Chapter Six

 

The Baron of Iversly stood behind his closed portcullis gripping the iron grid with blue-veined hands. His hands and his white beard were all that Merry could see, for the sun had sunk behind a hill, and the shadows of night had thickened and spread.

“So,” she heard the baron growl as Luke and his field marshal approached the gate, “you’ve come.” His tone was ponderous with doom, and Merry wondered precisely what task the king had charged the Phoenix to do. His quiet reply frustrated her attempts to overhear.

“I cannot feed an army,” groused the baron through the closed gate.

“We brought a contribution to your kitchens.” Luke indicated the dead boar, a grotesque shadow strung over the back of one of the packhorses.

Silence ensued until, at last, the baron called for the portcullis to be raised. It rumbled upward, revealing an even older man than Merry had first supposed. Exceedingly tall, he turned his back on the army and led the way into his stronghold.

Within the outer bailey, Luke helped Merry dismount. “My squire will look after your cat,” he said, handing her bundle to Erin. “No harm shall befall it,” he reiterated to the boy.

“Yes, my lord.” And Erin went off with the stable hands to make sure the Phoenix’s mount and those of his soldiers were cared for.

With reluctance, she watched him go, hoping Kit wouldn’t run off or come looking for her. Likely there were hounds within the keep, and she was loath to cause a stir by bringing the cat inside.

“Come,” Luke urged her, already turning to follow the baron. She hurried along beside him, her feet still tender.

The Phoenix, Sir Pierce, and Merry entered the inner bailey through a stone arch and, a few feet farther, into the well-lit main building while the rest of the soldiers were left to occupy the sprawling garrison. There, they would find shelter and food.

In the dusky evening light, the baron had no doubt failed to notice her, or if he had, perhaps he’d thought her a squire. Yet as she moved toward the hall’s center, the baroness, who stood waiting with her hands knotted before her, pierced her at once with a curious gaze.

“They’ve come,” said the baron curtly. “The Phoenix and his field marshal, Sir Pierce. Gentlemen, my wife, Lady Iversly.”

The baroness sketched them a distracted curtsy. “Who is this woman?” she demanded, her eyes locked on Merry. Her husband took a second startled look at her before sketching her a bow.

“This is Lady Merry of Heathersgill,” Luke explained. “I’m escorting her to Helmsley.”

The old couple noted her boy’s attire with mute curiosity. When Luke offered no further explanation, they turned their attention back to him. The tension seemed to rise once more, and Merry wondered again at Luke’s task. Did he intend to inspect their ledgers?

The baroness indicated the high table with resignation. “Won’t you join us for supper?” she suggested, her invitation less than warm.

“With pleasure,” Luke smoothly replied.

Lady Iversly preceded them to the dais. “Our sons are in the Holy Lands, so we have plenty of room at our table. Please, won’t you each take a seat?”

Trailing Luke to the table, Merry cast her eyes about the hall. Though neat enough, there were cobwebs in the rafters, and dried flowers were set into pots on each long near-empty table. A sense of timelessness hung over the chamber, enhanced by the yellowed linens.

Within moments of being seated, a page brought a bowl for them to wash their hands. A quick study of the handful of men seated at one lower table determined that the baron’s vassals were as old as he was. They looked incapable of defending their fortress should the need arise.

Immediately, a trencher of grilled trout in herb sauce was placed before her. Merry would share hers with Luke, seated as she was to his left. She ate with gusto, finding that her hunger had caught up with her at last. Without comment, Luke ate quietly beside her, his gaze going from the baron to the baroness to his field marshal and back to his food. The silence was thick and discomfiting.

Merry’s impatience to hear his business rose, yet when talk resumed, she still had no answers. Luke asked questions of their lives, their sons, even their serfs, which they answered in clipped responses. Reaching for her wine to chase down a piece of bread, it dawned on her that the Phoenix was leading the conversation with extreme courtesy, clearly attempting to put the baron and baroness at ease. But why?

