Читать книгу For My Lady's Honor - Sharon Schulze - Страница 12

“What of Marie?” she’d asked again.

Lord save him from a tenacious woman! By Christ’s bones, why must she ask such questions now, when ’twas her safety paramount in his mind?

“She is alive,” he told her, his tone abrupt.

“God be praised,” she murmured. “Thank you, Sir Padrig.”

Guilt weighed upon him at her words, at the relief so evident in her expression, but he brushed the useless emotion aside. “Now, milady, will you please let me take care of you?”

There was scant room for him in the niche Lady Alys had created around her, evidently by her actions as she’d attempted to dig her way out. That she’d done so much under such horrendous conditions was impressive; that she’d not been able to do more—given that she appeared to him to be extremely determined, made him worry about the extent of her injuries.

He supported her weight with one arm as he wriggled into the narrow space alongside her. “Rafe,” he called over his shoulder, “Lady Alys’s cloak is sopping. See if you can find a blanket or something to wrap her in. If there’s anything that’s not dripping wet, it would be an improvement. And bring some wine or ale, if there’s any to be had.”

She rested her head on his arm and sighed. “’Twould be such a pleasure to be warm again.”

The way she felt next to him made Padrig’s heart trip and his chest tighten, the sensation completely different from the way he felt when his breathing bothered him. She leaned against him so easily, as if it were the natural thing to do—as if she trusted him to make all right.

By the rood, there was a formidable—nay, a truly alarming—notion!

Taking a deep, calming breath, he shoved that idea far back into the recesses of his brain where he’d not be aware of it. Instead Padrig forced himself to focus upon their surroundings.

The pit Alys lay in was deep; the top would likely reach to mid-chest were he to stand up. She must have been terrified, held captive within its dark, wet confines for so long.

Any guilt he felt over the extension of that time because of the decisions he’d made, he must wait until later to indulge.

If she’d been frightened, or still was, she scarce showed it now. Her voice, while weak and scratchy—no doubt from calling for help—otherwise seemed steady and sure. Her expression, what little he could see of it in the meager light, held joy at being found.

Joy mixed with what was obviously pain, he noted with a swift glance at her strained appearance once he’d settled down into the confined space alongside her. Careful not to jostle her, he slipped his arm from behind her, watching her closely. Her entire body tensed and she began to list away from him before he caught her and gathered her close again.

Sucking in a sharp breath, she buried her face against his shoulder. She held on to his hand all the while, her grip fierce, as if she drew something—strength, or comfort, perhaps?—from the contact.

His touch as gentle as he could make it, he slipped his hand free and held her upright within the cradle of his arms, shifting them both into a more stable position. With a bit of maneuvering he sat and stretched his legs out before him, leaning back against the same tree he’d slipped over to join her, and drew her down to rest against his chest. “Where are you hurt, milady?”

She pressed her cheek so hard into his linen surcoat, ’twas likely she’d carry the impression of not only the coarse fabric, but also of the mail hauberk beneath it, crushed into her flesh. Stirring slightly, she mumbled something unintelligible into his neck, her breath cold against his own none-too-warm skin.

He drew together the sodden strands of hair plastered to her face and swept them aside, resisting—barely—the urge to bury his fingers within the lavender-scented mass. Instead he cupped his palm about her cheek and tilted her head slightly, so he could see her when she spoke. His gazed fixed upon her, he bent close and asked again, “Lady, where are you hurt?”

Even in the dim light, he could see how she gathered herself, composing her features into a semblance of calm, swallowing and clearing her throat before she replied. “I’m not certain—though I hurt everywhere, or so it seems,” she murmured, her mouth curving into a faint smile, her voice stronger than it had been when he first found her.

“I’m not surprised,” he told her. “You were buried beneath enough wood to build a fortress. Did you hit your head? Are your limbs sound? What of—”

She placed her fingers over his mouth to silence him. “I believe I’ll have to get out of here and try to stand up before I can give you a full accounting of all my aches and injuries.”

“We’ll get you out soon,” he assured her.

“Why don’t we try now?” she asked. “With your help, I’m sure I could climb out.”

“You couldn’t even sit up straight but a few moments ago—what makes you believe you can stand?” he demanded, shaking his head at her foolhardiness. “Besides, I’ve got no place to put you once you’re out—not yet, at any rate. We’ll see what Rafe has to report before we do anything more.”

