Читать книгу A Knight Well Spent - Jackie Ivie - Страница 8

Aislynn’s hands were shaking before she had everything gathered and she was beginning to doubt she could work on him. That led to questioning her own abilities and that wasn’t good. She believed in her healing gifts and the extent of them even if she was the only one who did.

It took longer than she wished it to but that was because she hadn’t a spark handy for a fire, or mead for him to drink. She knew he shouldn’t face what she had to do in a completely sober state. That meant a trip home. Even at a full run, she didn’t think she could get there and back before the sun moved. She decided time must be changing on her, however. The sun didn’t seem to have moved as she fished two coals from the fire for a small torch and opened her father’s ale keg to dip a wineskin out, careful not to awaken anyone.

Her arms were full, her breast was burning with the exertion of running, and she was half-afraid he wasn’t going to be there when she returned, but he was.

Aislynn stood just outside the fringe of shrubbery ringing the glade she called hers and waited for her heart to calm. The Norman giant was still where she’d left him. He didn’t seem happy about it. She watched as he plucked a blade of grass and ran it through his fingernails to make it curl. She took a deep breath, assumed her confident Lady of the Brook image, and stepped in.

He looked up and stole her breath again with the clear-water blue of his eyes. Aislynn swallowed and looked away before he noticed. It was better to stay busy. She knew he watched as she stacked a small pile of broken twigs near the stream bank and tipped the coals onto it. She fed grasses into it until the fire was strong enough to keep going by itself. Then she set the small iron rack atop it, dipped a pail full of water, and set it atop the flames.

The indecision over whether or not to heat her knife ate at her, but she wasn’t going to let him know. His wound was trying to knit, it was full of poison, and it would be easier to slice if her blade was warm. She opened the knife into its half-circle shape and placed the tip in the center of her blaze.

Though she knew he’d be watching her, it still made her start when she turned and caught those blue eyes on her as intently as they were. Aislynn looked down at the ground as she approached where he sat. She couldn’t believe she’d actually stepped up and stomped on the expanse of chest facing her, but he’d frightened and startled her. Nobody saw her at her morning blessing. Nobody. It would start the whispers again. She assured herself it hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t even acted like it was of any consequence.

“I’ve brought ale for you.”

She pulled the skin of it from where she’d tied it about her waist and put it in the grass beside him where it went to a bulge shape. “You may need it.”

“I won’t,” he replied in that soft whisper of his.

Aislynn shivered. She wondered if he always spoke like that or if he was doing so for a reason. She cursed her own lack for not checking to see if he had further injury. “Have you hurt your throat?” she asked.

He jerked his head slightly, his eyes widening with the same odd look he’d given her on several occasions already. She wondered why he did that, too.

“I…no,” he replied.

“You possess a voice?” she continued.

He nodded.

“Why dinna’ you use it?”

He shrugged. Aislynn’s lips tightened. It wasn’t her business but she could guess. He had an enormous, well-muscled physique. He was easily a head taller than she was. The lower leg she was about to work on looked larger than both of her thighs put together. He probably had a voice to match. It would be loud, captivating, and strong, just like he was. She instinctively knew that was why he wasn’t using it.

“I understand,” she said. “It will give you away.”

This time his mouth dropped fully open. Aislynn nearly giggled. He was going to think she was a witch yet. She bent to check her knife. The blade tip was glowing red. She wrapped a bit of her cloak about her hand, lifted the blade, and walked over to him. He was very trusting, she decided, as she knelt beside him. He was also in the stiffest position a body could possibly be in and still be breathing. Aislynn put the blade against his skin and sliced.

Then she knew he definitely had a voice and it was massive, as his curse and groan filled the air. She ignored it. She had work to do. She was going to drain the pus-filled poison from him and then she had to find the lance tip he still harbored.

Aislynn put her fingers against his skin and lightly grazed until she felt where the metal had to be. It was lucky for both of them that it hadn’t reached bone. She didn’t think herself capable of extracting anything that deep.

She was beginning to think she couldn’t retrieve it, before she had it, and the act of sliding it out was worse. The blond man was quiet the entire time. He looked intent on drinking the wineskin dry. Aislynn looked his way once and then bent back to her task.

