Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (4 page)

It was so far removed from what she had been raised in, Astrid almost smiled.

There was no time or room for remembrance. Satisfied that her home was undisturbed, she fetched Lesperance from where he was propped against the door frame. With him leaning on her, they stumbled into the cabin. She glanced around, looking for a place to set him down. There was only one option, an option she hated.

They staggered toward her bed, and she tried to lay him down carefully across the quilt covering the mattress. Gravity worked against her. Lesperance went down heavily onto his back, and the momentum took her with him. She sprawled on top of him, their legs tangling together, bodies pressed close. She braced her hands on his broad, smooth chest and glared down at him as his arms came up to wrap around her waist. Even through her coat and the blanket, she felt his hips against hers.

“Let go,” she growled.

Yet he didn't. He actually pulled her closer. “Astrid,” he murmured. “Your voice.” His head came up from the bed as he nuzzled the juncture of her neck and jaw. “Your smell. Mmm.”

She fought to keep her eyes open. Resentment propelled her forward, away from longing. “Let go
now
.” With a surge of anger-fueled strength, she reared back, unclasping his arms from around her.

Astrid pushed up to her feet, backing away from the bed. He grumbled a little but made no further protest. Her chest rose and fell with each strained breath. How long had it been since she'd been so close to a man? Five years and she felt her isolation with every part of her. And now, here was this man, this wounded stranger, invading her home, lying upon her bed.

Astrid strode from the cabin. She took her horse to the corral next to the cabin, then stripped off its tack and rubbed it down as quickly as she could. She didn't want to leave Lesperance alone in the cabin, even though every instinct she had screamed at her to just run, run and abandon him. Protect herself.

Instead, after attending to the horse, Astrid made herself go back inside. She removed her hat and put it on the peg by the door. Lesperance had managed to get himself fully onto the bed. She pulled her one extra blanket from the cupboard and covered him with it. When she tugged off her gloves, she reluctantly touched her palm to his chest to test the temperature of his skin.

At the flesh-to-flesh contact, they both gasped, as though a current passed through them. His closed eyes flew open and an animalistic growl curled in the back of his throat. Astrid skittered back, stunned by both the immediate response and the feral sounds he emitted.

To get away, she lit the fire in the stove. Even though the feel of his skin had rocked through her, she possessed enough sense to recognize that he was very, very cold and needed warmth and rest in order to heal. The process of lighting the fire—cleaning out the old ashes, putting kindling into the stove, adding dry twigs and wood as the flame caught, adjusting the damper—helped calm her, remove her, and she took shelter in the routine, as she had for the past four years. She hurried out, pumped some water into a bucket, then came back in and filled her kettle. She set the kettle on the stove.

For longer than she needed to, she stared at the fire. It had such purity, fire, clean and merciless. If only life was as simple and spare as flame.

Satisfied that the cabin was receiving sufficient heat, Astrid turned back to Lesperance. He was her patient now. The sooner she healed him, the sooner he could disappear from her life forever.

Astrid poured some water into a basin and knelt beside the bed, grateful to see that Lesperance had calmed. Carefully, she peeled back the blanket to look at his injuries. Even before she'd come out to the Northwest Territory, she knew about field dressing. Many times had she tended to Michael's wounds received on missions, just as he had seen to hers. What she saw now on Lesperance turned her blood to sleet.

These were no accidental injuries inflicted by the landscape or animal. His wounds were man-made, save for the scrapes on his feet, clearly indicating he'd walked a goodly ways without shoes. Thank God, not too serious, but a grievous sign nevertheless. Someone had deliberately done this to him. But who? And why?

She dampened a clean rag and dabbed it at the cuts marring his arms, shoulders, and chest. He hissed a little at the cold before subsiding back into semiconsciousness. Soon, the water in the basin was pink, but the blood on his body was mostly gone. No need to use ashes to stanch the bleeding. The blood in the corners of his mouth washed away, and she could find no wounds on his lips or, after carefully prying it open, inside his mouth. Strange. She examined the rope abrasions at his wrists. Bound. Tied like an animal. Yet the bruises on his knuckles showed he had fought his captors. Somehow he'd freed himself. Examining his hands further, she found dried blood under his nails, but again, there were no actual cuts anywhere near them.

