Chapter Twelve

 

Erin and Cyrus caught up with Merry at the outskirts of the same village where the rest of their small band awaited. With the aid of Luke’s men-at-arms, they conveyed their leader inside the tavern, laying him on the very table at which they’d sat barely two hours earlier.

“Take his helm off!” Merry urged, pushing through the men who’d gathered around the stricken Phoenix. “He will breathe easier.”

No one complied with her demand. All nine men stared dumbstruck at Luke, grappling with the concept of his mortality as though it had never occurred to them before.

“Damn you all!” she cursed, raising her fists to them in her frantic need to stop Luke’s bleeding. “Listen to me! Erin, remove his helm. Cyrus, get something, anything, to cleanse his wound. Be it wine or the strongest ale.”

To her relief, both did as she bid them.

“We must remove any of his hose that might be in the wound and then bind him before he bleeds to death.”

Cyrus handed her a jug, which she sniffed before nodding her satisfaction.

“Something to bind him?” she asked them in general as she gingerly started to pull stray bits of his hose from the ragged flesh.

Luke moaned. “He is yet alive,” she reminded them, “and he will remain so if you help me tend him!”

They raised dull eyes to her. The mewing of her cat, wending between their feet with loud, disturbing yowls, was the only sound to fill the otherwise hushed tavern.

Erin, still holding Luke’s helm, was the first to break the standoff. “Do as she says,” he beseeched in his reedy voice. “My Lord Phoenix cannot die! We must try to save him.”

Clumsy hands went to work, ripping a linen tablecloth into strips. Erin and another man parted Luke from the heft of his hauberk. They stripped him down to his padded undershirt while Merry doused the wound with the contents of the jug.

“Another,” she said, shoving the empty vessel into Cyrus’s hands.

With some of the blood cleared, the sight of Luke’s mutilated thigh caused several of his soldiers to fall back with cries of dismay and whispered prayers. Others lamented the absence of Gervaise, who’d been left behind.

“What is your name?” Merry asked, turning to the taciturn soldier on her left.

“Hugh of Tyburn,” he replied.

“Hugh, I need you to raise his entire leg while I bind it. Erin,” she added, turning to Luke’s faithful squire, “I'm sorry to ask you this, but you need to hold the wound together as best you can.” She decided his smaller hands would do better than the larger hands of the men.

With these two assistants, Merry managed to bind the gash enough to slow the bleeding. With her hands drenched in blood, she knotted the ends of the cloth tightly and brushed the hair from her eyes, leaving a streak of sticky blood across her temple.

Pausing, she allowed herself to gaze upon Luke’s face, white as bone yet peaceful, his black lashes resting on his cheeks as if he were merely sleeping. She was entirely to blame for his condition, and she would never forgive herself should he perish.

“What now?” Erin asked, interrupting her dismal thoughts.

Wresting her gaze to his, she realized he had asked her as if she were suddenly their leader.

“We are closer to Helmsley than Iversly, so we convey him to the Slayer’s castle with all haste. My sister and I will care for him there.”

Luke’s men stared at her in dazed amazement. Did they notice the tremors that shook her squared shoulders? Perhaps, in the muted light of the tavern’s fire, they couldn’t remark the pallor of her skin, nor even note its clamminess.

All they saw was a woman with straggling, red hair, determined green eyes, and a streak of their leader’s blood across her forehead. What they heard was her noisy cat continuing its howling as it paced about their feet.

They could have refused to take him anywhere except back to the main body of their army. However, a few nodded and then they all seemed to acquiesce.

Merry sighed with relief. For once her strangeness had stood her in good stead. Obviously the Phoenix’s men dared not argue with the witch lest they fall under a spell of her weaving. Or perhaps, less likely, they were beginning to trust her.

“Please, we must hurry,” she urged them.

They went to work placing Luke upon a crude litter created with two long shafts and a blanket. As Merry watched, they secured the front of the poles to one of the horse’s saddles equipped with leather cruppers for the very purpose. Sadly, she imagined fighting men were used to transporting the wounded.

Two men walked behind the contraption, holding up the other end, keeping Luke aloft and horizontal. They would take turns walking so they could reach the castle as quickly as if they were all on horseback.

Yet Helmsley was still at a distance of several hours. Luke would need to survive at least that long if she were to save him.

 

“How does he?”

Glancing up from Luke’s bedside, Merry found her oldest sister, Clarisse, standing in the doorway. She hadn’t even heard the hinges groan, so exhausted was she. The four thick candles in the chamber had burned low. Yet they still cast enough light to gild the golden-red tresses of Clarisse’s unplaited hair. She wore a wrap over her nightdress, indicating to Merry the lateness of the hour.

