HEART TO HEART
The screens covered the window, though even without them, it would have been dark. Camden looked into the hearth-fire where gold-orange flames danced and made shadows sway.
He was alone in the room, for which he was grateful. The worst thing, in his mind, about infirmaries, was the general air of shared misery. People far worse wounded than you were, really adding to your discomfort by insisting on comparing scars, or sharing their horrific injuries.
All the same, on his own for the first time in such a place, Camden found he actually missed it.
Any company is better than my own thoughts.
He shifted restlessly under the sheets, feeling as restless as the fire that hissed and flickered brightly in the grate. He needed to leave here.
Moving was still achingly demanding, but not as agonizing as it has been yesterday. He shifted again and contemplated sitting up. Whist! I need to walk. Even if all he did was go to the window, move back the screen and look on the stars.
He shifted and stood up. His ribs flared a warning in red-dark pain through his body and he bent over, gasping. Then, hissing, he stood up.
“...and I've settled him in the room with the window,” a voice said. He tensed. It was Brother Alec. On perpetual night duty, it seemed. Coming his way.
Bollocks.
He sprang into bed, gasped in agony and lay down, closing his eyes.
“And I think you'll be pleased to tell the abbot he's improving, brother,” the man was saying. Camden frowned as he heard the two men approaching. “And tell him the garlic poultice was a true blessing – the swelling is much abated.”
Camden looked up as the sound of the footsteps altered and they walked in. Two monks. They both wore the shapeless white robes of the Benedictine order, and the one stood hunched, hands clasped before him. The other, Brother Alec, was frowning at him seriously.
“And then he...ah! Here he is. Awake,” he added.
Camden, who had quickly ensured his eyes were closed, felt disgruntled. Oh, well. If I'm found out, at least I don't need to pretend anymore. He opened them and frowned.
The shorter of the two monks had an eerie familiarity. He had no idea where he'd seen that contemplative posture, the pale hands. He felt the memory tickle at the back of his brain, then elude him. He watched the two approach.
“I shouldn't have disturbed, sir,” the brother he'd met earlier said to him gravely. “Save that we have a special envoy from Queensferry. He wished to visit our infirmary and report back to his own abbot. He is Brother Marcus.”
Camden nodded, letting his gaze rove to the new man who stood, hands concealed in his sleeves now, voluminous robe full-cowled so that he could only see the soft chin and wide lips.
“Good evening, Brother,” he said respectfully.
The monk bowed fractionally and Rufus turned to his friend, who made a small huff of awkwardness.
“Our esteemed brother has taken a vow of silence,” he explained. “He greets you in his own way.”
“I see,” Camden said, feeling a bit nervous. Who was this monk? What was it about him that was at once strange and somehow familiar?
“Well,” Brother Alec said uncomfortably. “I must ask if you will let our esteemed brother examine your wound, sir. He has conveyed to me an interest in observing our technique of bandaging. And since you're our only patient with a breakage wound, it must be you.”
“Oh,” Camden said neutrally. He shifted awkwardly. “Well, then,” he said.
Not much I can do about it, is there? If some envoy wants to poke about in my bandages, he'll just have to do it. I don't trust him overmuch.
“Thank you, sir.” Brother Alec seemed relieved. He bowed and turned to the monk.
“Apologies, Brother Marcus. I must away – duty calls me to attend my other patients.”
The silent monk bowed and Brother Alec left. When he had gone, Camden shifted awkwardly.
“Right,” he said. He sat and rolled up the long shapeless tunic he wore, exposing a muscle-corded abdomen.
The figure shook his head, making an urgent gesture. Stop, the gesture conveyed.
Camden let the shirt fall. Then he stared in utter astonishment as the figure looked round at the door, and then moved his cowl.
The cowl, falling back, revealed red hair.
Masses of curly red hair.
“Rubina?”
Camden stared, horror at the monk's transformation giving way to wonder and delight. He laughed.