He’d not only been carrying the entire lance tip in him, it had binding still attached. Aislynn put it to the side of her and tipped his leg so he’d bleed freely onto the grass. Then she squeezed the wound until no more poison came out with the blood. He didn’t complain. Another quick glance showed he was still gulping, although the ale was in danger of sliding over his cheeks with the speed with which he was drinking it.

Aislynn picked up his souvenir and her knife and walked over to the burn to rinse everything off. Once the lance tip was clean, she realized the obvious. It wasn’t a keepsake. It was too dangerous. She dropped it into the water and watched the current rinse it away. Then she busied herself with crushing a palm-sized portion of brittle, dried orange amica flowers into the pot of water. She whispered as she did so, begging the water goddesses to assist with their healing powers.

When the pot was steaming the aroma into the glade, she knew it was ready. She needed it warm, not burning. Aislynn lifted it and turned to him. His eyes weren’t as crystal-clear, they were a more vivid blue, with red-rimmed flesh around them.

“You had poison to your wound. I’m going to wash it. It should na’ hurt. Worse,” she finished.

“Don’t stay…the work on…my account,” he replied.

He was pausing through the words, not whispering anymore, and he had a deep baritone voice that made the air rumble. She knew why he hadn’t used it earlier. It was very distinctive and very authoritative. Anyone hearing such a voice would immediately know the owner of it.

She frowned. He’d assured her he wasn’t a knight, he certainly wasn’t a Scot…so what could he be? she wondered. He was too old to be one of their Sassenach squires. Which left only one thing: a mercenary. He was one of their paid killers. Aislynn wondered why she hadn’t realized it instantly. Not only was he her enemy…he was paid to be one! That made everything she was doing so much worse. She should have known it the moment she met him. A man possessing all the muscle and scarring this man did obviously warred for a living. No wonder he hid his wound from the others. It would probably mean his death. She was shaking as she brought the pot over to him.

“What…is it?” He slurred the question with that resonating voice of his.

Aislynn turned her attention to rinsing the wound. She had to. She had to keep herself occupied. Aside from a quick intake of breath, her giant didn’t give any outward sign of how it pained him. Perhaps it isn’t paining him, she told herself, since he’d just drunk a wineskin of ale.

“Feels…strange. Like naught. What is it…you do?” he asked.

“Your senses must be blunted.”

“You do…such a thing? You—your talents must be…in great demand.”

“You drank yourself into it. I had little to do with it,” she replied stiffly. The last of the water mixture had been poured on, leaving the flesh slightly white at the edges, before it started bleeding again. Aislynn frowned more at it. She knew she was going to have to seal the wound. She’d only done it once and that was to a stray dog—and she’d had her other knife. The cur hadn’t even stayed around so she could see if it worked. She stood, looked for her blade, and then put it back in the fire.

“Why do…you heat it? A-again?”

“I have to burn you.”

His eyes really were a perfect match to the sky. It was especially noticeable as wide as he had them as he stared up at her. “Nay! Why?”

“To stay the bleeding. I’ve nae other choice.”

“Oh.” One word and he went from an anxious male back to a virile, handsome, enormous, and slightly intoxicated one. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Aye,” she answered. “Everything I do hurts. It heals, too.”

He nodded and was silent, watching her with luminous eyes that now matched the center of the flame. Aislynn looked away, put the comparison aside as more stupidity she didn’t need, and picked up the knife. She moved the three steps to him quickly, before the blade could cool.

At the first touch, he arched his body and groaned again, louder than the first time, and filling the clearing with his deep voice again. Aislynn looked quickly about. Everything seemed to stop, the very air seemed to have silenced, and that made the stupidity of her actions even more apparent. If the people accompanying him think him in trouble, will they come? she wondered. She returned her gaze to him. There wasn’t anyone or anything else to see.

“That…pained,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Just as I warned. I’m na’ finished,” she was answering as she rose to look down at him.

“You’re…not?”

“I have to sear the other side.”