“Do you think I can get any wetter? More rain is hardly like to harm me at this point, Sir Padrig,” she told him, her voice tart. “I’m no delicate flower to be battered by wind and rain—”

Footsteps crunched nearby, interrupting her tirade—for which Padrig was grateful. Where was the quiet young woman he’d been told had scarce two thoughts to rub together?

Not that he’d actually believed she was like that, but still—

“Here you are, sir.” Rafe leaned over the edge of the hole and handed Padrig a bundle of cloth wrapped in oilskin. “I couldn’t find any wine or ale, milady, but this here will warm ye straight to your toes,” he assured Alys as he held out a wooden flask.

Moving carefully, she took it, gifting Rafe with a slight smile and a nod. “Thank you, Rafe,” she murmured. “Whatever it is, it will be most welcome. Though I’m wetter than a fish, I’m very thirsty.” Despite her brave front, Padrig noticed her arm shook as she lowered the flask to her lap.

“There’s plenty there, milady—the flask is full—so have as much of it as you like. And don’t let Sir Padrig take it all, either,” Rafe warned, chuckling. “He’s been known to be a trifle stingy when it comes to the sharing o’ drink.”

“Indeed.” Alys’s body quaked with laughter and she craned her head around, her eyes questioning.

“I’ll try to restrain myself for your sake, milady,” Padrig assured her with mock seriousness. “Never let it be said I did not treat a lady with every consideration—the best tidbits at table, the most comfortable seat, first chance at a goblet of wine or mead—”

“Ah, but who gets the last sip?” Rafe asked, eyebrows arching to emphasize his point.

“The lady, of course,” Padrig said, laughing. “’Tis one of our knightly responsibilities. ‘A noble lady shall have the best of everything, first to last,’” he quoted in a portentous voice, his gaze on Lady Alys to judge her reaction to their banter. Amusement brightened her expression, faded the shadows in her eyes. “Is that not the way of it?” he asked Rafe.

“Aye, Sir Padrig, it is. He has manners better than many a fine lordship—some o’ us call him ‘milord,’ milady, right to his face. He doesn’t seem to mind it. So you needn’t worry too much about this rogue’s ways, milady—at least for the nonce.” Rafe grinned, his teeth showing bright amidst his dark whiskers in a sudden flash of lightning. Once the thunder faded he told her, “You’ll not have to put up with him for much longer. We’re readying a place for you to rest out o’ the weather. We’ll be finished with it in a trice. In the meantime, you’ve naught to do but settle yourself here and trust Sir Padrig to make you more comfortable.” Nodding, he clambered out of the hole and disappeared into the shadows once again.

Chuckling, Padrig called out his thanks, then turned his full attention to Lady Alys once more. After peeling off her sodden cloak and tossing it out of the way, he spread the blanket over her, then covered as much of the blanket as he could with the oilskin. Tucking it all around her, he gathered her close against him.

Though he might be near as wet as she, at least his body still threw off some heat. Hers, on the other hand, radiated an icy cold everywhere they touched.

He uncorked the flask and sniffed the fumes rising from it before sampling the powerful liquor. ’Twas strong enough to peel the hide from an ox! With any luck ’twould do her some good, however, for it had most definitely sent a wave of fire flowing in its wake.

As long as she didn’t choke on it.

Raising her head a bit, he held the drink to her lips. “Careful now,” he cautioned. “I’m not precisely certain what this is, but I assure you it’s far more potent than any wine.”

She took a small sip, gasping and coughing for a moment. “Aye, ’tis not wine,” she told him once she’d caught her breath again. “I’ve had such drink before. ’Tis a favorite of my father’s. The Scots make it.” She closed her left hand over his, brought the bottle to her mouth and drank again, then, surprising him, swallowed still more. She took a deep breath and let it out on a hiccup and a sigh. “Sweet Mary save me, but in truth ’tis the devil’s own brew!”

“Then I pray ’twill lend you some of its fire to warm you, milady.”

Letting her hand drop into her lap, Lady Alys closed her eyes and slumped into Padrig as her tension eased. He took one last sip of the liquor and corked the flask, balancing it by his side should Lady Alys have further need of it.

She lay curled against him as though she would crawl inside his very being to seek his warmth. “I told you before that I don’t know the extent of my hurts.” Her voice slurred a bit, as if she hovered on the cusp of sleep. “I do know, though, there’s something wrong with my right arm.” She raised her head slightly from his shoulder and met his gaze, her eyes huge in her pale face. “It will not work at all—and it hurt terribly when I did try to move it.”

