Читать книгу Redeeming The Rogue Knight - Elisabeth Hobbes - Страница 11

Chapter Two

The kiss took Lucy by surprise, the rough beard scratching at her cheek and lips teasingly, sending shivers through her. His mouth enclosed hers, his lips firm and his tongue seeking hers with a fierceness that left her weak. Her mind emptied as desire lurched in her belly and without intending to she was kissing him back. If he could kiss like this when close to death, what would his touch be like when at full strength?

She came to her senses almost immediately and jerked her head away. His mouth followed, greedily seeking her out again, and his good hand slid from her neck down her body, fumbling at her breast.

A kiss she could tolerate, but the groping was too much. Outrage surged inside Lucy and now she had her wits about her. He was not the first of her customers who had tried to force attentions on her and was likely not to be the last. Injured or not made no difference. She twisted her leg until it was between his and brought her knee sharply upward.

The man gave a whimper of pain and crumpled on to her, his eyes rolling back in his head. He went limp and Lucy realised, aghast, that he was close to passing out. Her hand shifted against his back and touched feathers. The fletch of the arrow was sticking out. Guilt swept over her that she had done such a thing to a wounded man. She bit her remorse down. She had not asked for her home to be invaded, or to be kissed. He had brought it on himself.

She supported him as best as she could, but he was a tall man and broad with it, and was crushing the breath from her as she leaned against the wall. Even by the feeble light of the fire, the man looked as pale as a wraith with a waxy sheen to his brow. His hair was matted to his cheeks. He must have bled from his wound, but against the darkness of his cloak it was impossible to tell.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, reaching to brush the hair from his face. His forehead was cold to the touch and her fingers came away damp with his sweat. He opened his eyes.

‘Do you have wine? Anything stronger?’ he moaned.

‘Enough of this!’ Thomas cried. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, reminding Lucy he had always been as prudish as a monk when it came to shows of physical affection. ‘Get him upstairs before you do him any more harm. We may not have much time.’

He pulled the injured man off Lucy. Lucy ran to get the lantern, thrusting the poker back into the fire where she could find it later if needed.

‘Bring wine,’ the injured man growled.

Lucy ran to the counter where the flagons and cups were stored and found what he had requested. Carrying a bottle in each hand and the lantern hooked over her arm, she followed as her brother half dragged the injured man up the narrow staircase.

The first floor was low ceilinged and dark. Lucy’s room took one half of the space, though it was filled with all manner of boxes and piles of unused or unusable objects she could not bear to throw away. The second room contained pallets for travellers who wished to spend the night, but until the better weather arrived the frames were piled up and the straw mattresses wrapped in oilcloth as prevention against vermin. It was this room that Lucy intended to take the two men into, but Thomas entered the bedroom that had once been their father’s and where Lucy now slept. She opened her mouth to protest, but decided it was better to make no arguments and hope that Thomas would explain before long.

Robbie’s cradle was pushed into the far corner and he slept silently, mercifully not stirring as they entered. Lucy did not dare look directly at him, fearing she would alert the men to his existence, but they were more intent on reaching Lucy’s bed beneath the small window.

‘Lay me down and give me a drink,’ the injured man mumbled. He appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Lucy wondered how much blood he had lost.

They lowered him on to the bed, pushing the blankets to one side and edging him over so that his shoulder was hanging over the furthest edge of the frame with the fletch of the arrow free from the mattress. Thomas pulled the injured man’s boots off and placed them at the side of the bed. Lucy held out the bottle of wine and he tipped it back, drinking deeply until it was half-empty. He put it on the floor and fumbled with his left hand to unclasp the buckle of his cloak. His fingers were clumsy and he let loose a string of expletives.

‘Help me get this off,’ he commanded.

Thomas began to fumble at his neck, but the man pushed his hand aside.

‘Not you, Thomas. You go tend to the horses. Dove, you can do it.’

Lucy knelt by the bed and tried to do as he asked, but when she attempted to ease the cloak from his back, it stuck fast around the shaft of the arrow. The man gave a gasp of pain as she tugged. Lucy let go, realising the arrow had gone through all the layers of clothing. Something moved in the corner of her eye. Thomas was pointing a dagger at her face. His hand shook and the expression of fear in his eyes made him almost unrecognisable.

‘Cut it free,’ Thomas said, pushing the dagger into her hand. ‘Remove all the clothing you can. When I return, we remove the arrow.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked, alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with the man who had earlier appeared intent on violating her. The word we did not give her any comfort, either.

‘You heard what he said. I must hide our horses. We are being hunted. I’ll explain properly later.’ Thomas gazed around frantically as if expecting assailants to appear from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed or behind the open door. He lumbered out, pulling the door shut.

‘What is this place called?’