At last, when they’d all been served a measure of spiced wine and finished bowls of custard flavored with rose petals, Luke put down his goblet with purpose.

“You understand I have a difficult task to do,” he began, his tone gentle. “The king has declared that structures built without a charter must be taken down. I need to see Iversly’s charter,” he added apologetically.

Taken down! Merry reeled as Luke’s purpose came to light. He’d been sent by King Henry to destroy illegitimate structures. Ah, yes, he’d called them adulterines. What a horrible name for such a beautiful castle!

Leaning in, Merry assessed the baron’s reaction. His expression had darkened with resentment, but he was prepared for the request. Crooking a finger at his steward, he took a rolled parchment from the man and extended it to Luke.

The vellum was brown with age. For the sake of the old couple, Merry hoped that all would be found in accordance with the charter.

Luke read the document in its entirety then carefully put it aside.

“This is the original charter,” he acknowledged. “It was signed by the king’s grandfather and allows for a central keep, an outer wall, and a gatehouse. Can you present a charter that grants you the right to build a garrison, to raise your outer wall, and to construct a tower at either end?”

Merry’s heart sank. She marveled that Luke had taken in such detail on their way inside the keep, but obviously, he knew his task and did it well.

Lord Iversly’s face flushed with emotion.

“Now attend me well,” he growled, gripping the arms of his chair. “Before you go and raze my walls, you should think about the safety of this country. For three score years, I’ve deflected the Scots and the Welsh. I’ve kept the enemy out of England, particularly so that the pampered lords to the south can sit in their plush strongholds and drink Spanish wine!” Spittle flew from his mouth at the force of his last statement.

Merry’s full stomach began to churn. She cast the baroness a worried glance and saw that the woman’s face had gone white. Lady Iversly put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm.

“King Henry will not leave you defenseless,” the Phoenix swore. “I will carry your request for rebuilding straight to His Grace, and you will build again with his authority.”

“Where is the wisdom in that?” challenged the baron, a vein appearing on his wrinkled forehead. “Destroy only to rebuild? It makes no sense at all. I’ve spent my life in service to whomever sits on the throne of England, and this is how I'm repaid?”

The baron shoved back his chair in a show of disgust. “Fie on His Grace, then,” he said, standing. “Fie!” He shook a finger at the Phoenix. “Get out of my home,” he said suddenly. “Get out and take your men with you.”

It was a ridiculous request, for the Phoenix had his royal orders, and his men were already established within Iversly’s walls. The aging men-at-arms stood no chance of thrusting the younger soldiers out of the gates.

Merry held her breath and all eyes were on Lord Luke, who said nothing. He returned the baron’s stare, enjoining him silently to be practical.

Lady Iversly tugged her husband’s sleeve. “Ian, please!” she begged him. “Sit down and try to be reasonable.”

The baron shook her off. “I will not be reasonable,” he thundered. “The king’s terms are unreasonable. The marcher barons have never been given enough of a voice in the—”

He cut his words short and clapped a hand to his heart. His eyes widened, nearly bulging from their sockets.

“Ian?” the baroness cried.

Lord Iversly seemed frozen in place, standing but not breathing. His wife pushed to her feet and put her arms around him. “Ian!” she cried again, fully panicked at his demeanor.

Merry had seen enough. “He’s having an apoplectic fit,” she said to the hall in general. “He’s going to fall,” she added in warning.

Luke jumped to his feet just in time to keep the baron from sagging backward off the dais. The baroness screamed. Luke lowered the unconscious baron onto the platform’s boards, and Merry slipped from her chair to offer help.

She had seen spells of apoplexy before. She knew the dangers it presented to the internal organs, the consequences that often resulted.

“Give him air,” she beseeched of Lady Iversly, who practically lay atop her husband, pleading with him to rise.

Luke cast her a grim look, and in his eyes, she read helplessness. Confidence rose up in her for this was her strength.

“Be calm, my lady,” she said to the baroness. “He is only sleeping. He must be made as comfortable and warm as possible. Is there anyone who can take him to his chambers?”

