The YIELDING (28 page)

“No more!” She swept the weapon from its scabbard and waved it between the two men. “I shall return to Stern Castle with neither of you.”

Michael stilled. Surely this knight did not also intend to deliver her to Stern?

Sir Durand looked from Beatrix to Michael and, a moment later, his dark fury was displaced by disbelief.

It was then the name came to Michael—Sir Durand, the knight who was said to have escaped with Beatrix’s sister.

The irony that Michael had fought a man whose purpose he shared—to deliver Beatrix to her brother—would have made him laugh if not that Beatrix bled. And from the glint in Sir Durand’s eyes, he also saw the irony.

But if the Wulfrith knight had come to take her to Stern Castle, why had he spread himself upon Beatrix? And why had she sought to protect him?

There, in her seething gaze, was the answer. Sir Durand had done what Michael would have had to do to take her from here. He had tried to force her.

“I shall not go,” she said, pressing her injured arm tight to her side. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear,” Michael said and beckoned for her to relinquish the dagger.

She stepped back. “I shall only leave…Soaring in the company of the Sheriff.”

Sir Durand reached out his own hand. “Give me the dagger, my lady.”

For some reason, Michael was relieved when she also refused him.

“I shall give over to the sheriff.” She retreated further. “I trust neither of you.”

“You bleed,” Michael said. “Allow me—”

“Do not touch me!” She swept the dagger forward. “I have bled before and survived. I shall do so again.
And
have my trial.”

“Not if you bleed out your life!”

“And you care when such an end would spare your family’s name? That is what you want, is it not?”

With a glance at Sir Durand who continued to heft his sword, Michael took another step forward.

Beatrix retreated to the foot of the bed.

“You know ‘tis not what I want,” Michael said. “I would aid you, and that I cannot do beneath threat of your dagger.”

“You fear I shall put it to you as I did your brother?”

Holding to his awareness of Sir Durand lest it be determined the lord of Soaring remained a threat to Beatrix, Michael continued forward. “You did not put the dagger to Simon,” he finally voiced what he knew to be true. “It was not you who killed him.”

Her gaze wavered. “You seek to deceive me.”

Still Sir Durand held. Watched.

Michael halted before her. “Though ‘tis true I would force you from here ere dawn, it is as true that I no longer believe you murdered Simon.”

Her eyes delved his, but she would not find a lie in them. Revealing himself beyond what he had revealed to any woman since the betrayal that had lost him all, he dragged from his depths words he had thought never to speak. “You are not Edithe.”

That which struck Beatrix was not unlike the lightning on a night that seemed so long ago, a night that she and Michael had come together between their hoods and he had given his breath to her. When something—this Edithe?—had spilled accusations from the same mouth that had nearly kissed her.

Not the same as Edithe. Did she dare believe he did not speak such for his own gain?

Arm throbbing, she lowered the dagger to her waist. “Even so, and ‘tis not to say I believe you, I will not flee.”

Sir Durand stirred, causing Michael’s hand to convulse on his sword hilt.

“And if you never again see your family?” the knight demanded. “If for the remainder of her life, Lady Gaenor bears the blame for your death?”

Beatrix gasped. “It is not for her to bear!”

“But she shall—for the sacrifice you made for her. You know it.”

She nearly argued, but he was right. Still, it was better for one to be burdened by undeserved blame than for Beatrix’s entire family to suffer King Henry’s displeasure. “I am wanted for m-murder. If I do not appear at trial, my family will suffer. I will not take that risk.” She held Sir Durand’s glower a moment before returning to Michael. “I must do this.”

His jaw convulsed. “I know.”

Was he merely placating her in hopes of disarming her?

“The bleeding must be stopped,” he enjoined.

Though her sleeve was flushed red, the pain had abated. Shock? “First, I would have your word.”

“You would believe it?”

Could she trust that he would not force her from Soaring? She glanced at Sir Durand whose mouth drew a flat line that told he also knew what she asked. She looked back at Michael. “I have no choice but to believe it.”

Her words were a jab to his integrity, but he inclined his head. “I give my word.”

“I do not give mine!” Sir Durand stepped toward them.

“She does not need it,” Michael shot back. He lifted his sword from where he had settled its tip to the floor.

For a moment, Beatrix thought jealousy stirred the air, but that was ridiculous. Fearing the two might meet at swords again, she said, “Pray, Sir Durand, do not delay in…giving me your word. I bleed.”

His eyes were riled, and a rumble sounded from him, but he grudgingly nodded.

She looked to Michael. “Tend me, if you will.”

Once more, he held out his hand.

She gripped the dagger tighter. “I shall keep it.”

“Why do you ask for my word if you do not intend to honor it?”

“That I might hear it.” She almost smiled. “But
my
word I give that if you do not…deceive me, I will not use the dagger on you.”

“Generous,” Michael grumbled. “Sit down.”

As she lowered to the mattress, the sound of boots on the stairs caused Michael and Sir Durand to raise their swords.

When the trespasser appeared in the doorway, sword at the ready, the sight of Squire Percival breathed relief around the room. However, the moment the young man picked out Sir Durand, he came across the room.

“Hold!” Michael shouted.

The squire’s boots skittered over the floor. Shoulders heaving, he arced his sword before Sir Durand. “My lord, ’twas this miscreant who rendered the blow that laid me down.”

“I know who bested you.” Michael glanced at Sir Durand whose stance told that if the squire overstepped his sword skill, he would suffer. Michael returned his sword to its scabbard. “A misunderstanding only, Squire.”