The man on the bed had spoken, his voice rough and rasping. Lucy jumped in surprise. She looked at him more closely. His cheeks had a touch of colour beneath the mass of beard and his eyes were brighter. Lying down and filling himself with wine seemed to have rallied his spirits and returned some of his vitality.

‘It has no name,’ Lucy answered.

The man gave a wheezing laugh. ‘A nameless inn. Perfect for a nameless man such as me. Does its mistress have one or are you equally anonymous, dove?’

‘Lucy Carew is my name,’ she answered reluctantly.

‘Carew! Sister of Thomas, or wife?’

‘Sister,’ Lucy answered, wondering what sort of man would kiss a woman who might be his friend’s wife.

‘Give me more wine, Lucy Carew,’ the injured man demanded, reaching for the bottle. Lucy picked it up, then paused before handing it over and took a sip herself. It did little to calm her nerves. The man drained the bottle, spilling a good measure down his face and neck. Lucy wrinkled her nose in disgust. Her mattress would reek of wine—though if it survived without blood being spilled on it that would be a wonder in itself. Gripping the dagger, she bent over the bed to do as she had been bidden. Her hands trembled and she hesitated, drawing her hand back from the cloth.

‘Have you never undressed a man before?’ the man asked with a leer.

‘Never with a knife,’ Lucy answered curtly.

He laughed.

‘I thought a pretty dove who can kiss like you did must know her way around a bed.’

His voice was mocking and Lucy flushed with anger. Voices of condemnation pressed down on her, whispering names that set her cheeks aflame with shame. The voices were right though, weren’t they? Otherwise why would her body have responded in the basest way possible to the uninvited touch of his lips?

She held his gaze, noticing his eyes were increasingly unfocused and the colour was leaving his cheeks once more. He would most likely pass out again, if not from his injury then from the wine he had drunk. She bent over to widen the hole around the arrow at the front and back. The evil-looking tip was crusted with blood, as was his clothing, and her stomach heaved.

The cloak was thick, but the dagger blade was sharp and it came away without too much work. She dropped it down between the bed and wall. Beneath the cloak the man wore a sleeveless padded jerkin, laced at the front. By some fortune the arrow had missed this, piercing his flesh where arm joined body, and the garment was intact. The jerkin was the colour of oak and the cloak was of good quality. Lucy wondered for the first time who he was. She unlaced the jerkin, aware all the time of the man’s eyes upon her.

‘You’ll have to sit up to take this off.’

‘You’ll have to help me, Lucy Carew,’ he slurred, raising an eyebrow.

He gave her the same grin that had made her stomach curl. Now alone on her bed with him she felt a stirring of anxiety. It had been a long time since a man had shared her bed and, even though he was not there for that purpose, the sight of him made her stomach twist. She weighed up the likelihood of him repeating what he had done downstairs and decided he looked incapable of much harm.

She sat on the edge of the bed and eased her hands beneath his armpits, pulling him forward until he sat upright with his face close to hers. He eased his left arm about her waist, holding tightly to support himself and tried to do the same with his right arm, but there was no strength in it. Lucy slipped her hands inside the front of the jerkin, acutely aware that her hands were running across the contours of his chest. He drew a breath as her fingers slipped across the bare flesh at his neck. He looked at her with an expression of hunger, tilting his head to one side and parting his lips as if he was preparing to kiss her once more. She hastily bent her head to better look at what she was doing, conscious of the heat rising to her face.

‘You haven’t asked my name, Lucy Carew,’ he breathed as she pushed the jerkin over his shoulder.

‘I don’t care to know it,’ she answered.

Together they contrived to remove the jerkin, easing one arm out, then twisting the fabric until it slid over the arrow. Once or twice it caught, jerking the shaft slightly. Each time it happened the man gave a guttural growl deep in his throat, the fingers of his left hand tightening on Lucy’s waist. Now he was left with only a wool tunic.

‘Cut it off,’ he whispered, closing his eyes. ‘I have others and I fear I cannot sit any longer.’

His grip on Lucy’s waist slackened and she eased him back on the bed. Lucy made a long cut from the neck past the arrow and down to the hem of the tunic. She did the same along both sleeves and hacked away at the fabric until he lay naked to the waist. Lucy concentrated her gaze on his blood-encrusted wound. She didn’t want to think what would happen when Thomas tried to remove the arrow. The idea of her own involvement made her stomach heave.

The man was sweating yet shivering violently, his chest rising with each uneven breath he drew. Removing the jerkin must have caused him agony, but beyond the growling he had made no complaint throughout. Gently Lucy pulled the blanket up to his neck, easing it over the arrow. His eyelids flickered, but did not open. He smiled and for the first time it was neither leering nor mocking and Lucy’s lips curved in response. She reached for the second bottle—the one containing the spirits he had demanded—and lifted it to his lips.