He made a sound suspiciously like a sob. Aislynn was afraid of verifying it. She rinsed her blade, twisted her lips at the blackened metal near the joint, and then shrugged before putting it back into the fire. It was a special knife; hers for years. It was one of her prized possessions. Now it was strangely tinted and used, but still prized.

If he’d suffered anything like tears, they were nowhere in existence as she knelt and pressed the blade to him the second time. In fact, he was looking at her with something indefinable. His expression sent shivers through her. Aislynn had to look away. He was too immense. He was too strange. Everything was. The entire morning was getting too large to absorb. She was going to be late at the mill. She’d be punished. And she was tired. That was especially strange. Aislynn never tired.

She hung her head and waited for the blade to cool against his skin before sliding it away. He was going to have a definite scar below his knee but there wasn’t one sign of poison.

“I believe…you succeeded,” he commented finally but with the same disjointed phrasing. “It isn’t bleeding. You didn’t hear…me cursing…much?”

“I dinna’ have to,” she whispered.

“Discard…it. I infuse suffering…with anger. Makes it…bearable. My. You did…well. It even…feels better.”

“I’m na’ finished,” she told him. He went so tense next to her that she felt it. “Dinna’ fret—it will na’ pain. I’m going to wrap it with special moss. It will soothe. It will keep poison away. Nae one will know. You’ll have full use of it again soon…then you can go back to your business of war and killing.”

“W-war and—and—and…killing? Why…do you…say that?”

She should have bitten her tongue to keep from saying it. She spoke her next words to the grass. “You’re verra large. Fit. Scarred. You kept a weapon in your leg for days ignoring the pain. Such things define what a man is and by your own words you’re nae knight. I decide at what I dinna’ know. I use clues. You’ve given me some.”

“Unlike…all else you say…that one is not—not—not…it’s wrong.”

Aislynn looked up, caught her lip at the intent look on his face and looked away. “I—I have to get the moss,” she stammered.

“It will be…most welcome.”

She stood and moved to where she’d left the woven greenish netting, covered with a thick layer of lichen. It looked wet enough. It smelled of earth and loam and the strength of the spirits. She lifted a section between her fingers and thumb and approached him with it. Then she was kneeling beside him, placing the lichen atop the freshly cauterized flesh and holding it there.

“Lady?” he whispered.

Aislynn turned her head, moving her eyes up his tunic-covered chest, and caught his gaze. The moment she did, she knew she was in trouble. She forgot to breathe, every thought flew her head, and pinpricks of sensation tickled the area about her nose. She’d known he was disturbing, she just hadn’t realized how much. She’d never felt this way. It surprised and stunned and terrified…and yet it felt wondrous, too. Aislynn knew there wasn’t any such thing as love in the world anymore. The warring and killing destroyed it. There was no such thing as love, and there certainly wasn’t such a thing as love at first sight. Such an idea was for those who believed in faeries.

“You’ve my…thanks.” He stopped and licked his lips. “I’d pay…but I have no—no coin with me. I’ll…have some sent. Tell me where.”

Aislynn looked down and welcomed the embarrassing sting of reaction. Love at first sight? she wondered. It was obviously one-sided and he was stewed. She cleared her throat in order to answer as forcefully as the Lady of the Brook would. “You must forget me. That is my price. And my payment.”

“What…if I say…nay?” he asked, filling the glade with sound again.

She didn’t have a choice. She had to turn back to him and force herself to show nothing although the thudding of her heart was loud in her ears. “I’m a healer but I’m also Scot. I dinna’ know what you are, but I’m certain ’tis na’ Scot. You’ve Sassenach clothing and speak the Norman tongue. I’ll stand accused of treachery if my actions are known.”

He gave her a level look, then it wavered as he smiled. When he answered, his words were worse slurred. “N-not good enough. The only treachery…is to me. I’ll buy you. I mean…your services. Now. Ride with me. Now. I mean, as soon as I reach the horse. Then. We’ll ride…then. Away. I’ll allow none to call you…other than lovely—I mean healer. Beauteous healer.”

Aislynn gulped. “The only men requiring services such as I render are warring and killing men,” she said softly.