“He’ll live,” she said, tipping her head to one side to relieve the knot in her neck.

It was her standard answer, one from which she’d refused to deviate in the last three days, or was it four? Her refusal to let Luke die seemed to be all that had kept him alive. She’d heard the rumor that his soldiers thought him dead, so pale and still had he been at their arrival and so shallow his breath. After that, she’d let no one but Clarisse close to him, assuming the Phoenix’s soldiers would be cared for and housed alongside the Slayer’s men in Helmsley’s vast garrison.

Merry had stood vigil over Luke in all that time, scarcely remembering to eat or sleep, except when her sister forced a cup of broth and a plate of bread into her hands, or insisted she close her eyes for a moment.

She’d treated his wounds with the finest herbs from her sister’s garden, with crosswort, knotgrass, and Saint John’s wort. She had cleaned him, stitched him, and bandaged him. She’d made a healing poultice and brewed an antiseptic tincture. She’d trickled lukewarm broth down his throat and hearty ale. When his fever soared, she’d cooled his skin with a wet cloth and teas of sage, elder flowers, and yarrow.

Indeed, she’d done everything except stand in the light of the moon and call upon the angels to help—and she was about ready to do that.

Clarisse closed the door quietly behind her and came to stand by Merry’s chair. For a moment, they both watched the dark-haired warrior sleep; for truly, it seemed that he was finally in a comfortable slumber, breathing easily, no longer unconsciously wincing in pain.

A coal-black growth of beard obscured the lines of his jaw. His chest rose and fell beneath a blazing white sheet. Except for the bandage on his leg and the sunken appearance to his cheeks, there was nothing about his appearance that bespoke the severity of his wound nor the amount of blood he’d lost. To Merry, he was still as striking as the day she met him.

“How is his fever?” Clarisse inquired.

Merry put a hand to Luke’s forehead, brushing back the silky, raven locks.

“It lessens,” she said, trying to sound hopeful, “but it lingers all the same.” The tremor in her voice bespoke of her overarching worry. She had struggled to keep the humors of his body in balance, and yet the fever would not leave him, likely because he lacked the moisture to combat it. “Not a terrible fiery burning, yet . . . it is there.”

Her fingers feathered through the hair above his ear. So thick and soft. She had enjoyed tending him, enjoyed the leisure of studying his dark beauty without guarding her fascination for him.

Clarisse cleared her throat, and Merry snatched her hand back guiltily. She glanced at her sister and found herself the focus of Clarisse’s discerning gaze.

“You look like a demon from the depths of hell, Merry,” she said with typical honesty.“’Tisn’t any wonder your patient won’t arise. Mayhap he has done so and then swooned again after seeing your appearance.”

Merry heard the good-natured teasing in her sister’s voice and took no offense. If not for Clarisse, Merry would have starved these past days and slept not at all. She lifted her hand to her own hair and realized it had long since come out of its plaits, probably as long ago as when she rode over the kidnapper’s thighs. She’d done nothing since then but tie it back in a ribbon. No doubt it looked like a bird’s nest or bundle of twigs.

“Not only your hair, dear sister.”

Clarisse touched a hand to her forehead, and Merry wondered if it was possible she still had Luke’s blood on her face. Good God, she must indeed look a fright!

Clarisse smiled. “Come, I’ve had a bath poured for you. Sleep tonight and you’ll be rested tomorrow when he wakes.” She began to pull Merry toward the door.

Clarisse was a good bit taller than Merry and accustomed to getting her way. Merry, exhausted beyond measure, relinquished her patient to God’s mercy and let herself be dragged from the room.

The sisters went a short way down the hall to another chamber.

“This room is for you,” Clarisse said. Thrusting open the door, her sister revealed a well-lit room, complete with a boxed bed draped in purple silk. Candles dotted the furniture, circling an enormous wooden tub full of water. Steam still rose from the filmy surface. A trace of rose oil scented the air.

Merry glanced at her sister dryly. For months after Ferguson’s siege, Clarisse had tried to catch her wild little sister and make her bathe. Merry had been like an animal then; how different she was now, only too glad to take a bath!

Clarisse smiled at her tenderly. “You look so tired,” she said, touching Merry’s cheek. “I best not leave you lest you fall asleep and slip under the water. Turn around, please,” she added in her no-nonsense voice. “Let’s burn this filthy gown and soak you in the tub.”

Letting her sister strip her of the once cherished gift of the baroness, Merry felt a pleasant lethargy seep into her limbs. With Clarisse, she could lower her guard, not watch her words carefully as she had with Lady Iversly.

When naked, Merry stepped into the tub and sank into the water up to her chin, emitting a groan of satisfaction. Releasing her breath, she went all the way under, floating weightless for a moment before surfacing. Clarisse handed Merry a washcloth and then began to lather her hair for her with scented soap.