She put a finger to her lips, though he noticed that her eyes were shining. “Hush,” she said.
He nodded and bit his cheeks, holding back the grin and the exclamation of amazement he wanted to make. He felt his cheeks color, realizing how dangerously close he had just come to revealing all to her.
“How...why..?” he whispered, embarrassment giving way to elation. “My lady? Why did you come here?”
She bit her full red lip. “I had to see you,” she said simply. “Sir Camden, war is brewing. It's all over the court. I couldn't risk you leaving without...without saying goodbye.”
He stared at her. His heart surged. She really cared! He tried to speak, but found his throat was tight with hard-held tears.
“My lady,” he said gruffly. “I...thank you,” he said softly. “I value it greatly,” he added solemnly.
She blinked and he thought her eyes seemed luminous, almost as if she was about to cry. He dismissed the thought quickly. Why would she?
“I'm sorry, sir,” she said tightly. “I didn't mean to offend you.”
“Offend?” he laughed, then winced as he realized he'd raised his voice. He resumed whispering. “My lady! Why would I be offended? I just have to ask you – how did you come by those robes? And to think of such a plan! It's remarkable.”
She grinned then, and he felt his heart stop, watching the happy smile transform her countenance. He would give anything to make her smile like that more often.
“I made it,” she said in answer to his first question. “And, well...I'm just glad the plan came to my mind.”
“I, too,” he said before he'd thought about it.
They looked at each other. Their eyes held. He felt a slow throbbing that started in his body and ended, surprisingly, in his heart. It wasn't just her beauty that affected him, though it was remarkably affecting. It was her.
Her lively mind, her gentleness, her ingenuity. Her difference.
She was a remarkable woman.
“Well,” he said gruffly. “You certainly fooled Brother Alec,”
She giggled and the sound shivered through him, making his loins tighten swiftly.
“I suppose I did,” she said with a big smile. “Poor fellow. It's sinful of me. But, then, if ladies could come in here openly, I wouldn't be reduced to deception.”
He nodded, smiling despite himself.
“You came in before,” he pointed out.
“That was different. The Abbot and I have an agreement.”
“Oh?” His brow raised in some astonishment. “How so?”
She looked round, and then sat down on the stool by the bed. “I'll tell you.”
As she told the story – how she'd been assisting a servant who'd been mauled by a hunting-dog, and the monk had observed her do it – he studied her. Her pale, long neck glowed softly in the dying firelight, and those luminous eyes lit with compassion or softened with memory. He felt his gaze drawn to her full lips and found his thoughts filling with how wondrous it would feel to plunge his tongue between them, plying her soft mouth with his kisses.
“And so I wondered what you thought,” she said. Camden flushed hotly, realizing he'd been asked his opinion on something and he'd been too distracted to hear.
“Sorry, milady?” he asked. “What was that?”
“I asked about hunting,” she said.
“Oh!” he felt relieved. “Well, I do it,” he said. She frowned and he guessed that she probably didn't approve. As it was, his experience was somewhat unpalatable too.
“Oh,” she said.
“Well, to be honest, I hate it,” he admitted shyly. “I went out too young – I wasn't much past ten years old when Father first took me with the men. I shot a deer. Badly. I still remember the scream of the poor thing as its leg shattered under the arrow. It took my father and three men to catch it and kill it cleanly, despite its wounding.”
He whistled, recalling that day. Then looked at her – she was sitting with hands covering her mouth, eyes big with shock.
“Poor deer. Poor you,” she added compassionately. “To see such a thing. It wasn't your fault.”
He swallowed hard. Of all the things that bothered him about that day, the fact that he'd butchered a harmless animal so cruelly was the worst. It was one thing if the deer was alive, then not. It was by far another if it suffered.
“It was my fault, for shooting when I knew I would miss,” he said. “I did it because I was more afraid of my father.”
