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He had always had a tendency to help himself to anything he liked, even as a child. She took the poker from the fire and clutched it tightly, focusing on the now-glowing tip as though it was a beacon. If he had hurt Robbie, Sir Roger would not live to see the sun rise.
Lucy crept back up the stairs, torn between the need to hurry and the desire to remain unnoticed. She pushed the door open, heart in her throat pounding painfully. She stopped in the doorway and lowered the poker, taken aback by what she saw.
In the darkness she could make out the bundled shape of the two figures still lying together. Robbie was curled up in the crook of Sir Roger’s arm, his small face buried deep against the man’s neck, his tiny fist clutching the edge of the sheet. The blanket had slipped and the child’s linen nightdress contrasted with the dark hair and tanned flesh of Sir Roger’s bare torso. Sir Roger’s broad arm was draped across the child’s back in what looked like a caress. He had his eyes closed and lay unmoving. He looked as if the grave had already stamped a claim on him and for a brief, unkind moment, Lucy’s heart soared in hope that this was the case and the problem was solved. She drew closer, still holding the poker. He had already surprised her by revealing himself to be half-conscious before and she could not trust he would remain asleep for long.
They looked serene, the two dark, curly heads together, so close in colouring it was no wonder they had passed for father and son. Robbie had never slept in the arms of the father who refused to admit his existence and never would. At the sight, an odd pang of sadness clutched at Lucy’s stomach that the boy had found comfort so quickly. What instinct had told him he was safe with the man who had forced his way in and apparently killed a man tonight? It felt almost cruel to move him when he was sleeping so peacefully after a night of chaos and disruption.
She shook her head forcefully, reminding herself this was not a loving father. Robbie was lying in the arms of a man who must barely be aware of his presence and would care about it even less were he awake. Her son was too young and trusting to know the ills the world held. He had no understanding of the possible danger he was in, feeling only that he was warm and being held tight.
She knelt beside the bed and edged Sir Roger’s hand down to his side until she was able to tug Robbie free. She eased him across her shoulder. The child wrapped his arms around her neck and did not stir. Sir Roger muttered and rolled his head from side to side, though his eyes remained closed. Now she had her son back, Lucy could breathe easily once more. She paused to look curiously at the man in her bed.
Sir Roger. But Sir Roger who? And of where? She had heard of no knight or lord of that name in Cheshire or Derbyshire. She had no idea where he had come from, or where he was hoping to go. He would not want to remain here long if he had slighted Lord Harpur, she knew that much. Instinctively she tightened her hold on Robbie.
‘He’ll never know he has you to thank for his life,’ she whispered against the boy’s ear.
Robbie needed his bed. Lucy, too, though where she would sleep was anyone’s guess. Not in her bed, that was for certain. She felt the beginnings of a blush around the back of her neck as she remembered Sir Roger’s hands on her body. The arm that had held her son was muscular and iron hard, the neck and chest well shaped. Robbie was not the only one whose bed was a solitary place of rest.
She eased herself to her feet and stepped away. As she did, Sir Roger gave a great gasp. His eyes snapped open and he jerked upright, clutching hold of Lucy’s skirts. He bared his teeth and snarled.
‘Run, wench, lest they take you, too!’
Biting down a scream, Lucy pulled away, but his grip was strong and he held her fast. Still holding Robbie in one arm, she could not tug her skirts free. In panic, she brought down the poker she held in her other hand, flailing at his chest to push him away. The tip was hotter than she had expected it to be and as it touched the bare skin above his heart there was a hissing, accompanied by the sickening smell of singeing hair and flesh.
Sir Roger cried out, loosening his grip on Lucy’s skirts and falling back on to the mattress. The back of the arrow landed on the bed, driving the tip forward through his body, but not fully out. Sir Roger screamed at the pain—the angry, agonised roar of a felled boar. His head lolled back as he slipped into a deep faint.
Lucy dropped the poker in horror at what she had done and backed away. In her arms, Robbie began to whimper. She kissed his damp forehead, trying to quiet her own sobs, and backed against the wall by his cot. When Robbie had settled, she eased him into his bed. She slid to the floor and hugged her knees until she stopped trembling.
