Blood Sword Legacy 04 - A Knight to Remember (2 page)

The snapping of a twig caught her attention. She hurried to the opening of the cave to find Agatha peering in. “What are you about, lass?”

For a long moment, Mercia stood silent, debating on sharing her secret with the old nurse. In the end, she decided Agatha would be a good foil to keep her father from nosing around. For Mercia would come here daily to see to the handsome stranger’s welfare. Not only because she could not leave him to die, but because when his hands had grasped hers, her entire body warmed at the thrill of his touch. And while she knew she played a dangerous game coming to him, she could not help him if she stayed away. Her gut told her he was not a nefarious man, but one who had suffered grave injuries, and without her assist, he would surely die. Had there not already been enough death since William’s invasion? Aye, and there would be more, she was sure, but she would do her small part to save even one life.

“Come, Agatha, ‘tis a man, he is hurt.”

Mercia grasped the old woman’s hand and led her into the dim cave. As the man’s body emerged, the nurse hissed in a deep breath. “’Tis a Norman? ‘Yer father will have ‘yer head, lass.”

“He will not know,
will
he, Agatha?” Mercia threatened. The nurse refused to go near the man. “Aggie, please, his wounds are grave, I would know what poultices and herbs to use.”

“Nay, I will not aid you. I will not save a Norman when they took so many English lives.”

“Bah!” Mercia threw her hands up in the air. “Who is to say for sure he is Norman? He could be Irish or Welsh. I will tend him myself.” She turned on the old woman and narrowed her eyes. “But one word of this to anyone, I’ll send you across the sea and let the pirates have at ye.”

Agatha was old, her sight dimming as well as her hearing, but she had not lost one part of her wits. She set her wrinkled lips, but nodded. “Good. Now stay put while I see what I can do.”

*

Two

Mercia needed a needle and thread. She needed balm and healing herbs. She needed linens and warm furs. The nights were frigid, and if the wounded man was left as he was, he would succumb to the elements. As much as she did not want to leave him, she did. Emptying the contents of the basket, she set the food and wineskin close to his side. But she doubted he would eat or drink. He had fallen into a deep sleep.

She hurried back to the manor ignoring her sister’s calls and her father’s grumblings. The late meal was about to commence and she knew there was no way to get out of it. If she claimed a headache, Rowena would know she used it as a ruse when she retired, for Mercia would be gone. And nosy Ro would not rest until she was found! So she prepared to sit through a miserable meal, refusing to make eye contact with her nurse.

“Papa, I worry there has been no word from my betrothed,” Rowena softly said.

Mercia glanced at her sister. The beautiful, graceful, alluring Rowena. The lady all men desired, but could not have.
“She is worthy of a prince,”
her father had crowed, hedging his bets, when, finally, he had negotiated a coup. No sooner had the betrothal contract been signed, he lost all that he promised as her dowry. War was costly. Cedric had given everything first to Harold, then to Earl Edric. ‘Twas the last campaign that broke him. Now his fields lay untended with no churls, no money to pay freemen. Barely a horse in the stables, and what coin could be spared was spent on fine clothes for Rowena. She must appear to be a prosperous lady when her prince came to claim her as his bride.

Mercia glanced back at her father, who impatiently waved the servants away so that just he and his two daughters sat at the lord’s table. “Aye, your betrothed is late, Rowena. Not even an outrider to announce his coming. I fear he has found us out,” Lord Cedric complained.

“What is to become of me, then, father?” Rowena cried. “I will not submit to the nuns!” With her words, Ro sent her sister a silent apologetic look.

Cedric patted his daughter’s hand. “Fear not, puss, the prince’s father himself signed the contract.”

“Bu-but, Prince Rhodri was not informed until recently. Mayhap he is angered.”

Cedric shrugged. “Mayhap, but a contract is a contract. Hyclon will not break it. With the Norman king we must ally with the Welsh to protect what is ours.”

“But father,” Mercia interrupted. “Prince Rhodri will surely discover your trickery and retract the contract.”

Cedric slapped her across the face, his face clouding red with rage. “Do not speak of it! I have forbidden you to do so!”