His eyes opened and he frowned, blinking to focus on her.

‘When Thomas returns...’ He sighed and fell silent. He appeared to have lapsed once more into unconsciousness, or perhaps the amount of wine he had consumed had sent him into a stupor.

Lucy stood anxiously by the bed, waiting for the footfall on the stairs. Where would Thomas have concealed two horses? The barn where she brewed her ale would be too small, but she hoped he had not tried to force the door.

The room was silent so when Robbie stirred in his cot and gave a whimper it sounded as loud as a cockcrow at dawn. She glanced at the man in the bed to see if he had heard, but he showed no signs that he was aware of anything.

She crept to the cradle and patted her son’s head, smoothing down the dark curls and pressing a cool finger against the red spot on his cheek where his latest tooth was growing through. He opened one eye, yawned and closed it again, rolling on to his front with his mouth drooping open. Lucy knelt by his side and watched as he settled back into sleep, overwhelmed by the love that consumed her. Robbie would never know the crisis that had played out while he slept.

An intense annoyance at Thomas filled Lucy’s entire being. He had left four years before with no plans beyond intending to seek his fortune as a soldier. There had been no word and no way of contacting him. Now he had returned with no explanation, bringing chaos with him. With luck he would leave again as soon as possible.

Thomas burst into the room, slamming the door back against the wall.

‘Sir Roger, I am back.’

Slowly Lucy turned and stared at the man on the bed, recalling the fine clothing she had cut from him and the imperious manner in which he had commanded her, as if he was used to giving orders. Her stomach tightened with dread as she remembered the assault she had made on him. Cold sweat crept down her spine at the thought of what his retribution might be against the commoner who had dared oppose his attentions.

She had no time to dwell further on the revelation because the door slamming and Thomas’s voice had woken Robbie, who gave a high-pitched, wordless wail. He pushed himself up, his tiny hands gripping the edge of the cradle as he attempted his recently discovered trick of climbing out and making his way to Lucy’s bed half-asleep.

‘A child?’ Sir Roger roused himself, craning his head to follow the sound.

‘My son.’

‘You have a son? Where is his father?’ Thomas looked at Lucy, his eyes wide with astonishment and outrage. ‘You said you were alone here.’

Lucy lifted her chin and glared at the men. She had done enough explaining and apologising since Robbie’s birth almost two years previously and the shame that had once weighed heavy on her shoulders had dulled into a low throb in her belly. Nobleman or not, she had no intention of justifying her son’s existence to a stranger. Come to that, Thomas could wait for his explanation, too.

‘He doesn’t have a father,’ she replied curtly. ‘I am alone.’

‘Good, I want no disturbance,’ Sir Roger grunted from the bed. Thomas merely glared at her, scandalised.

Lucy picked up Robbie from the cradle and hugged him tightly to her breast, making soothing noises.

‘Put the brat down and come over here,’ Sir Roger instructed loudly. ‘You’re going to help Thomas before I become fully sober.’

Lucy kissed Robbie’s forehead. He beat his fists against her shoulder and screamed louder, making his displeasure at being awoken known.

‘Let me soothe him first,’ Lucy said, jiggling up and down rhythmically.

‘This is more important than his temper,’ Sir Roger growled. ‘I’m stuck through with an arrow and every moment wasted puts me one step closer to the grave!’

Arguably he was right, but Lucy bridled at his tone when the child was distressed.

‘He isn’t in a temper. He’s been woken from sleep and his room is full of strangers who are shouting. He’s confused and probably scared. On top of that he’s cutting teeth.’ She hugged him tighter and realised her hands were trembling. Robbie might be scared, but he was not alone in that. Now that something familiar from her life had intruded on the evening’s dreamlike events, she was most definitely frightened.

‘The quicker you put him back, the quieter he’ll be,’ Sir Roger insisted.

Lucy walked to the bed, still rocking Robbie against her chest, and stared down at him.

‘You clearly know nothing about children.’

‘Nor do I want to,’ he retorted with distaste, eyeing Robbie’s red face.

‘It will be easier to lay him down if he’s sleepy and calm,’ Lucy insisted. ‘Otherwise he’ll scream for hours and be clambering half-asleep into your bed a dozen times during the night.’

Sir Roger looked horrified at the prospect. Lucy glared back until he grimaced.

‘The dove has become a crow! Or perhaps an eagle defending her young. Do what you need to, but be speedy. And give me that bottle back. I need to dull the pain. Thomas, are you ready?’

Lucy gave Sir Roger the bottle, but instead of drinking it he splashed it on to his shoulder. He paled and swore, his chest lurching upward as the sharp liquor bathed the wound. Lucy winced in sympathy. The man was rude and crude, and whatever circumstance had led to him being shot was probably well deserved, but Lucy could not help but feel sorry at seeing him in such pain.