By then, a number of men-at-arms, servants, and vassals were peering through the legs of the chairs to get a better look. Seeing their gray and white heads, Merry determined that the lot of them together would not be able to carry the lanky baron up the steps.

“Pierce and I will do it,” said Luke, who must have had the same thoughts.

“Good,” said Merry. “Then take him under the arms, but do keep his head low. Please, hold his legs as high as you can,” she directed Luke’s sturdy field marshal.

Both men slid the baron toward the edge of the dais, where they took him in their arms. Merry drew confidence from their obedience. Following the trembling baroness, they moved as a group in the direction of the living quarters.

“In here,” Lady Iversly directed them. They labored to carry the baron down a drafty hall, then up a set of twisting stairs. At last, they arrived at the baron’s solar, a chamber of vast proportion, lit by two oil lamps. A massive bed with drapes of an indeterminate color beckoned them.

Merry drew aside the drapes and pulled the blankets back. Luke and Sir Pierce counted to three and deposited their burden in the center of the bed. The baroness fussed frantically over her husband, making it that much harder to get the man’s limbs beneath the bed clothes.

Merry leaned over her patient, hoping to see his eyelids flutter. As she drew a breath to call for a candle, the Phoenix took her arm. “Come, we will leave them,” he said.

Merry shook him off. “I’ve seen this before. I may be able to help him.”

“We are going,” he repeated in a tone he used on his men.

“If I leave him now, he may die!” she whispered.

Overhearing her, the baroness wailed.

Luke’s hold on Merry’s arm tightened. “Immediately, my lady,” he demanded through gritted teeth. “You are not to draw attention to yourself.”

Merry fought his hold. “You don’t understand. I can help him.”

“Not this time.” Using his superior strength, he propelled her toward the door. She had no choice but to abandon Lord Iversly.

“Wait,” called the baroness, dabbing at her eyes. “You must be given rooms here in the keep.”

“We’ll sleep in the garrison,” Luke answered more gently.

“A lady does not sleep with soldiers,” Lady Iversly retorted. Still crouched over her husband, she unhooked the keys that hung on her girdle and called one of the servants from the hallway.

“Nevil,” she said to the steward. “Kindly see that the lady is put in Ewan’s chamber and the two men lodged in Selwin’s. The rooms are clean though they may smell musty. It’s been . . . so long since my sons have lodged at home.” She handed the man her ring of keys, and as she turned away, she sent Merry an imploring look.

There was no mistaking it for anything but a plea for help. Merry’s resolve doubled. She would placate the Phoenix and then return to the baron’s solar to help if she could.

The trio followed Nevil into the hall. “Go back to work,” the surly steward bellowed to the lingering servants. “There’s naught ye can do but pray. This way,” he added.

He led them a short distance down the hall and thrust a key into the door. “This were Ewan’s room which the . . .” he ran a dubious look over Merry’s attire, “the lady may use. Only don’t touch nothin’,” he warned, grabbing a lit torch from the hall. “The baroness wants everything to be the way it was when the masters return.”

He mumbled something under his breath as he entered the chamber and then used the lit torch to light three candles left about the room.

Merry forgot her resentment momentarily. As the flames brightened, she made out a handsome chamber with deep green drapes and matching tapestries. The odor of disuse greeted her nostrils as she waded deeper. Her gaze fell upon the dust that blanketed the wardrobe chest. “How long have Ewan and Selwin been gone?” she asked out of curiosity.

Nevil cut her a dark look. “We don’t keep track o’ the time,” he replied.

“Open the window,” Luke suggested to the servant, and Nevil did so, then lumbered out of the room, leading Sir Pierce to the next chamber.

The Phoenix lingered, his gaze sharp on Merry’s face.

“You’re not to offer your services,” he warned her again.

“Why not?” she demanded, her spine stiff with resentment.

“The Church has clerics and soldiers scouring the county for you,” he reminded her. “You’re not to draw notice to yourself.”

