Daughter of Fire (34 page)

“I cannot, milord” she informed him, the blue of her eyes glittering like molten flame.

He looked at her like a cat considering a tender, succulent morsel of mouse. “Do you refuse, mistress?”

“ ’Tis not that I refuse,” she calmly replied.

“Are you incapable, then?” he challenged, eyes narrowing further, but now with the growing suspicion that perhaps he did not have the upper hand in this conversation.

“Not at all, milord,” she assured him with an innocent smile. “ ’Tis only that before the wound may be bandaged”—her smile deepened with something that hinted at satisfaction—“it must first be
stitched
.”

“Stitched?”

“Aye,” she said with much seriousness. “For as you said, milord, the smallest wound may fester and bring on fever.”

She bit her lower lip so as not to burst out laughing at the stunned expression on his face as she removed a small wooden box the size of a square of soap from the basket.

“The wound must be properly closed,” she continued, light glinting off the contents inside as she opened the box.

It contained the precious needles and coarse thread she had found at the market. He had paid for it with no notion as to it would be later used. She removed one of the needles, threading it with thick, fat thread the size of which might have been used to mend leather harness.

Under his much-narrowed gaze, she soaked it in the white willow bark solution, assuring him, “Care must be taken when stitching not to cause further infection.”

Satisfied that the needle and thread were as clean as she could make them, she removed both from the solution, needle firmly grasped between thumb and forefinger.

“I must have more light,” she said with a glance at the large candle on the table. “So that I do not take a wrong stitch and have to begin again.”

She moved the candle closer, the flame reflecting in a suspicious glow that had appeared at her eyes. Then, with great concentration showing in the expression on her face, she proceeded to take the first stitch.

Fingers clamped her wrist, bringing her gaze up in surprise.

“A simple bandage will do,” Rorke informed her.

“But the risk of infection?” she protested.

“No stitches!” he insisted. “The cursed thing already throbs enough in the manner you pinch the skin together. I swear, mistress, I believe you take pleasure in my discomfort.”

“Very well, milord,” she said solemnly. “But I cannot be held accountable for the outcome.”

“I will risk the loss of the arm,” he assured her sarcastically.

“I pray it will not come to that,” she responded with such sincerity that he might have believed it had it not been for the gleam in her brilliant blue eyes. Nor the comment she couldn’t resist making.

“And you will certainly save great expense in the cost of your garments since you will have need of only one sleeve instead of two. However, you may experience some impairment of movement with only one arm. It will be much more difficult,” she suggested with a glance down at the table near where he sat and with a smile to match the look in her eyes, “... to crack open walnuts.”

She saw the subtle change in the look at his eyes from wintry gray to some other emotion she’d glimpsed before but now recognized too late. Before she could escape, he encircled her waist with his healthy arm, pulling her close and immediately making her aware that even with the use of only one arm, Rorke was still formidable and dangerous.

“You, mistress,” he said, his face so close that she was forced to tilt her head back—so close, that her breasts were flattened against his bare chest—“are an enchanting witch.”

Her startled gaze met his.

“Nay, milord.” Each hastily drawn breath only intensified the stunning sensation that spiraled through her and tingled at her breasts. Her nipples grew taut and hard so that she feared when she did free herself, he would see them through her gown.

With measured words that required a minimum of indrawn breath, she assured him, “I am not a witch.”

He seemed to consider the possibility. “If not a witch, Vivian, at the very least you are bewitching.” Then, so that there was no misunderstanding, he repeated, “There will be no stitches. A clean bandage will suffice.”

“I cannot, milord,” she pointed out, “when you hold me so close.”

Satisfaction sharpened as she felt his arm loosen and lower about her. His hand shifted low at her spine and remained there, resting with faint pressure at the small of her back.

When she protested, he informed her in a tone of voice that suggested it might be unwise to argue further, “Now, you will be able to bandage the wound.”

With the certainty that he would more quickly release her from this disturbing closeness if she did as he asked, Vivian reached for the square pad of linen and the vial of white willow bark extract.