Sir Roger did not move. Lucy’s assault had drained him of any remaining strength.
For now.
The room still smelled of charred flesh and Lucy’s stomach heaved. She needed to see what damage she had inflicted and tend to the wounds, but she could not trust that Sir Roger would not awaken before she had finished. Her skin crawled at the idea of him seizing her once again and she thought furiously what she should do. She clambered to her feet and ran back down the stairs, returning with a length of thin rope and a knife.
Biting her lip to stop her heart leaping from her throat, Lucy tiptoed close to the bed and knelt on shaking legs. She worked quickly, passing one end of the rope under the bedframe and wrapping it once round the leg of the bed closest to her. She securely tied the ends round each of the unconscious man’s wrists. To her relief he remained insensible throughout.
Lucy sat back on her heels and examined her handiwork. Sir Roger’s hands lay at his sides on the mattress. His bonds would cause no discomfort, but the rope was short enough that he would not be able to bring his hands together to undo the knots. If he attempted to grab her with one hand, the other would be pulled beneath the frame of the bed by the motion.
Now she finally felt safe enough to examine him, she brought the lamp close and settled by his side. Asleep he looked less fearsome, the lines on his forehead smoothed. She wondered what he would look like without the thatch of beard. She pulled the sheet down to his waist and peered at him, her fingers hovering over his body. His chest was broad and the muscles that Lucy had felt as she had undressed him were well defined beneath the soft dark hairs that covered his torso. Lucy drew her hand back, examining the wound she had inflicted. The poker’s tip had left a livid red mark on the skin above his heart. It had already begun to blister and she winced with guilt.
Lucy fetched a pitcher of water and pressed a damp strip of his torn-up tunic over the wound. Sir Roger’s eyelids flickered, but he did not wake. The arrow wound had begun to bleed, but slowly. It oozed out around the wooden shaft that now stuck further out. She wetted more strips of cloth and contrived padding around the wound. Perhaps she should remove the arrow while he was unconscious and less likely to feel pain, but the lamp was beginning to sputter, almost empty. She would have to wait until morning and Thomas’s arrival. She did not want to think what would happen if her brother was caught and never returned.
She watched until the blood stopped. There was nothing more she could do tonight, but if he died it would be from infection, not from his lifeblood ebbing away. Lucy shivered with cold, wishing she had been in bed long before now. She could not deprive her patient of the blankets in the state he was in so she leaned over and retrieved his cloak from down the side of the bed. Even cut and bloodstained it was of better quality than anything she owned herself. Wearily she dropped to the floor beside Robbie’s cot and slept on the bare boards, wrapped in the knight’s ruined cloak with the unfamiliar musky scent of man enveloping her.
* * *
Lucy woke early. Her body ached and she felt nauseous, her stomach churning after the night’s happenings. She crept to Sir Roger’s side, hoping not to awaken him, but he was still deeply asleep. So deep, in fact, that Lucy believed it must be the combination of alcohol and whatever Thomas had given him that accounted for his slumber. He could barely have shifted in the night as the blankets were precisely where she had placed them, halfway between his waist and shoulders.
Daylight edged through the gaps in the wooden shutters and in the light she could see his skin was ashen beneath the dark hair, except for the area around his bandaged wound. The flesh there was red and angry, with blood crusted around the arrow. Cautiously Lucy placed her fingers on the wound and found the flesh as hot as it was scarlet. She lifted the cloth from the burn above his heart and placed her fingers there, spreading her hand wide over the taut muscle. At her touch Sir Roger drew a rasping breath, his chest rising beneath Lucy’s hand. Her skin fluttered as his firm muscles tensed. She drew back hastily.
No man had shared her bed here and she had no expectation, nor wish, for any to do so in the future, but the unanticipated longing for this man was confusing and his kiss had been intoxicating. He was by far the finest-looking man she had encountered, but those muscles had been hardened in battle and the deep brown eyes had seen danger and death she could barely contemplate. Even half out of his mind with pain he exuded an air of danger. To imagine repeating such a thing would be akin to throwing herself into the middle of a dogfight.