Down the hall came the groaning of a lock as Nevil opened another door.

“My well-being pales in comparison to the baron’s, don’t you think?” Merry argued. “I have to help him.”

He stepped close enough to put his hands heavily on her shoulders. “If you aid the baron and he dies, what then? You’ll be blamed.”

“He won’t die if I help!” she insisted.

He placed a finger on her lips, silencing her, and arguments frittered away like fireflies melting into darkness.

“As long as you are in my protection, you will do as I say,” he told her. “You may comfort the baroness if you wish, but nothing else. No attempting to heal with any potions or whatnot. Give me your word.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe for his finger was straying across the fullness of her lower lip, leaving a trail of pleasure in its wake.

“Sometimes I think you are a witch,” he muttered, drawing his hand away.

Merry’s insides quivered and her voice, when she found it had become a husky whisper. “You said I was a lady.”

His gaze dropped to her breasts as he took a deliberate step back. “You would do well to remember that.” Then he turned toward the door, casting her a final, backward glance. “Rest well,” he said, disappearing into the hall.

When her heart resumed its normal beat, Merry realized she’d gotten away with not giving him her word. She listened for the sound of Luke entering the chamber next to hers, and then she sat on her bed in the midst of the faded counterpane.

The very moment she was certain he was sleeping, she would slip from her room to comfort the distressed baroness, promising her a tonic that would, by the grace of God, save her husband’s life.

 

The sound of shattering stone awakened Merry the following morning. She cracked an eye. The light beaming through the fragile seams of her bed’s drapery was already bright. Jesu! She had overslept.

She threw back the musty bedcovers and hurried to the washbasin.

The Phoenix had clearly begun his work of tearing down unsanctioned structures. He’d wasted no time, Merry reflected, scrubbing her face. The water was cold, unlike the steaming buckets that had arrived late the previous night, along with a large, copper tub—a token of the baroness’s gratitude.

Merry had promised to brew a tonic first thing in the morning. Lady Iversly’s relief was all she needed to defy the Phoenix outright. Yet the baroness had warned her that the castle physic had died two years prior, and there were no medicines readily available.

With hasty fingers, Merry unraveled the plaits of her hair, causing it to fall into waves, still damp from her late bath. She ran her fingers swiftly through them before hastening to the baron’s solar.

The baron’s door flew open at her knock. “He’s awake,” cried the pale-faced baroness. “He tries to speak but is unable. He grows more agitated by the moment.”

Merry found the baron propped against a mountain of pillows, a manservant hovering over him. When he tried to speak, only a gurgling escaped him. She hoped she was not too late to help.

Taking the woman’s trembling hand, she said, “Dear Lady Iversly—”

The older lady interrupted, “My name is Adelle. You may call me such.”

Merry nodded. “Adelle, please take me to your herb garden.”

Her hopes sank minutes later, for the herb garden resembled a graveyard, complete with leaning headstones. Neglect had killed most of the plants.

“This won’t work,” she admitted. The thunder of pickaxes cast a pall of gloom over the enclosed garden. “We have to find a plant growing wild. Let us haste to the outer ward.”

Together, the women left the keep. As they crossed the courtyard, Kit leapt from a window slit in the garrison and bounded up to greet them.

“Kit!” Merry cried, scooping him up for a quick kiss on the top of his head. “I’ve missed you, too.”

At Adelle’s curious look, she put the cat down hastily and continued on their course. Oblivious to his betrayal, Kit trailed happily behind.

The trio filed into the bailey where the sun had already scaled the walls, infusing the air with summerlike warmth. Normally, this strip of land between the inner and outer baileys would have been used for training. At Iversly, however, weeds had besieged the practice field and taken over. The men-at-arms were all too old to hone their skills.

Merry glanced uneasily at the eastern tower. Though half hidden by the scaffolding they had erected and surrounded by men, Luke was easy to spy upon the wall walk. Whereas most of the men wore sleeveless tunics and caps upon their heads to protect against the sun, with his swarthy complexion, he stood shirtless, his back to her as he directed the operation. A metallic clamor filled the air, and rock pattered the earth not far away.

