Sharon Schulze (6 page)

By the saints! Padrig felt a flush of embarrassment heat his face. Given the speed with which gossip usually spread throughout l’Eau Clair, ’twas nigh a miracle that he’d heard naught of this before now.

Yet he couldn’t help but be amazed by the thought that a group of women—noble ladies, no less—had found him worthy of discussion.

And what should that matter to him? Despite the fact that he had several noble relatives, he himself sat far lower in rank. He was a landless knight, nothing more. Clearly some misunderstanding had occurred, for in the ordinary way of things, he’d hardly have a slew of ladies in pursuit of him.

No matter how “mysterious” they found him to be, he thought with a rueful smile.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Alys—
Lady
Alys, he reminded himself lest he get too full of himself—what had she thought? What, if anything, had she added to the discussion?

Rafe stopped; Padrig did as well, noting that while they’d been involved in their most peculiar discussion, they’d made it to the shelter. Rafe had paused just outside the makeshift hut.

In the eerie glow of the candle, Rafe’s knowing expression shone all too clear. He moved closer. “Wouldn’t you like to know what Lady Alys—”

“Nay,” Padrig cut him off, ignoring the intense desire to hear what Rafe was obviously eager to share.

“Sir Padrig—” he goaded, “—I
did
hear her, you know.”

“No,” Padrig said flatly.

Rafe turned away from the shelter and faced Padrig, his manner more serious. “I’ve seen how you look at her, milord… Jesu, if you could only see how you look at her now.”

When had Rafe turned into the devil, to taunt and test a man nigh beyond endurance?

He’d not give in, no matter how strong the temptation.

“Enough,” he growled. Turning from the other man, he tucked Alys more firmly against his chest and ducked to enter the hut.

S
heer anger—at himself, at their situation, at God Himself—lent Padrig energy enough to carry him through the remaining hours of the seemingly endless night. Shortly after he and Rafe had brought Lady Alys to the hut, Jock and Peter carried in the last two of the missing men—both badly injured by the storm, and chilled to the bone by the weather besides.

Their party now numbered eleven: four unharmed; four badly hurt, including Marie; and three, including Lady Alys, whose injuries fell somewhere in between.

Once they’d gathered everyone together in the shelter, Padrig, Rafe, Jock and Peter did what they could for their battered comrades. With Padrig tending to the women—an awkward experience he’d rather not repeat any time soon—they got everyone out of their sodden clothing and bundled them up in whatever dry cloth they could find in the baggage.

Fortunately the packs were wrapped in heavy hides, and had escaped the worst of a soaking. Every piece of clothing, bedrolls, spare saddle blankets—even the rags for cleaning armor were put to some use.

Padrig had stripped off his surcoat and mail hauberk. ’Twas a relief to be rid, even for a brief time, of the cold, wet garments. Clad in a shirt and tunic over his still-damp braes and boots, he felt considerably warmer than he had in his armor.

They needed a fire. However, though they might have trees in abundance, wood dry enough to burn was in very short supply. Amazingly they found a small cache of it buried beneath a pile of brush, along with the last man they rescued—who was not too seriously injured.

Somehow Rafe scraped together enough wood to build a fire. Protected within a circle of stones in the back corner of the shelter, scarcely big enough to heat a pot of water, nonetheless its flames threw off a welcome glow of light and a small pool of heat. They’d not get very warm or dry from it, but it provided them with hot drinks to help warm up the injured.

The mere sight of it helped to brighten a truly dismal night.

Considering the paltry light of their few candles, the crude conditions and their meager store of supplies, they treated the injured as well as they could, but Padrig feared they’d not done enough.

Everyone was so cold and wet! In addition, the injured men, Lady Alys and her maid all needed more care than they had resources to provide. ’Twas too long a journey to go back to l’Eau Clair; they needed to find someplace nearby to seek shelter and aid.

Right now he couldn’t say for certain where they’d ended up. Under the current conditions it was nigh impossible to take note of any sort of landmark—they might be in an area he’d have easily recognized before, and he’d not know it now.

Once the sun rose and he’d had a chance to scout the area, mayhap he’d have a better idea of their location, and thus what options they had.

In the meantime, he could do naught else but take care of his charges and pray.

Until he’d fulfilled his duty, relaxing his guard in any way was not a luxury he could allow himself.

Not that he’d have been able to rest anyway.

But once they’d set up their patients on their makeshift beds, Padrig sent Rafe, Jock and Peter to get what sleep they could while he kept watch. Everyone else seemed to have drifted into some sort of rest; ’twas fairly quiet now that the storm had moved on, with only the occasional distant rumble of thunder accompanying the soft patter of rain on the branch-covered roof. Every so often someone would groan or snore, but other than himself, it appeared everyone had settled deep into slumber.