Sir Roger murmured, his head tipping to one side. He half-opened his eyes and looked at Lucy, though she doubted he really saw her. His forehead creased and he gave a slight moan. Lucy reached a trembling hand and stroked her thumb tenderly across his brow. The creases vanished under her touch and he closed his eyes once more.
The cockerel crowed, his raucous interruption reminding Lucy she had other matters to attend to. Unexpected resentment rose in her—a much safer emotion than the ones imagining Sir Roger’s touch had provoked. She was too tired for the start of the day and had enough tasks to keep her busy until nightfall without having to think of Sir Roger. This was a burden she did not need. One child was enough to manage, let alone a fully-grown man.
‘You’ll have to wait, my fine lord,’ she told the sleeping man. ‘I have ale to brew and a house to keep.’
She brushed her hands down her dress, which was creased and felt grimy from being slept in. She only had two and the other was lighter cloth better suited for warmer days. It would have to do as she could not bear to remain in this one any longer. She pulled the dress from the chest at the end of the bed and quickly changed with her back to Sir Roger in case he should awake and catch her in her linen shift.
Her eye fell on the small glass vial that he had drunk from the night before and she held it to the light. A few drops remained. She inspected the ropes on Sir Roger’s wrists. He would be going nowhere when he awoke, but just to be certain...
She narrowed her eyes and looked down at Sir Roger.
‘You’d rather sleep and be free of pain, wouldn’t you,’ she said. ‘We don’t want you waking before I’m ready to deal with you.’
She knelt by the bed and held the rim to Sir Roger’s lips, parting them with her fingers to allow the liquid to slip into his mouth. His throat moved as he swallowed and his tongue darted out to lap up the droplets that remained on his lips, reminding Lucy of Robbie suckling in the night when asleep and unaware of what he was doing. Her breasts gave a sudden throb and she wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Robbie had only recently given up nursing and she put her body’s reaction down to the memory of that. It was most definitely not because of the idea of Sir Roger’s lips on her breasts.
The thought of Robbie raised another issue that she had not previously considered. If Sir Roger was sleeping and drinking like a babe, there would be other needs that would arise. If it came to it, she would deal with those in the same manner she dealt with Robbie, but as she picked up her son and left the room she fervently hoped Thomas would return long before she had to assist with anything that involved more of Sir Roger’s body than she had already encountered.
Lucy went about her daily tasks. She fed the pig and the chickens and put Robbie out to play in the yard behind the house, a long rope around his waist so he did not stray to the stream. Once or twice someone passed by heading to or from Mattonfield. She greeted them with a wave, calling brightly that there would be new ale within the week. Noon passed and still Thomas did not return, but neither was there a sound from the bedroom. Robbie began to wail and she spooned boiled apple into his mouth, sitting him on her lap.
‘Mama will crush the malt next,’ she told him with a smile, ‘and you can go see if Gyb has caught anything.’
He burbled excitedly, pleased to be given permission to torment the burly orange tomcat that sometimes graced them with his presence. That would keep him busy while Lucy ran upstairs to check Sir Roger had not lapsed into a fever. His wound would need bathing and she should try him on some of her father’s draught. Perhaps he, too, would take some of the mashed apples that her son was busily smearing in his hair.
She frowned. Where was Thomas? She had hoped him to be back by now so she could be rid of her burden as soon as possible.
She went to the shed and began crushing the malt and tipping it into the bowl to soak. When she heard a familiar whistling coming down the road she forced herself to finish the task, covering the vat with a damp cloth before wiping her hands down her apron and emerging.
The visitor was Widow Barton, an old friend of Lucy’s father. She leaned on the stout stick she used for walking and tugged her cap into place, tucking wiry grey strands beneath it.
‘Good day, Lucy.’