Fearing he would spy her and guess her intent, Merry hurried around the corner, with the baroness and Kit close behind. Once out of sight of the army, she fixed her gaze on the ground, and the hunt for a treatment began.

They had reached the far side of the castle before she found what she needed. Hardy stalks of motherwort, with their tiny pink flowers, grew in thick clumps.

“Here!” Merry cried triumphantly, pulling several plants, roots and all, from the soil.

Sarah had often used a powdered form of motherwort to settle the wombs of pregnant women. Its warm properties calmed the heart and induced tranquility—and it was the perfect remedy to counteract the baron’s agitation.

Relieved to have found something, Merry gripped the long stalks in one hand. “Is there another entrance?” she asked the baroness.

Adelle frowned at her, not understanding.

“There is the postern gate,” she admitted, “but we keep it locked.”

“Don’t you have the key?”

“Not I. The master-at-arms keeps it.”

Merry swallowed hard. “We’ll have to be swift then,” she said, offering no explanation. Keeping close to the wall, she let the mistress of the house lead the way back to the main entrance, relieved that Kit, at least, was chasing crickets and had ceased to follow.

The sudden quiet warned her that the soldiers were resting. Peeking around the corner, she cursed her timing. The men had descended from the tower to gather around a barrel of ale. Passing shirtless men was not a circumstance she would have relished anyway, and certainly not then, knowing the commander would have something to say if he saw her.

Swiveling on her toes, she determined to bide her time until their path was clear.

“What is it?” the baroness asked. A long wisp of gray hair had worked free of her headdress. Her blue eyes reflected suffering and bafflement.

Merry took immediate pity on her. She could not afford to be cowed by Lord Luke’s demands. “If the Phoenix forbids me to help you,” she urged the woman, “you must speak up for me, else your husband will go untreated.”

“Why would he forbid it?” the baroness inquired. “Does he want my husband to die?”

“Nay, nay, ’tisn’t that!” Merry assured her. “He doesn’t want me to be blamed should . . .” she hesitated, then plunged ahead, “should your husband not improve,” she finished, supplying Luke’s excuse.

“He must get better!” cried the baroness. She wrenched the stalks of motherwort from Merry’s hand and marched around the corner alone. Merry had no choice but to hurry after her. She ran straight into the Phoenix, who had apparently set out in search of them.

Leaping back, Merry felt dismay surge through her at coming face-to-face with him so abruptly. She had seen him shirtless before but only in the dark. This morning, his torso gleamed with sweat; his muscles bulged. With his night-black hair slicked back from his forehead, his golden-brown eyes seemed sharper than ever, like an eagle’s.

The slight crease between his eyebrows caused Merry’s stomach to drop. She was exceedingly grateful that the baroness held the motherwort.

“Good day,” Merry said, forcing lightness into her greeting. “Lady Iversly and I were taking a walk.”

He unpinned her with his gaze long enough to greet the baroness. “’Tis rather hot for a walk,” he commented, his tone laced with skepticism. His gaze flickered to the stalks clutched in the baroness’s hands.

Merry glanced at the line of dark hair arrowing from Luke’s chest to the waistline of his braies. The sight of it caused her to lose track of the conversation.

“The heat is tremendous,” agreed Lady Iversly. “Thus we are heading in anon. Good day.” She brushed by Luke with her shoulders squared.

He stepped to one side, blocking Merry’s path as she made to follow. “Did I not make my wishes clear to you, lady?” he demanded quietly. Twin flames of anger flickered in his eyes.

Did nothing get by him? She jutted her chin into the air and tried to look down her nose at him—an impossible feat as he towered over her.

“Do I tell you how to do your work?” she countered. “Nay. Go back to tearing down towers then, and leave me to mine.”

Quick as a striking snake, he encircled her upper arm with this hand and gripped her firmly. “My work isn’t likely to kill an old man,” he retorted. “If I cannot trust you to stay out of trouble, then I will keep you by my side.”