“Misunderstanding?” Percival exclaimed, then again when he caught sight of Beatrix’s crimson sleeve.

“Do not question me, Squire. Fetch a torch.”

Percival thrust his sword into its scabbard, strode from the room, and quickly returned to set a flickering torch in a wall sconce.

“Now escort Sir Piers to my solar,” Michael directed, “and bring my physician’s bag.”

“Your solar?” Sir Durand asked with suspicious brow.

“Await me there. We must needs talk.”

Sir Durand looked to Beatrix. Then, keeping his sword to hand, he followed Squire Percival out.

“When you have done that, Squire Percival,” Michael called, “see if you can rouse Sir Justin who was also visited by Sir Durand this eve. He is in the hall.”

Beatrix frowned. However, when Sir Durand glanced over his shoulder, the glint in his eyes was explanation enough. He had been busy belowstairs.

Michael turned back to Beatrix. “May I?”

She lowered the dagger. As he bent over her and folded back her sleeve, she stared at his dark head and was disturbed by a longing to push her fingers through his hair.

Foul!
There was naught she wanted from this man, no matter what he—

His hand slid across her forearm and upper arm, tripping sensation across her skin, and when he probed the pained flesh around her injury, her awareness of him hardly diminished.

He sent word of your capture
, she reminded herself, but it was futile. Changing her grip on the dagger, she attempted to send her mind wandering so it would not settle too long on Michael.

“It is not deep,” he said. “If it requires a half dozen stitches, it will be much.” He looked up. “I am sorry, Beatrix. I would not have seen you harmed like this.”

He sounded so sincere—

For his own end, she countered, dragging to mind the hurtful things he had said. “How
would
you see me harmed, Lord D’Arci?”

“I would not,” he growled.

“Why?”

“Because I was wrong.”

With her own eyes, she saw the words come off his lips, with her own heart, she felt relief that she knew she ought to reject. “You meant it—that I am not the same as…Edithe?”

Did she only imagine it, or did he draw nearer? “You are unlike any woman I have known.” The hand he lifted to her face was not imagined, nor the thrill when his calloused fingers caressed her skin. And Beatrix nearly let him kiss her, nearly met his mouth.

She pushed his hand aside. “I want no more of you, Michael D’Arci. Tend my wound if you will, then be gone.”

Only when his face hardened did she realize his features had softened during their exchange. Could she call that softening back to more closely look upon it, her gullible self would do so. Fortunately, each new hurt he visited on her made her more prudent. She would not fall his way again.

He released her arm, straightened, and stepped back.

Beatrix clasped a hand over her injury, and neither spoke again until Squire Percival’s return.

“What of Sir Justin?” Michael asked as he accepted his physician’s bag.

“He was just returning to consciousness when I found him, my lord. By note of his wrath, he shall recover sufficiently.”

Michael looked up from spreading his instruments and medicinals on the coverlet. “Where does Sir Justin await me?”

“The kitchen, my lord. I did not think it wise for him and Sir Piers to share the solar.”

“Well thought, Squire. And of those in the hall?”

“Quiet, my lord.”

“Good. Leave us.”

As Squire Percival’s footsteps receded, Beatrix looked to the vial that Michael chose, then the needle he lifted for threading.

“It will hurt some,” he murmured.

With a curt laugh, she said, “Hurt is something to which I seem to have grown…accustomed.”

He met her gaze past the needle, and when he spoke, there was regret in his voice. “So you have.”

He lowered to his knees before her, lifted her arm, and began to minister as he had done when she had sustained her head injury. This time, though, she was conscious. This time, she felt every brush of his blunt fingers, breathed the masculine scent of him, and gazed upon his bowed head. And time and again she had to remind herself of the ills he had cast on her no matter what he now believed—or, at least, professed to believe.

Though the pungent salve he applied made the pain tolerable, for those endless minutes she was grateful for his presence that diverted her thoughts from the needle’s tug and tuck.

“’Tis done,” he finally said.

She eased her hand on the dagger and looked from his face that was level with hers to the linen wound around her arm. The bleeding was staunched, no crimson penetrating the weave.

“I thank you,” she breathed.

He nodded. “Now I would examine your head injury.”

“For what?”

“A good physician keeps himself apprised of his patient’s progress.”

A laugh parted her lips. “And now you wish to be a good physician? After all these weeks?”

“Will you allow it?”

“I assure you, ’tis…well-healed. Only a scar remains to remind me of its getting.”

“Will you allow it, Beatrix?”

Something in his eyes slipped through a soft place in her hardened heart, and she said, “I will.”

He pushed his fingers through her hair and lifted it away.

Beatrix stared at the wall as he traced the ridge with a calloused finger.

“It seems a long time ago,” he murmured.

Years. Many years. Indeed, it was as if this life and that had not even crossed paths. All had changed.

“I know you cannot forgive me now,” Michael said, “but I pray that one day you will.”

Though she longed to believe his sincerity, in that direction lay a fool’s quest—one already visited in believing he would not reveal her to Baron Lavonne. “If you knew how to pray, Lord D’Arci, I might…believe you. Now, are you done?”

His eyes shuttered. “I am.” He stepped back and swept his instruments into his bag.

Aching deeper than her injury, Beatrix watched him stride across the room with a hitch that bespoke the strain of his clash with Sir Durand. “You will keep your word?” she called as he reached the threshold.

He turned and looked to the dagger in her fist. “You will honor it?”

And yield up her best defense should he or Sir Durand speak false? “As best I can.”

From the flare of his nostrils, he understood she would not give up the dagger. “I cannot fault you,” he said and pulled the door closed.