak. He spoke carefully, and Rowena knew that he was thinking of their unpleasant exchange of the previous evening. “Good morrow, Rowena.”

She nodded without looking at him, less irritated with him than herself, given her confused feelings about the stranger. In spite of this she spoke with bravado. “Good morrow. As you can see I am quite whole.”

She felt him stiffen.

Hagar seemed to be unaware of their discomfort or else chose to ignore it. “So how went the night?”

Feeling her friend’s attention upon her as he, too, listened for her reply, Rowena bent to put more wood upon the fire. “It was long. He has developed a fever.”

The older woman went to the bed and reached out to place her worn hand upon the stranger’s brow. “Ah, ’tis not good. You could have come for me.”

Placing a pot of water on to heat, Rowena said, “Why would I wake you, good Hagar, when you needed your sleep? I did well enough on my own, and methinks he has cooled somewhat from the worst of it.”

Never would she admit how difficult tending him had been, for she could not understand why herself. Now, in the light of day, she felt utterly foolish for reacting to the man as she had.

Hagar sighed. “Well, enough then.”

Rowena was conscious of Sean continuing to study her. She looked up at him, forcing herself to meet his gaze. ’Twas her own predicament and no other’s if she had gone a little mad in her reactions to this stranger. She spoke in what was a surprisingly normal tone. “Will the men not be waiting for you?”

He nodded jerkily, and she felt a stab of sympathy at his obvious dejection.

Affection for him made her add, “I would not take it amiss should you come by at the end of your day. If you are not too tired.”

A hopeful glimmer lit his eyes. “Then you are not still angry with me?”

She shook her head. “I could not remain so. You are my brother.”

A strange expression passed over his face, immediately replaced by relief. And then she had no more time to think of Sean, for Hagar said, “’Tis good you’ve decided to cease your squabbling, but we have other concerns to occupy us now. Methinks the man’s fever may be increasing again.”

Rowena barely noted Sean’s departure as she moved forward to touch the sick man’s heated brow. She felt a new wave of anxiety. Clearly the worst was not over.

While Rowena brewed more of her potions, the older woman set to tending their patient by unspoken consent. Thus it went over the next day and into the night. No more did Rowena stay alone with the stranger as fever raged through his body.

If Hagar found it odd that Rowena would suddenly be eager for her assistance, she made no remark on it. Rowena could only be grateful, for there was no explanation she was willing to voice aloud.

Sir Christian Greatham, heir to his father’s title and lands, opened his eyes and looked at the low, wood-beamed ceiling overhead with confusion. Where was he?

He sat up, taking in the fact that he was lying in what appeared to be a wide platform bed barely long enough to contain his full length. A woolen curtain separated it from the main chamber, but it had been drawn back. His gaze scanned the small but scrupulously tidy interior of a one-room cottage.

Where was he, indeed?

And how had he come to be here?

The throbbing in his head made him reach up. He was not surprised to discover that the pain seemed to originate with the lump he found, although he had no memory of how it had come to be there.

The last thing he recalled was riding his stallion along the edge of the cliffs. It had been full dark, and he had known the path was treacherous, but he had been determined to keep going, certain that he had nearly reached the end of his journey.

According to what he had learned when he stopped at a village near the English border, his destination could not be far ahead. The locals had shown open curiosity at his interest in finding Ashcroft, telling him that he would find little of interest there, naught but a tiny fishing village. From them he had also discovered why it was so little known, for it lay on the point of a narrow peninsula that was near impossible to reach from the inland side, due to the mountainous terrain and constantly swollen rivers. His informants clearly felt that the trouble of reaching Ashcroft, coupled with the lack of any noteworthy object at the end of such a journey, made the going nonsensical.

But Christian had a reason. A reason compelling enough to make him overlook any hardship.

Rosalind. The Dragon’s daughter.

Once he reached Ashcroft he might discover if the fantastic tale told to him by a dying knight had any merit. That Rosalind might still be alive he could not fully credit, but he had to know.

Unfortunately, the delays he had encountered in finding the village where Sir Jack had said he would find her had left Christian incautious in his determination to reach it.

He had been told that the best route, the one that lay along the shore, was hardly better than the inland route. That it was barely traversable even in daylight. He had been driven by the knowledge that he had already been gone five weeks, three more than he had assured his sister he would be gone when he had left Bransbury. He had refused to tell even her where he was going because of his sworn word to the dying Jack. The more people who knew of Rosalind’s possible existence, the more danger there was of her uncle, the present earl of Dragonwick, finding out before her safety could be guaranteed.