Perhaps he could use the time to collect his thoughts and work out some sort of plan for the morrow. Now that he’d the opportunity, however, his mind—full to overflowing with worries and possibilities—would not cease its headlong whirl.

Sighing, he sprawled on the ground beside Lady Alys’s pallet so that he faced her, stretched out his legs, and reached over to smooth his hand along the length of her hair where it lay spread atop the covers. He gently worked his fingers through the tangles, savoring the softness against his skin. It calmed him to touch her. He found it soothing, reassuring in some strange way.

He didn’t understand it, and he knew ’twas wrong of him to make free with her person—especially without her knowledge or permission—but he could not resist the impulse to do so. Perhaps all he felt was the com
fort of human touch. If so, mayhap his touch brought comfort to her, as well.

He hoped so.

He choked back a bitter laugh. It suited him to believe so, more like.

Still—for the moment, where was the harm in it?

He stroked the back of his hand over her forehead before cupping his palm about her cheek. Thankfully her skin had finally warmed, her breathing had become slow and even. Whatever her other hurts, she’d at least escaped becoming sick from lying out in the cold and damp for so long.

Lady Alys stirred beneath his touch, shifting awkwardly within the bedding before opening her eyes. She glanced around the shadowy structure before her attention came to rest on his face. “Padrig,” she murmured. “Where are we?”

Her voice, husky with sleep, skittered along his spine like a caress, making his body—nay, his entire being—take notice of her in a manner that was completely inappropriate.

Yet wholly tempting.

Especially when combined with the dark, smoky look in her amber eyes as her gaze met his.

Lord save him! Padrig snatched his hand back from Alys’s cheek as though she had suddenly burst into flame. Moving slowly, he sat back on his heels, his hands resting on his knees. “’Tis the—” He sounded like a croaking frog; he cleared his throat and tried again. “’Tis the shelter my men built.”

She nodded and tried to pull herself up to sit against the crude wall, but stopped in mid-movement, grimacing. Her breathing uneven, she motioned to her
right arm, which remained resting across her torso. “Could you help me up?” she asked.

“Of course.” Feeling like a fool for not realizing what she’d been trying to do, he dropped to his knees beside her, reached out and eased her arm to her side.

She cradled it against her body, supporting it with her left hand.

Though ’twas clear that moving hurt her, she let him clasp her about the waist and shift her.

By the rood, why hadn’t he thought to bind her arm so its weight would not pull at the joint? If he’d done it when she’d been sleeping so deeply, he might have spared her this pain.

’Twas too late to worry about that; instead, he’d do what he could to fix the situation. Still holding her, he looked around for a length of cloth, a shirt—anything he could use to fashion a sling.

A strip of linen left over from binding wounds caught his attention, tossed aside on the floor. Snatching it up, he knotted it into a rough sling and carefully positioned her arm within its folds.

Though her body tensed and her breathing roughened for a moment, amazingly she hadn’t cried out. He’d seen hardened warriors nigh in a swoon to have their arm moved at all under such conditions.

Lady Alys continued to surprise him—not necessarily a good thing, since the more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know.

A man like him didn’t need to know anything more about a young noblewoman save that she was above his touch, in every way that mattered.

He’d do well to remind himself of that fact every chance he got.

“Thank you.” Alys closed her eyes for a moment as if to compose herself, then opened them, met his gaze and sighed. “’Tis strange, is it not, to thank someone for doing something you know will be awful? Still, this does make things a bit more comfortable.”

“If I’d done it earlier, you might have slept more soundly.” Still supporting her, Padrig rearranged her blankets, concentrating on smoothing them out and making certain her feet were well covered rather than on watching her face. “You might still be asleep.”

“I must have rested long enough, for I feel wide awake now.” She laid her left hand atop his, bringing his restless fidgeting to an end. “I’m glad to be upright, Sir Padrig, and to be free after lying pinned for so long in that mountain of trees.”

He allowed his gaze to rise, to alight on her lovely face, and felt any intelligent words—words he could say without sounding an idiot—fly straight out of his head. “I’m glad we found you,” he finally managed.

Of course you’re glad, you stupid fool,
he berated himself.
What else would you have done—left her there?

If he weren’t careful, he’d soon be sounding as pathetic as Hugh.

Wasn’t
that
a disquieting notion!

Evidently she saw nothing wrong with his response, however, for she relaxed against him. “’Tis warmer and drier here—and the view is certainly better, as well,” she added, her lips curving into an almost imperceptible smile, her gaze settling on his face with an intensity it took all his attention to ignore.

