With his booted foot, Cyn pried open the door of the wattle-and-daub home built in the heart of the forest. As Lancelot slipped inside out of the pouring rain, and the stout door eased outward, laughter greeted Cyn: a woman’s giggle blended with a man’s chuckle.
Inwardly, Cyn cringed, for he recognized Dyane’s sultry laugh. He was in no mood for her bold flirtations today. However, she was a good soul, one he could depend on, and Lady Suffield needed care as quickly as possible.
“Borden,” he shouted as he maneuvered his way through the doorway, taking care not to bump the lady’s limbs or lolling head against the embrasure. Rainwater squelched inside Cyn’s boots and dripped from his garments onto the planks. Inside at last, he set down his bow and drew a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of home: wood smoke, drying herbs, and cooking pottage.
Lancelot trotted away, while a wiry, gray-haired man hurried from the kitchen. His bright blue eyes widened. “Milord. You left to arrest poachers and returned with a beautiful maiden.”
“Her name is Lady Suffield,” Cyn said. “William’s men found me in the woods. They were searching for her.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
The older man’s gaze slid over the unconscious lady, and his face creased into a worried frown. “I see blood on her garments.”
“She hurt her leg. She needs stitches.”
Concern darkened Borden’s gaze. “I will boil water right away and fetch the other necessary supplies, milord.” He spun on his heel, almost rushing headlong into the plump, black-haired woman who’d strolled up behind him. Her dark gray, lawn gown was cut exceedingly low in front and exposed a shocking amount of cleavage. Her garment was also dry, indicating she’d arrived a while ago, mayhap even before the storm broke.
“Forgive me,” Borden said, brushing past her and disappearing into the kitchen.
“Good day, Dyane,” Cyn said before striding into the main part of the home where a fire burned in a large stone hearth. His arms were tiring from bearing the lady’s weight, but more importantly, he wanted to tend to her wound.
Lancelot had lain down by the hearth alongside his fellow wolfhounds, Guinevere and Galahad. The dogs raised their heads to watch Cyn but didn’t move from their warm spot.
“I brought ye some fresh eggs, bread, butter, cheese, and milk,” Dyane said, following Cyn to the cushioned oak chair where he shooed away a sleeping cat and then gently set the lady down. “I didn’t realize such nasty weather was brewin’ today.”
Of course she had. Dyane wasn’t witless. Like most farm folk, she knew the signs of an impending storm. Yet, Cyn merely smiled as he straightened, rolling his shoulders to ease the knots gathered there. He took the wet quiver of arrows from his shoulder and set it by the hearth. “’Tis a very bad storm. You must wait here for the worst of it pass.”
She beamed as if he’d invited her to strip naked. “I will. Thank ye.”
“Thank you for the food. I trust Borden paid you for it?”
“Aye, ’e did.”
With stiff, numb fingers, Cyn began to work the silver pin securing his cloak. “Any news?” he asked, meeting her gaze. Dyane served drinks at her brother’s tavern several days a week and heard all kinds of gossip that might be of interest to a sheriff. Cyn paid her well for the information she shared.
Dyane wrinkled her nose. “I do not know if ’tis important, but the tavern ’as been busier than usual lately.”
“Busier? How?”
“More lords visitin.’ I’ve seen the same curly-’aired man several times over the past sennight. Always, ’e is with different men, and ’e sits at the back, where I cannot draw near without them seeing. I’ve tried ta eavesdrop while scrubbin’ tables, changin’ candles in the ’olders, and suchlike—but the men always shut up until I’ve moved on.”
“Keep watch,” Cyn said, the pin finally coming undone. He set it on a side table and then strode to the carved box on a nearby shelf, from which he withdrew a few coins. She slowly tucked them down between her breasts. Catching him watching, she grinned, revealing the wide gap between her front teeth.
Saints above. He would have been wise to have resisted ogling her.
Before he could move away, she closed the distance between them, her greedy hands sliding up the front of his cloak. “Tsk, tsk. Yer garments are soaked through.” A lusty twinkle lit her eyes. “I can ’elp ye get out of those garments. I can work fast when—”
Borden strode into the room, carrying a large bowl. Several towels were tucked under his arm. “The boiled water, milord.”
Thank God.