“So,” she said, massaging Merry’s scalp, “you’ve returned the debt you owed this man, the Phoenix, he’s called, yes? By saving his life.” It was an invitation to discussion.

“He hasn’t yet awakened,” Merry reminded her.

“He will.”

Clarisse’s certainty heartened her.

“You’ve done miracles with his wounds,” her sister added. “I’ve never seen a more skilled healer than you.”

Merry flushed at the praise, her spirits reviving from the state of numb desperation in which she’d dwelled for days. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Sarah taught you well, but you must have had an affinity and continued to learn since.”

“Aye,” Merry said, enjoying the sensation of the warm water and her sister’s gentle ministrations to her hair.

Next, Clarisse sat on a stool beside the tub and began to rub her with a cloth, starting with her ears and working down. Merry’s eyelids melted shut. She let her head fall back.

“Who is this Phoenix of yours?” Clarisse inquired after a moment.

Hers? Merry felt her lips curve in a dreamy smile she couldn’t hide. “His name is Luke. He serves the king, and . . . his grandfather is the Earl of Arundel.”

“Oh,” Clarisse exclaimed, and they both paused, contemplating the high status of such a man. “And his nature, what of that?”

Merry could think of a hundred words to describe Luke, yet saying too much would reveal her fascination for him. “He is brave and kind, disciplined yet civilized. He isn’t like other warriors.”

“Like my husband, you mean,” Clarisse said with irony.

Merry cracked an eye. “They’ve met, you know? Luke and the Sl- . . . I mean, Christian.” She decided it best to speak better of her brother-in-law, a man for whom she’d given her sister poison to kill on their wedding day. What’s more, she’d heard he did not like his nom de guerre, the Slayer of Helmsley.

“I do not know your husband well at all,” she added. “At least, that’s what Luke said.”

Clarisse held Merry’s hand, raising her arm so she could scrub up one side of it to her shoulder and down again. “Well said of him,” she commented. “’Tis a shame he wasn’t around when you cursed Christian’s manhood.”

Merry sank deeper into the water. “That was six years ago,” she mumbled, feeling suddenly like a child again. “I only meant to protect you.”

“I know you did,” Clarisse soothed, her tone forgiving. “You thought him another like Ferguson. He isn’t, you know. Christian is as tame as they come.”

Merry pictured the Slayer in her mind’s eye and snorted, but the fact that her sister seemed so happy testified to the truth of her assertions.

“Now tell me,” Clarisse continued, “what does Luke intend with you?”

Merry hid her despair behind closed eyes. “He intends to leave me here,” she said.

The realization that he would abandon her as soon as he recovered well enough to ride grabbed hold of her heart. All at once, the task of hiding her misery became too much and, in her present state of exhaustion, her face crumpled under the despair that swamped her suddenly.

“He believes I’ll be safe here,” she added, “that Christian will hold off the reward seekers and even the Church, itself.”

Clarisse’s silence could mean anything, Merry thought, unable to summon the energy to ask. Perhaps her sister had doubts that even her powerful husband could help.

“You may send me away, sister,” she added, turning her head to meet Clarisse’s tawny gaze. “No doubt I will bring trouble to your gate as I have elsewhere. If I have truly saved the commander’s life, then my purpose is complete. ’Tis all I wanted to do.”

Clarisse’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you say such things!” she scolded, rubbing the soap into the washcloth. “Stand up, if you will,” she added shortly.

Accustomed to obeying her sister, Merry struggled to her feet. Clarisse began to scrub her with a vengeance, bringing a rosy glow to Merry’s skin. “You became a woman at the convent,” she remarked, her only comment on Merry’s fair form.

An old anguish blossomed anew in her mind. “You might have known that had you written me,” she stated quietly.

Clarisse straightened abruptly. “What do you mean? Mother wrote to you once a week, and I wrote you nearly as often as that after Rose was born. ’Tis you who did not reply!”

Merry gazed at her sister’s earnest countenance. Clarisse had shown nothing but concern for her since her sudden appearance. The bossy love she’d showered on her since birth had in no way lessened over the years they’d spent apart.

At once, hot tears scalded her cheeks before dripping into the bathwater. She should have known her family would not have abandoned her. “The prioress must have kept the letters from me.”

With a cluck of her tongue, Clarisse dropped the washcloth and reached for her.

“Oh, dear sister, how terrible for you,” she said, holding her fiercely close, ignoring the fact that her wrap was becoming wet. “How could you think that we’d abandoned you? We would never have left you without word from us. Never!” She stroked Merry’s back “What a cruel thing for the prioress to do. What manner of woman is she? You must believe me, leaving you there was the last thing we wanted,” she added. “You should have seen Mother and me weeping all the way home. ’Twas the only way we thought we could keep you safe, don’t you see?”