Blood still seeped at the wound. She dampened the cloth and pressed it firmly against the cut. Rorke glared a warning at her.

“Be warned, mistress. If it is your intention to cause an excess amount of pain, retaliation will be swift.” As if to prove the promise of his threat, his arm closed once more around her. Vivian immediately became much more gentle in her ministrations.

“You did not need my skills. You might have bandaged the wound yourself,” she commented as she cleaned it thoroughly.

She had so easily seen through his deception. Yet, he could not as easily see through hers.

“Perhaps I came to give a warning,” he suggested.

“A warning?”

She tried to reach for the comfrey salve but found she could not, hindered as she was by his arm about her. When she glared at him, he relaxed his arm just enough to allow her to retrieve the salve, but no more. As she carefully applied the mildly sweet-smelling concoction, she felt him watching her.

“What happened this morning at the marketplace was dangerous.”

So, he intended to pursue it, she thought. So be it. “Aye,” she agreed solemnly. “Most dangerous. It grieved me to see those innocent people injured for no more reason than that they were there.” She looked at him with particular intent. “Will it never end until William’s troops have slain every man, woman, and child in England?”

“The incident grieves me as well. But there was much more to it than that. I speak of the bishop. He is a very powerful man, Vivian, and should not to be lightly dismissed for all his religious zealousness. It is that very quality that makes him particularly dangerous.”

“Do you fear him?”

“I fear no man,” Rorke admitted truthfully. “Be he bishop, duke, or king. But I do respect the power such a man may wield. It is that power that can be dangerous. William has given you his trust,” he went on to explain, “a trust enjoyed only by a few, including his brother.”

“And by you, as well,” she pointed out.

“Aye, but my ambitions are not the same as the bishop’s.” He brought his hand up, catching  a stray wisp of  fiery red hair that had escaped the thick braid  that hung down her back between thumb and forefinger.

“He is determined to prove you a traitor to the king. Perhaps, then, it is more truthful to say that I came for the truth. If there is something more that I should know about today, you must tell me now so that I may protect you.”

Vivian glanced at him carefully. Once before he had told her that he would have the truth from her.

“I gave you the truth, milord,” she said, in a voice that even to her sounded unconvincing.

“Aye,” he answered with a thought expression.  He saw the uncertainty that crossed her face, the shadow of fear in those vivid eyes, and yet she refused to say anything more. 

She was such a bewitching creature to watch, small and slender, fitting against him with tantalizing, if reluctant, softness. Her head reached no further than his shoulder and as he looked down he found himself staring at the bright cap of fiery red hair.

It was damp and smelled of recent washing, the sweet fragrance reminding him of the lush, green meadows of Anjou in spring. It was the color of deep burgundy streaked through with fiery crimson, a dozen different golds, and brilliant amber, plaited down the middle of her back. He longed to loosen untie the ribbon that bound it, then feel it spilling through his hands strand by silken strand.

But not yet.

Instead, he tucked the stray wisp behind her ear, his fingers lingering against the softness of her cheek.

“What are you then, mistress?” he speculated. “If you are not a witch who casts spells?”

Her hand, always so sure and steady, suddenly trembled at the touch of his fingers as she spread salve all about the wound.

“Perhaps I am a sorceress,” she suggested, keeping her gaze averted from his.

“A sorceress? One of the Jehara as Tarek believes?” he asked. “Creatures that cast spells, a changeling, a conjurer that controls the mystical powers of the universe, and exists between the real and mythical worlds?” He looked at her speculatively.

“Perhaps, and if you were a sorceress, Vivian, what would you change yourself into?”

“A falcon,” she replied without thinking, and then suggested, “Perhaps Aquila and I are one.”

“Ah, but I have seen the two of you together,” he answered. “Therefore, I believe that you and Aquila are not one and the same. And if you are a sorceress, Vivian, why then have you not disappeared in the mist?”

“It is said,” she spoke, as if telling an old legend, “that only those born to the mist may disappear into the mist.”

“Perhaps, then,” he speculated, stroking the length of her hair, “that you are a creature born in fire, for you are like fire.”