Again Christian rubbed his head. His last memory was of his horse rearing up, as a huge wave seemed to rise from out of nowhere. How he had come from that windswept shore to this bed was as much a mystery as where here might be.

Christian slid forward and swung his legs over the side of the bed. In spite of the increased pounding this caused in his head, he realized as he did so that he was completely nude.

At the same time he noted the sounds of someone stirring across the room. He followed the rustlings, and came up short as a woman rose from a pallet on the floor beside the fire.

The first thing he noticed was her hair, a fiery auburn that drew the eye as it hung about her in wildly tousled disarray. The second thing he noted was her long, lithe figure in a flowing gown of white. The third thing, and the one that gave him pause, was a pair of eyes so rich a green he could hardly credit their reality, for they were the color of newly grown moss. Darkly lashed, they had an almond shape that made them even more unusual.

So transfixed was he by those eyes that it was a moment before he realized the expression in them was decidedly apprehensive. He pulled the coverlet about his waist, aware that her slender body was poised as if ready to take flight. He spoke quickly, surprised at the dry and raspy sound of his own voice. “Pray do not fear me.”

She raised her head, her eyes now filled with bravado. “I am not afraid, sir.”

He tried to hold that gaze, but felt a wave of dizziness overtake him. It was with regret that he felt himself sink back on the bed. “That is quite wise of you, for I seem to be too weak to do you ill did I wish to.”

Immediately her face softened in concern. “You have been very ill.” In spite of her change of tone he noted that she remained where she stood.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

Shock drew him upright. “Four days? But how…?”

His father needed him at Bransbury. Only Christian’s determination to settle the debt to his former foster father could have taken him away, now that he realized his error in staying away for so very long. He must return!

She took a step closer. “One of the village lads found you unconscious on the beach. I…you were brought here so that I could care for you.”

His mind teemed with questions, yet his confusion only served to make the weakness in his body more pronounced. “I recall nothing beyond riding along a rocky and narrow track wedged between a high cliff and a rolling sea.”

She took another step closer. “Then you did not wash ashore from a ship.”

He looked at her. “Nay, I was mounted, trying to find my way to a particular village. A place called Ashcroft.”

“You have arrived at your destination. Well, near enough. My cottage lies in the wood nearby.”

He took a deep breath. “This is Ashcroft?” She nodded and he felt hope growing inside him, for if he had found the village…

She spoke slowly, watching him with those amazing green eyes. There was an intensity in them that surprised him. “Why have you come here?”

He wished that he did not feel so very tired, so weak, so conscious of her mesmerizing loveliness. He sighed. “I am searching for someone. A young woman.”

She bit her full lower lip. “Rosalind?”

He jerked, alert again. “Aye, but how would you know that? Do you know her?”

She shook her head quickly, seeming uneasy at his vehemence. “Nay, I know nothing of a Rosalind. I…you said her name when you were ill. You spoke of Dragons and dead babes. I thought you might be quite mad.”

Disappointment added to Christian’s utter exhaustion as he sighed. “I assure you that I am not mad.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I want to…” He could not quite focus his mind on what it was he did want.

The next thing he knew he felt cool, gentle hands upon his brow. Her soft, husky voice murmured, “Do not worry over anything now. Lie still. There will be time enough for what you wish to do. All will be well.”

He could not summon the energy to explain that he was needed at Bransbury…that he must…

It was full light when Christian once again opened his eyes, instantly recalling the events of the night. He sat up, glad for the strength that seemed to be returning to his body. Even as he thought this, his gaze searched for the young woman he had spoken to before.

She was there beside the fire, as she had been the previous night. This time she was garbed for the day in a woolen gown of deep forest-green.

There was guarded tension in that slender form, as there had been the previous time they’d spoken, but there was no fear in her captivating green eyes. She spoke evenly. “Good morrow, sir.”

He could hear the huskiness in his own voice as he replied, “Good morrow, kind lady. Forgive me for not offering my thanks last night, for it appears I have much to be thankful for if you have taken me in and nursed me. Especially whilst knowing nothing of me. For my lack of chivalry, pray forgive me. I can only claim surprise at finding myself in these circumstances.”

She inclined her head with an unconsciously regal grace. “Your thanks are well met.”

He found himself watching her closely, realizing anew that she was likely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with those green eyes, well-formed features and auburn hair, now confined in a thick braid that hung to her hips. He heard the wonder in his voice as he asked, “Pray, do you mind my asking who you are?”