It wasn't his blood.

Her mind whirled with the possibilities, yet she made herself focus on tending him. A poultice of dried arnica for the bruising. Honey and chamomile on the rope burns. As for the cuts…

Must not have been as severe as they first appeared. Astrid bent closer, forcing herself to ignore the proximity of his satiny copper skin to her mouth. The cuts had stopped bleeding and, in truth, seemed to be more scratches than cuts.

She sat back with a frown. She'd seen his lacerations earlier and they
had
been deeper. Damn. Damn and hell.

She closed her eyes to feel the magic around him. Still there, and growing in strength. It lit the air around him with energy, invisible but alive, the touches of the other world that existed just beneath this one.

The kettle whistled, piercing her apprehension. She busied herself with making tea—an English pleasure she simply couldn't forsake—for herself and Lesperance. Only when she readied to pour the water did she realize she had only one mug. Which would be worse? Drinking from the mug and then placing it to his mouth, or giving him the mug first and then having to place her mouth where his had been?

He was her patient, so his needs came before her own. She dribbled a bit of tea into his mouth. She felt a surge of gratification when he swallowed easily. He would be better soon. And that meant his departure.

Astrid desperately wanted some tea, but, as she considered the mug in her hands, she found she couldn't do it. She couldn't share the same cup as him. Altogether too much intimacy. So she left it on the table, to wash later.

After eating a small meal of bread and cheese, taken from her cool cupboard, and performing meaningless, mindless tidying around her already clean cabin, Astrid found herself with nothing to do. Ordinarily, she would spend her days hunting or cultivating the small garden behind the cabin, but she was loathe to leave this stranger in her home unattended. As much as she hated sharing the small space with him, her conscience wouldn't allow her to stray far from his bedside. He might need something, might get worse, his injuries might demand attention. Right now he slept, seemingly at peace.

Wait, then, until he awoke.

She went to her bookcase and selected Scott's
Ivanhoe.
She'd lost count how many times she'd read it, but she wanted to immerse herself in the familiar comforts of knights and ladies. She always identified more with the knights than the ladies, though, riding around, performing feats of heroism, rather than embroidering in the solar. Michael used to tease her because of this, calling her Sir Astrid. He didn't laugh as much when she called him Lady Michael.

Yes, she told herself, think of him, and not the man in her bed now. She would get Lesperance well again and then send him packing. Whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into, magical or no, he must deal with it on his own. She was through with magic.

 

His groan, several hours later, brought her to his bedside. He was awake, struggling to sit up.

“Don't aggravate your wounds,” she cautioned.

He glanced down at his bare torso, drawing her attention to the chiseled muscles there, the dark brown of his nipples. Like other Natives, he hadn't any hair on his chest, only the faintest dark trail that began just below his navel and led downward, covered, thank heavens, by the blanket.

“What wounds?” he rasped.

Her gaze flew back up to where the worst of his injuries had been. She swore. The cuts were gone now, barely red lines crossing his skin. Same with the rope abrasions. And the bruises were a healing yellow.

Astrid swore under her breath.

He lifted up the blanket just enough to ascertain that he was completely naked. “You took my clothes.”

“You were naked when I found you. Do you remember what happened?”

Anger and confusion darkened his face. He sat up fully. “There were men,” he said, struggling to recall. “A group of men. Spoke with English accents.”

A flare of alarm, but she tamped down her fear. Englishmen filled Canada. “And these Englishmen, what did they want?”

“Hell if I know.” He scowled. “Tied me up like a damned dog. They took me from the trading post. Don't know where.”

“How did you get free?”

His look turned even blacker as he grew more frustrated, his hands forming fists. “I can't fucking remember.” He shot her a glance. “Sorry. Taught not to curse in front of ladies.”