Hot tears sprang to Mercia’s eyes. She rubbed the throbbing hot spot on her cheek. Casting her eyes downward, she nodded. “Forgive me, father.”

“I should not have allowed you to return for your sister’s marriage. You would ruin everything with your words. Keep silent, child or I’ll return you immediately to Drury
Abby.”

Mercia raised watery eyes to Rowena, who sat silent but empathetic. She dared not defend her sister. Cedric was wild and unpredictable since his return from the battle of Hereford. He was a man used to having control, but since the Norman duke’s coming, he never knew if he would wake up with a garrison of Normans taking up permanent residence or if he’d be hanged for his traitorous deeds. For at every turn he sided against Normandy.

Cedric turned his attention back to the daughter who would resurrect his fortune. “I suspect the prince’s train has been delayed with the storm. I pray you seek him out immediately upon his arrival, Rowena, and beguile him. We have not even a day to waste. Get yourself with child, and he will not care that you come to him with only your beauty and the clothes on your back.”

Mercia gasped, as did Rowena. What their father proposed was that Rowena seduce the prince even before they were to wed! ‘Twas preposterous and vile. But it proved just how desperate he was. He looked to his youngest daughter. “I expect, Mercia, that you will assist your sister in every way possible.”

“Aye father, I will lead the stud directly to the mare. I will even hold her tail up for him to mount her.” Her comment earned her another resounding slap. This time Mercia did not flinch, nor did tears sting her eyes. Defiantly, she glared at her sire.

“You are the devil’s spawn, Mercia. God help you.”

“Aye, Father, God help us all.”

She wanted nothing more than to rise, but could not until her father excused her. When he did a short time later, she ran to the solar she shared with her sister, and angrily tossed linens about.

*

Three

‘Twas no easy feat sneaking from the manor. Mercia glanced up to the soft glow in the night sky, grateful for the brightness of the moon. Having roamed the land all her life, she could find her way to the caves blindfolded. Though burdened with furs, food and healing herbs, Mercia made swift time to the cave.

‘Twas dark, and though she did not think it wise, she had no choice once in the cave to build a meager fire. She could not see in the dark! When the small space glowed in a low orange light, she saw that the man had moved from her cloak. Carefully she touched his chest and recoiled. It burned hotter than the fire’s embers. Quickly she unpacked her store and got to work. She sewed his wounds, though ‘twas not easy. In his fever, his body twitched and fidgeted. She was relieved to see his wounds were not as bad as they appeared. Once done with her repairs, Mercia set a small pail of water to warm, and bathed him. As she rinsed his hair, her fingertips discovered a hard lump at the back of his head. ‘Twas not open, but she knew such an injury could kill. It wasn’t until she got to his belly she paused in her chore. She debated whether to strip him of his damp braises and chauses, and though heat filled her cheeks, she knew the clothing needed to dry. Wet and cold as it was, it only added to his discomfort.

Carefully, and with substantial effort, she undressed him, doing everything she could, not to look at what made him a man. When she pressed her fingertips to his skin, she recoiled. Not from the heat, but from the hard smoothness of his skin. She did not expect it to feel so nice. She opened her palm and pressed it to his belly, marveling at the strength beneath her hands. Her fingers splayed wide, liking the feel of the soft downy hair that ran from his chest to his belly and beyond where she dare not look. Inch by inch, she touched his exposed skin, from his cheeks to his toes, but making a wide detour around his hips. Her imagination ran wild with thoughts of him waking and taking her into his strong-muscled arms.

Mercia shook her daydreams from her head. He needed more from her now than her girlish thoughts of romance.

Finally, as she bathed his thighs, she could not help but look at what made him so different from her. She swallowed hard. He was very much a man. His thick member snuggled up against dark downy fur. Instinctively she knew he was a prideful man, and many a maid had seen him and succumbed to his glory. More heat flushed her cheeks. She ignored her attraction to him and finished her cleansing. She spread out the furs and rolled him over onto them. His skin was dry and hot, and she knew only one way to break a fever. She dumped the pail of bath water, poured cool clean water into it, and slowly began to press the cool cloths to his body. They immediately absorbed his heat. She gave no care to the time spent. It wasn’t until his thrashing became uncontrollable and his teeth began to chatter that she knew he was chilled. She threw every pelt she had brought on him and stoked the fire.