Her mouth dropped open with surprise. Yet she didn’t believe him. Surely, she would be too much of a burden to him trailing after him in the midst of the demolition.

“’Tis your work that has made him ill in the first place,” she retorted sharply, trying in vain to free herself from his iron-fingered grasp. “I wager if you stopped your destruction, he would rally within a day.”

The baroness returned then, glaring at the Phoenix and taking hold of Merry’s other arm as though to wrest her from his grasp. Slowly, he released his captive.

“Excuse us,” Lady Iversly cut in with an offended tone. “We were enjoying each other’s company.” She tugged Merry forcibly away.

Well done, Merry thought. Relishing her victory, she couldn’t resist a backward glance and was pleased to note a dull blush on Lord Luke’s cheekbones as he glowered after them.

She realized with amazement that she’d enjoyed their confrontation. It made no sense that she would find pleasure in defying him. Not only was he a warrior, but she was utterly at his mercy. He could do with her as he pleased—lock her in her chamber, punish her physically if he wished. Only she had no fear he would take such measures. He’d treated her well, not laying hands on her up to that point, content to lecture her where another man might have struck her.

More than that, she’d begun to realize a certain power within herself, something Luke was wary of. He was not unmindful of her wishes, she was certain. Exactly how much she could get away with, she would have to discover for herself.

Meanwhile, the thrill of defying him sizzled in her blood. For the moment, anyway, she’d gained the reprieve she needed to treat the baron’s malady.

 

 

With the sun beating down on his shoulders, Luke watched the pair flee, clutching their bouquet of ugly flowers like children pilfering sweets from the kitchen.

God’s blood, the woman had defied him outright! The toss of her flaming hair was like the wave of a silken banner at the head of a retinue charging into battle. He was tempted to chase her down and turn her over his knee! Only he’d never beaten a woman in his life, and he didn’t intend to start, no matter how much the lady needed to be taught restraint.

There wasn’t a man in his army who would have ignored a direct order from him! He’d made his wishes perfectly clear—she was not to treat the baron.

She’d be lucky if she didn’t kill the old man with those ugly weeds.

He ground his back molars together. Jesu! With such goings-on, she’d be accused of witchcraft before they even left Iversly! Her good intentions would count for naught if the baroness turned against her. Yet for the time being, the distraught woman had put her faith in Merry, and it would seem heartless to wrest the young lady from her side.

He would do it on the morrow, instead, before Merry found herself the scapegoat for an old man’s demise. Recalling her parting words, he experienced a wrenching of guilt. If the man did die, it wouldn’t be Merry’s fault. In that, she spoke true. ’Twas the threat to raze his castle that had brought on the fit. Luke shifted his feet, uncomfortable with his conclusions.

Regardless of the cause, though, Merry would be blamed since the baron had collapsed in her company and even more so if she tried to give him some potion. Had she no sense of self-preservation?

Luke narrowed his eyes. Nay, she had not, just as she had no sense of obedience. Merry hadn’t responded to an outright order. Clearly, subtler means were necessary. He would have to make her believe she controlled her destiny when, in fact, she did not. He’d dealt with her kind before, though they were usually stubborn nobles, accustomed to getting their way.

He devised a plan. Simple enough. By that time tomorrow, she would be safe beneath his wings and out of harm’s way.

As he climbed the tower steps two at a time, an unsettling thought pricked his satisfaction. Was he truly thinking of Merry’s safety or was he seeking ways to keep her in his company?

He’d not been able to remove her from his thoughts that entire morning.

Shaking his head, he cursed his impulse to touch her lips the night before. Discovering them soft and plump had only heightened his interest in her. Her soft gasp of pleasure had echoed in his mind ever since, thrilling him with each and every recollection.

He’d found himself wondering if she would taste the way she smelled—like sunlight and herbs.