She was one of the few inhabitants of the nearby town who had remained on good terms with Lucy after she returned home with a swelling belly and no husband to save her honour—and the only one who knew the identity of the man who had caused her shame. The old woman took the leftover ale mash to feed her pigs, in return for an occasional flitch of bacon, without which Lucy’s diet would have been scant indeed.
‘Did you hear about the commotion in Mattonfield last night?’
Lucy shook her head truthfully. The news had not reached her, but her nerves jangled as she imagined who might have been the cause.
‘Two men searching for two more. They tried to raise the hue and cry, but Lord de Legh refused as they would not account for why they were searching. He told them if they could not name the crime he would have no part in it.’
‘Did they catch the man?’ Lucy asked.
Mary gave her an odd look.
‘The men,’ Lucy amended. She averted her gaze, annoyed at her slip.
‘No one was found,’ Mary answered after a pause. ‘They must have come past your way before they arrived in town.’
‘I suppose they might,’ Lucy agreed, ‘though there are many ways to travel.’ More on her guard now, she stopped herself from finishing the sentence ‘...from Lord Harpur’s estates.’
Mary gave her a shrewd look. ‘You’ll meet a bad end living out here alone. Your father should have sold up when he knew his time was at hand.’
‘Should he have left my brother nothing to inherit when he returns?’ Lucy asked.
It was remarkably easy to speak of Thomas as if he was still in France. For years she had believed he would never come home and that most likely he was dead somewhere across the water. A guilty thought crossed Lucy’s mind that if Thomas did not return to claim his friend, he would not claim the inn, either.
Mary glanced towards the inn, which was showing more signs of disrepair as each month passed. ‘There’s not much to inherit,’ she said kindly.
Lucy’s lips twitched. ‘I keep it going as best I can.’
‘I don’t blame you. Your father should have found you a husband to help run it.’
‘He tried. I refused,’ Lucy reminded her. ‘Besides, no man of any regard wants a wife with a bastard brat hanging off her.’
Any husband, whether of good standing or not, would have been suitable in her father’s eyes to rid him of the shame of an unwed daughter with a child. Mary knew this already. Lucy suspected the widow even approved. She had five grown children and no husband for the past decade.
Mary sniffed, her beak of a nose flaring.
‘Are you brewing again?’
Lucy held an arm out, glad of an excuse to draw the older woman away from the house and off the subject of husbands.
‘Come see.’
She led Mary into the shed, talking all the while of the new mix of yarrow and elderflower she was planning to use as gruit to flavour the brew, of Robbie’s final emerging tooth—the goodwife had helped birth the boy and still took a keen interest—and of the fair to be held in Mattonfield at the end of the month.
Anything to keep the old woman from suspecting that upstairs she had a drugged nobleman tied to her bed who would very soon require her attendance.
Chapter Five (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)
Through the haze of pain, Roger became aware he was not alone in the room. He groaned weakly, trying to speak, but his throat was too dry. His arms were leaden and would not rise. He fought down panic.
Cool fingers stroked his forehead, brushing the hair from his brow and easing away his anxiety. A woman’s voice, soft and high, murmured soothing words that jumbled in his mind. He felt something cool and damp pressed to his brow, stroking gently and he sighed.
‘Joanna?’
The stroking stopped. ‘No.’
An unfamiliar voice.
The hands moved down to his jaw, firm strokes cleaning away the grime from his cheeks. Despite the coldness of the cloth, Roger’s skin began to burn hotter from within. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him unbidden with such gentleness and desire began to awaken, tickling with devilish fingers at his groin.
Good. If he could still contemplate a spot of swiving between the sheets he was not yet dead. He opened his eyes to see who was caring for him, but his lids felt unaccountably heavy. He forced them wide anyway, but the brightness hurt and the woman was silhouetted against the window so he could see nothing of her features. He screwed his eyes tight, wincing.
A pale face framed with fine, light-coloured hair and the impression of a grey dress filled his mind: the girl from the inn who had been half-terrified to death by their appearance.
Lucy Carew. He hoped it was she who was nursing him. He remembered her mouth, hot against his, resisting at first in alarm, but quickly giving in to his kiss and meeting him with as much fire as he was exuding. It would be pleasant indeed if it were she.