“Indeed.” Mind awhirl, Padrig did his best to maintain an impassive mien and to keep his body from revealing his dismay.

Damnation! He had a very good idea what the trouble with Alys’s arm might be. If he was correct, ’twas something he could make right, but the process would likely be very painful for both of them.

For her especially, for he knew from personal experience the gut-wrenching agony caused by settling a dislocated shoulder back into its proper position.

The thought of causing Alys such pain, of using his strength against her, of manhandling her delicate body, made his stomach twist.

“We’ll look at your arm, and your other hurts as well, once we get you out of here. Rafe will be back soon,” he assured her. “We’ll move you to shelter, get you dry and warm.” He nestled her more firmly under his chin and pressed his face into her hair, the scent of her filling his senses once again. “Do you feel any warmer yet?”

“Aye,” she told him, though she sounded as though she held her teeth clenched tight together as she spoke, making him doubt she told the truth.

Still, what more could he do but hold her, try to protect her, keep her safe until his men had made some sort of shelter?

Aye, Padrig, a mocking voice within him chided, ’tis a terrible burden, is it not, to hold such a lissome creature so snug within your embrace?

To his surprise, ’twas tenderness he felt flowing through him, not lust. To hold a woman so close with no other intent than to provide comfort and care was to him a foreign emotion, no question of that.

Yet there was a rightness to the feel of Lady Alys in his arms…a sensation as right and true as the feel of his sword held firm in his hand.

By the saints, the day’s misfortunes had turned him into a maudlin fool! In truth, he felt no more than any decent man might—his knightly duty to care for those weaker than himself.

’Twas naught more than that.

He closed his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to ease his grip on Lady Alys.

Absolutely nothing more.

His thoughts now firmly under control, Padrig gathered Lady Alys a little nearer, brushing his palm over her forehead, then cupping her cheek. Her skin still felt cold, although she’d a tinge of pink riding high on her cheekbones. Mayhap the color was a result of the liquor she’d drunk, rather than any returning warmth—though the faint brush of her breath against his fingers seemed less chill than before.

Still, ’twas such a slight improvement. Further concern edged its way into his already uneasy thoughts. Despite his efforts to warm her, Lady Alys continued to shudder and shake within his hold.

Jesu, she must be frozen to the very marrow of her bones!

He needed to get her out of this pit now, but he dared not move her alone. Any movement that jolted Lady Alys’s arm or shoulder would be excruciating.

But he dared not keep her here any longer, either. In addition to her injuries directly attributable to the storm’s fury, she could have developed an inflammation of the lungs, or some sort of fever.

By the rood, for all he knew Lady Alys might have injured her head as well; she had not asked about her maid since they’d first uncovered her. Though he might not know her well, he knew well enough she’d never have forgotten about Marie.

He glanced down at her face. She appeared to be asleep, her features slack from exhaustion…and mayhap a bit from the strong drink, too. Whatever the reason, he’d not find a better time to get her out of this hole. “Alys,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “Milady?”

She nestled deeper into his embrace, the innocent movement filling his unruly body with an unexpectedly intense heat. Aye, ’twas time—past time—to get them both out of this morass.

He loosened his hold on Lady Alys and repositioned her to sit upright across his lap, her weight slumped against his arm instead of draped over his body. Shifting, he pulled himself up with his free hand so he could peer out over the rim of the hole.

The rain had slackened noticeably in the brief time since he’d climbed in here with her. Unfortunately, the sky had not cleared much. Scattered moonlight broke through the scudding clouds, the fitful light providing scant illumination—and now the storm had died down—there had been very little lightning in the area to lend its questionable assistance, either.

A dubious blessing; they need not worry so much about being struck down by a bolt from above any longer…yet the price of such security was to be struck nigh blind instead.

’Twas ever his share of fortune, he thought with a wry chuckle—to be blessed on the one hand, and cursed on the other.

But mayhap their luck was about to improve. They ought to be able to kindle torches now. Lord knew they could use them! He couldn’t see much as he gazed out over the expanse of destruction, only vague, shadowy movements shifting about off in the distance.

He’d absolutely no notion who or what he saw—there was as much chance ’twas their horses he was watching as it was his men.

He took a deep breath and tamped down his frustration; this night seemed endless, maddening, a test of his leadership he feared he’d fail.

He’d not let things come to such a pass, he vowed silently.

The sun had to rise sometime soon—but he’d not wait for it. ’Twas time—past time—to get things moving.

To get Lady Alys out of here, to make certain she and the other injured were out of the storm and tended to.

Now.