Merry nodded but could not speak for the thick emotion in her throat. Her family loved her! How had she come to doubt what seemed so utterly obvious?

At last, Clarisse set her at arm’s distance. “We’ll keep you safe this time,” she swore. A look of determination crossed her delicate features. Merry had seen that look before when Ferguson ruled their keep. To defeat their stepfather, Clarisse had found a champion in the unlikely form of the Slayer—a far more powerful warlord than the deceitful Scot.

“I know about the people gathering outside the gates,” Merry admitted, feeling the familiar grip of fear. “I know they want me, and they will increase in number.”

For two days, a throng had gathered on the other side of Helmsley’s moat, raising their voices in a chant, demanding “the devil lady” be given to the Church.

“Well, they cannot have you,” Clarisse informed her firmly. “Now, sit and rinse the soap off. Then we’ll dry your hair and get you to bed.” With that she dismissed the topic of Merry’s uncertain future, to be discussed and determined at a later time.

Sinking back into the water, Merry acknowledged only to herself that though the Slayer was powerful, he was not above the dictates of the Church, nor the will of the populace. The people were disturbed to have an excommunicated heretic, and maybe even a witch, in their midst. They wanted her to face her fate, and each and every one of them hoped to be the lucky one to get the reward. Nevertheless, so long as Luke lived, Merry would be at peace, no matter her uncertain circumstances.

 

“Did you hear me, my lord?” Clarisse demanded of her husband later that day. She lay on their enormous bed, nursing their third child, a second son if one counted Simon, who was not of her blood but whom she’d raised from infancy. And she always counted Simon.

Baby Chauncey, like his older sister Rose, was as red-haired as his Aunt Merry. He sucked contentedly and paid as much attention to his mother’s strident tone as the warrior across the chamber.

“Hmmm?” Christian leaned forward in his chair and marked the line in his text where he’d left off. At last, he raised his head and gave his wife his full attention.

“She loves him,” Clarisse repeated, letting the magical words hang in the air a moment. “I never thought I would see the day that Merry let a man close enough to capture her heart.”

Her husband stood up, and the vacated chair seemed to give a groan of relief. He stretched his powerful body, then sauntered closer, holding Clarisse’s gaze.

“Did she say so?” he asked with obvious doubt. “’Tis hard to imagine your sister loving any man.”

“How dare you say such a thing?” she retorted. “If you’d seen the terrible things she’d seen, you wouldn’t much like your own kind, either. Nay, she didn’t say she loved him, but she didn’t need to. I could see it in her face, ’tis obvious that she does.”

“Ah,” said her husband, easing onto the edge of their bed. Going down on one elbow, he studied Chauncey’s rhythmic sucking. “Greedy pup,” he growled, giving him an envious glare.

“Listen to me,” Clarisse demanded.

Her husband dragged his gaze from the vision of her exposed breasts.

“My point is that she loves the Phoenix. Think about it,” she added. “’Tis the answer to everything.”

The warrior sent her a mystified look. At last his expression cleared. “You mean we should offer Merry to him?” he guessed. “To be his mistress? Then he’ll protect her.”

“Oh!” Clarisse punched him in the shoulder and came away with bruised knuckles. “Nay, you big oaf. To be his wife!”

He arched an eyebrow and tried to keep his face impassive. “His wife,” he repeated. “My love, do you know who this man is?”

“Of course, I do,” she retorted. “All of England knows who he is, though Merry spoke about him as if possibly I hadn’t heard of how he’d saved our king. Apparently, she’d been cloistered to the point of ignorance.” She ran a hand over her son’s hair. “Nonetheless, earl or no earl, my sister is every bit worthy of him. Why, she’s the best healer in all of North Yorkshire! Most likely in the whole kingdom!”

To her frustration, Christian shook his head. “Clarisse, the throne will have plans for him.”

“Mayhap she could study the knowledge of a physic if she were his wife,” Clarisse continued, ignoring his comment. “There are universities outside of London. With his help, Oxford might be persuaded to accept a woman for a student. She could become the first female physician in England!”

Her husband made a face. “You go too far,” he said, kissing her swiftly, silencing her protests. His son put a chubby hand against his chin and pushed him away. Christian reared back with a growl of mock outrage. “So you won’t share, eh?”

The baby ignored his father’s blustering and went on nursing.

Defeated, Christian rolled away and stalked to the nearest window. The sight that greeted him brought a lurid curse to his lips. Outside the gates of Helmsley, torches still burned. The handful of bounty hunters who had shown up days ago to demand the witch’s release had swelled to a horde of folks, suspicious and frightened. Villagers from the town of Abbingdon had joined them, raising their voices in a chant. It had not taken long for Ethelred, the Abbot of Rievaulx, to come calling.