Cyn caught Dyane’s still-moving hands and eased her away. Meeting Borden halfway, Cyn took the items and set them on a side table. “Help me move the cot from my chamber. I will need clean bedding and blankets, too.”
“Aye, milord.”
“What can I do?” Dyane asked, as Cyn started to follow Borden.
“Thank you for offering, but we have the situation in hand.”
She pouted and set her hands on her generous hips. “Ye really should get out of those wet clothes. Ye’ll fall ill. ’Ow will ye do yer sheriff duties then?”
True. Cyn’s gaze slid to the lady, still slumped in the chair. She hadn’t moved since he set her down. Her eyes were still shut, her face was ashen, and her lips were turning blue. She, too, needed to get out of her soaked garments as soon as possible.
While Cyn considered himself more than skilled at undressing women, ’twould not be proper for him to remove this lady’s clothes, regardless of the circumstances.
Dyane had raised four healthy children and had cared for her bedridden, elderly mother. Mayhap he should make use of the woman’s many talents.
He smiled at her, and was rewarded by the excited gleam in her eyes. “There is indeed something you can do for me, Dyane.”
***
Pain forced Magdalen out of the oblivion of sleep. Her eyelids still closed, she moaned. As the discomfort surged again, she gasped, and her eyes flew open.
“Sorry,” a man said, followed by a sloshing noise: the sound of a cloth dropping into water. “Easy, now.”
She blinked to clear her blurry vision. As her pain dulled to an awful throbbing, memories of what had happened earlier raced through her mind. She remembered an archer—the local sheriff—silently commanding her to surrender to him, and found him standing down by her calves. He’d shed his green cloak and brown garments, and was now dressed in a gray tunic and hose. Somehow, he looked even more austere than in the storm-ravaged woods.
Her heart lurched, and she fought an overwhelming sense of panic as he turned to a side table and put down a large earthenware bowl. Had William caught her? How had she come to be in this place? What had happened since she’d fainted?
The sheriff’s piercing gaze locked with hers, causing a shudder to crawl through her. As he dried his hands on a cloth, he said, “I did not mean to hurt you, milady.” His was the voice she’d heard moments ago. How strange that he spoke gently, as though he didn’t want to frighten her. “Are you still in pain?”
“N-not as much as a moment ago.”
“All right. I will wait then.” He set the cloth on the table and began sorting what looked like lengths of linen bandage.
He was going to wait? Wait for what? A clinking noise, the sound of metal striking earthenware, came from another part of the building. Someone else was close by: William, or his men?
Her pulse became a fierce hammering in her breast, for so many elements of her surroundings were unfamiliar: the strong herbal scent that seemed to be coming from the bowl on the table; the texture of the cloth against her skin; and the pattering noise of rain hitting a roof not far above her head. She was lying on her back on a bed and propped up by pillows, although the last thing she remembered was standing by the log in the forest…
The feather pillow under her head rustled as she glanced about. This wasn’t a chamber at Glemstow Keep. This building was made of wattle-and-daub, not mortared stone, and was filled with shadows, furnishings, and animals she didn’t recognize.
Had the sheriff brought her here on William’s orders? While the fire-lit shadows offered comfort, she might be in grave peril, especially when her injured leg would hinder any attempts at fleeing.
“W-where am I?” she asked, drawing a sidelong glance from the sheriff.
“You are in my home.”
His home? “Did you bring me here f-from the forest? Or did you—?”
“We are still in the forest. And aye, I brought you here, after you fainted.”
Heat burned her face. How stupid of her to have swooned. She should have been stronger than that, but she’d been frightened, and then she’d seen the blood—
“Do not worry. You are quite safe.”
His words offered reassurance, but how could she be sure she was out of danger? “I do not recall your name,” she said, hating that she sounded anxious.
“I am Cynric Woodrow, sheriff of these lands. You may have seen me at Glemstow, on the occasions I have visited there.”
She swallowed, her throat painfully tight. As an officer of the crown, he’d sworn to uphold the laws of England. Would he honor them if he knew the contents of the missive, especially when that letter implicated William in a plot to commit murder?
“You are Magdalen Suffield,” the sheriff confirmed, as though determined to have a proper introduction.
She nodded.
The faintest smile touched his mouth. “I should have said Lady Magdalen Suffield.”
