The Wolfe (40 page)

He did not want her in the room when
he removed the arrow. Jemma nodded nervously and fled. As soon as she was gone,
he slammed the door behind her and went back to Jordan. Smiling down at her, he
braced one leg on the bed and firmly grasped the shaft of the arrow.

She paled when she realized what was
coming. She nodded as if giving him silent approval to continue, unconsciously
putting her right hand on his, fluttering delicately against him. It could have
been a moat erotic action, under different circumstances.

“Swiftly, Sir Paris,” she whispered
and turned her head away. “I shall be grateful.”

He gave her no time to prepare, no
time to wonder when the stab of pain was coming as he gripped the shaft and
yanked it straight up, straight out.

Her scream cut him to the bone. She
began to cry loudly as he slapped the linen over the coursing blood, pressing
hard and trying to hold her still with his other hand. She gripped his arm, her
nails biting into him in her anguish.

“It is all over, sweetheart,” he
whispered, listening to her sobs. “It is all over now.”

She continued to cry and his heart
was breaking for her. Leaning down, he touched his forehead to hers in a silent
gesture of comfort. He had to do what had been done and his only regret was
that it had caused her so much pain. He knew exactly how she felt.

Jemma burst into the room, shrieking
when she saw the bloodied arrow on the coverlet. Paris was practically lying on
top of Jordan, trying to comfort her and staunch the flow of blood and keep her
still at the same time. She shrieked again and ran to the other side of the
bed.

“What can I do?” she demanded
wildly. “What help do ye need?”

“Where is Byron?” Paris’ head came
up to look at her and Jemma swore she saw tears in his eyes.

“I saw him coming up the stairs, she
stammered.

“Then there is nothing you can do
right now,” he told her, looking back down at Jordan. She was quieting. “Your
job will come after he has tended your cousin.”

Shaken, Jemma backed away and
collapsed in the nearest chair. Watching Paris tend her cousin as gently as a
mother tends a baby reformed many of her negative views toward him. Mayhap he wasn’t
so bad, after all.

Byron, tiny and bald in flowing
black robes, descended into the room and spoke a few short words to Paris, who
reluctantly pushed himself off Jordan to allow the little man better access. He
began to dab this and wipe that, digging into his bag and bringing out strange
vials. Jemma watched curiously as he and Paris conversed over the wound, the severity,
and Jordan’s health.

It began to occur to Jemma that
mayhap all English weren’t as bad as she had always been led to believe.
Certainly, Kieran wasn’t bad. And William was more than kind to his cousin. And
now, Paris and Byron were working over Jordan as if she was a blood relative.
Mayhap all English were not that bad. It was strange to think that when all she
had ever done was associate the English with pain and hatred.

That day, Jemma grew up, just a bit.

***

Jordan was sleeping by the time
William went to her rooms. It was late in the afternoon and the smells of
dinner were wafting in the air through the bailey, making the dogs whine.

Paris was still there, as was Jemma.
Deinwald and Michael stood vigilant watch in the hall, and William dismissed
them from the duty as he entered the chambers. Paris greeted him in the antechamber.

“How is she?” William fired at him.

“She sleeps,” he was told. “Byron
gave her poppy for the pain and it knocked her out cold. Tell me what you have
found out. Michael and Deinwald said you found the would-be assassin.”

William proceeded to brief him on
everything they had discovered and everything he suspected. It was not a pretty
tale. When he had finished, Paris did not look the least bit surprised.

“I always knew the girl was a petty
little bitch but I never believed her to be a murderess,” Paris said quietly.

William nodded, feeling his fatigue
catch up with him. It had been a long day. “I must see Jordan now,” he said,
moving past his second.  “We will discuss the strategy of what to do about it
later. But for now… I need to see Jordan.”

He proceeded into the next room. In
the dark and warm bedchamber, Jemma was seated in a chair next to the bed, a
piece of needlework in her hands. She glanced up at William.

“Sir knight,” she greeted him.

Had he not been so concerned with
Jordan he would have done a double-take at Jemma’s sweetly polite tone. He
leaned over the bed, putting his palm on her forehead, her cheek.

“No fever,” he whispered. His gaze
lingered on Jordan’s sleeping face a moment before glancing at Jemma. “You are
excused for dinner, Lady Jemma. I shall take the watch now.”

Jemma stood up. “I am not hungry,
truly. I would rather stay.”

He looked at her sharply but saw she
was not arguing, simply stating her preference.

“You have been here all day,” he
said, not unkindly. “Go and take some nourishment, then you may return.”

“If you will allow me to escort you,
my lady.” It was Paris from the doorway.

Jemma looked indecisive for a moment
before slowly setting her work down and moving for the door. When Paris offered
her his arm with a standoffish look, as if he expected her to slap him, she
made a face at him and snatched his elbow firmly.

“I willna bite, ye silly goat,” she
snapped.

Paris smiled; he liked the banter
they had developed. In fact, he quite relished sharpening his skills against
her formidable insults.

“Ah, that is the Lady Jemma I have
grown to know,” he said approvingly. He laughed when she screwed her face up.

When they were gone William bolted
the door and went back to Jordan’s bed, collapsing slowly into the chair Jemma
had occupied. His eyes never left Jordan’s pale, sleeping face.

Suddenly, it hit him all at once;
the arrow, the attempt at her life, the blood, his fear… everything. He closed
his eyes as if to block out the surge of emotions that welled within him, his eyes
stinging with what he knew to be tears. He could not remember when he had last
wept but he knew the pang to be the beginnings.