“And men who live, breathe…get sick…and bleed,” he replied, with a tremble to the words. “I’m surprised. You’re young…for such a—a—a thing. Healing. That…thing. ’Tis…im—im—impressive.”

The last was said as he lifted his injured leg and angled his head to look down the length of it. Aislynn found herself doing the same. She had to turn aside after the first glance though. With his limb raised as it was, every solid, rippled contour stood out. What morning sun was reaching through the willow above them was caressing every knotted muscle with light and shadow. He looked exactly what he was: a Sassenach warrior—and an extremely powerful one. She’d never seen anything like him. She didn’t think she ever would again.

“Something…troubles you?” he asked.

He was having such difficulty with his words, he sounded drunk. And then Aislynn knew. He was weak from loss of blood. She’d done him a disservice by giving him the mead. She should have brought less. She looked back at him and did her best to keep the thought from showing.

“I must go. I’ll fetch the wrapping. To keep the moss against your wound. It should na’ pain you as much. It will knit well, given time. It may leave a vicious scar, though. It will na’ be pretty.”

“Scars?” He rolled a sigh through his lips. “They don’t…bother me.”

A warrior to the bone. She shrugged. “Then it will na’ trouble you.”

“Besides I wear…thick woolens. For the clime.”

He probably didn’t mean to bring her attention to the fact that his hose were about his ankles, leaving him as naked beneath his tunic as if he wore a plaide, but that was what happened. Aislynn started, pulled her gaze away, and endured every bit of the heat that flooded her.

“I must ask you…something. I wonder how to proceed with it, though,” he said, and he was back to the whisper again.

“I’ll fetch your wrapping.”

“Wait.” He reached out and caught her arm with one hand. Aislynn had known she was slight in comparison to him, but she didn’t realize the extent of it as his hand closed about her upper arm. She knew he noted it as his forehead wrinkled. She was slender. She was considered frail and sickly by everyone she knew. That was why she wore a large, voluminous cloak.

“I would ask…a question. Will you…listen?” he continued.

“You ask such, after making certain I canna’ do otherwise?”

His lips twitched. She felt her heart do the exact same motion.

“Do you have…a man? Mayhap…a husband?” he asked.

Aislynn’s eyes went huge. She couldn’t prevent it. She was very wary of the question. She’d just taken a Celt lance tip from a very large, overpowering, and muscular warrior. She knew him to be a warring and killing man, despite his claims to the contrary. It wasn’t a far leap to think him capable of warring, killing, and the ravishment of females.

“Why do you ask?” She had to swallow to make the words.

He blew a sigh, feathering the blond wisps of hair at his forehead. “I don’t know. Because you…are here. I…am here.” He licked his lips. “I may not…come this way again. You know it. I know…it. Don’t ask me the why…of it. You have healed me and I have no payment. I have nothing…save an ale-loosened tongue…and I think you’ve bewitched me.”

Aislynn stiffened. It didn’t stop him.

“Now answer. Have you a husband?”

“If I say yea, how will you know it for a lie or na’?”

She looked across the arm’s-length he was holding her and met his eyes. He tipped his head slightly back and then he smiled, revealing perfectly spaced, white teeth. Aislynn knew then that she was in very serious trouble, as her heart felt like it dove to the bottom of her belly and started an ever-increasing pounding from there.

“If you tell me yea, I’ll…be saddened.”

“I…have nae man.” The words were out before she gave time to think them. Aislynn wondered why she’d lost every scrap of sanity.

“Good. That is good…and just. And fair.”

He was pulling as he spoke, using his other arm to bring her against him. For a man weak with loss of blood, stewed by ale, and enduring what he had, it was surprising how easily he handled her. She was making extreme trouble for herself by further contact with him, yet hastening toward that very thing. She might as well be running toward it. Aislynn ended up clasped to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and feeling his arms enfolding her. His chest seemed molded for snuggling against, she decided.

“You’ll receive payment…my little Lady of the Brook,” he whispered to her mantle-covered head. “You’ve eased…pain, stopped…my bleeding, and ask too little. I would…change that. Now. Right now.”