There was no point in denying her noble status. It might earn her more respect in the circumstances. Yet, if he knew this much about her, what else did he know?
Panic welled, but then he returned to the bedside, moving with such elegant grace for a trained warrior. He looked down at her legs and pressed his fingers to her right calf. With the light touch of his skin upon hers, she realized the blanket draped over the rest of her body was pushed back to bare her lower legs. Embarrassment whipped through her that her legs should be revealed to his—a man and a stranger’s—view, but then, she saw the raw, red gash that was still oozing blood onto a towel he’d placed under her limb.
Her stomach churned at the sight of the crimson stain, some of it thinned to a pinkish color on the damp towel. Memories of her mother’s difficult childbirth surfaced, but Magdalen forced them back down. She didn’t dare be distracted. Not now.
“Is the wound…deep?”
“Deep enough, I am afraid,” Cynric said, his straight, dark brown hair shifting back from his face as he met her stare. “I will do my best to ensure that when ’tis healed, you will have no more than a faint scar.”
“Thank you,” she said, even as a warning buzzed at the back of her mind. Why would Cynric care about her injury? Why had he bothered to bring her here? William’s men had been in the forest; the sheriff could have easily handed her over to them and be done with her, but he’d chosen to take responsibility for her.
There was more he wasn’t telling her. There had to be.
“Please,” she said, keeping her voice low; William might be in the other room. “Did William order you to—?”
“William had no say in my actions,” the sheriff said.
“He is not here, then? Nor his men?”
“Nay.”
“There is someone else here, though. I heard—”
“My steward, Borden.”
If Cynric had a steward, he was not just a sheriff, but a lord, although most noblemen she knew lived in castles, not wattle-and-daub forest homes.
Cynric’s fingers moved again, touching upon tender flesh. She winced, even as his hand immediately lifted away from her leg. He seemed genuinely concerned about her pain, and yet, he had to have a reason for helping her, beyond a chivalric desire to help a wounded lady.
Mayhap he’d found the missive.
Oh, God, nay.
She’d been so careful. Before fleeing the keep, she’d cut open the hem of her left sleeve, wrapped the missive in extra cloth to protect it, then tucked it inside for safekeeping, and quickly sewn the opening in the hem shut—a simple task as she’d been doing needlework since she was eight years old. She’d quickly done a matching line of stitches on the right sleeve, so the stitches would appear to be part of the garment’s design.
However, Cynric might have found the letter once she’d fainted. He could be protecting her now, because he knew what she’d discovered. Or, his help might be a deception. He might be keeping her here, winning her trust as he cared for her, so he could find out exactly what she knew about the missive and what she intended to do with it before handing her over to William.
Frowning, Cynric glanced at her again, as if he sensed her dangerous musings. She wanted to ask about the missive, but if he didn’t know about it, she’d be making him aware of it.
She could start by inquiring about her clothes, for the garment she was wearing now—what little she could see of it—certainly didn’t belong to her; that would help her determine whether he’d discovered the letter. Her fingers curled against the bedding, for she must be very careful, until she knew whether or not she could trust this man.
Sighing, he glanced over his shoulder. “Borden,” he called, “what is keeping you?”
“All right, milord.” The steward’s voice urged patience. “’Tis almost done.”
“Almost done?” Magdalen’s voice hitched. “W-what—?”
“He has great skill with herbs. He is making you a drink. ’Twill help with your pain while I stitch your wound.”
Stitches. That meant he was going to push a needle and thread through her ripped and bleeding flesh, time and again, until the injury was sewn closed. Oh, God.
The bitter taste of bile touched the back of her throat. “Do you have to s-stitch the wound?”
“I am afraid so.”
“Oh…” She clapped a hand over her mouth and drew several breaths through her nose. Her head spun, but now was not a wise moment to faint again.
The sheriff touched her arm. “Magdalen. Trust me, all right?”
Part of her wanted to trust him, but surely, she was far wiser to be cautious. Forcing herself to take slow, calming breaths, she lowered her hand back down to the bedding. “Cynric—”
“Cyn. ’Tis what most folk call me.” His smile softened the harshness in his features, and her stomach fluttered in a most peculiar manner.