Astrid eyed her clothes wryly. A man's shirt, vest, trousers. Heavy boots. She wasn't wearing her gun belt at the moment, but she was seldom far from it. “No such things as ladies out here.”

“You've got a lady's accent.”

She ignored this comment. “Is there anything else you can remember? Anything those men said?”

He shook his head. “Little bits float in and out of my head, but nothing to grab onto. Damn frustrating. But…I kept hearing a falcon, screeching.”

Her fear sharpened. “Falcon,” she repeated.

Memories began to collect in his mind; she could see the growing clarity in his coal black eyes. “There was a falcon…at the trading post. I think it was the same one.”

“I didn't see it,” she said quickly. “Flying above the post?”

“Showed up after you left. Not flying. It was with some men, some Englishmen.” His dark brows drew down as he fitted pieces of remembrance together. “They were looking for guides, said something insulting to me. Then the bird, the falcon. It got agitated. Started shrieking and flapping for no reason.”

“Were you standing near the falcon when it did this?” The words felt like ice in her mouth. She already knew his answer.

He frowned up at her. “Yes. How would you know?” A cold rage sparked in his eyes. “You working with them?” He swung his legs around so his feet were on the ground. Before he could rise and let the blankets fall away entirely, she held out her hands as if to hold him back.

“I'm not working with anyone,” she clipped.

“But you knew about the bird. How?” This was a demand, not a request. He grabbed her wrists.

There was no diminishment of sensation. If anything, it had intensified, so that they both jolted the moment he touched her. Around him, the aura of magical energy grew, so much so that it was a wonder it wasn't visible. His skin was warm now, almost sultry to the touch. Not in the way of a fever. Something else heated him.

He drew in a hard breath, then grimaced. “Everything's become so sharp. Clear. Sounds. Scents.” He locked eyes with her. “Touch.”

Molten awareness gathered. “Since when?”

The tropic intensity of his gaze could have incinerated the cabin around her. Even in this heightened state, she felt it again, the connection between them. If anything, it had grown stronger. A wounded wildness they shared. “Since yesterday, when I met you.” He drew her toward him, until she stood between his legs. His calves were leanly muscled, his feet long. “You've done something to me.” An accusation, rough, searching. “Some kind of drug. I'd say you put a spell on me, but there's no such thing as magic.”

“Then you really don't know,” she said softly, more to herself than him.

His glower was ferocious. “Don't know what?”

Before she could think up an appropriate answer, he stiffened, tilting his head slightly to one side. “I hear someone coming. On horseback. They've got a pack mule, too.”

At first, Astrid heard nothing, but then, very faintly, came the sounds of hoofbeats. She stared at Lesperance. They shared surprise at his extraordinary hearing.

She pulled away and grabbed her rifle. “Stay inside. Don't go near the windows.”

“If there's trouble, I'll handle it.” He rose to his feet but at least had enough presence of mind to keep the blanket at his waist.

“This is
my
cabin,
my
homestead,” she gritted. “It's mine to protect. And if we can stave off trouble by keeping you hidden, then we'll do it. Understand?”

He wanted to argue with her, but the attorney part of him recognized her logic. Scowling, he nodded, and crouched down so that he could not be seen from the outside. She could have sworn she saw his hackles rising. Satisfied that he was in place, Astrid headed for the door.

“Be careful,” Lesperance said. “I'll watch your back.”

She stopped at the door but didn't turn. It had been so long since anyone had said that to her, when she had been so used to it before. She didn't want someone watching her back. No words came from her mouth. Instead, she stiffly left the cabin, securing the door behind her.

Afternoon sunlight filled the lea, briefly dazzling her. She stood on the porch and watched a rider approach through the one pass that led to her meadow. That was one of the primary reasons Astrid had chosen this spot for her homestead. Only one way in and one path out, both passes she could easily monitor. There was a second way out of the valley, but she alone knew about it. No one could enter or leave without her knowing.