Thankfully, Ethelred and Christian were longtime friends. In his own solar earlier that day, Christian had appealed to the abbot for assistance in combating Merry’s guilty verdict.

Ethelred explained that as his sister-in-law was already excommunicated and condemned by the Holy See, all he could do was seek an appeal. If it were true that the prioress had held a trial without sanction, then another trial would have to be held, with the prioress of Mount Grace in attendance to testify. There was every chance Merry would be found a heretic again.

Christian closed the shutter against the reminder of his predicament. He had seen this kind of mass hysteria before. The recent flood that had washed away crops two weeks prior was already being blamed on the witch within his walls. The common folk were a superstitious lot, and they far outnumbered more reasonable souls. Something would give way eventually.

He’d already decided it was going to be Merry.

Though he had yet to broach the subject with this wife—God knew it would cost him weeks of sleeping in a guest chamber—he intended to hand Merry over to Ethelred, knowing the good abbot would do all that was within his power to help her. ’Twas the only way to clear her name and keep peace at his gates.

He wished there were another way. He did not look forward to the fury he could expect from the woman whose love he cherished above all things. If only Clarisse’s suggestion were possible.

Perhaps the Phoenix could find a way to absolve Merry of her crimes. Christian turned thoughtfully around and found his wife watching him.

“If anyone can protect her, it is he,” she added, as though privy to his thoughts. “Mayhap he can even gain the crown’s pardon on her behalf.”

Christian leaned against the window ledge and crossed his arms. “The crown would have to appeal to Rome, first,” he said, hating to squelch the light of hope shining in Clarisse’s eyes. He knew her family meant everything to her. Her worry these last few days had become palpable, making him uneasy. He truly dreaded letting her down.

“What makes you think the Phoenix would take her?” he asked, playing along.

Clarisse’s brow furrowed. “Well,” she said, calculating earnestly. “For one thing, my sister is a beautiful woman. Her body could tempt a saint into dissolution.”

He clicked his tongue at her irreverence. “That would make her a good mistress,” he pointed out, “not necessarily a good wife.”

It was a mistake to say so. Clarisse’s cheeks flushed a deeper color. Her tawny eyes glinted like twin daggers.

“She has saved that man’s life, by heaven! I would say that puts him in her debt a thousand fold. Have you forgotten how she helped you get your sight back? How dare you relegate my sister to the status of leman! She’s as much the daughter of a nobleman as I!”

Christian winced. The subject of mistresses was a sensitive one, as he’d once made the mistake of asking Clarisse to be his.

“I meant no insult, truly,” he said, returning to the bed. Indeed, he had never been so relieved as when Merry had given him healing drops for his eyes, counteracting a nasty substance with which the Scot had blinded him. “I thanked her for healing my eyes, and I am grateful still. Yet we are talking of a commander whose power comes directly from the king. A man such as he no doubt intends to marry a Norman duchess or at the very least an English countess, not the daughter of a modest lord, no matter how upstanding and learned he was.”

Clarisse saw reason in her husband’s argument, yet she refused to back down.

“There is a way,” she informed him stubbornly. “Merry says he is kind and brave, and also thoughtful and respectful. If you were to insist that he owes my dear sister a debt of gratitude, then mayhap he would agree to marry her.”

Christian sat heavily on the bed. “’Tisn’t that simple,” he replied.

His wife heaved a sigh and worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Perhaps if he got her with child,” she added, raising her eyes to him slowly.

Christian felt his jaw go slack. “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” he said.

She looked down at the plump curve of Chauncey’s cheek. “I know he’s had relations with her,” she said softly. “I could tell by her smile when she speaks of him.”

Her husband made a choking sound. “It doesn’t necessarily follow that she’s with child,” he pointed out, outraged on the man’s behalf.

“It doesn’t follow that she’s not,” she sweetly answered.

With a whispered curse, he fell back onto the bed beside her, startling his son. “I should love to be rid of her,” he muttered.

His wife gasped out loud and punched him in the arm again.

“I tell you she’s changed,” she insisted. “She isn’t full of venom anymore. All it took was kindness from a stranger. She is every bit the sweet soul she was before Ferguson’s raid. Please, husband, work with me on this matter! I want the Phoenix to marry her. His influence may be all that will keep her from execution. Whatever else you may think of her, she doesn’t deserve to die, and he is likely her only hope. Besides, beyond that, she loves him! Or have you forgotten what it’s like to be in love?”