“Cyn,” she repeated. His name sounded just like the word sin. “I was wondering—”
“Before you ask, as I am certain ’tis of concern to you, I did not remove your wet garments. Dyane, a local woman who was visiting earlier, did that before she left.”
Relief wove through Magdalen. She was most grateful that he hadn’t undressed her. Imagining his strong, callused hands moving upon her body when she was senseless made her tremble inside.
“Even your chemise was soaked,” he added, busy adjusting the blanket, “so she dressed you in one of my long shirts.”
A renewed blush warmed Magdalen’s cheeks. That explained why the garment was so very soft; ’twas made for a lord, and therefore was of the finest quality linen. She’d like to examine it more thoroughly, but ’twould mean lifting the edge of the blanket tucked securely under her armpits and she had no wish to do that with Cyn watching.
More importantly, she must find out what had happened to her clothes, especially her gown. “My—”
“Also, in case you were wondering,” he cut in, a flush darkening his cheekbones. “I was not present when you were undressed. Borden and I waited in the other room until Dyane finished, so you need not fret that either of us have seen more than your legs.”
He seemed most concerned that she understood naught improper had happened while she was unconscious. How curious and…undeniably charming. Magdalen nodded, and was rewarded by Cyn’s relieved nod in return.
“My clothes,” she said, determined to finally have an answer. “Where—?”
“By the fire,” Cyn said. “They are drying.”
She turned her head on the pillow to see the hearth. Three wolfhounds were dozing with their paws stretched onto the glazed tiles, one of them the dog Magdalen had encountered in the forest. In Magdalen’s quick glance earlier, she’d seen the rope tied between two large chairs, but had thought the garments were someone else’s. Her gown was draped there, along with her chemise. Her shoes and leather bag were tied to the rope as well.
Was the missive still concealed in her sleeve? What of the ruby she’d stowed in her bag? Without it, she had no way to pay for a new start—
“Here we are.” A thin, gray-haired man with a cheerful smile walked into the room. He carried an earthenware mug in his gnarled hands.
“At last,” Cyn muttered.
“I had to be sure the herbal mixture was right.” The man’s intelligent, blue-eyed gaze met Magdalen’s. “Good day, milady.”
“You must be Borden.”
“Indeed, I am.” He set the mug on the side table and bowed, his movements spry despite his advanced age. “How are you feeling? I was sorry to hear you have a nasty wound—”
“Please,” Cyn cut in. “Give her the drink.”
“Of course, milord. We are merely getting acquainted first. A bit of courtly civility—”
“Borden,” the sheriff growled.
Concern touched the older man’s eyes as he glanced from the injury to his scowling lord. Borden nodded briskly and then offered the mug to Magdalen.
Her hands closed around it, and she inhaled the earthy scent of the greenish brew; it had the crushed-plant smell of the forest.
“’Tis an excellent blend, if I do say so myself.” Borden grinned. “I started with some Poppy, then added Chamomile, Valerian, and—”
“Later, we can discuss such matters,” Cyn said, clearly impatient. “Milady, we need you to drink.”
Magdalen didn’t know much about herbs, but was familiar with the medicinal properties of Poppies. She’d helped her mother down a strong Poppy infusion before…
“Please,” Cyn said, more gently, but his tone was still earnest. “You will not come to harm in my home, I promise. You must drink now. I cannot wait any longer to tend to your wound.”
Beside Cyn, Borden smiled at her, his expression kind.
She studied the drink again, her conscience telling her to resist. Yet, she did need to have her wound cleaned and sewn, especially if she planned to flee as soon as she was able. And, truth be told, she’d rather not be awake to watch the stitching.
Moreover, she was exhausted, more tired than when she’d spent the whole day and half of the night caring for Timothy, when Edwina had been ill with an upset stomach.
If she rested now, her clothes also might be dry when she woke.
Encouraged by that thought, she raised the mug to her lips and drank. The brew was sweetened with honey, but had a bitter aftertaste.
“Drink it all down, now,” Borden coaxed. When she handed him the empty mug, he winked. “See? Not so unpleasant.”
Cyn’s fingers pressed upon her leg again. Flinching, Magdalen tilted her head to better see what he was doing, but soon, her eyelids grew heavy. She tried to lift her hand from the bedding, but her arm was leaden.
Her eyes slipped closed, and then she knew only darkness.