That look, combined with the way it felt to hold her, set thoughts he’d no business thinking rushing to his brain—as well as to other, more unruly parts farther south.

By the saints, she should know better than to look at him that way!

“Is that so?” he replied, even as he regretfully mustered his common sense and withdrew his support, easing her out of his grasp. Straightening his legs, he settled himself beside her pallet, once again facing her. “I believe I can put your arm aright once there’s light so I can see what I’m doing,” he told her.

“I know.” She met his questioning look, her expression solemn. “I drifted in and out of sleep while you were carrying me—I heard bits and pieces of your talk with Rafe.”

Damnation! Which parts had she heard?

“Did you?” He tried for a neutral expression and hoped his face didn’t flush with embarrassment. “Then you know it will hurt like the devil to reset the bone in the socket.”

“It hurts like the devil now,” she said, her tone tart. “I doubt you could make it much worse.”

The teasing temptress had clearly fled in the face of painful reality.

And ’twas obvious she’d scant notion just how painful reality could be.

“I’m more concerned about whether you can make my arm work again,” she added. “I use my right hand far more than the left.”

“I’m certain we can do that,” he reassured her. “For now, though, why don’t you rest until morning?”
Please sleep,
he silently begged.
Only then—perhaps, if I’m lucky—will I be able to resist you.
“Everyone is asleep at the moment—including Marie,” he added, knowing without a doubt ’twould be her next question if he gave her the chance to ask. “There’s naught else anyone can
do for now. Once it’s light, we’ll need to get moving, find a place to stay nearby. You’d be wise to sleep while you can.”

Alys leaned toward Padrig, watching his face carefully in the uneven candlelight. “What of you, Sir Padrig? Will you rest?” To judge by the variety of expressions flickering over his face and in his eyes, ’twas as if some battle raged within him.

Whatever could it be?

“Someone must keep watch,” he said simply. She couldn’t mistake the weariness roughening his voice. “Come, milady—shall I help you back onto the pallet?”

She’d slept enough for the nonce; mayhap if she sat there quietly, Sir Padrig might get some respite, even if he could not relax his vigilance any more than that.

Though she doubted ’twould do any good to suggest such a thing. “Nay, milord, I’m more comfortable sitting like this. But I thank you for the offer, and for all your help.”

“’Tis my duty to watch over you, Lady Alys. Lord Rannulf would expect no less of me than that.”

And Sir Padrig would always expect more of himself, she’d wager.

Something about the dim light and near quiet of the small, shadow-filled hut after the violence of the storm made Alys think of the enveloping depths of a bed with the curtains drawn. The sense of intimacy surrounding her and Padrig made it seem they were alone here—sitting close together, speaking in low, hushed tones… Awareness of the others scarcely intruded upon them. ’Twas a seductive cocoon wrapped about them; she didn’t want to do or say anything that might destroy it.

Though she’d like to continue talking with him, she could see he’d be more at ease if she did not.

She wriggled into a more comfortable position against the roughly-woven wall of branches. “Good night, milord.”

“You should not call me that,” he said harshly. “Rafe only does so as a jest.”

“Rafe does it because he respects you, Sir Padrig. He thinks you a noble man, as do I.” She met his gaze calmly, willing him to see the truth of her words.

’Twas clear from his stunned expression that she’d surprised him, whether with her reason, or Rafe’s.

Hoping to relieve his worry about her, at least, she lowered her eyelids and sought to slow her breathing. She’d feigned sleep before, as a child—she knew just how much to close her eyes yet be certain she could see him through her lashes.

Hopefully ’twould serve to make him believe she’d drifted off.

Since her arm still ached and throbbed in reaction to her stupid, unthinking attempt to move it, Alys sought instead to distract herself by centering her attention upon Padrig.

This close, she could see the shadowed exhaustion that leached the healthy color from his tanned skin. He sat near enough that she could have leaned over and rested her head against him again—could just as easily have kissed his lips, had she dared be so bold.

Her heart raced at the thought. Oh, how she was tempted!

What would he do, were she to throw caution to the wind, make her imaginings real? He’d not wish to hurt
her, her body nor her feelings—she knew that much about him—so he likely wouldn’t push her away.

But would he accept such a caress from her?

He’s a man, Alys,
a little voice in her mind mocked.
When have you ever known a man to refuse a woman’s attentions?

Lord knew, men sought women’s notice often enough—practically any way they could get it, if her own experiences with them were any indication.

The look she’d seen in Padrig’s eyes earlier, when she teased him in a way quite foreign to her nature, said he returned her interest. He’d been watching her as well, his blue eyes dark, yet the weariness etching his handsome face made it look as though he wore the weight of all the world’s sorrows upon his wide shoulders.