He saw her face soften tenderly and let out a long, shuddering sigh. That was a shame to him, he realized. More than he'd realized. He had been a coward to shoot then, his fear of his father outweighing his sense and his compassion. Had he been braver, he would have defied the man.
“You were ten,” she said. “You should never have been there.”
He blinked in surprise. “You're right.”
She chuckled. “I am indeed.”
He felt his heart soften and smiled up at her. He realized with some astonishment that he'd just revealed his deepest secrets to her. He hardly knew her. Yet here he was, talking about the things that were closest to his heart, the things he'd never tell anyone.
“You're a remarkable woman,” he said.
She stared at him. Her rank disbelief surprised him, reminding him of how shocked she'd seemed when he had called her lovely in the woods those months before.
“You are a disobedient patient,” she countered quickly. “I said you should stay in bed and you've been up and about.”
“I haven't,” he countered quickly. “But how'd you guess?”
She laughed. “You confess to it, then?”
He went red. “I do.”
“Well,” she smiled, eyes sparkling with mischief, “you see that bottle on the tray there?”
“Yes...” he looked at the small metal dish that supported the bottles and kerchiefs and lambs-wool for bandaging. It sat on a small, high table by the bed, more like a spindle-legged stool.
“Well, it's lying flat. There's no way Brother Alec could have upended it,” she added. “You must have stood up and knocked it over – if he'd bumped it, it'd be facing the wall, see?”
He stared in rank amazement. She was right. The tall, thin flask was pointing at the left-hand wall, the way it would have been if he'd bumped it from his position in the bed. The monk would have knocked it over so it fell toward the rear wall, behind him. He shook his head.
“My lady! You're very clever.”
She went red. Then she smiled. “Th...Thank you, sir,” she said. She looked happy and then she bit her lip quizzically. “Not many men would approve of that,” she added.
“Oh?” Camden frowned. He had always considered he'd value having a companion with whom he could discuss things. He knew many men didn't talk to their wives, but he couldn't imagine sharing his life with someone he couldn't talk to.
“No,” she said. “They'd say it didn't befit a woman to be so clever.”
“Well,” he smiled, “I think it's a lovely thing, Lady Rubina. Honest, I do.”
To his amazement, her eyes were wet. She sniffed. “Thank you.”
Camden didn't think about it. He reached out and took her hand. She tensed. He felt his whole body flood with feeling as he touched her. Her skin was soft like some priceless fabric, and warm and irresistible.
As he looked at her it came into his mind that he was here with her alone and he was in bed, wearing only a nightgown. He had her hand in his and she looked into his eyes, her gaze complex with so many tender things.
He swallowed hard. Desire throbbed in him and his mind flooded with images of her and what he wished he was doing right now – kissing her, stroking her soft skin down her back, his face breathing in the fragrance of her hair.
“My lady,” he said hoarsely.
“I should go,” she agreed.
Gently, she extricated her hand from his grasp. He sighed. He could still feel it there, soft warmth in his hand, skin prickling where it had been.
“I think it would be prudent,” he said.
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved. Camden saw her blink, hesitatingly, and her pink tongue made a circuit of her lips, broad-siding him with desire.
“Sir, I should go,” she said. This time, she stood. He felt a deep regret as she looked hastily to the door. She covered her hair with the cowl again. She didn't yet pull it down, however, her big brown eyes watching him sadly.
“Thank you, milady,” he said. Whist, why was his throat so tight? He cleared it, noting with surprise how hoarse his voice had become. What was wrong with him?
“Not at all,” she murmured.
“I...I would have been sorry not to have this time.”
He saw her throat work as she swallowed. “I, too.”
He sighed. His heart actually hurt. Why was it that, just when he had made the acquaintance of someone he felt so strongly for, someone who, though he had only recently met them, seemed so like himself? Someone who seemed a kindred spirit?
“Well, then,” he said.
“Well, then.”
She left and he stared at the door long after she had gone, his heart seeming more painful even than his ribs.