She seemed to stiffen, answering without looking at him. “My name is Rowena.” She cast a fleeting glance in his direction, then added, “And you are?”

He noted her seeming agitation over giving her name, but could fathom no reason for it as he answered, “Sir Christian Greatham, of Bransbury.”

Her gaze flew to his and she straightened fully, her fair brow creasing. “A knight!”

He frowned in turn. “Does that trouble you?”

She flicked her tongue over those full lips as if with nervousness, replying, “Nay, I have simply never met a noble. My mother did not…How does one behave with a knight?”

He shrugged, replying even as he noted the unfinished remark. “As one wishes.”

She frowned thoughtfully, those eyes flicking toward him and away, and he could not help noting once more how beautiful they were with their surprisingly dark fringe of lashes. A man could become lost in those…

Abruptly he called himself to task. This woman’s eyes were not what had brought him to Ashcroft. “Where are my clothes? My horse?”

She shook her head with regret. “I am sorry. The clothing had to be burned. There was nothing left of it, really. And the horse…” She again shook her head. “We saw no sign of a horse.”

Christian raked a hand through his hair. God, what a fool he had been to continue on that night. The animal had been worth much in gold, but his value as a constant and loyal companion had been far greater. Christian’s eyes widened as he realized that with the loss of his stallion, he had also lost all that had been in his saddlebags, including his dragon brooch. It was the symbol of his brotherhood with his friends Simon and Jarrod, and their determination to stand against the man who had murdered The Dragon. Hatred for the man who had perpetrated that crime rolled in Christian’s belly for a brief moment before he overcame it.

If he had lost the brooch, he would not have it be for naught. He would discover if Rosalind were still alive. And if she was, Kelsey might pay for his crimes at long last.

Christian could not accomplish that clothed in a bed fur. He pulled the cover higher about his waist as he cast an assessing gaze over the young woman. “Are you alone here?”

She flushed. “Yes, but it was not I who…Hagar was the one who removed your…”

“You mistake me. I was not concerned with who might have removed my garments, only with attaining others. Who is this Hagar?”

“She is…a friend who lives in the village. An elder lady.”

He sighed.

Rowena watched her patient with an embarrassment mixed with fascination that nearly overrode her caution and discomfort.

This man with the powerful form and gentle eyes was a knight! Just as her father had been.

She trained her full attention on the man before her. She had never grown accustomed to him ill. Conscious and fully aware, he was even more disquieting.

She tried not to let her gaze linger on the broad expanse of his naked chest and shoulders as she wondered if she was fooling herself to imagine that he would not recall any of what had occurred while she tended him. The fact that he seemed more concerned about his lost garments than with her should have put her at ease.

It did not. For she was even more eager than he to cover that smooth, tawny flesh.

Hagar was the only one who could aid her in this. Surely the older woman would be able to help her find garments to clothe her guest.

So thinking, Rowena said, “If you will await me I will go and fetch something for you. I…we…Hagar and I did not know when you might awaken, and gave no thought to what you might wear when, and if, you did.”

Without waiting for a reply, Rowena took her warm woolen cape from the peg on the door and stepped into her leather shoes.

He spoke up. “Rowena, I would—”

But she did not stop in her flight from the cottage. “You rest. I will return anon,” she stated, nodding in his direction.

She raced down the path through the forest to Hagar’s cottage. She threw the door open without knocking. With an expression of surprise, the older woman looked up from where she was tending the fire as Rowena exclaimed, “He is awake.”

“Praise be.”

“He told me he is a noble. A knight. He is asking for his clothing. I have nothing to—”

Hagar stood immediately. “A knight, ye say? Of course ye have nothing for him to wear. We should have thought…” She bit her lip. “Sean is not of a size with him.”

With a nod the older woman spun about and went to the chest that sat beneath the shuttered window. Quickly she opened it and withdrew garments from inside, laying them neatly on the hard-packed dirt floor, until she stopped, holding up a deep blue tunic. “I had saved this for Sean so that he might wear it when he grew to be a man.” She touched the fabric gently. “It was his father’s best, his marriage garb. Methinks Sean will never be so large, but I did plan to cut it down for him….” She glanced toward Rowena and away. “We will put it to good use this day instead. I also have my Duncan’s hose, and a pair of shoes that have seen better days, but will have to do.”

In no time at all she and Rowena were headed back down the forest path to the cottage. When they reached it Christian Greatham was standing in the middle of the floor with a frown on his undeniably handsome face, the bedcover wrapped around his lean middle.