Thomas had been searching inside a large leather bag that he had brought inside with him. He crossed to Sir Roger and pushed a small bottle into his hand. Sir Roger took a swig. Thomas picked up the dagger Lucy had used and bent over the bed. He rolled Sir Roger on to his left side, straddled him and began to carve away at the shaft sticking through Sir Roger’s back to pare the feathers away.

‘Isn’t that child asleep yet?’ Sir Roger grumbled.

Lucy moved into the darkness to better settle Robbie. In a low voice she sang the song that usually settled him when she put him to bed and he yawned. She was surprised to hear the same tune whistled from across the room and stopped. Sir Roger was waving his left arm over the edge of the bed, his lips pursed.

‘You can sing me to sleep, if you wish, dove.’ He slapped his naked chest. ‘Right here against my heart. Or anywhere else you wish to lay your lips.’

Lucy ignored him, but blushed. Half insensible and wounded, the man was still fixated on lovemaking. In full health she dreaded to think what he would be like. She hoped he would be gone before she had to discover it. She lowered Robbie into his cot with trembling arms.

Thomas dropped the fletch of the arrow to the floor.

‘We will remove the arrow now,’ Thomas muttered. He mimed pulling the head towards him. ‘There will be blood that needs stemming. Fetch your poker from the fire.’

Sir Roger groaned and his left hand curled into a fist. For the first time he looked genuinely fearful rather than in pain or intent on seduction. ‘Do what he says. And bring more wine while you’re about it.’

Lucy glanced towards Robbie’s cot. He was sleeping and would be no bother to the men. She ran down the stairs, heart in her mouth, hoping the poker would be heated enough for the purpose that turned her stomach to think of it.

* * *

Roger closed his eyes and listened to the rapid footsteps. The girl would be quick. She had already proven to be biddable when it came to doing what needed to be done. He clenched his fists. His left was strong, but his right curled limply and seemed reluctant to obey his commands. He lifted his hand to the wound and probed gingerly with his fingers. The blood had congealed and a crust had formed across his breast where it had trickled. He had lost less than he feared, but that would change when Thomas pulled the arrow free. He explored further, relieved to discover the arrow had missed bones, passing through the muscle between his arm and collarbone.

Roger’s head swam with weariness and cold. He reached for the blanket, pulling it up to his neck once more. There was something important he needed to do. He could not lie here waiting for the girl to come back to his bed, however appealing she was with her hungry lips and wide blue-grey eyes, so like another pair and with an equally familiar expression.

‘She looks on me with fear,’ he murmured.

‘Did you speak, Sir Roger?’

Roger opened one eye. Thomas was peering down at him, Thomas who had started the day with his ill-considered swiving. Curse him for bringing Lord Harpur’s men upon them.

‘This is your fault.’ Was he speaking? His voice was deep and bold, not a husky whisper. ‘It was you they wanted.’

Thomas fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me. It was weakness. Madness! But I will make amends. I’ll pay their due. Tell me what to do to right the wrong I have done.’

What had the lad done? Roger was finding it hard to think. He licked his lips. They tasted strangely bitter. He’d drunk something to ease his pain, but it had dulled his thoughts. Ah, yes. A woman was the cause of it all. They always were. Was it the wide-eyed girl in grey; the dove whose fingers had been cool against his aching muscles? No, she was someone else. Someone here.

‘She’s taking too long.’

He’d seen on the fields of France what lay ahead for him once she returned with the heated iron and the longer she delayed the less his nerves would bear it.

‘I’ll go see,’ Thomas replied.

‘Can we trust her?’ Roger reached for his arm.

‘I think so. She won’t betray her brother. My only family now!’ Thomas sighed. ‘Poor Lucy, she looked half out of her mind with terror.’

Clarity broke through the clouds surrounding Roger’s mind. He clutched Thomas’s arm. ‘Is the message from King Edward safe?’

‘In your saddlebag, still on your horse,’ Thomas answered.

‘Good. Hugh Calveley must receive the summons from His Majesty and send troops to France,’ Roger cautioned Thomas.

If he did—and if he lived to claim his fee—Roger would be rich. He could return to Wharram and pour coins into his father’s hands. Finally he would have the means to show he was a success.

He listened to the hammering of the blood in his veins. Through the fog of the wine and Thomas’s drugs he understood the noise was not within his head. Someone was beating at the door of the inn and there was nothing to stop the girl admitting whoever was knocking.

‘Go,’ he instructed Thomas. He let go his grip, his mind struggling to remain clear. ‘Take your sword. Leave without me if you must. King Edward’s message must be delivered, without me if necessary.’

He tried to keep his eyes open as Thomas left the room, but he found it impossible. Unable to fight the demands of his body, he slipped into unconsciousness.