Nay, it got him nowhere to think such thoughts. By imposing his will, he rescued his mind from the dangerous exercise and resumed his place on the scaffolding at the side of his men. He vowed silently that he wouldn’t think of Merry again until the day’s work was done.

 

Merry tucked a straggling tendril behind her ear and straightened. Her back ached from bending over the baron all day, yet she had finally persuaded him to swallow. If only he had drunk the whole cup of the infusion! It was so mild it would take far more than a sip for Lord Iversly to improve.

Instructing Adelle to try again, she bid the lady good night and slipped from the lord’s chamber, intent upon collapsing onto her own bed. Night had stolen suddenly upon them, and she had not enjoyed a moment’s respite all day.

As she closed the door behind her, a shadow detached itself from the corridor wall. Recognizing his tall form, Merry suppressed a groan. Luke had clearly been waiting for her. She’d looked forward to testing her newly discovered power over him, but not yet. Not when she felt like a well-wrung rag.

He stopped before her, his broad shoulders shrinking the width of the hallway. She could tell he had recently bathed, recognizing the pleasing fragrance of his soap though she had yet to identify the herb that scented it. She nearly leaned forward to better smell it, stopping herself in time—but it would forever make her think of this impressive man standing before her.

“A word with you, my lady,” he began, in his usual, courteous manner.

She eyed him inquiringly, struck by how handsome he appeared with the mellow light of a torch licking over him. His dark hair gleamed, merely a hint of curl at the damp ends.

“I heard you made an infusion from those weeds you picked in the outer bailey.”

“Weeds?” she retorted, cutting short her inspection. “Motherwort is not a weed. ’Tis a benign herb with soothing qualities. It isn’t likely to kill him, no matter what your concerns. So if you mean to lecture me, you can save yourself the trouble.”

He gave her a tiny smile, seemingly unperturbed by her prickly interruption. “Allow me to jump straight to my proposition, then. Your expertise is needed on the wall.”

The air gusted out of Merry’s lungs. She stared at him blankly. “Whatever do you mean?”

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight from a mounted taper, and for the tiniest of moments, he seemed to be gloating.

“Three of my men were injured when a portion of the wall fell on them this afternoon. Gervaise treated their cuts with an ointment that caused them all to swell.”

Picturing the result, she couldn’t help but wince. “Gervaise is only a barber,” she said scoffing the man. Then thought better of it. “Likely, he is good with leeches and sets bones well enough, which I do not,” she added in his defense.

“Aye, he sets bones, but we require someone more adept at treating scrapes and wounds.” He tipped his head slightly to one side, waiting, watchful.

Merry sensed a trap. “What of the baron?” she asked, recalling their disagreement. “I can’t simply abandon him.”

“The infusion is made?” he queried.

“Aye.”

“Then allow the baroness to tend her husband. You’ve done more than enough.”

Was that sarcasm? If so, it was cloaked in such blandness, she couldn’t discern it. She eyed him through her lashes.

“If I refuse you?” she asked, testing him. Her blood began to bubble at the prospect of defying him again.

“Do as you will,” he said, shrugging. “My men have survived cuts and scrapes before.”

She considered how such wounds were prone to festering.

Nonetheless, the baron’s situation was far more tenuous. “I’m needed here far more,” she decided. “I will watch the baron until he improves.” She lifted her chin a notch, challenging the warrior to forbid her.

His expression remained perfectly impassive. “I can only point out the risk. You endanger yourself by treating him,” he added.

“Nonsense.” She found it immensely enjoyable to contradict him. “The infusion is so mild, I could drink it this very instant and suffer no ill effect. If the baron dies of anything, ’twill be a broken heart.” She gave him a pointed look.

His expression did not change, but his eyes seemed to burn from the inside out. “I am under orders from the crown to do this particular work,” he said succinctly, defending himself without sounding defensive.

“I am called to particular work as well,” she countered, propping her hands upon her hips.

“Do it on the wall where your skills will meet with more success.”

She sighed. “What? Think you that I have failed already? I’ve scarcely begun to treat the baron and yet you accuse me of failure.”

