Wonderful (14 page)

Then, there was only the two of them, all alone in the small clearing. He turned his mount toward her and spurred it forward.

She was acutely aware of the sudden lack of human sound. The silence from this man who had saved her. The air around her seemed to make her weightless.

Inside her head, her reason spun slowly away, out of reach in flashes of half thoughts. She closed her eyes to stop the world from swimming before her very eyes. She concentrated on what she could hear. The creak of his saddle, the clinking of a harness and spurs, and the lathered breath of his mount.

She knew he rode toward her. His horse pounded the ground with each step closer; it was a dull beating sound. Just like her heart.

Finally she gave in and opened her eyes.

The horse was barely a foot from her, and he reined it in and did not move, but sat there saying nothing, only looking down at her from the dark slits in the visor on his helm. His rapid breathing slipped out in misty threads through the small breath holes.

He still held his sword in his hand.

Blood dripped off of it and onto the mesh fingertips of his gauntlet. She understood his purpose. He wanted her to get a good look at the bloody sword before he sheathed it. As if it stood as an image for a lesson to her. Something horrible to be burned into her memory.

His tactic worked.

He had no idea how tremendously it affected her. She could not look away, even though the sight was the most gruesome thing she had ever seen.

’Twas as if she were rooted there, an ancient tree forced to see only that which passed it by. Unable to move or look away.

Her life had been sheltered, and the tales of war she heard were tales of the romance of war, sung in pretty melodic ballads of bravery and chivalry by men who had never killed another.

There was nothing glorious in what she had just witnessed. Nothing romantic. Her stomach rose in her throat and seemed to stick there.

He flipped open the visor and stared at her with a look that did not bode well. Cold and blue, with barely contained anger lurking on the edge of his expression.

His free arm rested on his saddle pommel as if he were relaxed. But she could see he was tense and tightly sprung, so taut it was almost as if he were ready to snap in two.

“I am gone but a few hours and yet you manage to almost get yourself killed.” His voice was gritty and low and unpleasant.

She searched for something to say, but no words came to her. She just stood, frozen, dizzy, hugging herself and looking past him to the bloody scene beyond. She closed her eyes and remained stiff and numb and sick inside.

A moment later she sank to her knees and bent forward so her hair shielded her burning face from him.

For the first time the arrow showed from her back.

She heard his vicious curse, but did not know the reason. She just knelt there shaking and weak and hurting, hidden by her hair. Then she did the only thing she still had the strength to do.

She cried.

Chapter 16

Merrick swelled with sudden rage. Impotent, paralyzing rage. His hard gaze hit the deadly looking arrow. He knew at that instant that the Devil could take him to hell and through all the trials of purgatory, yet it would not be punishment enough.

He had failed her.

With slight pressure from his knee and a tightening of the reins, his warhorse knelt to the ground. Merrick awkwardly slid from his saddle, his motions made stiff and restricted from the armor that protected him.

Nothing had protected her. Nothing. And ’twas his duty.

He had seen men die. He had seen bloody wounds. He had been cut and stabbed and shot with arrows himself. But the sight of that arrow in his lady’s back made him feel as if he had been cloven in two.

He moved toward her as swiftly as he could; sounds of the armor rattled and clanked and scraped into the air. The sound was harsh, but not nearly as haunting as her quiet sobs. Part of him wanted to rip off every last piece of plate metal he wore, so that he had to stand there as defenseless as she had been.

Beside her, he fell to one knee and slid his hands about her waist. Even through his gauntlets he could feel the shaking of her small body. He drew her onto his bent knee. “Easy. Easy, Clio. I’m here, now.”

She sobbed his name, a shame-filled half cry, and her face was hidden against his shoulder. He had to close his eyes to stop some foreign and massively overpowering emotion that suddenly burned behind his eyes and deep within his heart.

He held her there for the briefest of moments, because he could do nothing else.

He was a warrior, yet he felt weak and cowardly and angry all at once. He stood up then with her in his arms. She had one slim arm slung around his neck and the other arm, the side that dripped with new blood from the arrow, hung limply at her side. He moved toward Aries stiffly. She moaned once when his arm accidentally grazed the arrow shaft.

His warhorse knelt on command, and Merrick remounted, settling her gently in front of him. As Aries stood, Merrick looked down at Clio. Her sobs had stopped, but her breath was as ragged and tattered as his pride.

“Take a deep breath,” he whispered in a hoarse voice that did not sound like his. He looked down at the long arrow protruding from the back of her shoulder and slid his arms under hers

He gripped the stiff shaft in both hands and broke it off.

She moaned.

The sound was like a dagger in his gut.

Her breath came in uncontrolled pants of pain. Then she whimpered and it about killed him.

He cupped her head protectively beneath his chin and said, “I’ll take you home, Clio. You’re safe now.” He paused, then added under his harsh breath, “You will be safe. I swear this to you.”

She muttered something he could not understand against his neck; then he felt her sag against him. He turned his mount with only the pressure of his legs, then spurred them forward.

They rode from the dark forest out into the sunny field beyond, heading for Camrose, which sat on a hillside in the distance, looking peaceful and strong and gleaming white against the horizon. As if nothing dangerous could possibly happen within its proud sight.

He wanted to shake his fists at it. He wanted to shout and curse at the heavens over the irony of it all.

For years he had been able to look down upon a battlefield and know easily from where to mount the best attack. He had finely honed senses that could almost feel his enemies’ presence before they ever showed themselves. He could foresee a trap coming, and he could easily judge if a man would make a true soldier.