Aislynn actually registered what he meant to do, she just couldn’t imagine it. Nothing in her experience could’ve prepared her. He put the side of his index finger beneath her chin and raised her face. His eyes were such an intense clear-water color, he was probably known for that, too. He was entirely too interesting, too handsome, and too intriguing. He was also holding her gaze as easily as he was holding her. Aislynn did everything in her power to break the spell but nothing worked.

“Hmm. I sought out a place to—to hide. Pain. Hide…suffering. Hide. I found…succor. In…the woods. This morn. You’re…strange.”

“I’m a healer,” she replied.

He smiled widely, bringing small lines into place about his eyes. Aislynn noted them. It appeared he smiled. Often.

“True. A—a healer. With strange…methods and stranger…reasons. No healer does this for free. It makes light of…it. I would pay for your services…in another way, then. My way.”

She didn’t answer. Her throat closed off as Aislynn accepted her full measure of trouble. She hadn’t lied. She had no husband, although the new blacksmith held promise of it, but what she was feeling while perched atop this Norman’s lap was obliterating even Donald O’Rourke. Easily. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to believe not only in love at first sight, but the next thing she knew tales of faeries would start coming true. She shook her head to clear it. It didn’t work.

“What…is it?” he asked.

Aislynn felt her eyes sting with tears. She didn’t know where they came from or why they’d bother her. She only knew they swelled, crested to her lashes, and then hovered there. She watched his reaction as he watched her. She knew the truth, too. He may be a Sassenach and a warrior, but he was no killer.

“You’re very…beautiful,” he whispered and bent his head toward her, blocking the ray of light as he did so.

Aislynn’s eyes shut, pulled by something beyond her control as her lips pursed. She knew he was going to kiss her. She was going to receive her first one! She’d listened of them from her sister, Meghan. She dreamed of receiving one. She’d been so far off the reality it was amazing.

The man’s lips were warmth and comfort, joy and delight, and then even more. Aislynn experienced each emotion as he kept his mouth against hers, breathed onto her nose, and then nuzzled her own lips apart with his. She felt, rather than heard, the warble of sound put into existence by his moan. She nearly joined him.

The entire morning’s experience passed in the moments he kissed her, and Aislynn recollected each bit, with every heartbeat and every conjoined breath. She not only believed in love at first sight, she was well onto scripting her own faery tale when he pulled back, separating them.

Aislynn didn’t open her eyes. To do so would make it too real. Too unavoidable. Too wrong.

“You’re a…special lass. That’s a shame,” he said finally, and his voice had an edge to it, defying his inebriated sound.

Her breath halted. That was far different from his. The chest she was held against was moving her up and back down with the force and depth of his own breathing.

“Special is…bad. Very bad.”

Her eyes opened wide. “It is?”

He nodded. “Makes everything that happens…worse.”

If Aislynn had thought her eyes wide, she’d been mistaken, as they opened to such an extent the morning air felt like punishment.

“I tell you this, so you’ll know the why of what I do. Don’t…take offense. I want…more. I want…you. But I…won’t. I…cannot. I shouldn’t have kissed you. Not…like that. ’Twas unfair.”

He wasn’t smiling now, and the lines his expression brought out were going to be the ones carving his face when he was an old man. They wouldn’t detract from his features. In fact, he was going to grow more intriguing and handsome as he aged.

“You must rise,” he said. “You must leave…and not look back.”

“I ken that,” she said with a voice that rasped.

“I won’t take…you. I can’t. I will not do that to a special woman. I would force myself only onto wenches paid…for the chore.”

Aislynn blinked. I thought him capable of ravishment?

“I’ll…think of another way to pay. Stealing a kiss…was not it.”

“It…wasn’t stolen,” she replied.

His smile was sad and it was devastating at such a close range. Aislynn blinked again since moisture was making his image swim again. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She didn’t like it. She felt, rather than saw him push her away, lifting her to her feet where she swayed on knees that felt as insubstantial as water.

“Who—what are you?” she stammered.

“I’m a troubadour,” he replied. “And that’s all…you need…know.” And then he hiccoughed. Loudly.