He rolled abruptly toward her, leveling a scowl at her that at one time would have caused her to pale. “Forgotten?” he said, putting a hand behind her head. “Nay, I remember it well. It went something like this.”

He kissed her with such blatant sensuality that she couldn’t possibly mistake his interest.

Chauncey gave a yelp before they remembered he was crushed between them.

“This boy belongs in the nursery,” Christian ground out, breaking away. He plucked the baby unceremoniously from his mother’s breast and marched with him to the door. Throwing it open, he bellowed for his wife’s maid.

Minutes later, a huffing Doris took the baby away, but not before throwing her mistress a saucy wink.

“Why do you have to bellow?” Clarisse complained. “Everyone in the castle knows what we’re about to engage in when you do that.”

He approached the bed, unbuckling his belt as he did so. “I don’t care what they think,” he countered, dropping it—along with his braies—to the floor.

He remarked his wife’s growing interest by the flush of color on her cheeks. With a growl, he crawled onto the bed, intent upon reminding her exactly what it was like to be in love.

“What shall we do about my idea?” Clarisse asked many moments later as she snuggled against him.

He struggled to remember what they’d been talking about

“About the Phoenix marrying my sister,” she prompted when he remained silent.

Christian groaned. “Are you still thinking of that?” he demanded. “After what I just did to take your mind off the matter?”

“Pah,” she retorted. “You should know by now that wouldn’t work.”

“You’ll pay for that remark, lady,” he promised. “In the meantime, I have a question for you.” He caught a tendril of her hair and let it spill between his fingers. “Why must you meddle in this matter? This is serious business, not a matchmaker’s lark.”

She batted his hand away. “You mean I shouldn’t try to save my sister’s life?” she asked, growing rigid.

His chances of a second round were ruined if he didn’t surrender to her. Releasing her lock of hair, he hung his head. In a contest of wills, his wife always won.

“What must I do?” he asked with resignation.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her satisfied smile. “I’ll let you know when the time comes. At present, we must merely leave them alone together. The rest will work itself out.”

Christian muttered darkly under his breath.

Clarisse locked her hands behind her head in a gesture she’d learned from him. She truly hoped that the marriage agreement would come about because of the hearts involved. Her husband needn’t know that his size and his fierce reputation were the only real assurances she had that the Phoenix would agree to marry her sister. For if Lord Luke didn’t offer his hand to Merry, she would indeed call upon the Slayer’s might to force the matter in his own particular fashion.

 

Luke struggled to lift his eyelids. He wanted to tell the woman bending over him that he was conscious, that he could feel every limb in his body and therefore knew that he was whole and on the mend. Yet his thoughts flowed into one another like a mudslide, and he couldn’t get his eyes to open nor his mouth to speak. Some unknown force kept him trapped within a web of immobility. If his guess was correct, ’twas an herb of some kind designed to keep him resting and feeling no pain.

He soon realized Merry—for he could tell she was the one tending him by her touch, her scent alone—was going to bathe him. While he sensed that they had gone through this ritual before, given her quick and efficient hand, he had never been conscious during any part of such intimate, even humiliating ministrations.

Feeling her pull back the blanket and expose his chest to the mild air brought sharp awareness to his nakedness. Somewhere along the way, she’d stripped him of his clothing!

He heard a splash of water, followed by the sound of soap against a washcloth. He leapt a bit when the warm cloth hit his shoulder, but she didn’t seem to notice. She started bathing his chest with sweeping, circular motions.

Managing a peek between his lashes, Luke glimpsed her before his eyes crashed shut. She wore a creamy yellow gown, the color of buttercups. It made him think of the dream she’d shared with him the night they’d swived.

The memory of that night brought his body to even keener awareness. He swore he could smell the scent of Merry’s skin—mint and lavender, overlain with a hint of rose petals. She had pulled her hair into a single plait at the back, likely to keep it out of her way and not tickle him when she leaned over him. The recollection of how glorious her hair felt, cool and silky against him, heated his skin. Or was the cause of his heat a fever, which counted for his inability to speak or move?

A sudden breeze blew across his chest, giving rise to a prickle of gooseflesh. Merry clicked her tongue and went to latch one shutter. He held his breath, anticipating her return.

“I can’t have you taking chill,” she said, speaking to him as he suspected she had done from the beginning. He had deduced by then that he was at Helmsley, having overheard another woman’s voice on two occasions. Given its resemblance to Merry’s, the voice had to belong to her sister. He marveled at whatever miracle had occurred to bring him there.

The last thing he recalled of the evening he’d been injured was a vision of Merry, hurling herself at his attacker. Had she saved him from the bounty hunter and seen him safely delivered to Helmsley?

A towel fell across his chest as Merry began to pat him. Luke’s heart beat faster. Having washed his torso would she move to other regions of his anatomy? His body seemed to know the answer.