His fever raged. He tossed and turned, throwing the pelts from his body. Concern bit deeply at her. “Sir, you must not thrash about so. Stay still and let the pelts warm you.”

He stilled at her voice. She pressed her palm to his cheek and softly caressed him. “Let the warmth in, ‘twill help you.” So long as she spoke softly and touched him, he stilled. Even so, his body contorted with hard shivers. She moved closer to give him some of her own body heat. Yet he continued to shiver. Finally, she lay down next to him and pressed her body against his. It still was not enough.

In a jolting realization, Mercia knew if she pressed her bare skin against his and could keep them wrapped in the furs, she might finally draw the chill from him. She hesitated as embarrassment warmed her body to hot. But she shucked her clothes, even her shoes, grabbed the larger pelts and pressed up against him. The skin-to-skin contact shocked her in its sensuousness. He was hard, yet smooth. She could feel the power of his body.

Mercia closed her eyes and held her breath, imagining what it would feel like to be possessed by such a man. She knew he was no churl but a warrior. He had a noble face and the few words he had spoke, even in a different language held an air of nobility.

As he twitched, she pressed closer, wrapping her arms around him, caressing his back and his arms, speaking softly in a soothing voice.

His body relaxed. His breaths evened, and she felt an odd sense of contentment. She had always found herself in her sister’s shadow, the plain sister, the smart one, the one lads looked at as a playmate, not a life mate. It felt good to be in the arms of a handsome, virile man. A hard jag of fear followed the contentment. ‘Twas wrong what she did. She was promised to God, and this man was a stranger. She recoiled, pulling away from him, knowing she was as forbidden to him as he to her.

Strong arms tightened around her. “Nay,” he said, his voice thick and husky. Mercia stiffened. His arms tightened around her waist as he pulled her tighter to his fevered body. He moved his head, burying his nose into her thick hair. Her skin flushed hot, and her body tingled in a delightfully distressful way. Her nipples puckered against his hard chest. Warmth filled her womb. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the moment. His hands pressed her back, his long thick fingers splayed across her rounded bottom. Mercia’s eyes flew open. His manhood had awakened. She felt it thicken against her thigh.

Panic seized her. She pushed against his chest, careful not to touch his wound. He said something in his native tongue and she knew from the pleading in it he begged her to stay. She could not. Thoughts raced through her head of what could happen if she allowed it. In his delirium, he would not remember, but she would, and she could not return to the abbey impure.

“Please, sir. Release me,” she whispered.

His hot lips pressed against her cheek, then to her lips. The shock of the contact immobilized her. She dared not move. “I cannot,” he said in thick accented English. “You have bewitched me.”

His fingers pressed into the tender flesh of her bottom; as he did, his hips moved against hers, his hot and swollen manhood jabbed against her belly. She nearly swooned; the feeling of his power so provocative that she held her breath.

His lips captured hers once more, and this time, he probed her lips with his tongue. Hot shards of desire speared to the apex between her thighs. She moaned beneath him, the new and exciting sensations intoxicating. His kiss deepened, his fingers explored, her breasts became heavy and so sensitive she yearned for him to touch them with is mouth. She gasped at the thought.

“Please,” she pleaded.

He rolled her over so that now he lay fully against her. His silver eyes shone bright with fever, and something else. Desire. “Tell me your name, sweet angel of mercy. Tell me your name and I will release you.”

“Rowena,” she blurted.

“Rowena,” he softly said, and it sounded like a caress. Her body stilled. The way he said it made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world, Eve to his Adam. A sudden desire to be so cherished by this man and this man only overcame her. ‘Twas foolishness. Why she did not tell him her real name, she did not know. ‘Twas better this way. Once his fever broke, she would leave him and never return.

“Your name, sir?” She quietly queried. She would know her dream lover’s name and hold it dear to her heart for the rest of her life. For never again would she feel so cherished by such a man.

His dark brows knitted in confusion. His struggle to recall his name was apparent on his face. Slowly he shook his head. “I, cannot remember.”

Tenderly she touched the bump on the back of his head. He winced. “’Tis common with such an injury. The fever does not help. Once you are well, you will remember.”