Yet when he had stood before this woman in the small forest glen, he had felt helpless. It was as if he had been in the middle of a battle and had just had his mount and his sword taken away.

Now, as he sat on his horse, he tried to control the turmoil inside of him. He could not feel any life from her. There was no warmth. No touch of skin against skin. Nothing tangible. But then, he wore his armor, so between his and her touch there was nothing but cold hard metal.

Then, as he had that empty thought, her body began to shake, quivering like an arrow when it just hits the target. He looked down, and even though her head was bent, he saw the tears scoring her cheeks and dripping over her mouth and chin.

She was crying again. Silently. Her tears dripped onto the coude of armor at his elbow and trickled down the hammered metal vambrace that covered his forearm. She settled even closer against him when he clamped his arm possessively around her small body. He found it a sudden struggle to find air to breathe.

Aries climbed a small hill of freshly mown grass, and her head fell back against his shoulder. A second later her tears dripped onto his breastplate, where they slowly traced down in a path across his heart.

Merrick raised his head, slowly, and gazed straight before him, his jaw clenched the way it did when he saw a blow coming.

He stared out at nothing for a long time. It seemed a lifetime, forever, especially when his thoughts were so confused.

Strange, how his armor could fend off arrows and slashes of swords. It could deflect the blow of a mace or the jab of a dagger. It had saved his life too many times to count. Yes, his armor had never ceased to protect him.

Until now.

At that instant, a moment of time that was no more than a flicker in the face of Fate, he learned something that would change his whole life. No matter how thick the metal or how masterfully crafted, no matter how many men-at-arms he had or how many weapons he drew, nothing … nothing would ever protect him from this one small woman.

Clio sat on the lumpy straw tick in her bedchamber, where Merrick had carried her. She remembered little of the ride back to the castle, only the security of his arm around her and the embarrassment of her tears.

Almost before they rode through the castle gates, he had begun to shout orders. She wasn’t certain which was louder, his shouting or the loud clanging sound of his armor as he awkwardly climbed the stairs with her in his arms. He stumbled once and swore countless times before he kicked open her chamber door and laid her on the bed.

“Do not move,” he ordered, then watched her as if he thought she would disobey him.

She returned his dark look with a weak smile. “And to think I intended to run up and down the stairs a hundred or so times.”

He did not find her humor amusing, just shook his head. “’Twould not surprise me. God knows, woman, what you will do next.”

“Walk to London.” She had tried for a sprightly tone, but her words sounded drained, even to her own ears. She sagged back on the tick, then flinched from pain when she accidentally hit the arrow stub.

Stars swam before her eyes and she clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth should have cracked.

“Here,” he said with sudden gentleness. “On your side.” He helped her lie on her good shoulder. “Stay still.” He turned and clanged across the stone floor, then braced his hands on the doorway and bellowed, “De Clare!”

For the next few minutes all Clio heard was Merrick repeatedly calling for his squire and shouting orders to everyone and anyone who happened to be nearby.

She could picture the scurrying belowstairs almost as if she were standing and looking down at it. Servants running to and fro like confused pigeons. His men trying to obey seven orders fired at them at once.

“You! Stop!” Merrick’s loud and rough voice echoed off the stone walls.

Wincing slightly, Clio glanced up at the doorway. There was poor, sweet Thwack.

He froze mid-step, staring in the direction of Merrick’s voice. “Aye, my lord?”

“Come here … Thump.”

The lad stepped out of Clio’s line of vision. “Aye, my lord?”

“Bring some heated water and towels now! De Clare! Tobin! Where the hell is my squire?” Merrick’s voice echoed like a cathedral bell through the keep, “
Someone. Anyone
. Get some bloody hot water and fresh linen up here
now
!”

“Oh!” Thwack took some backward steps. He glanced into the room, then paled. “I’ll fetch the water, my lord! I will.”

“Then get moving, lad and be quick about it!”

“Aye, my lord. You can trust me.”

“Where the hell have you been, de Clare? Get this armor off me!”

“Yes, my lord,” came Tobin’s harried voice

Another muttered curse came from just outside her door, and a piece of armor sailed past the door to clang onto the stone floor and roll into a corner where Cyclops had been sleeping like the dead.

The cat opened his one eye and glared at the armor, then stretched, stood up, and prowled close to it, making that gurgling sound he made whenever he had something cornered. He sniffed at the armor piece, then meowed loudly.

He spent the next few seconds batting it around as if he expected it to grow legs and run at any moment. But the piece of armor didn’t move, so he butted his fat backside against it. His long tail thumped on it a few times; then he yawned once, plopped down on it, and went back to sleep.

Merrick was still grumbling in the hallway.

“Please, my lord,” Tobin said, his voice filled with forced patience. “Can you stop pacing? I’ve almost—”

“God’s eyes, de Clare! What in the name of St. Peter is taking you so bloody long? Unfasten the blasted thing. Stop dallying here and there and everywhere! Lady Clio could bleed to death before you even get moving.”

A gauntlet flew across the hall.

Lady Clio could bleed to death
. ’Twas a very good thing she was not prone to hysteria, else his tactless words would have sent her into a fit.

She cupped a hand around her mouth to be heard over his cursing and called out. “I’m fine, my lord.”

Merrick’s armor-covered feet clopped to the doorway. He poked his head around the corner, scowling so hard his dark brows almost came together.

His helm was off and his mail hood was gone, too. His black hair stuck out as if he had driven his hands through it a thousand times. His narrowed gaze went from her face to her upper arm.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, nodding at him. “Truly.”