Her hand lay limply by her side. He
collected it reverently into his big fists, holding it up against his forehead
as if he were praying over her. He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing strength from
her warmth, her pulse. She was alive, thank God, and he was relieved to his
soul. ‘Twas a frightening thing to come so close to losing something he loved
so completely, that it left him shaken.

He felt weak, like a frightened
little boy. He was torn between being angry for the scare and so damn thankful
for her safety that he was prepared to do a lifetime of penance for it.

He hated Analiese with a passion he
had never known. His natural urge was to seek vengeance, but his common sense
ruled his mind. And, under no circumstances, was Jordan to know who had made the
attempt on her life. He raised his head, staring at her sleeping face and
putting her hand to his lips. God, he loved her.

She twitched and rolled her head,
her eyes slowly opening. They rolled back in her head a couple of times,
indicative of the potency of Byron’s poppy potion before she was able to focus
long enough to see him sitting there, looking at her.

“English,” she whispered, concerned.
“Why are ye crying?”

He hadn’t realized he had been. Then
he felt a drop hit his flesh as he held her hand to his lips and realized that
he had been crying the whole time he had been sitting there.

“Because I could have lost you,” he
whispered hoarsely. He didn’t know what else to say.

She smiled weakly and gave his hand
a gentle squeeze. Then her eyes closed and she drifted off again.

There was a knock on the door an
hour later. William rose from the same position he had been in since his
arrival and opened the door.

Jemma stood in the door way, flanked
by Kieran. They were both solemn and quiet. William stepped back and allowed
them entrance. To Jemma, he looked dazed.

“How is she?” she asked him.

“She sleeps,” he replied.

“The earl is on his way up, William,”
Kieran said. “Mayhap you… you should not be here.”

William looked at his third in
command, his mind clearing somewhat. Nodding shortly, he quit the room without as
much as a glance in Jordan’s direction.

He didn’t even stop to think as to
why Kieran suggested he should not be in her room; it never occurred to him
that he knew about their relationship. They all knew, and fortunately, they
were thinking where William was unable to for the moment.

As on the battlefield, they were sworn
to protect and serve him always. Even in unfamiliar matters of the heart.

***

Jordan was so hot. The sun was mercilessly
beating down on her, roasting her alive. She tried to put up her hands to block
the rays but every time she did something would slap them back down.

“No, you fool. Jordan’s running a fever
and she’s delirious.” she yelled.

Fear surged through him like a bolt.
He nearly ran Jemma over in his attempt to get to Jordan’s room.

She lay atop her bed covers, her
face flushed. She was still for the moment but in case she should start to
thrash again, he saw that her other maid was standing at the ready next to the
bed.

William dropped beside the bed, his
hand on her forehead. His heart sank with anguish; she was on fire. “How long, Jemma?”

“I awoke a half hour ago and she was
sweating rivers. I dunna know how long she has been like this,” she replied.

He stood up. “We’ve got to cool her
down.”

He went back through the antechamber
and jerked open the door. There were three men-at-arms, trusted men, standing
watch. William snapped orders to them rapidly; one to get the tub, one to get
Byron, and one to send Paris to him. The men scattered to do his bidding.

Back inside the bed chamber, Jordan
had begun to thrash again. He heard Jemma call out and ran to the bed, pushing
her out of the way and grabbing Jordan’s flailing arms. She screamed something
in Gaelic and he tried to soothe her, feeling so utterly helpless. He could
think of nothing more than to pull her against him and pin her arms, whispering
comforting words in her ear and praying she would hear him.

But Jordan was not about to be
pacified so easily; she screamed and yelled and twisted about with strength he
had never before seen in a woman. Yet he kept a constant stream of gentle
words, hoping that somewhere deep in her delirium she would calm down.

His face was by her head. She felt
him and, angrily, head-butted him so hard she split his lip and her scalp. He
snatched her by the hair, holding her head still and all the while still speaking
gently. Eventually, her struggling became less and less to the point where Jemma
approached and dabbed William’s lip with a soft piece of soft linen. After a
few more moments of tussling with her, she went limp once again.

“She is burning up,” he whispered to
Jemma.

Jemma nodded, her eyes wide with
fear. What if Jordan died? She could not even fathom it. She was frightened to
the core.

The tub arrived and instantly the
soldier, the two maids and Jemma were filling it with buckets of tepid water
while William continued to hold Jordan’s hot body tightly in his arms. Paris
arrived shortly thereafter and began driving the servants and Jemma like an
Egyptian slave master.

“Damnation, where is Byron?” Paris
ranted, kicking over a bucket that had been left on the floor.

William was holding Jordan,  pressed
to him like a rag doll, her head laying on his shoulder. He didn’t respond to
the tirade. When the last bucket of water went in, Paris chased the soldier out
and tore off his cloak.

“Get her in here, William,” he said
quickly.

Jemma almost mentioned that her
cousin still wore her linen shift, but stopped herself. Jordan would not like
to be stripped naked in front of two men, even in her current state, so even if
she were only a thin nightshift, ‘twas better than nothing at all.

William gathered Jordan to him and
took her into the antechamber where the others waited. Everyone positioned
themselves around the tub as William held her out over the water.

“She’s not going to like this one bit,”
Paris remarked, leaning over to better assist William.

He was right. The moment her
over-heated body touched the water, Jordan stiffened and shrieked like a
banshee. He dropped her right into the tub, up to her neck in the water and
became completely soaked holding her down in it. Paris, on the other side, took
the brunt of the splashing. It was no time at all before the entire floor of
the antechamber, as well as the occupants, were soaked to the skin.