Lucy—Roger would assume it was until evidence proved otherwise—removed the cloth from his forehead and put it to his cheeks, freshly damp. She began to bathe his neck and chest, lifting each arm to wipe it before moving down towards his waist, which sent shivers of bliss cascading over him. The sensation was so unbearably erotic Roger felt he would be consumed by the sheer pleasure of it. However, when he gave himself up to the indulgence, he realised the reaction was in his mind alone. His body was refusing to acknowledge anything was happening to rouse him. Perhaps he was closer to death than he had realised after all. He lapsed into sleep with this troubling thought.
* * *
He woke again to find himself being bathed still. Or perhaps a second time because now the room was darker. The hands moved over his body as before, but shifted now to his right shoulder. As they probed the wound searing pain shot through him, obliterating any thoughts beyond making the torment end. He cried out, but his voice rasped painfully.
‘Thirsty...’ he managed to croak.
Those bewitching fingers stroked his brow once more. He felt the back of his head cradled and lifted, firm fingers burrowing deep into his thick hair. A cup was put to his lips.
‘Not too fast,’ a soft voice instructed.
It was ale. Cool and thirst-quenching. Roger could not remember the arrow being removed, or Thomas returning, but the pain in his shoulder was so intense it must be from the brand that sealed the wound. Panic filled him once again and he twisted his head from the cup. Lucy’s firm hands guided it back and the cup was put to his lips once more.
‘Drink this,’ she commanded, her voice allowing no possibility of disobedience. ‘It will ease the pain.’
Her voice brooked no argument. If it meant those delicate fingers exploring his body once more he would do anything she asked.
It was not the same cup. This brew was sickly and bitter at the same time. He was being drugged.
He groaned with relief. Wonderful woman, to ease his pain in such a way.
His head began to swim once more. Oh, he’d thank her indeed when he was back to strength with everything working as it should. He could think of so many ways to show his gratitude that did not even involve leaving this bed.
‘The arrow?’ he mumbled. His mouth now felt too small to hold his tongue.
She drew a sharp breath and the hand at the back of his skull tightened briefly. She muttered something to herself and Roger caught Thomas’s name.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. It’s still in your shoulder.’
He felt her move away and shortly the door closed, leaving him alone.
The news was bad, but the matter was out of Roger’s hands for now. However hard he tried, he could do nothing to fight the sleep that was claiming him.
He fell into a deep slumber and dreamed of Lucy.
* * *
When Roger next achieved full awareness, it was night once more and opening his eyes did not require the effort it had earlier in the day. The air that kissed his skin was cold, deliciously so, for his flesh felt hotter than he would expect, especially one spot just above his heart. His vision began to clear. He craned his head to search for Lucy, but he was alone. He shivered and pain surged through him, radiating from the wound outwards. The God-rotted arrow was still there, wasn’t it? He bit down on his lip to stop the sudden trembling that began as he thought of what removing it would entail.
His stomach growled and he became aware of another discomfort; a clenching ache in his belly that demanded to be filled. He had barely eaten yesterday and by all accounts had slept the whole day away. No wonder his limbs felt leaden and his body weak.
‘Hello! Is anyone there?’ he called. His throat rasped painfully. He coughed and tried once more. ‘Woman? Dove? Where are you? I’m hungry.’
Roger waited for her to arrive with increasing irritation. Possibly the wench would be serving in the room downstairs and could not spare the time immediately. The inn was unusually silent compared to those Roger had been in before. Perhaps that wasn’t the reason. He would have to go in search.
He tried to move his arms, but they would not lift from beside his body. The right arm he expected to be weaker, but the left had nothing to hinder it. With mounting anxiety he tried again. Something was preventing him. He took a deep breath and tried to fight down his fear, but visions filled him of a life of paralysis, his body useless and relying on the goodwill of others to survive. A puppet being fed and wiped like a babe.
His father’s form swam before Roger, his puckered eyes gazing sightlessly on Roger’s face and his twisted arm hanging limply by his side.