“Or, perhaps,” she suggested, “I am a brownie, one of the elves of the forest. They can be quite mischievous.”

“I have heard of these creatures,” he said, the timbre of his voice like the stroke of rough velvet across her senses.

“They are small and easily fit in the palm of a hand,” she explained.  “They have squat little bodies and spindly legs and arms, and they come out only at night.”

He added, “In truth, you do not seem overly distressed by sunlight.”

Vivian’s head snapped up. “But you think me squat with spindly arms and legs?”

“I will admit that it was necessary for me to give the matter...” he paused to look her over, from head to toe, “lengthy consideration.”

She saw the humor that glittered in those gray eyes and felt his hand move low on her back.

“Perhaps not so squat or spindly,” he allowed. Then, as though to emphasize the other possibility, his hand opened, his thumb caressing the base of her spine at the same time his fingers curved downward, proving that even if she was not as small as a brownie, she fit his hand in unexpected and thoroughly pleasing ways.

“A troll perhaps?” she suggested, forcing herself to concentrate on tying off the wound.

“Hmmm, a troll,” he said, as though giving it careful consideration, at the same time he struggled to keep the laughter from his voice. “I see some resemblance.  They are most disagreeable creatures.”

She chose to ignore him, securing the linen with the longer piece, which she then bound about his upper arm.

“They are also destructive creatures,” he went on at great length. “They are pesky and meddlesome. It is said they have been known to demand things of people—tasks, deeds, favors—for which they offer nothing in return.” He angled her a particularly long look.

“There does seem to be some resemblance there.” The corner of his mouth twitched as he added, “And it is said they live under bridges.”

“I do not live under a bridge,” she retorted, tying off the bandage somewhat tighter than was necessary.

“True enough,” Rorke grunted with a slight wince of pain. “I found you in an abbey.” He paused. “ ’Tis also said that one always knows when a troll is about long before it is seen because they have an offensive odor much like a pigsty.”

Once again, her head came up sharply, eyes glinting.

“Are you now saying I smell?”

He brought his other hand up, fingers stroking across her cheek to sink into the thick satin of her loosely plaited hair.

“Aye, demoiselle.” He breathed in the scent of her, still damp from her bathing, a smile curving his lips at her stunned expression.

“You smell of the wind at dawn and warm spring rain.” His fingers sank deeper into the thick satin of her hair, slowly taking possession. “And summer sun. You smell of living things, of forest pine, and sweet new meadows; of midnight dreams and even sweeter secrets.” His fingers stroked back across her cheek to lightly brush her lips.

“You are no troll,” he answered, caressing the curve of her bottom lip, his thumb scraping tender flesh and causing unexpected sensations to tremble through her.

“Perhaps a faerie,” she said in a startled whisper, her gaze lowered and shuttered lest she betray the uncertain feelings and sensations stirring within her that she dare not let him see. Her slender hand closed over his, as if she could physically stop his tender assault.

“You are no fey, ethereal creature, Vivian.” The warmth of his breath bathed her, so close she could taste the heat, the dark male strength, and the whisper of need that moved across her senses.

“You are flesh and blood,” his lips brushed hers, stunning her with the tenderness that promised midnight dreams and sweet secrets. Then he tasted her, the rough velvet of his tongue gliding along the curve of her mouth, from corner to corner.

“And fire,” he whispered, as his tongue slipped past her lips to taste her more deeply and began a tender assault that began and ended, then began again with each slow invasion allowing her to taste him as thoroughly as he tasted her.

For the first time in her life, unable to see with that inner sight, Vivian closed her eyes and experienced this wondrous pleasure with her other senses.

“You taste of sweet wine,” she said in a stunned whisper as he withdrew to graze his teeth across her lower lip and she experienced an unexpected pang of desire, first glimpsed in a vision long ago when she had seen the phoenix rising from the flames, “and spices,” she whispered on a shuddering breath, and some other dark, alluring essence she could not name but needed to taste again as she opened her mouth to his, and drew the velvet of his tongue deep inside.