She pulled the blanket to his chin then lifted the other end clear to his waist

He choked on a protest as it lodged in his throat, unarticulated. He swallowed, moved his tongue, but any efforts beyond that met with defeat. While the cool air touching his lower half felt a blessing to his heated skin, the mental image of him on naked display both disturbed and excited him.

The cloth gave another splash into the bucket. He heard her wring it. Then it touched his right thigh. She stroked his uninjured leg with gentle, thorough motions that did much to relieve his mortification but not his intrigue.

Moving to his left leg, her touch gentled perceptibly. Given the tight, pinched feeling of his skin, he boasted a number of stitches where the lance had impaled him. The healing flesh itched like mad. She seemed to know this, running her fingers lightly around the angry edges of his wound. ’Twas both a relief and a torment to have her fingers dance upon his thigh, so close to his manhood that it was hard not to think of her touch as sexual.

Realizing he was holding his breath, he let it out, certain she would hear the difference and guess him conscious. Instead, she continued about her business, tormenting him with her light touch.

To his embarrassment, his sex began to thicken and rise. Surely, she would realize he was cognizant and would grant him some modesty!

Abruptly, her hand stilled. He waited, expecting the blanket to be pulled down with all haste. Again, he fought to no avail to lift his heavy eyelids and to form a word. The chamber fell unbearably silent. He could only wonder if she was looking at his cock or at his face. Again he tried to indicate he was awake.

“Are you dreaming?’’ she finally asked him.

He couldn’t form his mouth around the word nay. All he managed was a brief vibration of his vocal chords. He awaited her interpretation.

Following a lengthy silence, he heard her dip the cloth in water once again. She resumed her task, and he gave a mental shrug. Very well, if she chose to ignore him, then he wasn’t responsible for his body’s inappropriate response. He surrendered to her ministrations, determined to enjoy them.

Patting the wound dry, she began to spread an ointment over it, her touch exquisitely light, even pleasurable as she spread it on.

He told himself ’twas his imagination when her fingers brushed his privates. His breathing grew shallow. All his senses strained toward her touch in the hopes she would do it again.

And she did, tracing the skin of his scrotum, as if remarking how his flesh contracted and drew up. Hunger roared through him, converging at his groin with an immediate throbbing. His shaft, he knew, stood straight and rigid, begging for her touch.

If he could speak, he would likely plead for relief. Perhaps it was good that he could not.

Yet on her own accord, she did touch him! Her palm ran smoothly up the length of him, bringing him instant pleasure. She did this several times, heightening his anticipation with each stroke.

Suddenly, something moist was applied to his rigid, straining flesh. Perhaps the same ointment she’d put on his wound? Somewhat shyly it seemed, she banded his thickness with her hand and moved it up and down, much as she had done that night at Iversly.

Did she know what she was doing? Ecstasy seized him, making the question superfluous. What matter if she intended to bring him to climax? ’Twas a boon he literally could not refuse. His heart galloped with delight. Perhaps he was dreaming.

He managed another glimpse through his lashes and was assured this was no dream. Merry’s look of intense concentration stayed with him after his lids sank shut. She knew exactly what she was doing. Her single-minded intent made him wild with lust. Beneath the onslaught of her slippery palm, it would not take long before he spent himself. He wondered at her motives. Was she enjoying herself, enjoying her power over him?

The pleasure of her caress built to unsustainable proportions. A blistering climax seized him, and his seed shot forth he knew not where. To his amazement, he overheard her soft chuckle—a low sound rather like one of Kit’s contented purrs. The saucy sprite!

She stroked him one time too many, making him shudder. Then she carefully wiped him down, removing all traces of the mess he’d made.

Suddenly, perhaps due to the energizing gift she’d given him, Luke found that he could slit his eyes. He did so, desperate to look upon her loveliness.

At that moment, she happened to glance at his face, and they locked gazes. Her eyes flew wide. Riotous color surged into her face.

“You were awake!” It sounded like an accusation.

He managed a nod. Searching for his tongue, he sought to assure her that her touch had pleased him immensely, that he was grateful beyond belief.

Yet with a sound like a sob, she whirled from his cot.

Be not vexed, he tried to say as she made for the door.

Then it slammed behind her, and she was gone.

Luke cursed his immobile tongue. Belated shame caused a blush to sweep into his own cheeks. He’d humiliated her beyond acceptance. He should have kept his damned eyes closed!

Yet perhaps ’twould make his eventual departure less difficult for Merry, who despite his reprehensible treatment of her, seemed to have grown attached to him beyond all measure. That he had lain with her, a lady, a gentlewoman—God’s wounds! That was against every standard of decency he’d always tried to live by. He could very well have caused her ruination.