Seeing him like that again, feeling his masculine presence, Rowena was doubly glad that the older woman had returned with her.

It was Hagar who spoke up. “There ye are, my lad. ’Tis surely good to see ye up and about.”

He answered “Hagar? If I may call you Hagar?”

“Aye, that would be me name. And you are welcome to use it.” She held up the clean garments as she moved toward him. “I’ve brought ye these. They may not suit ye so well, bein’ a knight, but I think they will fit those shoulders.”

Christian Greatham took the clothes with a formal bow. “You have my deepest thanks, gentle lady. I take it from Rowena that I must also thank you for helping to look after me when I was ill.”

Rowena was unaccountably pleased at his deference to the older woman. She did not know how she had expected a knight to behave, but she had never imagined one would be so gracious to folk her mother had told her would be considered beneath him. Rowena said nothing, continuing to watch his interaction with Hagar.

The knight said, “Is there somewhere…”

Hagar motioned toward the bed. “Ye may pull the curtain. Rowena and I will await ye.”

He bowed and moved off to close himself behind the bed curtain. In spite of the fact that the woolen curtain was heavy and opaque, Rowena turned her back and gathered up the pallet she’d been sleeping on.

Despite her efforts at distraction, the rustling noises behind the curtain brought forth vivid visions of that long hard body.

Once her bed was put away she moved to the fire to begin brewing an infusion of herbs that would further aid her guest in regaining his strength. Not that the knight needed any more assistance with that if his physical appearance was any indication.

But she did not wish to think upon that.

She continued to occupy herself until she heard Hagar say, “There ye be. Good, they do fit ye.”

Rowena spun around, looking at him dressed and realizing that clothing did nothing to dampen the sheer masculine energy of this man, this knight named Christian Greatham.

“Do they not fit him well, Rowena?” the older woman said.

Rowena could not hold that blue gaze as he turned to her, though she noted that the vivid blue fabric, which hugged those wide shoulders as if made for them, only seemed to make his blue eyes appear all the more intense. She found herself looking down at the cup in her hands with uncharacteristic shyness. “Aye.” She forced herself to face him, to say something. “They were the marriage garments of Hagar’s late husband.”

Christian turned to the older woman. “Dear lady, may I not attain some other garb less dear? I would not—”

Hagar hushed him quickly. “Do not worry yersel. My Duncan, he would be happy to see them put to good use, as I am.” Rowena knew she was pleased at his having understood that the clothing was a gift of some consequence.

As before, he bowed. “I am honored.”

Again Rowena felt inordinately pleased with this man—though she had no reason to be so, for he was no more than a stranger to her. A stranger whose life she might very well have helped to save, but a stranger nonetheless.

She told herself she was simply surprised, after the way her mother had led her to believe one of his station would behave.

Hagar turned to Rowena. “This lad needs something to fill his belly.”

Rowena held out the cup. “I have brewed a drink that will help you continue to recover your strength. If you would take it I will serve you some of the rabbit stew from last eve.”

The knight came forward to take it from her hand, saying, “My thanks.”

Hagar asked, “What were ye doing hereabout, lad? And what happened to ye that ye would be washed up on our uneasy shore?”

Rowena paused in the act of dishing up the stew and watched as he replied, “As to the latter, I have no notion. I was riding my horse along the path, and it seemed a large wave might have hit us. But I am not certain. As for the former, I am searching for someone.”

The older woman shrugged. “Rowena told me of that. Ye are far from likely to find her here, sir knight. No strangers ever come to Ashcroft. The last being Rowena and her mother some fourteen years gone.”

Rowena found herself nearly pinned in place by that blue gaze. “You came here fourteen years ago with your…mother?” When she nodded, he said, “Where is she?”

She frowned, uncomfortable beneath that close and curious scrutiny. “She has been dead these three years.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “Dead. Can you…do you know where you lived before coming here?”

“England. But I…” She frowned, unable to meet his gaze as she suddenly realized that she did not wish to tell this man that she knew nothing of herself, her parentage. “I—I do not wish to speak of it.” She could hear the note of shame in her voice.

He took a step toward her. “But I would know—”

Looking to Hagar with desperate eyes, Rowena said, “Forgive me. I…must leave you in Hagar’s gentle hands now. There are some things I need from the forest.”

She did not remain to see the sympathy or understanding that came into the elder woman’s gaze. Hagar would understand her distress, for Hagar and Sean were the only ones she had ever told of her ignoble parentage. Rowena grabbed up her cloak and left the cottage.