“He is old, Merry. He is likely to die no matter what skills you may possess.”

“I will not give up on him for such a reason,” she avowed.

He took a sudden step forward, an abrupt movement that betrayed at last a slipping of his self-control. “You swore to me you would make no trouble, lady,” he reminded her. “I ask only that you keep your word.”

The planes of his face seemed harsher in the shadow. She sensed that she ought to be afraid of him. Instead, the racing of her blood made her reckless. Angling her chin into the air, she looked him directly, even challengingly, in the eye.

“I will keep my word and stay out of trouble as I promised,” she agreed, “but only on one condition.”

It was his turn to look wary. “Speak it.”

“No more interference. You must allow me to do my work, as you do yours.”

He hesitated, a look of frustration entering his eyes. “Wounds and cuts,” he offered. “You may treat those and naught else.”

She threw her hands up in frustration. “Then you may tear down only the towers and leave the wall and garrison intact.”

He drew himself to his full height. “Your role as healer has nothing to do with my mission for King Henry.”

Hearing the slightest irritation in his tone, Merry congratulated herself on cracking his self-control.

“On the contrary. ’Tis your work that gave me my latest patient.” She knew she was goading him; she simply couldn’t help herself.

“Lady—” He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a single shake. “Do not presume to tell me how to do my job.”

Do not tell me how to do mine. Aye, she longed to counter with those words, but they caught in her throat, frozen by her overwhelming awareness of his strength. If he were suddenly to unleash his anger on her . . . Perhaps she had been unwise to test him after all.

His grip loosened slowly. Then his gaze fell to her lips, and his visage changed, softened, his anger being replaced with something else—desire, she thought.

With a soft groan, Luke bent his head and, shockingly, without warning, pressed his warm mouth to hers.

Merry’s heart suspended its beat. She braced herself for violation, yet she was paralyzed, unable to step away. His lips brushed hers, the smooth pressure too light to be threatening, too real to ignore. As he molded his mouth to hers, pleasure shimmered unexpectedly, spurring her heart into a sudden gallop.

His thumb pressed her jaw down, and she realized with a gasp that he meant to kiss her more deeply. Her lips parted with her gasp, and his tongue slipped between them.

A languid caress ensued as he teased her lips, the inside of her cheeks, even her tongue with unhurried strokes. Merry’s eyelids melted shut. His fingers on her chin were all that kept her upright, as her limbs turned to liquid.

Then he severed the kiss abruptly, dropping his hands from her and stepping back. As her eyes snapped open, he was once more the Phoenix, all cool composure and daunting self-control.

Without his support, Merry staggered backward, coming up against the wall. Her heart pounded with amazement as, dumbstruck and disoriented, she gazed at Luke.

He’d kissed her! He’d kissed her, and she’d not only survived his kiss, she’d tasted pure magic on his lips. It had been . . . pleasurable, not terrifying. Who could have guessed?

“I’ll waken you at dawn,” he said tersely, his expression impossible to read. Swiveling on his heels, he stalked away, disappearing into the gloom of the hallway.

A moment later, she heard the door of his chamber shut firmly behind him.

Blood swished against Merry’s eardrums. The memory of his kiss lingered like a warm, disturbing dream. Standing there in the darkened hallway, she questioned the reality of what had happened.

The Phoenix had kissed her. ’Twas nothing like the sloppy kisses she’d endured from one of Ferguson’s filthy soldiers as she’d fought tooth and nail to ward him off—and won. Nor was the kiss cold and practiced, as she might have expected from the commander of an army. Not at all. Luke’s kiss had been both passionate and gentle, showing self-restraint even in the face of her inclination to continue.

How was it possible that she wished to be kissed again?

She laughed softly in the darkness—a laugh that was part amazement, part relief, and part feminine intuition. Mercy! She had more influence over him than she’d known. Not only had she gotten away with scolding him for his duties, she’d provoked him to the point of kissing her. And quite sweetly at that.

Pray God the opportunity came swiftly to provoke him once more.