Again he considered the possibility of keeping her as his mistress, imagined indulging in their passion without limit! Blaming his weak thoughts on the herbs she must have given him, he abandoned that line of thought as nonsense.

Where were the goals he had planted so firmly in his mind? Arundel was all he wanted or needed. He’d nearly accomplished shrugging off the last vestiges of his bastardly birth. The respectability he had sought to maintain these past ten years would be cemented through his royal marriage. He could not allow his hunger for Merry to turn him away from his ambitions.

Yet as he relived her sweet touch, her earnest attempt to please him, his body betrayed him and his member stirred again at the memory. With a sinking heart, he realized he would never again be so satisfied.

 

Merry pulled her head out of the pillow long enough to notice that Kit had moved from the foot of the bed to curl about her head. He settled down, his purring loud enough to drown the noises from the courtyard and the more distant chanting at the gates.

Mother of God! She’d never been so mortified. She had thought Luke to be soundly asleep, and not merely asleep but unconscious to the world of the living. She’d even asked if he were dreaming, and he’d said nothing to warn her. Nothing!

She’d succumbed to her lustful fascination with his impressive body, never thinking he would know the difference. And he’d been awake the entire time!

She moaned again, shedding a hot tear of shame. That was it. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eye again. Ever! Surely, his opinion of her had sunk a good deal lower than before, if that were even possible. First, she’d enticed him to lie with her and forced him to spill his seed inside her womb, and now, against all decency, she’d stroked him to climax without his consent.

What would he say if she confessed that she hadn’t been able to help herself? Seeing him roused by her touch, she’d wanted him to know pleasure again, if only in his dreams. He’d been wounded, nearly mortally so, by coming after her.

Her noble knight. He’d come to her defense again and again, regardless of how little it gained him. She heaved a sigh for what he was and for all that he would become. It couldn’t be easy being a man of honor and integrity, a dutiful servant to his king. No wonder he’d withdrawn from her after their night at Iversly. Suddenly, she could see his motives quite clearly. The only way to protect her from foolish dreaming over what could never be was to break away neatly, maybe not even realizing he was breaking her heart in the process.

He’d had the moral courage to do so, and she’d mistaken it for indifference.

Then she’d made yet another unspeakable trespass against him.

Nay, certes, she could never speak to him again. She would send the maidservant, Maggie, to look after him. The thought alone caused her a sharp stab of envy.

Of course, Maggie wasn’t to bathe him as Merry had done, only to deliver him food and drink, and tidy up the chamber and his bed linens. Luke was on the mend. Shortly, he could bathe himself and apply the ointment to his own wound, even bandage it himself. Soon, he wouldn’t need her anymore.

The realization had her lifting her head from the pillow, sobered. It was over then, truly over. Her debt to the Phoenix was repaid. She had no purpose left but to while away her days, imprisoned behind the walls of Helmsley, and that was only if the Slayer let her stay.

Very slowly, she lowered her head back onto the pillow. With her fidgeting, Kit had ceased to purr, and she could hear the infernal voices chanting at the gates. In a week’s time, the crowd had tripled in size, their demands growing more violent. Some had begun to throw stones over the wall. One stupid fool shot a flaming arrow onto a thatched roof before the Slayer’s soldiers had doused the fire and driven him away.

’Twould be a miracle if her brother-in-law let her stay. Why would he, when he could not even open his own gates? They lived as if in a siege, calling upon the dried goods from the storeroom and root cellar and from the castle’s gardens in lieu of attending the daily market. She was painfully aware that it was all because of her.

The Slayer, fearsome warrior that he was, avoided her from morning till night. Not that she blamed him. She closed her eyes, feeling defeated.

Whether she remained at Helmsley or fell into the clutches of a reward seeker and was turned over to the Church, she was doomed either way. Doomed to want a man she could never have. ’Twas long past time to accept her lot in life. Mayhap even to acknowledge that she’d been born cursed.

Yet these past few weeks, had she not also been blessed? She’d experienced the bliss of coupling. Moreover, because of Luke, she’d discovered that her family loved her still. She’d even been given the chance with the baron, Philippe, and Luke to use her skills for good.

Unfortunately, her blessings had come at a cost—her previously untouched heart, wrenched from her, splintered and aching.

For somewhere in the last fortnight, she had fallen in love with the unattainable Phoenix. She could not have said when it was—whether ’twas the moment he’d plucked her from the fire or the first time he’d kissed her. Or whether her love had come later, when he’d taught her the difference between consensual swiving and being brutally forced.

She knew only that her heart was no longer in her chest, for the empty feeling there was absolute. She had given her heart away to Lord Luke whether he wanted it or not.